"Yes, she loves; but be not jealous of the man she loves, M. le Comte, for he is no more of this world. My mistress is a widow."
These words restored hope and life to the young man.
"Oh!" cried he, "she is a widow, and recently; the source of her tears will dry up in time. She is a widow, then she loves no one, or only a shadow—a name. Ah! she will love me. Oh! mon Dieu, all great griefs are calmed by time. When the widow of Mausole, who had sworn an eternal grief at her husband's tomb, had exhausted her tears, she was cured. Regrets are a malady, from which every one who survives comes out as strong as before."
The servant shook his head.
"This lady, M. le Comte, has also sworn eternal fidelity to death; but I know her, and she will keep her word better than the forgetful woman of whom you speak."
"I will wait ten years, if necessary; since she lives, I may hope."
"Oh! young man, do not reckon thus. She has lived, you say; yes, so she has, not a month, or a year, but seven years. You hope that she will console herself; never, M. le Comte, never. I swear it to you—I, who was but the servant of him who is dead, and yet I shall never be consoled."
"This man so much regretted, this husband—"
"It was not her husband, it was her lover, M. le Comte, and a woman like her whom you unluckily love has but one lover in her life."
"My friend," cried Joyeuse, "intercede for me."