Will the tears that drench this
sheet tell you all my gratitude? I could wish that I had knelt to
write the words!--Well, out of this felicity has arisen torture
more terrible than the pain of desertion. Dear, there are very
deep recesses in a woman's heart; how deep in my own heart, I did
not know myself until to-day, as I did not know the whole extent
of love. The greatest misery which could overwhelm us is a light
burden compared with the mere thought of harm for him whom we
love. And how if we cause the harm, is it not enough to make one
die? . . . This is the thought that is weighing upon me. But
it brings in its train another thought that is heavier far, a
thought that tarnishes the glory of love, and slays it, and turns
it into a humiliation which sullies life as long as it lasts. You
are thirty years old; I am forty. What dread this difference in
age calls up in a woman who loves! It is possible that, first of
all unconsciously, afterwards in earnest, you have felt the
sacrifices that you have made by renouncing all in the world for
me. Perhaps you have thought of your future from the social point
of view, of the marriage which would, of course, increase your
fortune, and give you avowed happiness and children who would
inherit your wealth; perhaps you have thought of reappearing in
the world, and filling your place there honorably.
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