"Thou hast suffered more than I," said Blandine, as he stopped, consoled, with a sort of serenity, his face almost blooming, lighted up with frankness, "but, thou shalt at least suffer no more by my fault. I am converted to thy religion of love; I strip off my last prejudices. I not only excuse, but I admire and exalt thee and I agree to whatever thou wilt. Be at thy ease, Henry, thou'lt never hear another complaint, much less a reproach. Guidon, whom thou lov'st with body and soul, shall be my friend; I will be his sister. We will leave this country if thou wilt, Henry; we will go and live elsewhere, we three, modestly, but henceforth, in peace and reconciliation."
Amazed at so much self-sacrifice, the Dykgrave cried:
"Oh, to be unable to love thee, save as a mother, yet as a mother tenderer than the best, my saintly Blandine, but only a mother!" She stopped his words with this cry:—
"Ah, that is why something prevented me long ago from going to seek the other in his prison!"
There was triumph and rejoicing in the despair of Blandine. It was the sublime madness of sacrifice. The woman rose to the angel!
