danger.

Thus denied the solace of confessing my sorrow, my health began to give
way. My feet lagged on the way to her house; I felt that I was
exhausting the source of tears, and each visit cost me added sorrow;
I was torn with the thought that I ought not to see her.

On her part there was neither the same tone nor the same ease as of old;
she spoke of going away on a tour; she pretended to confess to me her
longing to get away, leaving me more dead than alive after her cruel
words. If surprised by a natural impulse of sympathy, she immediately
checked herself and relapsed into her accustomed coldness. Upon one
occasion I could not restrain my tears. I saw her turn pale. As I was
going, she said to me at the door:

"To-morrow I am going to Sainte-Luce (a neighboring village), and it is
too far to go on foot. Be here with your horse early in the morning,
if you have nothing to do, and go with me."

I was on hand promptly, as may readily be imagined. I had slept over
that word with transports of joy; but, upon leaving my house, I
experienced a feeling of deep dejection. In restoring me to the
privilege I had formerly enjoyed of accompanying her on her missions
about the country, she had clearly been guilty of a cruel caprice if she
did not love me. She knew how I was suffering; why abuse my courage
unless she had changed her mind?

This reflection had a strange influence on me. When she mounted her
horse my heart beat violently as I took her foot; I do not know whether
it was from desire or anger. "If she is touched," I said to myself, "why