I leaned over Brigitte and looked at her as though, for the last
time, my good angel was urging me to grave on my soul the lines of that
dear face!
How pale she was! Her large eyes, surrounded by a bluish circle, were
moist with tears; her form, once so lithe, was bent as though under a
burden; her cheek, wasted and leaden, rested on a hand that was spare and
feeble; her brow seemed to bear the marks of that crown of thorns which
is the diadem of resignation. I thought of the cottage. How young she was
six months ago! How cheerful, how free, how careless! What had I done
with all that? It seemed to me that a strange voice repeated an old
romance that I had long since forgotten:
Altra volta gieri biele,
Blanch' e rossa com' un flore,
Ma ora no. Non son piu biele
Consumatis dal' amore.
My sorrow was too great; I sprang to my feet and once more began to walk
the floor. "Yes," I continued, "look at her; think of those who are
consumed by a grief that is not shared with another. The evils you
endure, others have suffered, and nothing is singular or peculiar to you.
Think of those who have no mother, no relatives, no friends; of those who
seek and do not find, of those who love in vain, of those who die and are
forgotten. Before thee, there on that bed, lies a being that nature,
perchance, formed for thee. From the highest circles of intelligence to
the deepest and most impenetrable mysteries of matter and of form, that
soul and that body are thy brothers; for six months thy mouth has not
spoken, thy heart has not throbbed, without a responsive word and
heart-beat from her; and that woman whom God has sent thee as He sends
the rose to the field, is about to glide from thy heart.
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