Farewell Love!

r to Cesare

spires. Perhaps I had better call you by no name at all; perhaps I ought not to struggle against the unconquerable superior will that dominates me. I am so poor a creature, I am so devoid of moral strength, that the best part of my soul is unconscious of what it does, and whe

s blood could do nothing but burn, burn, burn. If you despise me-and your eyes, your voice, your manner, all tell me that you do-you are quite right. I never seem to be doing wrong, yet I am always doing it; and then, when I see it, it is too late to make good my error, to recover my own happiness, or to res

away from me, I feel myself more a woman, braver; I can dream of being something to you, not an equal, no, but a humble follower in the things of the soul. Dreams, dreams!

f childish illusions, such an entirely false standard of life and love, such a monstrous abandonment

, who trampled down all that I had cared for, I bow my head, I bow my spirit. You were right. You are right. You only are right. You are always right. I want to convince you that I see the truth clearly now. Let me walk behind you, let me follow you, as a servant follows her master. Ah, give me a little strength you who are strong, you who have never e

ed about by the storms of life, without a compass, without a star. I have already once been wrecked; in that wreck I left behind me years of

e, after having despised me. But don't leave me to my weakne

l I call y

st me out from your spiritual presence, if you do not give me the support that my life finds in yours. Friend, friend, friend, don't cas

ter con

he is the vain shadow of a dead man. On the evening of "The Huguenots,"-ah me! that music sings constantly in my soul, I shall never forget it-he was there, and I didn't see him, I wouldn't see him. I don't hate him. He was a poor, weak fool; honest perhaps, for you have said so; but small i

bout his affairs and his pleasures. Returning home, he read it for a third

; but I don't know yet who the man is tha

ed with one line: "I lo

he replied: "Dear Anna,-Very w

of declaring her love. Would Dias hate her? She had expected an angry letter from him, a letter saying that he would never see her again; instead of which

s simply indifferent. For her, love was a tragedy

ot asked, with light curiosity: "And what then?" He had asked it with the sor

she sobbed up

tter?" asked La

g. Go t

ng she wrote

by my love of you. I don't ask you to love me. Perhaps you are bound by other loves, past loves. Perhaps you have never loved, and wish never to love. Perhaps I don't please you, either spiritually or bodily. What is passing in your mind? Who knows? I only know that you are strong and wise, that you never turn aside, that you follow your noble path tranquilly, in the triumphant calm of your greatness. Have you loved? Will you love? Who knows? All I ask is that you will let me love you, without being separated from you.

pity, in that dark, empty room at the inn in Pompeii, while I felt that I

will pity me. I know it, I know it

should be afraid to re

ove you! How

Acqu

at any rate, seemed to be entirely obedient and submissive. But would it remain so? Cesare Dias had had a good deal of experience. Anna's he knew to be a proud

tter writing in general, to the writing of love let

on her. On the third day, he ar

lived in a state of miserab

with her?" Stella Ma

n't k

questions, and at last she answered i

ga

, ag

with

to tell you," cried L

asked of Anna. "You are suffering. W

my own fault," said Ann

you? You are i

p gr

hopes where they can

ga

? Explain

is my destin

o be the mistress of your destiny. It is only po

oorest beggar that asks

d Stella, gently, taking he

t is stronger than I am," said Anna, a

poor servant; but I love you so. And I want to tell you,

t help me, my sor

is the death of some one whom we love," sa

er die than l

te desperate? Is the

rha

on whom your

es

know

ella. The bell had rung. And, at the sound of it, S

it?" sh

sing her pocket-handkerchief over

leave yo

m so upset. I want

ill come a

n I can-when I

und Dias, who was showing a copy of the illustrated

l come p

she

t i

he is n

o. But you will

gravings in the Figaro, which w

She did not speak. She sat down at the opposite sid

to the pictures, "T

ver," agr

smiling, and askin

she an

me that she feared y

am quite well." In his tone she could feel nothing m

her, the siroc

irocco," re

ght when the sun

s, perhaps," she re

, and left

Dias said, "It is true,

could not speak. She mad

why," he remarked, play

surprise, but

a reason if a woman loves one man and not another. Tell me. P

lence. He was laughing at her; and she besou

usly things that appear very serious to others. My raillery hurts yo

are you," she

"But it would require many hours of meditation to be

way

mething that

," she

thought you loved another, and would love him always. Confess that you

e had become livid, and he

" he said. "But there, smile a little. Don't you think smiles a

iently s

l love," he went on, "wh

I only l

that s

make it

ed. Will you always be

ds of God," said she, not

thing from the future. Otherwise you would not be satisfied. The futur

tter. For me y

to love you? Th

or nothing. Don

slightly d

a little portfolio in red leather, which he

so easily lost, and other people read them. So, ha

not ta

back? But there's nothing women wish so much

up-you," sh

ice to tear

hem, te

" he said, te

e he was doing it. Then

tain, you don'

adict you," he a

hand to bid

ent back to

found Stel

that day I left you in t

I reme

orget it. On that day I signed my