great soul, a vast genius stopped in its upward flight by a sordid vulgar obstacle,—­all these things rushed into her memory and stimulated her love.  She went over and over her emotions, and felt her love to be deeper in these days of misery than in those of Nathan’s fame and grandeur.  She felt the nobility of his last words said to her in Lady Dudley’s boudoir.  What sacredness in that farewell!  What grandeur in the immolation of a selfish happiness which would have been her torture!  The countess had longed for emotions, and now she had them,—­terrible, cruel, and yet most precious.  She lived a deeper life in pain than in pleasure.  With what delight she said to herself:  “I have saved him once, and I will save him again.”  She heard him cry out when he felt her lips upon his forehead, “Many a poor wretch does not know what love is!”

“Are you ill?” said her husband, coming into her room to take her to breakfast.

“I am dreadfully worried about a matter that is happening at my sister’s,” she replied, without actually telling a lie.

“Your sister has fallen into bad hands,” replied Felix.  “It is a shame for any family to have a du Tillet in it,—­a man without honor of any kind.  If disaster happened to her she would get no pity from him.”

“What woman wants pity?” said the countess, with a convulsive motion.  “A man’s sternness is to us our only pardon.”

“This is not the first time that I read your noble heart,” said the count.  “A woman who thinks as you do needs no watching.”

“Watching!” she said; “another shame that recoils on you.”

Felix smiled, but Marie blushed.  When women are secretly to blame they often show ostensibly the utmost womanly pride.  It is a dissimulation of mind for which we ought to be obliged to them.  The deception is full of dignity, if not of grandeur.  Marie wrote two lines to Nathan under the name of Monsieur Quillet, to tell him that all went well, and sent them by a street porter to the hotel du Mail.  That night, at the Opera, Felix thought it very natural that she should wish to leave her box and go to that of her sister, and he waited till du Tillet had left his wife to give Marie his arm and take her there.  Who can tell what emotions agitated her as she went through the corridors and entered her sister’s box with a face that was outwardly serene and calm!

“Well?” she said, as soon as they were alone.

Eugenie’s face was an answer; it was bright with a joy which some persons might have attributed to the satisfaction of vanity.

“He can be saved, dear; but for three months only; during which time we must plan some other means of doing it permanently.  Madame de Nucingen wants four notes of hand, each for ten thousand francs, endorsed by any one, no matter who, so as not to compromise you.  She explained to me how they were made, but I couldn’t understand her.  Monsieur Nathan, however, can make them for us.  I thought