e without sympathy.

During this hour when he spoke only of himself, and asked for my
friendship in his wife's name, he completed a picture in my mind of the
remarkable figure of the Emigre,--one of the most imposing types of
our period. In appearance he was frail and broken, but life seemed
persistent in him because of his sober habits and his country
avocations. He is still living.

Though Madeleine could see me on the terrace, she did not come down.
Several times she came out upon the portico and went back in again, as
if to signify her contempt. I seized a moment when she appeared to beg
the count to go to the house and call her, saying I had a last wish of
her mother to convey to her, and this would be my only opportunity
of doing so. The count brought her, and left us alone together on the
terrace.

"Dear Madeleine," I said, "if I am to speak to you, surely it should be
here where your mother listened to me when she felt she had less
reason to complain of me than of the circumstances of life. I know
your thoughts; but are you not condemning me without a knowledge of the
facts? My life and happiness are bound up in this place; you know that,
and yet you seek to banish me by the coldness you show, in place of the
brotherly affection which has always united us, and which death should
have strengthened by the bonds of a common grief. Dear Madeleine, you
for whom I would gladly give my life without hope of recompense, without
your even knowing it,--so deeply do we love the children of those who
have succored us,--you are not aware of the project your adorable mother
cherished during the last seven years. If you knew it your feelings
would doubtless soften towards me; but I do not wish to take advantage
of you now. All that I ask is that you do not deprive me of the right
to come here, to breathe the air on this terrace, and to wait until time
has changed your ideas of social life. At this moment I desire not to
ruffle them; I respect a grief which misleads you, for it takes even
from me the power of judging soberly the circumstances in which I find
myself. The saint who now looks down upon us will approve the reticence
with which I simply ask that you stand neutral between your present
feelings and my wishes. I love you too well, in spite of the aversion
you are showing me, to say one word to the count of a proposal he would
welcome eagerly. Be free. Later, remember that you know no one in
the world as you know me,