O God! dost thou remember a day when a wreath of roses was placed on my
head? Was it this brow on which that crown rested? Ah! the hand that hung
it on the wall of the oratory has now fallen, like it, to dust! O my
valley! O my old aunt, who now sleeps in peace! O my lindens, my little
white goat, my dear peasants who loved me so much! You remember when I
was happy, proud, and respected? Who threw in my path that stranger who
took me away from all this? Who gave him the right to enter my life? Ah!
wretch! why didst thou turn the first day he followed you? Why didst thou
receive him as a brother? Why didst thou open thy door, and why didst
thou hold out thy hand? Octave, Octave, why have you loved me if all is
to end thus!"
She was about to faint as I led her to a chair where she sank down and
her head fell on my shoulder. The terrible effort she had made in
speaking to me so bitterly had broken her down. Instead of an outraged
woman, I found now only a suffering child. Her eyes closed and she was
motionless.
When she regained consciousness, she complained of extreme languor, and
begged to be left alone that she might rest. She could hardly walk; I
carried her gently to her room and placed her on the bed. There was no
mark of suffering on her face: she was resting from her sorrow as from
great fatigue and seemed not even to remember it. Her feeble and delicate
body yielded without a struggle; the strain had been too great.
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