Thus we rode on our way, I looking at her; she smiling at
me. When we reached Paris she took my hand:
"Well?" she said.
"Well?" I replied, sobbing, "tell her if you wish." Tears rushed from my
eyes.
After dinner we sat before the fire.
"But tell me," she said, "is it irrevocable? Can nothing be done?"
"Alas! madame," I replied, "there is nothing irrevocable except the grief
that is killing me. My condition can be expressed in a few words: I can
not love her, I can not love another, and I can not cease loving."
At these words she moved uneasily in her chair and I could see an
expression of compassion on her face. For some time she seemed to be
reflecting, as though pondering over my fate and seeking some remedy for
my sorrow. Her eyes were closed and she appeared lost in reverie. She
extended her hand and I took it in mine.
"And I, too," she murmured, "that is just my experience." She stopped,
overcome by emotion.
Of all the sisters of love, the most beautiful is pity. I held Madame
Levasseur's hand as she began to speak of my mistress, saying all she
could think of in her favor. My sadness increased. What could I reply?
Finally she came to speak of herself.
Not long since, she said, a man who loved her had abandoned her. She had
made great sacrifices for him; her fortune was compromised as well as her
honor and her name. Her husband, whom she knew to be vindictive, had made
threats.
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