She awoke and recognized me, first smiling faintly, but in a moment parting her lips in sorrowful surprise, and then, after glancing round, giving a sigh of profound weariness.
"Am I then still alive?" she murmured.
"Yes, Madame;—I thank God from my heart."
"It is His will," she said. "I had hoped—I had thought my life in this world was ended."
"Oh, do not say that. What can you mean?"
"When they surrounded me—the men who sprang up at the sides of the path—I thought, 'Yes, these are the robbers the gentleman spoke of,—God has been kind and has sent them to waylay me: if I resist, I may be killed, and surely I have a right to resist.' So I drew my sword, and made a thrust at the nearest. He struck me with some weapon—I did not even notice what it was, I was so glad when it came swiftly—when I felt I could not save myself. The blow was like a kiss—the kiss of death, welcoming me out of this life of sad and bitter prospects."
"Oh, Madame, how can you talk in this way, when you are still young and beautiful, and there are those who love you?"
"You do not know all, Henri. What is there for me in life? I am weak to complain—weak to long for death—sinful, perhaps, to put myself in its way, but surely Heaven will pardon that sin,—weak, yes; but, alas, I cannot help it,—women are weak, are they not? What is before me, then? I am one without a place in the world—without relations, without fortune. If I were a man, I might seek my fortune—there are the wars, there are many kinds of honourable service. But what is there for a woman, a wife who has run away from her husband?"
"But Madame, the convent,—you have a right to be maintained there. You can at least live there, till time annuls the Count's claims upon you. And then who knows what the future may bring?"
"The convent—I have told you I should be safe there, and so no doubt I should if I took the veil—"