deceiving you as to what she will be.--What shall I be? A mother? I
hope it. Believe me, I hope it eagerly. Try to change me; you have my
consent; but if I should die, my dear, do not curse my memory, and do
not set down to obstinacy what I should call the worship of the Ideal,
if it were not more natural to call the indefinable feeling which must
kill me the worship of the Divine! The future will be nothing to me;
it will be your concern; consult your own mind."

"'And she sat down in the calm attitude you used to admire, and
watched me turning pale with the pain she had inflicted. My blood ran
cold. On seeing the effect of her words she took both my hands, and,
holding them in her own, she said:

"'"Octave, I do love you, but not in the way you wish to be loved. I
love your soul. . . . Still, understand that I love you enough to die
in your service like an Eastern slave, and without a regret. It will
be my expiation."

"'She did more; she knelt before me on a cushion, and in a spirit of
sublime charity she said:

"'"And perhaps I shall not die!"

"'For two months now I have been struggling with myself. What shall I
do? My heart is too full; I therefore seek a friend, and send out this
cry, "What shall I do?"'

"I did not answer this letter. Two months later the newspapers
announced the return on board an English vessel of the Comtesse
Octave, restored to her family after adventures by land and sea,