was helpless; they
were tears of desperation. She had believed herself independent and
free; marriage weighed on her as the prison cell does on the captive.

"'I will go!' she cried through her tears. 'He forces me to it; I will
go where no one certainly will come after me.'

"'What,' I said, 'you would kill yourself?--Madame, you must have some
very powerful reasons for not wishing to return to Comte Octave.'

"'Certainly I have!'

"'Well, then, tell them to me; tell them to my uncle. In us you will
find two devoted advisers. Though in the confessional my uncle is a
priest, he never is one in a drawing-room. We will hear you; we will try
to find a solution of the problems you may lay before us; and if you are
the dupe or the victim of some misapprehension, perhaps we can clear the
matter up. Your soul, I believe, is pure; but if you have done wrong,
your fault is fully expiated.... At any rate, remember that in me you
have a most sincere friend. If you should wish to evade the Count's
tyranny, I will find you the means; he shall never find you.'

"'Oh! there is always a convent!' said she.

"'Yes. But the Count, as Minister of State, can procure your rejection
by every convent in the world. Even though he is powerful, I will save
you from him--; but--only when you have demonstrated to me that you
cannot and ought not to return to him. Oh! do not fear that you would
escape his power only to fall into mine,' I added, noticing a glance of
horrible suspicion, full of exaggerated dignity. 'You shall have peace,
solitude, and independence; in short, you shall be as free and as little
annoyed as if you were an ugly, cross old maid. I myself would never be
able to see you without your consent.'

"'And how? By what means?'

"'That is my secret. I am not deceiving you, of that you may be
sure. Prove to me that this is the only life you can lead, that it is
preferable to that of the Comtesse Octave, rich, admired, in one of the
finest houses in Paris, beloved by her husband, a happy mother... and I
will decide in your favor.'

"'But,' said she, 'will there never be a man who understands me?'

"'No. And that is why I appeal to religion to decide between us. The
Cure of the White Friars is a saint, seventy-five years of age. My uncle
is not a Grand Inquisitor, he is Saint John; but for you he will be
Fenelon--the Fenelon who said to the Duc de Bourgogne: 'Eat a calf on a
Friday by all means, monseigneur. But be a Christ