When I held the portrait between my hands I endured for a moment the bitterest anguish; I dared not look at the face, fearing to see the likeness of some one that I knew. When I had overcome this childish terror, I looked at it. It was the face of a stranger! I saw a noble and handsome face whose expression was both mild and severe; the hair was brown, the eyes blue, the whole physiognomy expressed refinement and grace; the costume was very simple, the only decoration being a broad orange ribbon with white edges, and a golden medal worn on the left side of the coat.
"And whose portrait is this?" said I, sadly, to Marguerite.
"It is the portrait of the man I most loved and respected,—M. de Pënâfiel."
She burst into tears and hid her face in her hands.
Then I understood it all, and believed that I should die of shame and remorse.
This one word tore the veil from the past, and showed me the frightful injustice of my suspicions.
"Ah, how you must despise and hate me!" I cried out in my distress. She gave no answer, but held out her hand that I knelt before and kissed with as much veneration as love.
After some time Marguerite became calm. Never in my life can I forget the first look she gave me when she raised her tear-stained face towards mine; in that look there was reproach, pardon, and pity.
"You have been very cruel, or else out of your mind," said she, after a long silence, "but I cannot be angry with you. I should have told you everything; twenty times at least, I have tried to do so, but I was afraid, you were so ironical and cold, your sudden and extraordinary conversion to the pleasures of the world,—everything repelled me."
"Ah, I believe it, I believe it, how can you ever pardon me? But, yes; you will forgive me when I tell you how much I have suffered by this frightful suspicion. Ah, if you knew how unjust and hateful grief can make a man! If you knew what it was to say, 'I love her to distraction, I idolise her, there is not a charm of her mind, her soul, or her person that I do not appreciate and admire, she is for me all in all,—and yet another—' ah, can you not see how such an idea is enough to set one wild, to make a man wish to die? Think of it, and you will have pity on me,—you will excuse because you will understand my rages, which I scarcely am ashamed of because I was wild from suffering."