xiety
and serenity, could not have been understood by an indifferent
spectator; at times they appeared the most happy of living creatures,
and the next moment the most unhappy; but, although ignorant of their
secret, one would have felt that they were suffering together, and,
whatever their mysterious trouble, it could be seen that they had placed
on their sorrow a seal more powerful than love itself-friendship. While
their hands were clasped their glances were chaste; although they were
alone they spoke in low tones. As if overcome by their feelings, they
sat face to face, although their lips did not touch. They looked at each
other tenderly and solemnly. When the clock struck one, the woman heaved
a sigh and said:

"Octave, are you sure of yourself?"

"Yes, my friend, I am resolved. I shall suffer much, a long time,
perhaps forever; but we will cure ourselves, you with time, I with God."

"Octave, Octave," repeated the woman, "are you sure you are not
deceiving yourself?"

"I do not believe we can forget each other; but I believe that we can
forgive, and that is what I desire even at the price of separation."

"Why could we not meet again? Why not some day--you are so young!"

Then she added, with a smile:

"We could see each other without danger."

"No, my friend, for you must know that I could never see you again
without loving you. May he to whom I bequeath you be worthy of you!
Smith is brave, good, and honest, but however much you may love him, you
see very well that you still love me, for if I should decide to remain,
or to take you away with me, you would consent."

"It is true," replied the woman.

"True! true!" repeated the young man, looking into her eyes with all his
soul. "Is it true that if I wished it you would go with me?"

Then he continued, softly:

"That is the reason why I must never see you again. There are certain
loves in life that overturn the head, the senses, the mind, the heart;
there is among them all but one that does not disturb, that penetrates,
and that dies only with the being in which it has taken root."

"But you will write to me?"

"Yes, at first, for what I have to suffer is so keen that the absence of
the habitual object of my love would kill me. When I was unknown to you,
I gradually approached closer and closer to you, until--but let us not
go into the past. Little by little my letters will become less frequent
until they cease altogether. I shall thus descend th