"Doubt thee!" she cried, addressing her own image; "poor, pale face, thou art suspected! poor thin cheeks, poor tired eyes, thou and thy tears are in disgrace. Very well, put an end to thy suffering; let those kisses that have wasted thee, close thy lids! Descend into the cold earth, poor trembling body that can no longer support its own weight. When thou art there, perchance thou wilt be believed, if doubt believes in death. O sorrowful specter! On the banks of what stream wilt thou wander and groan? What fires devour thee? Thou dreamest of a long journey and thou hast one foot in the grave! Die! God is thy witness that thou hast tried to love. Ah! what wealth of love has been awakened in thy heart! Ah! what dreams thou hast had, what poisons thou hast drunk! What evil hast thou committed that there should be placed in thy breast a fever that consumes? What fury animates that blind creature who pushes thee into the grave with his foot, while his lips speak to thee of love? What will become of thee if thou livest! Is it not time? Is it not enough? What proof canst thou give that will satisfy when thou, poor living proof, art not believed? To what torture canst thou submit that thou hast not already endured? By what torments, what sacrifices, wilt thou appease insatiable love? Thou wilt be only an object of ridicule, a thing to excite laughter; thou wilt vainly seek a deserted street to avoid the finger of scorn. Thou wilt lose all shame and even that appearance of virtue which has been so dear to thee; and the man, for whom thou hast disgraced thyself, will be the first to punish thee. He will reproach thee for living for him alone, for braving the world for him, and while thy own friends are whispering about thee, he will listen to assure himself that no word of pity is spoken; he will accuse thee of deceiving him if another hand even then presses thine, and if, in the desert of thy life, thou findest some one who can spare thee a word of pity in passing. O God! dost thou remember a day when a wreath of roses was placed on my head? Was it this brow on which that crown rested? Ah! the hand that hung it on the wall of the oratory has now fallen, like it, to dust! O my valley! O my old aunt, who now sleeps in peace! O my lindens, my little white goat, my dear peasants who loved me so much! You remember when I was happy, proud, and respected? Who threw in my path that stranger who took me away from all this? Who gave him the right to enter my life? Ah! wretch! why didst thou turn the first day he followed you? Why didst thou receive him as a brother? Why didst thou open thy door, and why didst thou hold out thy hand? Octave, Octave, why have you loved me if all is to end thus!"