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. But I fancy I know all your story. In
the first place, if your husband is unfaithful to you, understand
clearly that I am not his accomplice. If I was anxious to have him in
my drawing-room, it was, I own, out of vanity; he was famous, and he
went nowhere. I like you too much already to tell you all the mad
things he has done for my sake. I will only reveal one, because it may
perhaps help us to bring him back to you, and to punish him for the
audacity of his behavior to me. He will end by compromising me. I know
the world too well, my dear, to abandon myself to the discretion of a
too superior man. You should know that one may allow them to court
one, but marry them--that is a mistake! We women ought to admire men
of genius, and delight in them as a spectacle, but as to living with
them? Never.--No, no. It is like wanting to find pleasure in
inspecting the machinery of the opera instead of sitting in a box to
enjoy its brilliant illusions. But this misfortune has fallen on you,