“Well?” she said.
“Well?” I replied, sobbing, “tell her if you wish.” Tears rushed from my eyes.
After dinner we sat before the fire.
“But tell me,” she said, “is it irrevocable? Can nothing be done?”
“Alas! Madame,” I replied, “there is nothing irrevocable except the grief that is killing me. My condition can be expressed in a few words: I can not love her, I can not love another, and I can not cease loving.”
At these words she moved uneasily in her chair, and I could see an expression of compassion on her face.
For some time she appeared to be reflecting, as if pondering over my fate and seeking some remedy for my sorrow. Her eyes were closed and she appeared lost in revery. She extended her hand and I took it in mine.
“And I, too,” she murmured, “that is just my experience.” She stopped, overcome by emotion.
Of all the sisters of love, the most beautiful is pity. I held Madame Levasseur’s hand as she began to speak of my mistress, saying all she could think of in her favor. My sadness increased. What could I reply? Finally she came to speak of herself.
Not long since, she said, a man who loved her abandoned her. She had made great sacrifices for him; her fortune was compromised, as well as her honor and her name. Her husband, whom she knew to be vindictive, had made threats. Her tears flowed as she continued, and I began to forget my own sorrow in my sympathy for her. She had been married against her will; she struggled a long time; but she regretted nothing except that she had not been able to inspire a more sincere affection. I believe she even accused herself because she had not been able to hold her lover’s heart, and because she had been guilty of apparent indifference.