m a smile,--the forced smile with which we strive to
hide either the irony of vengeance, the expectation of pleasure, the
intoxication of our souls, or the fury of disappointment.

"Ah, my poor Felix, this is death," she said, "and you do not like
death; odious death, of which every human creature, even the boldest
lover, feels a horror. This is the end of love; I knew it would be so.
Lady Dudley will never see you thus surprised at the change in her. Ah!
why have I so longed for you, Felix? You have come at last, and I reward
your devotion by the same horrible sight that made the Comte de Rance
a Trappist. I, who hoped to remain ever beautiful and noble in your
memory, to live there eternally a lily, I it is who destroy your
illusions! True love cannot calculate. But stay; do not go, stay.
Monsieur Origet said I was much better this morning; I shall recover.
Your looks will bring me back to life. When I regain a little strength,
when I can take some nourishment, I shall be beautiful again. I
am scarcely thirty-five, there are many years of happiness before
me,--happiness renews our youth; yes, I must know happiness! I have made
delightful plans,--we will leave Clochegourde and go to Italy."

Tears filled my eyes and I turned to the window as if to look at the
flowers. The abbe followed me hastily, and bending over the bouquet
whispered, "No tears!"

"Henriette, do you no longer care for our dear valley," I said, as if to
explain my sudden movement.

"Oh, yes!" she said, turning her forehead to my lips with a fond motion.
"But without you it is fatal to me,--without _thee_," she added, putting
her burning lips to my ear and whispering the words like a sigh.

I was horror-struck at the wild caress, and my will was not strong
enough to repress the nervous agitation I felt throughout this scene. I
listened without reply; or rather I replied by a fixed smile and signs
of comprehension; wishing not to thwart her, but to treat her as a
mother does a child. Struck at first with the change in her person, I
now perceived that the woman, once so dignified in her bearing, showed
in her attitude, her voice, her manners, in her looks and her ideas, the
naive ignorance of a child, its artless graces, its eager movements,
its careless indifference to everything that is not its own desire,--in
short all the weaknesses which commend a child to our protection. Is it
so with all dying persons? Do they strip off social disguises till