"Can you, Clemence," said M. d'Harville, "can you bring yourself to forget that I have dared to suspect you; that, hurried on by a wild, insensate jealousy, I meditated violence I now shudder to think of? Still, what are even these deep offences to the greater and more irreparable wrong I have done you?" "Again I say," returned Clemence, making a violent effort to command herself, "let us forget the past." "What do I hear? Can you,--oh, is it possible you will pardon me, and forget all the past?" "I will try to do so, and I fear not but I shall succeed." "Oh, Clemence! Can you, indeed, be so generous? But no, no,--I dare not hope it! I have long since resigned all expectation that such happiness would ever be mine." "And now you see how wrong you were in coming to such a conclusion." "But how comes this blessed change? Or do I dream? Speak to me, Clemence! Tell me I am not deceiving myself,--that all is not mere illusion! Speak! Say that I may trust my senses!" "Indeed you may; I mean all I have said." "And, now I look at you, I see more kindness in your eye,--your manner is less cold,--your voice tremulous. Oh, tell me, tell me, is this indeed true? Or am I the sport of some illusion?" "Nay, my lord, all is true, and safely to be believed. I, too, have need of pardon at your hands, and therefore I propose that we mutually exchange forgiveness." "You, Clemence! You need forgiveness! Oh, for what, or wherefore?" "Have I not been frequently unkind, unrelenting, and perhaps even cruel, towards you? Ought I not to have remembered that it required a more than ordinary share of courage to act otherwise than you did,--a virtue more than human to renounce the hope of exchanging a cheerless, solitary life, for one of wedded sympathy and happiness? Alas, when we are in grief or suffering, it is so natural to trust to the kindness and goodness of others! Hitherto your fault has been in depending too much on my generosity; henceforward it shall be my aim to show you, you have not trusted in vain." "Oh, go on! Go on! Continue still to utter such heavenly words!" exclaimed M. d'Harville, gazing in almost ecstasy on the countenance of his wife, and clasping his hands in fervid supplication. "Let me again hear you pronounce my pardon, and it will seem as though a new existence were opening upon me." "Our destinies are inseparably united, and death only can dissever us. Believe me, it shall for the future be my study to render life less painful to you than it has been." "Merciful Heaven! Do I hear aright? Clemence, can it be you who have spoken these dear, these enchanting words?"