vy is the cross Thou hast laid
on me to bear! If the husband Thou hast given me here below in Thy wrath
can only be made happy through my death, take me to Thyself!"

"If you had always breathed such admirable sentiments and such devotion,
we should be happy yet," said the Count coldly.

"Indeed," cried Angelique, melting into a flood of tears, "forgive me
if I have done any wrong. Yes, monsieur, I am ready to obey you in all
things, feeling sure that you will desire nothing but what is just and
natural; henceforth I will be all you can wish your wife to be."

"If your purpose, madame, is to compel me to say that I no longer love
you, I shall find the cruel courage to tell you so. Can I command my
heart? Can I wipe out in an instant the traces of fifteen years of
suffering?--I have ceased to love.--These words contain a mystery as
deep as lies the words _I love_. Esteem, respect, friendship may be won,
lost, regained; but as to love--I might school myself for a thousand
years, and it would not blossom again, especially for a woman too old to
respond to it."

"I hope, Monsieur le Comte, I sincerely hope, that such words may not
be spoken to you some day by the woman you love, and in such a tone and
accent--"

"Will you put on a dress _a la Grecque_ this evening, and come to the
Opera?"

The shudder with which the Countess received the suggestion was a mute
reply.

Early in December 1833, a man, whose perfectly white hair and worn
features seemed to show that he was aged by grief rather than by years,
was walking at midnight along the Rue Gaillon. Having reached a house
of modest appearance, and only two stories high, he paused to look up at
one of the attic windows that pierced the roof at regular intervals. A
dim light scarcely showed through the humble panes, some of which
had been repaired with paper. The man below was watching the wavering
glimmer with the vague curiosity of a Paris idler, when a young man came
out of the house. As the light of the street lamp fell full on the face
of the first comer, it will not seem surprising that, in spite of the
darkness, this young man went towards the passer-by, though with the
hesitancy that is usual when we have any fear of making a mistake in
recognizing an acquaintance.

"What, is it you," cried he, "Monsieur le President? Alone at this hour,
and so far from the Rue Saint-Lazare. Allow me to have the honor of
giving you my arm.--The pavement is so greasy this