I am indulgent, but the world is
not; it shuns a woman who makes a scandal. Is that just? I know not; but
this I know, the world is cruel. Society refuses to calm the woes itself
has caused; it gives its honors to those who best deceive it; it has no
recompense for rash devotion. I see and know all that. I can't reform
society, but this I can do, I can protect you, Marie, against yourself.
This matter concerns a man who has brought you trouble only, and not
one of those high and sacred loves which do, at times, command our
abnegation, and even bear their own excuse. Perhaps I have been wrong in
not varying your happiness, in not providing you with gayer pleasures,
travel, amusements, distractions for the mind. Besides, I can explain
to myself the impulse that has driven you to a celebrated man, by the
jealous envy you have roused in certain women. Lady Dudley, Madame
d'Espard, and my sister-in-law Emilie count for something in all this.
Those women, against whom I ought to have put you more thoroughly on
your guard, have cultivated your curiosity more to trouble me and cause
me unhappiness, than to fling you into a whirlpool which, as I believe,
you would never have entered."

As she listened to these words, so full of kindness, the countess was
torn by many conflicting feelings; but the storm within her breast was
ruled by one of them,--a keen admiration for her husband. Proud and
noble souls are prompt to recognize the delicacy with which they
are treated. Tact is to sentiments what grace is to the body. Marie
appreciated the grandeur of the man who bowed before a woman in fault,
that he might not see her blush. She ran from the room like one beside
herself, but instantly returned, fearing lest her hasty action might
cause him uneasiness.

"Wait," she said, and disappeared again.

Felix had ably prepared her excuse, and he was instantly rewarded for
his generosity. His wife returned with Nathan's letters in her hand, and
gave them to him.

"Judge me," she said, kneeling down beside him.

"Are we able to judge where we love?" he answered, throwing the letters
into the fire; for he felt that later his wife might not forgive him for
having read them. Marie, with her head upon his knee, burst into tears.

"My child," he said, raising her head, "where are your letters?"

At this question the poor woman no longer felt the intolerable burning
of her cheeks; she turned cold.

"That you may not suspect me of calumniat