“‘I earn my living by amusing myself,’ said she; ‘I am free, when men, armed with their laws, have tried to make us slaves. Oh, I have transports of pride every Saturday! In short, I like M. Gaudissart’s gold pieces as much as Lord Byron, your double, liked Mr. Murray’s.’
“‘This is not becoming in a woman,’ said I.
“‘Pooh! Am I a woman? I am a boy gifted with a soft soul, that is all; a boy whom no woman can torture——’
“‘Your life is the negation of your whole being,’ I replied. ‘What? You, on whom God has lavished His choicest treasures of love and beauty, do you never wish——’
“‘For what?’ said she, somewhat disturbed by a speech which, for the first time, gave the lie to the part I had assumed.
“‘For a pretty little child, with curling hair, running, playing among the flowers, like a flower itself of life and love, and calling you mother!’
“I waited for an answer. A too prolonged silence led me to perceive the terrible effect of my words, though the darkness at first concealed it. Leaning on her sofa, the Countess had not indeed fainted, but frozen under a nervous attack of which the first chill, as gentle as everything that was part of her, felt, as she afterwards said, like the influence of a most insidious poison. I called Madame Gobain, who came and led away her mistress, laid her on her bed, unlaced her, undressed her, and restored her, not to life, it is true, but to the consciousness of some dreadful suffering. I meanwhile walked up and down the path behind the house, weeping, and doubting my success. I only wished to give up this part of the bird-catcher which I had so rashly assumed. Madame Gobain, who came down and found me with my face wet with tears, hastily went up again to say to the Countess:
“‘What has happened, madame? Monsieur Maurice is crying like a child.’
“Roused to action by the evil interpretation that might be put on our mutual behavior, she summoned superhuman strength to put on a wrapper and come down to me.
“‘You are not the cause of this attack,’ said she. ‘I am subject to these spasms, a sort of cramp of the heart——’