I longed to rise with you. Bless me by a look, by a sacred word,--I
forgive you for the sufferings you have caused me the last two months."

"Henriette, there are mysteries in the life of men of which you know
nothing. I met you at an age when the feelings of the heart stifle the
desires implanted in our nature; but many scenes, the memory of which
will kindle my soul to the hour of death, must have told you that this
age was drawing to a close, and it was your constant triumph still to
prolong its mute delights. A love without possession is maintained
by the exasperation of desire; but there comes a moment when all is
suffering within us--for in this we have no resemblance to you. We
possess a power we cannot abdicate, or we cease to be men. Deprived
of the nourishment it needs, the heart feeds upon itself, feeling an
exhaustion which is not death, but which precedes it. Nature cannot long
be silenced; some trifling accident awakens it to a violence that seems
like madness. No, I have not loved, but I have thirsted in the desert."

"The desert!" she said bitterly, pointing to the valley. "Ah!" she
exclaimed, "how he reasons! what subtle distinctions! Faithful hearts
are not so learned."

"Henriette," I said, "do not quarrel with me for a chance expression.
No, my soul has not vacillated, but I have not been master of my senses.
That woman is not ignorant that you are the only one I ever loved. She
plays a secondary part in my life; she knows it and is resigned. I have
the right to leave her as men leave courtesans."

"And then?"

"She tells me that she will kill herself," I answered, thinking that
this resolve would startle Henriette. But when she heard it a disdainful
smile, more expressive than the thoughts it conveyed, flickered on her
lips. "My dear conscience," I continued, "if you would take into
account my resistance and the seductions that led to my fall you would
understand the fatal--"

"Yes, fatal!" she cried. "I believed in you too much. I believed you
capable of the virtue a priest practises. All is over," she continued,
after a pause. "I owe you much, my friend; you have extinguished in me
the fires of earthly life. The worst of the way is over; age is coming
on. I am ailing now, soon I may be ill; I can never be the brilliant
fairy who showers you with favors. Be faithful to Lady Dudley.
Madeleine, whom I was training to be yours, ah! who will have her now?
Poor Madeleine, poor Madeleine!" she repe