possession is a
means and not an end; unfaithfulness may give pain, but the bond is not
less close; the soul is neither more nor less ardent or troubled, but
happy at every moment; in short, the divine breath of desire spreading
from end to end of the immensity of Time steeps it all for us in the
selfsame hue; life takes the tint of the unclouded heaven. But Passion
is the foreshadowing of Love, and of that Infinite to which all
suffering souls aspire. Passion is a hope that may be cheated. Passion
means both suffering and transition. Passion dies out when hope is
dead. Men and women may pass through this experience many times without
dishonor, for it is so natural to spring towards happiness; but there is
only one love in a lifetime. All discussions of sentiment ever
conducted on paper or by word of mouth may therefore be resumed by
two questions--"Is it passion? Is it love?" So, since love comes into
existence only through the intimate experience of the bliss which gives
it lasting life, the Duchess was beneath the yoke of passion as yet; and
as she knew the fierce tumult, the unconscious calculations, the fevered
cravings, and all that is meant by that word _passion_--she suffered.
Through all the trouble of her soul there rose eddying gusts of tempest,
raised by vanity or self-love, or pride or a high spirit; for all these
forms of egoism make common cause together.

She had said to this man, "I love you; I am yours!" Was it possible that
the Duchesse de Langeais should have uttered those words--in vain? She
must either be loved now or play her part of queen no longer. And then
she felt the loneliness of the luxurious couch where pleasure had never
yet set his glowing feet; and over and over again, while she tossed and
writhed there, she said, "I want to be loved."

But the belief that she still had in herself gave her hope of success.
The Duchess might be piqued, the vain Parisienne might be humiliated;
but the woman saw glimpses of wedded happiness, and imagination,
avenging the time lost for nature, took a delight in kindling the
inextinguishable fire in her veins. She all but attained to the
sensations of love; for amid her poignant doubt whether she was loved in
return, she felt glad at heart to say to herself, "I love him!" As for
her scruples, religion, and the world she could trample them under foot!
Montriveau was her religion now. She spent the next day in a state
of moral torpor, troubled by a physical