“You shall know. HE LOVES ME—that word says all, contains all, comprehends all, is all—and yet I have a thousand questions to ask with regard to him—but I will ask none before to-morrow, because, by a mysterious fatality, to-morrow is with me a sacred anniversary. It will be an age till then; but happily, I can wait. Look here!”
Beckoning M. de Montbron, she led him to the Indian Bacchus. “How much it is like him!” said she to the count.
“Indeed,” exclaimed the latter, “it is strange!”
“Strange?” returned Adrienne, with a smile of gentle pride; “strange, that a hero, a demi-god, an ideal of beauty, should resemble Djalma?”
“How you love him!” said M. de Montbron, deeply touched, and almost dazzled by the felicity which beamed from the countenance of Adrienne.
“I must have suffered a good deal, do you not think so?” said she, after a moment’s silence.
“If I had not made up my mind to come here to-day, almost in despair, what would have happened?”
“I cannot tell; I should perhaps have died, for I am wounded mortally here”—she pressed her hand to her heart. “But what might have been death to me, will now be life.”
“It was horrible,” said the count, shuddering. “Such a passion, buried in your own breast, proud as you are—”
“Yes, proud—but not self-conceited. When I learned his love for another, and that the impression which I fancied I had made on him at our first interview had been immediately effaced, I renounced all hope, without being able to renounce my love. Instead of shunning his image, I surrounded myself with all that could remind me of him. In default of happiness, there is a bitter pleasure in suffering through what we love.”