"Our destinies are inseparably united, and death only can dissever us. Believe me, it shall for the future be my study to render life less painful to you than it has been."
"Merciful Heaven! Do I hear aright? Clémence, can it be you who have spoken these dear, these enchanting words?"
"Let me conjure you to spare me the pain and humiliation of hearing you express so much astonishment at my speaking as my duty prompts me to do; indeed, your reluctance to credit my assertions grieves me more than I can describe. How cruel a censure does it imply upon my past conduct! Ah, who will pity and soothe you in your severe trials, if not I? I seem inspired by some holy voice, speaking within my breast, to reflect upon my past conduct. I have deeply meditated on all that has happened, as well as on the future. My faults rise up in judgment against me; but with them come also the whisperings of my awakened feelings, teaching me how to repair my past errors."
"Your errors, my poor injured Clémence! Alas, you were not to blame!"
"Yes, I was. I ought frankly to have appealed to your honour to release me from the painful necessity of living with you as your wife; and that, too, on the day following our marriage,—"
"Clémence, for pity's sake no more!"
"Otherwise, in accepting my position, I ought to have elevated it by my entire submission and devotion. Under the circumstances in which I was placed, instead of allowing my coldness and proud reserve to act as a continual reproach, I should have directed all my endeavours to console you for so heavy a misfortune, and have forgotten everything but the severe affliction under which you laboured. By degrees I should have become attached to my work of commiseration, and, probably, the very cares and sacrifices it would have required to fulfil my voluntary duty; for which your grateful appreciation would have been a rich reward. I might, at last—But what ails you, my lord? Are you ill? Surely you are weeping!"
"But they are tears of pure delight. Ah, you can scarcely imagine what new emotions are awakened in my heart! Heed not my tears, beloved Clémence; trust me, they flow from an excess of happiness, arising from those dear words you just now uttered. Never did I seem so guilty in my own eyes as I now appear, for having selfishly bound you to such a life as mine!"
"And never did I find myself more disposed to forget the past, and to bury all reference to it in oblivion; the sight of your gently falling tears, even, seems to open to me a source of happiness hitherto unknown to me. Courage! Courage! Let us, in place of that bright and prosperous life denied us by Providence, seek our enjoyment in the discharge of the serious duties allotted us. Let us be mutually indulgent and forbearing towards each other; and, should our resolution fail, let us turn to our child, and make her the depositary of all our affections. Thus shall we secure to ourselves an unfailing store of holy, of tranquil joys."
"Sure, 'tis some angel speaks!" cried M. d'Harville, contemplating his wife with impassioned looks. "Oh, Clémence, you little know the pleasure and the pain you cause me. The severest reproach you ever addressed me—your hardest word or most merited rebuke never touched me as does this angelic devotion, this disregard of self, this generous sacrifice of personal enjoyment. Even despite myself, I feel hope spring up within me. I dare hardly trust myself to believe the blessed future which suggests itself to my imagination."