hell; they have not loved God for himself, they have not worshiped
Him as He chooses to be worshiped, they have made no sacrifice. Though
mild in seeming, they are hard on their neighbors; they see the law, the
letter, not the spirit.--This is how you have treated me, your earthly
husband; you have sacrificed my happiness to your salvation; you were
always absorbed in prayer when I came to you in gladness of heart;
you wept when you should have cheered my toil; you have never tried to
satisfy any demands I have made on you."

"And if they were wicked," cried the Countess hotly, "was I to lose my
soul to please you?"

"It is a sacrifice which another, a more loving woman, has dared to
make," said Granville coldly.

"Dear God!" she cried, bursting into tears, "Thou hearest! Has he been
worthy of the prayers and penance I have lived in, wearing myself out to
atone for his sins and my own?--Of what avail is virtue?"

"To win Heaven, my dear. A woman cannot be at the same time the wife of
a man and the spouse of Christ. That would be bigamy; she must choose
between a husband and a nunnery. For the sake of future advantage you
have stripped your soul of all the love, all the devotion, which God
commands that you should have for me, you have cherished no feeling but
hatred--"

"Have I not loved you?" she put in.

"No, madame."

"Then what is love?" the Countess involuntarily inquired.

"Love, my dear," replied Granville, with a sort of ironical surprise,
"you are incapable of understanding it. The cold sky of Normandy is not
that of Spain. This difference of climate is no doubt the secret of our
disaster.--To yield to our caprices, to guess them, to find pleasure in
pain, to sacrifice the world's opinion, your pride, your religion even,
and still regard these offerings as mere grains of incense burnt in
honor of the idol--that is love--"

"The love of ballet-girls!" cried the Countess in horror. "Such flames
cannot last, and must soon leave nothing but ashes and cinders, regret
or despair. A wife ought, in my opinion, to bring you true friendship,
equable warmth--"

"You speak of warmth as negroes speak of ice," retorted the Count, with
a sardonic smile. "Consider that the humblest daisy has more charms than
the proudest and most gorgeous of the red hawthorns that attract us in
spring by their strong scent and brilliant color.--At the same time,"
he went on, "I will do you justice. You have kept so precisely in the