The countess wished to return thanks to God for the count’s recovery; she directed a mass to be said, and asked if I would take her to church. I did so, but I left her at the door, and went to see Monsieur and Madame Chessel. On my return she reproached me.
“Henriette,” I said, “I cannot be false. I will throw myself into the water to save my enemy from drowning, and give him my coat to keep him warm; I will forgive him, but I cannot forget the wrong.”
She was silent, but she pressed my arm.
“You are an angel, and you were sincere in your thanksgiving,” I said, continuing. “The mother of the Prince of the Peace was saved from the hands of an angry populace who sought to kill her, and when the queen asked, ‘What did you do?’ she answered, ‘I prayed for them.’ Women are ever thus. I am a man, and necessarily imperfect.”
“Don’t calumniate yourself,” she said, shaking my arm, “perhaps you are more worthy than I.”
“Yes,” I replied, “for I would give eternity for a day of happiness, and you—”
“I!” she said haughtily.
I was silent and lowered my eyes to escape the lightning of hers.
“There is many an I in me,” she said. “Of which do you speak? Those children,” pointing to Jacques and Madeleine, “are one—Felix,” she cried in a heartrending voice, “do you think me selfish? Ought I to sacrifice eternity to reward him who devotes to me his life? The thought is dreadful; it wounds every sentiment of religion. Could a woman so fallen rise again? Would her happiness absolve her? These are questions you force me to consider.—Yes, I betray at last the secret of my conscience; the thought has traversed my heart; often do I expiate it by penance; it caused the tears you asked me to account for yesterday—”
“Do you not give too great importance to certain things which common women hold at a high price, and—”