No love was ever more innocent or purer than
theirs; but none was ever more enthusiastic or more entrancing in
thought.
The countess was captivated by ideas worthy of the days of chivalry,
though completely modernized. The glowing conversation of the poet had
more echo in her mind than in her heart. She thought it fine to be his
providence. How sweet the thought of supporting by her white and
feeble hand this colossus,--whose feet of clay she did not choose to
see; of giving life where life was needed; of being secretly the
creator of a career; of helping a man of genius to struggle with fate
and master it. Ah! to embroider his scarf for the tournament! to
procure him weapons! to be his talisman against ill-fortune! his balm
for every wound! For a woman brought up like Marie, religious and
noble as she was, such a love was a form of charity. Hence the
boldness of it. Pure sentiments often compromise themselves with a
lofty disdain that resembles the boldness of courtesans.
As soon as by her specious distinctions Marie had convinced herself
that she did not in any way impair her conjugal faith, she rushed into
the happiness of loving Raoul. The least little things of her daily
life acquired a charm. Her boudoir, where she thought of him, became a
sanctuary. There was nothing there that did not rouse some sense of
pleasure; even her ink-stand was the coming accomplice in the
pleasures of correspondence; for she would now have letters to read
and answer.
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