Prove to me that this is the only life you can lead, that it is
preferable to that of the Comtesse Octave, rich, admired, in one of
the finest houses in Paris, beloved by her husband, a happy
mother . . . and I will decide in your favor.'

"'But,' said she, 'will there never be a man who understands me?'

"'No. And that is why I appeal to religion to decide between us. The
Cure of the White Friars is a saint, seventy-five years of age. My
uncle is not a Grand Inquisitor, he is Saint John; but for you he will
be Fenelon--the Fenelon who said to the Duc de Bourgogne: 'Eat a calf
on a Friday by all means, monseigneur. But be a Christian.'

"'Nay, nay, monsieur, the convent is my last hope and my only refuge.
There is none but God who can understand me. No man, not Saint
Augustine himself, the tenderest of the Fathers of the Church, could
enter into the scruples of my conscience, which are to me as the
circles of Dante's hell, whence there is no escape. Another than my
husband, a different man, however unworthy of the offering, has had
all my love. No, he has not had it, for he did not take it; I gave it
him as a mother gives her child a wonderful toy, which it breaks. For
me there never could be two loves. In some natures love can never be
on trial; it is, or it is not. When it comes, when it rises up, it is
complete.--Well, that life of eighteen months was to me a life of
eighteen years; I threw into it all the faculties of my being, which
were not impoverished by their effusiveness; they were exhausted by
that delusive intimacy in which I alone was genuine. For me the cup of
happiness is not drained, nor empty; and nothing can refill it, for it
is broken. I am out of the fray; I have no weapons left. Having thus
utterly abandoned myself, what am I?--the leavings of a feast. I had