I have no hope but in you. Ah! tell me how you could please him,
and make him forget the first days----" At these words Augustine broke
down, suffocated with sobs she could not suppress. Ashamed of her
weakness, she hid her face in her handkerchief, which she bathed with
tears.
"What a child you are, my dear little beauty!" said the Duchess,
carried away by the novelty of such a scene, and touched, in spite of
herself, at receiving such homage from the most perfect virtue perhaps
in Paris. She took the young wife's handkerchief, and herself wiped
the tears from her eyes, soothing her by a few monosyllables murmured
with gracious compassion. After a moment's silence the Duchess,
grasping poor Augustine's hands in both her own--hands that had a rare
character of dignity and powerful beauty--said in a gentle and
friendly voice: "My first warning is to advise you not to weep so
bitterly; tears are disfiguring. We must learn to deal firmly with the
sorrows that make us ill, for love does not linger long by a sick-bed.
Melancholy, at first, no doubt, lends a certain attractive grace, but
it ends by dragging the features and blighting the loveliest face. And
besides, our tyrants are so vain as to insist that their slaves should
be always cheerful."
"But, madame, it is not in my power not to feel. How is it possible,
without suffering a thousand deaths, to see the face which once beamed
with love and gladness turn chill, colorless, and indifferent? I
cannot control my heart!"
"So much the worse, sweet child.
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