perfect rigidity. If some botanist should attempt the operation, could
his genius smooth out the folds of the bruised corolla? If he could
remake a flower, he would be God! God alone can remake me! I am
drinking the bitter cup of expiation; but as I drink it I painfully
spell out this sentence: Expiation is not annihilation.

"'In my little house, alone, I eat my bread soaked in tears; but no
one sees me eat nor sees me weep. If I go back to Octave, I must give
up my tears--they would offend him. Oh! monsieur, how many virtues
must a woman tread under foot, not to give herself, but to restore
herself to a betrayed husband? Who could count them? God alone; for He
alone can know and encourage the horrible refinements at which the
angels must turn pale. Nay, I will go further. A woman has courage in
the presence of her husband if he knows nothing; she shows a sort of
fierce strength in her hypocrisy; she deceives him to secure him
double happiness. But common knowledge is surely degrading. Supposing
I could exchange humiliation for ecstasy? Would not Octave at last
feel that my consent was sheer depravity? Marriage is based on esteem,
on sacrifices on both sides; but neither Octave nor I could esteem
each other the day after our reunion. He would have disgraced me by a
love like that of an old man for a courtesan, and I should for ever
feel the shame of being a chattel instead of a lady. I should
represent pleasure, and not virtue, in his house. These are the bitter
fruits of such a sin. I have made myself a bed where I can only toss
on burning coals, a sleepless pillow.

"'Here, when I suffer, I bless my sufferings; I say to God, "I thank
Thee!" But in my husband's house I should be full of terror, tasting
joys to which I have no right.