feeling but joy.

M. de Wolmar, meanwhile, was standing beside us. She turned to him, and
introduced me to him as her old friend. "If new friends have less ardour
than old ones," he said to me as he embraced me, "they will be old
friends in their turn, and will yield nothing to others." My heart was
exhausted, I received his embraces passively.

When we reached the drawing-room she disappeared for a moment, and
returned--not alone. She brought her two children with her, darling
little boys, who bore on their countenances the charm and the
fascination of their mother. A thousand thoughts rushed into my mind, I
could not speak; I took them in my arms, and welcomed their innocent
caresses.

The children withdrew, and M. de Wolmar was called away. I was alone
with Julie. I was conscious of a painful restraint; she was seemingly at
ease, and I became gradually reassured. We talked of my travels, and of
her married life; there was no mention of our old relations.

I came to realise how Julie was changed, and yet the same. She is a
matron, the happy mother of children, the happy mistress of a prosperous
household. Her old love is not extinguished; but it is subdued by
domestic peace and by her unalterable virtue--let me add, by the trust
and kindness of her elderly husband, whose unemotional goodness has been
just what was needed to soothe her passion and sorrow. I am her old and
dear friend; I can never be more. And, believe me, I am content.
Occasionally, pangs of regret tear at my heart, but they do not last
long; my passion is cured, and I can never experience another.