"Yes; but as I am very capricious," said Clemence, smiling, "at present I prefer to partake my solitude with you, if it is agreeable to you." "Really," cried D'Harville, with emotion, "how kind you are to anticipate what I dared not express." "Do you know, dear, that your astonishment has almost an air of reproach?" "A reproach? Oh, no, no! not after my unjust and cruel suspicions the other day. To find you so forgiving, it is, I confess, a surprise for me; but a surprise the most delightful." "Let us forget the past," said she to her husband, with an angelic smile. "Clemence, can you forget?" answered he, sadly. "Have I not dared to suspect you? To tell you to what extremity a blind jealousy has impelled me? But what is all this compared to other wrongs, still greater, more irreparable?" "Let us forget the past, I say," repeated Clemence, restraining her emotion. "What do I hear? The past also--can you forget it?" "I hope to do so." "Can it be true, Clemence, you can be so generous? But no, no, I cannot believe in so much happiness; I had renounced it forever." "You were wrong, you see." "What a change! Is it a dream? Oh, tell me I am not mistaken." "No, no, you are not mistaken." "And, truly, your look is less cold; your voice almost falters. Oh, say, is it true? Am I not under an illusion?" "No; for I also have need of pardon." "You!" "Have I not been cruel towards you! Ought I not to have thought that you must have needed a rare courage, a virtue more than human, to act differently from what you did? Isolated, unhappy, how resist the desire of seeking some consolation in a marriage which pleased you? Alas! when one suffers, one is so disposed to believe in the generosity of others! Your error has been, until now, to count on mine. Well, henceforth I will try to give you reason." "Oh, speak, speak once more!" said D'Harville, his hands clasped in a kind of ecstasy. "Our existence is forever united. I will do all in my power to render your life less bitter." "Is it you I hear?" "I beg you do not be so much astonished; it gives me pain; it is a bitter censure on my past conduct. Who else should pity you? Who should lend you a friendly and helping hand, if not I? A happy inspiration I have received. I have reflected, well reflected, on the past, on the future. I have seen my errors, and I have found, I believe, the means to repair them." "Your errors, poor wife?" "Yes; I should have, the next day after our marriage, appealed to your honor, and frankly demanded a separation." "Ah, Clemence, pity, pity!"