“Come, Felix,” interposed the count; “be frank; is she as handsome as they say?”
“How can you ask him such a question?” cried the countess. “Is not the woman you love always the handsomest of women?”
“Yes, always,” I said, firmly, with a glance which she could not sustain.
“You are a happy fellow,” said the count; “yes, a very happy one. Ha! in my young days, I should have gone mad over such a conquest—”
“Hush!” said Madame de Mortsauf, reminding the count of Madeleine by a look.
“I am not a child,” he said.
When we left the table I followed the countess to the terrace. When we were alone she exclaimed, “How is it possible that some women can sacrifice their children to a man? Wealth, position, the world, I can conceive of; eternity? yes, possibly; but children! deprive one’s self of one’s children!”
“Yes, and such women would give even more if they had it; they sacrifice everything.”
The world was suddenly reversed before her, her ideas became confused. The grandeur of that thought struck her; a suspicion entered her mind that sacrifice, immolation justified happiness; the echo of her own inward cry for love came back to her; she stood dumb in presence of her wasted life. Yes, for a moment horrible doubts possessed her; then she rose, grand and saintly, her head erect.
“Love her well, Felix,” she said, with tears in her eyes; “she shall be my happy sister. I will forgive her the harm she has done me if she gives you what you could not have here. You are right; I have never told you that I loved you, and I never have loved you as the world loves. But if she is a mother how can she love you so?”