should doubt me?"

She stopped before the glass.

"Who am I?" she repeated, "who am I? Think of it. Look at this face of
mine."

"Doubt thee!" she cried, addressing her own image; "poor, pale face, thou
art suspected! poor, thin cheeks, poor, tired eyes, thou and thy tears
are in disgrace. Very well, put an end to thy suffering; let those kisses
that have wasted thee close thy lids! Descend into the cold earth, poor
trembling body that can no longer support its own weight. When thou art
there, perchance thou wilt be believed, if doubt believes in death. O
sorrowful spectre! On the banks of what stream wilt thou wander and
groan? What fires devour thee? Thou dreamest of a long journey and thou
hast one foot in the grave!

"Die! God is thy witness that thou hast tried to love. Ah! what wealth of
love has been awakened in thy heart! Ah! what dreams thou hast had, what
poisons thou hast drunk! What evil hast thou committed that there should
be placed in thy breast a fever that consumes! What fury animates that
blind creature who pushes thee into the grave with his foot, while his
lips speak to thee of love? What will become of you if you live? Is it
not time to end it all? Is it not enough? What proof canst thou give that
will satisfy when thou, poor, living proof, art not believed? To what
torture canst thou submit that thou hast not already endured? By what
torments, what sacrifices, wilt thou appease insatiable love? Thou wilt
be only an object of ridicule, a thing to excite laughter; thou wilt
vainly seek a deserted street to avoid the finger of scorn. Thou wilt
lose all shame and even that appearance of virtue which has been so dear
to you; and the man for whom you have disgraced yourself will be the
first to punish you. He will reproach you for living for him alone, for
braving the world for him, and while your friends are whispering about
you, he will listen to assure himself that no word of pity is spoken; he
will accuse you of deceiving him if another hand even then presses yours,
and if, in the desert of life, you find some one who can spare you a word
of pity in passing.

"O God! dost thou remember a day when a wreath of roses was placed on my
head? Was it this brow on which that crown rested? Ah! the hand that hung
it on the wall of the oratory has now fallen, like it, to dust! Oh, my
native valley! Oh, my old aunt, who now sleeps in peace! Oh, my lindens,
my little white goat, my dear peasants who loved m