joys; I would
live and await the coming of happiness as the savage awaits his hour of
vengeance; I longed to climb those trees, to creep among the vines, to
float in the river; I wanted the companionship of night and its silence,
I needed lassitude of body, I craved the heat of the sun to make the
eating of the delicious apple into which I had bitten perfect. Had she
asked of me the singing flower, the riches buried by the comrades of
Morgan the destroyer, I would have sought them, to obtain those other
riches and that mute flower for which I longed.

When my dream, the dream into which this first contemplation of my
idol plunged me, came to an end and I heard her speaking of Monsieur de
Mortsauf, the thought came that a woman must belong to her husband, and
a raging curiosity possessed me to see the owner of this treasure. Two
emotions filled my mind, hatred and fear,--hatred which allowed of no
obstacles and measured all without shrinking, and a vague, but real fear
of the struggle, of its issue, and above all of _her_.

"Here is Monsieur de Mortsauf," she said.

I sprang to my feet like a startled horse. Though the movement was seen
by Monsieur de Chessel and the countess, neither made any observation,
for a diversion was effected at this moment by the entrance of a little
girl, whom I took to be about six years old, who came in exclaiming,
"Here's papa!"

"Madeleine?" said her mother, gently.

The child at once held out her hand to Monsieur de Chessel, and looked
attentively at me after making a little bow with an air of astonishment.

"Are you more satisfied about her health?" asked Monsieur de Chessel.

"She is better," replied the countess, caressing the little head which
was already nestling in her lap.

The next question of Monsieur de Chessel let me know that Madeleine
was nine years old; I showed great surprise, and immediately the clouds
gathered on the mother's brow. My companion threw me a significant
look,--one of those which form the education of men of the world. I had
stumbled no doubt upon some maternal wound the covering of which should
have been respected. The sickly child, whose eyes were pallid and
whose skin was white as a porcelain vase with a light within it, would
probably not have lived in the atmosphere of a city. Country air and her
mother's brooding care had kept the life in that frail body, delicate
as a hot-house plant growing in a harsh and foreign climate. Though in
nothing d