“Of the plains of Champagne and the snowy, storm-beaten but sublime Alps, what young man would choose the chalky, monotonous level? No; such comparisons are fatal and wrong on the threshold of the Mairie. Alas! only the experience of life can teach us that marriage excludes passion, that a family cannot have its foundation on the tempests of love. After having dreamed of impossible love, with its infinite caprices, after having tasted the tormenting delights of the ideal, I saw before me modest reality. Pity me, for what could be expected! At five-and-twenty I did not trust myself; but I took a manful resolution. “I went back to the Count to announce the arrival of his relations, and I saw him grown young again in the reflected light of hope. “‘What ails you, Maurice?’ said he, struck by my changed expression. “‘Monsieur le Comte----’ “‘No longer Octave? You, to whom I shall owe my life, my happiness----’ “‘My dear Octave, if you should succeed in bringing the Countess back to her duty, I have studied her well’--(he looked at me as Othello must have looked at Iago when Iago first contrived to insinuate a suspicion into the Moor’s mind)--‘she must never see me again; she must never know that Maurice was your secretary. Never mention my name to her, or all will be undone.... You have got me an appointment as Maitre des Requetes--well, get me instead some diplomatic post abroad, a consulship, and do not think of my marrying Amelie.--Oh! do not be uneasy,’ I added, seeing him draw himself up, ‘I will play my part to the end.’ “‘Poor boy!’ said he, taking my hand, which he pressed, while he kept back the tears that were starting to his eyes. “‘You gave me the gloves,’ I said, laughing, ‘but I have not put them on; that is all.’ “We then agreed as to what I was to do that evening at Honorine’s house, whither I presently returned. It was now August; the day had been hot and stormy, but the storm hung overhead, the sky was like copper; the scent of the flowers was heavy, I felt as if I were in an oven, and caught myself wishing that the Countess might have set out for the Indies; but she was sitting on a wooden bench shaped like a sofa, under an arbor, in a loose dress of white muslin fastened with blue bows, her hair unadorned in waving bands over her cheeks, her feet on a small wooden stool, and showing a little way beyond her skirt. She did not rise; she showed me with her hand to the seat by her side, saying: “‘Now, is not life at a deadlock for me?’ “‘Life as you have made it, I replied. ‘But not the life I propose to make for you; for, if you choose, you may be very happy....’ “‘How?’ said she; her whole person was a question. “‘Your letter is in the Count’s hands.’