distance which separated
her from him whose perfection appeared to her more than human, from this
man whose goodness was so extreme, and his power so terrible to the
wicked. In spite of the respect with which her adoration for him was
imbued, sometimes, alas! Fleur-de-Marie feared to detect in this
adoration the symptoms of love, but of a love as secret as it was deep,
as chaste as it was secret, and as hopeless as it was chaste. The
unhappy girl had not thought of reading this withering revelation in her
heart until after her interview with Madame d'Harville, who was herself
smitten with a love for Rodolph, of which he himself was ignorant.

After the departure and the promises of the marquise, Fleur-de-Marie
should have been transported with joy on thinking of her friends at
Bouqueval, of Rodolph whom she was again about to see. But she was not.
Her heart was painfully distressed, and to her memory occurred
incessantly the severe language, the haughty scrutiny, the angry looks,
of Madame d'Harville, as the poor prisoner had been excited to
enthusiasm when alluding to her benefactor. By singular intuition La
Goualeuse had thus detected a portion of Madame d'Harville's secret.

"The excess of my gratitude to M. Rodolph offended this young lady, so
handsome and of such high rank," thought Fleur-de-Marie; "now I
comprehend the severity of her words, they expressed a jealous disdain.
She jealous of me! Then she must love him, and I must love, too--him?
Yes, and my love must have betrayed itself in spite of me! Love
him,--I--I--a creature fallen for ever, ungrateful and wretched as I
am! Oh, if it were so, death were a hundred times preferable!"

Let us hasten to say that the unhappy girl, thus a martyr to her
feelings, greatly exaggerated what she called her love.

To her profound gratitude towards Rodolph was united involuntary
admiration of the gracefulness, strength, and manly beauty which
distinguished him from other men. Nothing could be less gross, more
pure, than this admiration; but it existed in full and active force,
because physical beauty is always attractive. And then the voice of
blood, so often denied, mute, unknown, or misinterpreted, is sometimes
in full force, and these throbs of passionate tenderness which attracted
Fleur-de-Marie towards Rodolph, and which so greatly startled her,
because in her ignorance she misinterpreted their tendency, these
feelings resulted from mysterious sympathies, as palpab