In the name of the God of mercy, I beseech you, I implore you--come to console, come to bless her who can no longer expect words of kindness and forgiveness from any one but you in this world.
"Pray tell Madame de Pontbrian whatever you think proper." She was calling me.

I returned to her side.

I found her still seated before the fire.

She had refused to be put into the bed that had been prepared for her.

When she saw me--singular womanly preoccupation!--her first thought was for the coarse peasant's dress she had just exchanged for her own water-soaked and mud-stained garments.