untary, have often crossed my mind and, in this hour, I fear I
have welcomed them too warmly. But as I have tenderly loved you, and
continued to be your submissive wife, and as the clouds passing beneath
the sky do not alter its purity, I now pray for your blessing with a
clean heart. I shall die without one bitter thought if I can hear
from your lips a tender word for your Blanche, for the mother of your
children,--if I know that you forgive her those things for which she did
not forgive herself till reassured by the great tribunal which pardons
all."

"Blanche, Blanche!" cried the broken man, shedding tears upon his wife's
head, "Would you kill me?" He raised her with a strength unusual to him,
kissed her solemnly on the forehead, and thus holding her continued:
"Have I no forgiveness to ask of you? Have I never been harsh? Are you
not making too much of your girlish scruples?"

"Perhaps," she said. "But, dear friend, indulge the weakness of a dying
woman; tranquillize my mind. When you reach this hour you will remember
that I left you with a blessing. Will you grant me permission to leave
to our friend now here that pledge of my affection?" she continued,
showing a letter that was on the mantelshelf. "He is now my adopted son,
and that is all. The heart, dear friend, makes its bequests; my last
wishes impose a sacred duty on that dear Felix. I think I do not put
too great a burden on him; grant that I do not ask too much of you in
desiring to leave him these last words. You see, I am always a woman,"
she said, bending her head with mournful sweetness; "after obtaining
pardon I ask a gift--Read this," she added, giving me the letter; "but
not until after my death."

The count saw her color change: he lifted her and carried her himself to
the bed, where we all surrounded her.

"Felix," she said, "I may have done something wrong to you. Often I gave
you pain by letting you hope for that I could not give you; but see,
it was that very courage of wife and mother that now enables me to die
forgiven of all. You will forgive me too; you who have so often blamed
me, and whose injustice was so dear--"

The Abbe Birotteau laid a finger on his lips. At that sign the dying
woman bowed her head, faintness overcame her; presently she waved her
hands as if summoning the clergy and her children and the servants to
her presence, and then, with an imploring gesture, she showed me the
desolate count and the children beside him. The