Eight days elapsed, during which Colonel de Sucy struggled against
mortal agony; tears no longer came to his eyes. His soul, often
lacerated, could not harden itself to the sight of Stephanie's insanity;
but he covenanted, so to speak, with his cruel situation, and found some
assuaging of his sorrow. He had the courage to slowly tame the countess
by bringing her sweetmeats; he took such pains in choosing them, and he
learned so well how to keep the little conquests he sought to make upon
her instincts--that last shred of her intellect--that he ended by making
her much TAMER than she had ever been.

Every morning he went into the park, and if, after searching for her
long, he could not discover on what tree she was swaying, nor the covert
in which she crouched to play with a bird, nor the roof on which she
might have clambered, he would whistle the well-known air of "Partant
pour la Syrie," to which some tender memory of their love attached.
Instantly, Stephanie would run to him with the lightness of a fawn. She
was now so accustomed to see him, that he frightened her no longer. Soon
she was willing to sit upon his knee, and clasp him closely with her
thin and agile arm. In that attitude--so dear to lovers!--Philippe would
feed her with sugarplums. Then, having eaten those that he gave her, she
would often search his pockets with gestures that had all the mechanical
velocity of a monkey's motions. When she was very sure there was nothing
more, she looked at Philippe with clear eyes, without ideas, with
recognition. Then she would play with him, trying at times to take off
his boots to see his feet, tearing his gloves, putting on his hat; she
would even let him pass his hands through her hair, and take her in his
arms; she accepted, but without pleasure, his ardent kisses. She would
look at him silently, without emotion, when his tears flowed; but she
always understood his "Partant pour la Syrie," when he whistled it,
though he never succeeded in teaching her to say her own name Stephanie.

Philippe was sustained in his agonizing enterprise by hope, which never
abandoned him. When, on fine autumn mornings, he found the countess
sitting peacefully on a bench, beneath a poplar now yellowing, the poor
lover would sit at her feet, looking into her eyes as long as she
would let him, hoping ever that the light that was in them would become
intelligent. Sometimes the thought deluded him that he saw those hard
immovable rays