Part 16 (2/2)

”Oh, sometimes, in my stomach. If I were in Paris I should have the honors of gastritis, the fas.h.i.+onable disease.”

”My mother suffers very much and very often,” said Madeleine.

”Ah!” she said, ”does my health interest you?”

Madeleine, astonished at the irony of these words, looked from one to the other; my eyes counted the roses on the cus.h.i.+on of the gray and green sofa which was in the salon.

”This situation is intolerable,” I whispered in her ear.

”Did I create it?” she asked. ”Dear child,” she said aloud, with one of those cruel levities by which women point their vengeance, ”don't you read history? France and England are enemies, and ever have been.

Madeleine knows that; she knows that a broad sea, and a cold and stormy one, separates them.”

The vases on the mantelshelf had given place to candelabra, no doubt to deprive me of the pleasure of filling them with flowers; I found them later in my own room. When my servant arrived I went out to give him some orders; he had brought me certain things I wished to place in my room.

”Felix,” said the countess, ”do not make a mistake. My aunt's old room is now Madeleine's. Yours is over the count's.”

Though guilty, I had a heart; those words were dagger thrusts coldly given at its tenderest spot, for which she seemed to aim. Moral sufferings are not fixed quant.i.ties; they depend on the sensitiveness of souls. The countess had trod each round of the ladder of pain; but, for that very reason, the kindest of women was now as cruel as she was once beneficent. I looked at Henriette, but she averted her head. I went to my new room, which was pretty, white and green. Once there I burst into tears. Henriette heard me as she entered with a bunch of flowers in her hand.

”Henriette,” I said, ”will you never forgive a wrong that is indeed excusable?”

”Do not call me Henriette,” she said. ”She no longer exists, poor soul; but you may feel sure of Madame de Mortsauf, a devoted friend, who will listen to you and who will love you. Felix, we will talk of these things later. If you have still any tenderness for me let me grow accustomed to seeing you. Whenever words will not rend my heart, if the day should ever come when I recover courage, I will speak to you, but not till then. Look at the valley,” she said, pointing to the Indre, ”it hurts me, I love it still.”

”Ah, perish England and all her women! I will send my resignation to the king; I will live and die here, pardoned.”

”No, love her; love that woman! Henriette is not. This is no play, and you should know it.”

She left the room, betraying by the tone of her last words the extent of her wounds. I ran after her and held her back, saying, ”Do you no longer love me?”

”You have done me more harm than all my other troubles put together.

To-day I suffer less, therefore I love you less. Be kind; do not increase my pain; if you suffer, remember that--I--live.”

She withdrew her hand, which I held, cold, motionless, but moist, in mine, and darted like an arrow through the corridor in which this scene of actual tragedy took place.

At dinner, the count subjected me to a torture I had little expected.

”So the Marchioness of Dudley is not in Paris?” he said.

I blushed excessively, but answered, ”No.”

”She is not in Tours,” continued the count.

”She is not divorced, and she can go back to England. Her husband would be very glad if she would return to him,” I said, eagerly.

”Has she children?” asked Madame de Mortsauf, in a changed voice.

”Two sons,” I replied.

”Where are they?”

”In England, with their father.”

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