my mind, and gave to my pilgrimage the
interest of intense curiosity, in addition to the almost pious feelings
that led me onwards, was that glorious faith of Mademoiselle de
Villenoix's which the good priest had told me of. Had she in the course
of time been infected with her lover's madness, or had she so completely
entered into his soul that she could understand all its thoughts, even
the most perplexed? I lost myself in the wonderful problem of feeling,
passing the highest inspirations of passion and the most beautiful
instances of self-sacrifice. That one should die for the other is an
almost vulgar form of devotion. To live faithful to one love is a
form of heroism that immortalized Mademoiselle Dupuis. When the great
Napoleon and Lord Byron could find successors in the hearts of women
they had loved, we may well admire Bolingbroke's widow; but Mademoiselle
Dupuis could feed on the memories of many years of happiness, whereas
Mademoiselle de Villenoix, having known nothing of love but its first
excitement, seemed to me to typify love in its highest expression.
If she were herself almost crazy, it was splendid; but if she had
understood and entered into his madness, she combined with the beauty
of a noble heart a crowning effort of passion worthy to be studied and
honored.

When I saw the tall turrets of the chateau, remembering how often
poor Lambert must have thrilled at the sight of them, my heart beat
anxiously. As I recalled the events of our boyhood, I was almost a
sharer in his present life and situation. At last I reached a wide,
deserted courtyard, and I went into the hall of the house without
meeting a soul. There the sound of my steps brought out an old woman,
to whom I gave a letter written to Mademoiselle de Villenoix by Monsieur
Lefebvre. In a few minutes this woman returned to bid me enter, and
led me to a low room, floored with black-and-white marble; the Venetian
shutters were closed, and at the end of the room I dimly saw Louis
Lambert.

"Be seated, monsieur," said a gentle voice that went to my heart.

Mademoiselle de Villenoix was at my side before I was aware of her
presence, and noiselessly brought me a chair, which at first I would not
accept. It was so dark that at first I saw Mademoiselle de Villenoix
and Lambert only as two black masses perceived against the gloomy
background. I presently sat down under the influence of the feeling that
comes over us, almost in spite of ourselves, unde