"The night was clear and still, and the two vibrant, impassioned voices soared heavenward like a pæan of happiness and love. For awhile I listened in spite of myself, but towards the last it made me so utterly wretched, that, not having the courage to go away, I covered my ears with my hands; then, blushing for my absurd weakness, I tried to listen again, but the song had ended. I went back to the window; the air was heavy with the rich perfume of a thousand flowers; there was not a breath of wind; a soft, faint light like that from an alabaster lamp shone through the lowered blinds of the gallery. A profound silence reigned for a few moments, then I heard the gravel in the garden path crunch under the feet of Michel and that woman. They were walking slowly along; his arm was around her waist. I could bear no more, and I hastily closed the window. I passed a frightful night. What new and terrible passions had been aroused during the last two days! Love, desire, jealousy, hatred, remorse,--yes, remorse, for I felt now that an irresistible power was sweeping me on to ruin, and that I should succumb in the struggle. You know the energy and ardour of my character; the same attributes entered into this unfortunate love. I resisted bravely for a time; but when my husband's cruel and brutal conduct exasperated me so deeply, I felt released from all obligations to him, and blindly abandoned myself to the passion that was devouring me." "But you have been happy, very happy, have you not, Valentine?" "At first I experienced bliss unspeakable, though it was marred at times by the recollection of that woman from whom Michel had long been separated. She was a celebrated opera singer, celebrated even in Italy, I believe. I found Michel all I had dreamed,--talented, witty, refined, graceful, deferential, courteous,--all these attributes were united in him, together with a marvellous tenderness and delicacy of feeling, and a perfect disposition. And yet, this liaison had scarcely lasted two months before I became the most miserable of women, while adoring Michel as much as ever." "But why, my poor Valentine? From what you have just told me, I should think that Michel possessed every attribute necessary to make you happy." "Yes," sighed Valentine, "but all these attributes are nullified by an incurable fault, by--" Madame d'Infreville gave a sudden start, then paused abruptly. "Why do you stop so suddenly, Valentine?" asked Florence, in surprise. "Why this reticence? Go on, I beg of you. Haven't you perfect confidence in me?" "Have I not just proved it by my confession?" "Yes, oh, yes; but go on." "You will understand my reticence, I think," continued Madame d'Infreville, after a moment's hesitation, "when I tell you that all that is kind and noble and tender and commendable in Michel is spoiled by an incurable apathy." "My chief fault!" exclaimed Madame de Luceval, "so you were afraid to tell me that."