All the time I was strongly tempted to throw myself at her feet, and tell
her of my despair. I knew that she would not be insensible to it, and
that she would at least express her pity; but her severity and the abrupt
manner of her departure recalled me to my senses; I trembled lest I
should lose her, and I would rather die than expose myself to that
danger.
Thus, denied the solace of confession of my sorrow, my health began to
give way. My feet lagged on the way to her house; I felt that I was
exhausting the source of tears, and each visit cost me added sorrow; I
was torn with the thought that I ought not to see her.
On her part there was neither the same tone nor the same ease as of old;
she spoke of going away on a tour; she pretended to confess to me her
longing to get away, leaving me more dead than alive after her cruel
words. If surprised by a natural impulse of sympathy, she immediately
checked herself and relapsed into her accustomed coldness. Upon one
occasion, I could not restrain my tears; I saw her turn pale. As I was
going, she said to me at the door:
"To-morrow, I am going to St. Luce, a neighboring village, and it is too
far to go on foot. Be here with your horse early in the morning, if you
have nothing to do, and go with me."
I was on hand promptly, as may readily be imagined. I had slept over that
word with transports of joy; but, upon leaving my house, I experienced a
feeling of deep dejection.
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