apply to him
for aid."

"Ah!" said the servant, anxiously.

"I would not do it," continued Joyeuse; "no, no, I refused all, to come
and pray at this door with clasped hands--a door which never yet opened
to me."

"M. le Comte, you have indeed a noble heart, and worthy to be loved."

"Well, then, he whom you call worthy, to what do you condemn him? Every
morning my page brings a letter; it is refused. Every evening I knock
myself at the door, and I am disregarded. You let me suffer, despair,
die in the street, without having the compassion for me that you would
have for a dog that howled. Ah! this woman has no woman's heart, she
does not love me. Well! one can no more tell one's heart to love than
not to love. But you may pity the unfortunate who suffers, and give him
a word of consolation--reach out your hand to save him from falling; but
no, this woman cares not for my sufferings. Why does she not kill me,
either with a refusal from her mouth, or some blow from a poniard? Dead,
I should suffer no more."

"M. le Comte," replied the man, "the lady whom you accuse is, believe
me, far from having the hard, insensible heart you think; she has seen
you, and understood what you suffer, and feels for you the warmest
sympathy."

"Oh! compassion, compassion!" cried the young man; "but may that heart
of which you boast some day know love--love such as I feel, and may they
offer her compassion in exchange; I shall be well avenged."

"M. le Comte, not to reply to love is no reason for never having loved.
This woman has perhaps felt the passion more than ever you will--has
perhaps loved as you can never love."

"When one loves like that, one loves forever," cried Henri, raising his
eyes to heaven.

"Did I tell you that she loved no more?"

Henri uttered a doleful cry.

"She loves!" cried he. "Ah! mon Dieu!"

"Yes, she loves; but be not jealous of the man she loves, M. le Comte,
for he is no more of this world. My mistress is a widow."

These words restored hope and life to the young man.

"Oh!" cried he, "she is a widow, and recently; the source of her tears
will dry up in time. She is a widow, then she loves no one, or only a
shadow--a name. Ah! she will love me. Oh! mon Dieu, all great griefs are
calmed by time. When the widow of Mausole, who had sworn an eternal
grief at her husband's tomb, had exhausted her tears, she was cured.
Regrets are a malady, from which every one who survives comes out as
strong as bef