man in the cure.

"Madame la Marquise, the rich only come within our province when they
are in trouble. It is easy to see that the troubles of a young,
beautiful, and wealthy woman, who has lost neither children nor
relatives, are caused by wounds whose pangs religion alone can soothe.
Your soul is in danger, madame. I am not speaking now of the hereafter
which awaits us. No, I am not in the confessional. But it is my duty,
is it not, to open your eyes to your future life here on earth? You
will pardon an old man, will you not, for importunity which has your
own happiness for its object?"

"There is no more happiness for me, monsieur. I shall soon be, as you
say, in your province; but it will be for ever."

"Nay, madame. You will not die of this pain which lies heavy upon you,
and can be read in your face. If you had been destined to die of it,
you would not be here at Saint-Lange. A definite regret is not so
deadly as hope deferred. I have known others pass through more
intolerable and more awful anguish, and yet they live."

The Marquise looked incredulous.

"Madame, I know a man whose affliction was so sore that your trouble
would seem to you to be light compared with his."

Perhaps the long solitary hours had begun to hang heavily; perhaps in
the recesses of the Marquise's mind lay the thought that here was a
friendly heart to whom she might be able to pour out her troubles.
However, it was, she gave the cure a questioning glance which could