You will have to ask him to
go away from this place; you can never see him; for this love will
never die till you die;--that you may be sure of. Is it wise? is it
right, dear little one? _Must_ he leave his home forever for you? or
must you struggle always, and grow whiter and whiter, and fall away
into heaven, like the moon this morning, and nobody know what is the
matter? People will say you have the liver-complaint, or the
consumption, or something. Nobody ever knows what we women die of."
Poor Mary's conscience was fairly posed. This appeal struck upon her
sense of right as having its grounds. She felt inexpressibly confused
and distressed.
"Oh, I wish somebody would tell me exactly what is right!" she said.
"Well, _I_ will," said Madame de Frontignac. "Go down to the dear
priest, and tell him the whole truth. My dear child, do you think, if
he should ever find it out after your marriage, he would think you used
him right?"
"And yet _mother_ does not think so; mother does not wish me to tell
him."
"_Pauvrette, toujours les meres!_ Yes, it is always the mothers that
stand in the way of the lovers.
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