"Ah," said she, with a sigh, "I am
much afraid your follies will cost me the repose of the rest of my
days. St. Lambert has been informed of what has passed, and ill
informed of it. He does me justice, but he is vexed; and what is still
worse, he conceals from me a part of his vexation. Fortunately I
have not concealed from him anything relative to our connection
which was formed under his auspices. My letters, like my heart, were
full of yourself; I made him acquainted with everything, except your
extravagant passion, of which I hoped to cure you, and which he
imputes to me as a crime. Somebody has done us ill offices. I have
been injured, but what does this signify? Either let us entirely break
with each other, or do you be what you ought to be. I will not in
future have anything to conceal from my lover."
This was the first moment in which I was sensible of the shame of
feeling myself humbled by the sentiment of my fault, in presence of
a young woman of whose just reproaches I approved, and to whom I ought
to have been a mentor. The indignation I felt against myself would,
perhaps, have been sufficient to overcome my weakness, had not the
tender passion inspired me by the victim of it again softened my
heart. Alas! was this a moment to harden it when it was overflowed
by the tears which penetrated it in every part? This tenderness was
soon changed into rage against the vile informers, who had seen
nothing but the evil of a criminal but involuntary sentiment,
without believing or even imagining the sincere uprightness of heart
by which it was counteracted.
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