“‘She is mine!’ cried the Count, whose face expressed joy as he went on reading the letter.
“He signed to me with his hand to leave him to himself. I understood that extreme happiness and extreme pain obey the same laws; I went in to receive Madame de Courteville and Amelie, who were to dine with the Count that day. However handsome Mademoiselle de Courteville might be, I felt, on seeing her once more, that love has three aspects, and that the women who can inspire us with perfect love are very rare. As I involuntarily compared Amelie with Honorine, I found the erring wife more attractive than the pure girl. To Honorine’s heart fidelity had not been a duty, but the inevitable; while Amelie would serenely pronounce the most solemn promises without knowing their purport or to what they bound her. The crushed, the dead woman, so to speak, the sinner to be reinstated, seemed to me sublime; she incited the special generosities of a man’s nature; she demanded all the treasures of the heart, all the resources of strength; she filled his life and gave the zest of a conflict to happiness; whereas Amelie, chaste and confiding, would settle down into the sphere of peaceful motherhood, where the commonplace must be its poetry, and where my mind would find no struggle and no victory.
“Of the plains of Champagne and the snowy, storm-beaten but sublime Alps, what young man would choose the chalky, monotonous level? No; such comparisons are fatal and wrong on the threshold of the Mairie. Alas! only the experience of life can teach us that marriage excludes passion, that a family cannot have its foundation on the tempests of love. After having dreamed of impossible love, with its infinite caprices, after having tasted the tormenting delights of the ideal, I saw before me modest reality. Pity me, for what could be expected! At five-and-twenty I did not trust myself; but I took a manful resolution.
“I went back to the Count to announce the arrival of his relations, and I saw him grown young again in the reflected light of hope.
“‘What ails you, Maurice?’ said he, struck by my changed expression.
“‘Monsieur le Comte——’
“‘No longer Octave? You, to whom I shall owe my life, my happiness——’
“‘My dear Octave, if you should succeed in bringing the Countess back to her duty, I have studied her well’—(he looked at me as Othello must have looked at Iago when Iago first contrived to insinuate a suspicion into the Moor’s mind)—‘she must never see me again; she must never know that Maurice was your secretary. Never mention my name to her, or all will be undone.... You have got me an appointment as Maitre des Requetes—well, get me instead some diplomatic post abroad, a consulship, and do not think of my marrying Amelie.—Oh! do not be uneasy,’ I added, seeing him draw himself up, ‘I will play my part to the end.’
“‘Poor boy!’ said he, taking my hand, which he pressed, while he kept back the tears that were starting to his eyes.
“‘You gave me the gloves,’ I said, laughing, ‘but I have not put them on; that is all.’