ength to
understand my love and always leave her letters unanswered until they
finally ceased to come--until her complaints, which, however, had
consoled me, were no longer heard! The sacrifice was made, God accepted
it, my sin was expiated, and I was glad, for my heart was forever
broken, and never, since then, has a smile of happiness played upon
my lips. But in my soul has it become tranquil and serene, God dwells
there, and within me is a peace known only to those who have struggled
and overcome, who have expiated their sins with a free will and flayed
breast."

"And your beloved, what became of her?" asked the cardinal. "Did she
pardon your treason, and console herself in the arms of another?"

"In the arms of death!" said Ganganelli, with a low voice. "My silence
and my apparent forgetfulness of her broke her heart; she died of grief,
but she died like a saint, and her last words were: 'May God forgive
him, as I do! I curse him not, but bless him, rather; for through him
am I released from the burden of this life, and all sorrow is overcome!'
She therefore died in the belief of my unfaithfulness; she did, indeed,
pardon me, but yet she believed me a faithless betrayer! And the
consciousness of this was to me a new torment and a penance which I
shall suffer forever and ever! This is the story of my love," continued
Ganganelli, after a short silence. "I have truly related it to you as
it is. May you, my son, learn from it that, when we wish to do right, we
can always succeed, in spite of our own hearts and sinful natures, and
that with God's help we can overcome all and suffer all. You see that
I have loved, and nevertheless had strength to renounce. But it was God
who gave me this strength, God alone! Turn you, also, to God; pray to
Him to destroy in you your sinful love; and, if you implore Him with the
right words, and with the right fervor, then will God be near you with
His strength, and in the pains of renunciation will He purify your soul,
preparing it for virtue and all that is good!"

"And do you call that virtue?" asked the cardinal. "May Heaven preserve
me from so cruel a virtue! Do you call it serving God when this virtue
makes you the murderer of your beloved, and, more savage than a wild
beast, deaf to the amorous complaints of a woman whom you had led into
love and sin, whose virtue you sacrificed to your lust, and whom you
afterward deserted because, as you say, God called to yourself,
but really