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withholding his reprimand in favor of his own wit。
More courtier than father； the duke asked no leave but got into the
carriage with the king。 I started without bidding Lady Dudley good…
bye； she was fortunately out when I made my preparations； and I left a
note telling her I was sent on a mission by the king。 At the Croix de
Berny I met his Majesty returning from Verrieres。 He threw me a look
full of his royal irony； always insufferable in meaning； which seemed
to say： 〃If you mean to be anything in politics come back； don't
parley with the dead。〃 The duke waved his hand to me sadly。 The two
pompous equipages with their eight horses； the colonels and their gold
lace； the escort and the clouds of dust rolled rapidly away； to cries
of 〃Vive le Roi！〃 It seemed to me that the court had driven over the
dead body of Madame de Mortsauf with the utter insensibility which
nature shows for our catastrophes。 Though the duke was an excellent
man he would no doubt play whist with Monsieur after the king had
retired。 As for the duchess； she had long ago given her daughter the
first stab by writing to her of Lady Dudley。
My hurried journey was like a dream；the dream of a ruined gambler； I
was in despair at having received no news。 Had the confessor pushed
austerity so far as to exclude me from Clochegourde？ I accused
Madeleine； Jacques； the Abbe Dominis； all； even Monsieur de Mortsauf。
Beyond Tours； as I came down the road bordered with poplars which
leads to Poncher； which I so much admired that first day of my search
for mine Unknown； I met Monsieur Origet。 He guessed that I was going
to Clochegourde； I guessed that he was returning。 We stopped our
carriages and got out； I to ask for news； he to give it。
〃How is Madame de Mortsauf？〃 I said。
〃I doubt if you find her living；〃 he replied。 〃She is dying a
frightful deathof inanition。 When she called me in； last June； no
medical power could control the disease； she had the symptoms which
Monsieur de Mortsauf has no doubt described to you； for he thinks he
has them himself。 Madame la comtesse was not in any transient
condition of ill…health； which our profession can direct and which is
often the cause of a better state； nor was she in the crisis of a
disorder the effects of which can be repaired； no； her disease had
reached a point where science is useless； it is the incurable result
of grief； just as a mortal wound is the result of a stab。 Her physical
condition is produced by the inertia of an organ as necessary to life
as the action of the heart itself。 Grief has done the work of a
dagger。 Don't deceive yourself； Madame de Mortsauf is dying of some
hidden grief。〃
〃Hidden！〃 I exclaimed。 〃Her children have not been ill？〃
〃No；〃 he said； looking at me significantly； 〃and since she has been so
seriously attacked Monsieur de Mortsauf has ceased to torment her。 I
am no longer needed； Monsieur Deslandes of Azay is all…sufficient；
nothing can be done； her sufferings are dreadful。 Young； beautiful；
and rich； to die emaciated； shrunken with hungerfor she dies of
hunger！ During the last forty days the stomach； being as it were
closed up； has rejected all nourishment； under whatever form we
attempt to give it。〃
Monsieur Origet pressed my hand with a gesture of respect。
〃Courage； monsieur；〃 he said； lifting his eyes to heaven。
The words expressed his compassion for sufferings he thought shared；
he little suspected the poisoned arrow which they shot into my heart。
I sprang into the carriage and ordered the postilion to drive on；
promising a good reward if I arrived in time。
Notwithstanding my impatience I seemed to do the distance in a few
minutes； so absorbed was I in the bitter reflections that crowded upon
my soul。 Dying of grief； yet her children were well？ then she died
through me！ My conscience uttered one of those arraignments which echo
throughout our lives and sometimes beyond them。 What weakness； what
impotence in human justice； which avenges none but open deeds！ Why
shame and death to the murderer who kills with a blow； who comes upon
you unawares in your sleep and makes it last eternally； who strikes
without warning and spares you a struggle？ Why a happy life； an
honored life； to the murderer who drop by drop pours gall into the
soul and saps the body to destroy it？ How many murderers go
unpunished！ What indulgence for fashionable vice！ What condoning of
the homicides caused by moral wrongs！ I know not whose avenging hand
it was that suddenly； at that moment； raised the painted curtain that
reveals society。 I saw before me many victims known to you and me；
Madame de Beauseant； dying； and starting for Normandy only a few days
earlier； the Duchesse de Langeais lost； Lady Brandon hiding herself in
Touraine in the little house where Lady Dudley had stayed two weeks；
and dying there； killed by a frightful catastrophe；you know it。 Our
period teems with such events。 Who does not remember that poor young
woman who poisoned herself； overcome by jealousy； which was perhaps
killing Madame de Mortsauf？ Who has not shuddered at the fate of that
enchanting young girl who perished after two years of marriage； like a
flower torn by the wind； the victim of her chaste ignorance； the
victim of a villain with whom Ronquerolles； Montriveau； and de Marsay
shake hands because he is useful to their political projects？ What
heart has failed to throb at the recital of the last hours of the
woman whom no entreaties could soften； and who would never see her
husband after nobly paying his debts？ Madame d'Aiglemont saw death
beside her and was saved only by my brother's care。 Society and
science are accomplices in crimes for which there are no assizes。 The
world declares that no one dies of grief； or of despair； nor yet of
love； of anguish hidden； of hopes cultivated yet fruitless； again and
again replanted yet forever uprooted。 Our new scientific nomenclature
has plenty of words to explain these things； gastritis； pericarditis；
all the thousand maladies of women the names of which are whispered in
the ear； all serve as passports to the coffin followed by hypocritical
tears that are soon wiped by the hand of a notary。 Can there be at the
bottom of this great evil some law which we do not know？ Must the
centenary pitilessly strew the earth with corpses and dry them to dust
about him that he may raise himself； as the millionaire battens on a
myriad of little industries？ Is there some powerful and venomous life
which feasts on these gentle； tender creatures？ My God！ do I belong to
the race of tigers？
Remorse gripped my heart in its scorching fingers； and my cheeks were
furrowed with tears as I entered the avenue of Clochegourde on a damp
October morning； which loosened the dead leaves of the poplars planted
by Henriette in the path where once she stood and waved her
handkerchief as if to recall me。 Was she living？ Why did I feel her
two white hands upon my head laid prostrate