But this relative is the mother of the girl he was to have married.... perhaps she still loves him.... is she with her mother?... Ah! what an absurd idea! I am so uneasy that I divert my mind by being jealous—to avoid thinking of possible dangers, I conjure up impossible ones.... Oh! my God! it is not his love I doubt ... his love equals mine—it is the intensity of his love that frightens me—it is in this love so pure, so perfect, so divine—in this complete happiness that the danger lies. Is it not sinful to idolize one of God's creatures, when this adoration is due to God alone—to devote one's whole existence to a human being, for his sake to forget everything else? This is the sin before Heaven ...
Oh! if I could only see him, and once more hear his voice! That blessed voice I love so much! How miserable I am!... What agony I suffer!... I stifle ... my brain whirls—my mind is so confused that I cannot think ... this torture is worse than death ... And then if he should suddenly appear before me, what joy!... Oh! I don't wish him to enter the room at once—I would like one minute to prepare myself for the happiness of seeing him ... one single moment.... If he were to abruptly enter, I would become frantic with joy as I embraced him!
My dear Valentine, what a torment is love!... It is utterly impossible for me to support another hour of this agitation. I am sure I have a fever—I shiver with cold—I burn—my brain is on fire....
As I write this to you, seated at the window, I eagerly watch the long avenue by which he must return.... I write a word ... a whole line so as to give him time to approach, hoping I will see him coming when I raise my eyes—.... After writing each line I look again.... nothing appears in the distance; I see neither his horse nor the cloud of dust that would announce his approach. The clock strikes! three o'clock!... Valentine! it is fearful ... hope deserts me ... all is lost ... I feel myself dying ... Instinct tells me that some dreadful tragedy, ruinous to me, is now enacting on this earth.... Ah! my heart breaks ... I suffer torture.... Raymond! Raymond! Valentine! my mother! help!... help!... I see a horse rushing up the avenue ... but it is not Raymond's ... ah! it is his ... but ... I don't see Raymond ... the saddle is empty ... God!
This unfinished letter of the Comtesse de Villiers to Madame de Braimes bore neither address nor signature.
XL.
ROGER DE MONBERT
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