Par mes soins captivée, à mon joug réservée,
Tu ne pourrais me fuir, ni me laisser partir.
Mais je meurs sous tes yeux, loin de ton être intime,
Sans même oser crier, car ce droit, du martyr,
Ta douceur impeccable en frustre ta victime.
For seven years he had been always the nominal, sometimes the actual, possessor of her life, and yet he had never once known whether this woman whom he had possessed had ever had one moment of what could be called love for him! Many women had loved him for whom he had felt nothing; but by one of those strange and melancholy ironies of which life is so full the only women he had loved—the courtezan who had ruined his boyhood, and his wife who had ruined his manhood—had given themselves to him, without love.
He shut the window at which he stood, and turned away with a bitter sigh:—without her life would be for ever valueless to him.
Nadège and her servitor, unconscious of his observation of them, entered the house; it was the moment when people gathered in the conservatories for tea; the most pleasant hour of the twenty-four was spent thus amongst the flowers; often there was music in the music-room adjoining; the children usually came there with their pretty grace and gaiety, their long loose hair, their bright costumes, looking like larger butterflies under the fronds of the palms.
As she went towards her own apartments to rest there a little while before joining her guests and friends in the orchid-houses, one of her confidential servants brought her a note which had been sent by hand from Beaugency, and was marked urgent. She was about to send it unopened to her secretary, for letters wearied her and she seldom read them herself unless their superscription told her that they were of some especial interest, when she saw written in the corner of the envelope the name of Rosselin. She knew that it was the name of the great artist who had been the teacher of Damaris Bérarde.