d
in that room! What renunciations of luxury for herself; the only luxury
being its spotless cleanliness. Sacred cell of a married nun, filled
with holy resignation; its sole adornments were the crucifix of her bed,
and above it the portrait of her aunt; then, on each side of the holy
water basin, two drawings of the children made by herself, with locks
of their hair when they were little. What a retreat for a woman whose
appearance in the great world of fashion would have made the handsomest
of her sex jealous! Such was the chamber where the daughter of an
illustrious family wept out her days, sunken at this moment in anguish,
and denying herself the love that might have comforted her. Hidden,
irreparable woe! Tears of the victim for her slayer, tears of the slayer
for his victim! When the children and waiting-woman came at length into
the room I left it. The count was waiting for me; he seemed to seek me
as a mediating power between himself and his wife. He caught my hands,
exclaiming, "Stay, stay with us, Felix!"

"Unfortunately," I said, "Monsieur de Chessel has a party, and my
absence would cause remark. But after dinner I will return."

He left the house when I did, and took me to the lower gate without
speaking; then he accompanied me to Frapesle, seeming not to know what
he was doing. At last I said to him, "For heaven's sake, Monsieur le
comte, let her manage your affairs if it pleases her, and don't torment
her."

"I have not long to live," he said gravely; "she will not suffer long
through me; my head is giving way."

He left me in a spasm of involuntary self-pity. After dinner I returned
for news of Madame de Mortsauf, who was already better. If such were the
joys of marriage, if such scenes were frequent, how could she survive
them long? What slow, unpunished murder was this? During that day I
understood the tortures by which the count was wearing out his wife.
Before what tribunal can we arraign such crimes? These thoughts stunned
me; I could say nothing to Henriette by word of mouth, but I spent the
night in writing to her. Of the three or four letters that I wrote I
have kept only the beginning of one, with which I was not satisfied.
Here it is, for though it seems to me to express nothing, and to speak
too much of myself when I ought only to have thought of her, it will
serve to show you the state my soul was in:--

To Madame de Mortsauf:

How many things I had to say to you when I reached th