But Charlotte had not the _beau rôle_, but the tragic one, in the real drama. The Directress, who stands between her and the beloved Professor, is not her rival, but the Professor's wife. And the _beau rôle_, in the sense of having the right to stand in the way, and also in being the woman preferred by the man whom both women love, is Madame Heger's in every way, for Madame Heger is charming to look at, and Charlotte plain. Therefore it is not in the least incredible, but it seems so natural as to be almost inevitably true, that when in the very moment that poor Charlotte has obtained, after so much suspense and waiting, and as the result of a heaven-sent accident, the almost despaired of chance of a personal interview with her loved Professor, before she loses sight of him, perhaps for ever, and when in this moment, and just when he has taken her hand in his,... Madame Heger enters, and thrusts herself between them, and commands her husband, _'Come, Constantin_,' and Charlotte believes he will obey, it seems to me so eminently credible as to be almost inevitably true, that what Charlotte describes happened, and that _then_, in dread of this new frustration of the hope so long deferred, an anguish that 'defied suppression' rang out in the cry 'My heart will break!' Put oneself in Charlotte's place, and it seems to me the emotion startled to expression by this new shock, expresses just what one knows she felt. And, therefore, I find it myself impossible to doubt that this account is literally true, and may and should be studied in the light of the assurance that we have here the faithful description of what really took place, upon the very day, perhaps, when Charlotte left Bruxelles. Let us leave Lucy Snowe's love-story on one side, and judge this page as one torn out of Charlotte's life--and then decide whether it rings true. Shall I yet see him before he goes? Will he bear me in mind? Does he purpose to come? Will this day--will the next hour bring him? or must I again essay that corroding pain of long attent, that rude agony of rupture at the close, that mute, mortal wrench, which, in at once uprooting hope and doubt, shakes life, while the hand that does the violence cannot be caressed to pity, because absence interposes her barrier. It was the _Feast of the Assumption_[1]; no school was held. The boarders and teachers, after attending mass in the morning, were gone a long walk into the country to take their _goûter_, or afternoon meal, at some farmhouse. I did not go with them, for now but two days remained ere the _Paul et Virginie_ must sail, and I was clinging to my last chance, as the living waif of a wreck clings to his last raft or cable.