so painful that each breath seemed like suffocation; her head, after
rolling about on the back of the chair, fell upon her breast, like a
blade of grass broken and bruised by the rain.

"If you have read those letters," she murmured, when she had strength
enough to speak, "you must know that I am not as unworthy as you think.
I am very guilty--but I still have a right to be forgiven."

Christian, at this moment, had he been gifted with the intelligence which
fathoms the mysteries of the heart, might have renewed the bonds which
were so near being broken; he could at least have stopped Clemence upon a
dangerous path and saved her from a most irreparable fall. But his
nature was too unrefined for him to see the degrees which separate
weakness from vice, and the intoxication of a loving heart from the
depravity of a corrupt character. With the obstinacy of narrow-minded
people, he had been looking at the whole thing in its worst light, and
for several hours already he had decided upon his wife's guilt in his own
mind; this served now as a foundation for his stern conduct. His
features remained perfectly impassive as he listened to Clemence's words
of justification, which she uttered in a weak, broken voice.

"I know that I merit your hatred-but if you could know how much I suffer,
you would surely forgive me--You left me in Paris very young,
inexperienced; I ought to have fought against this feeling better than I
did, but I used up in this struggle all the strength that I had--You can
see how pale and changed I have become within the past year. I have aged
several years in those few months; I am not yet what you call a--a lost
woman. He ought to have told you that--"

"Oh, he has! of course he has," replied Christian with bitter irony.