soon, I am confident, convert that indifference into love."
"Love!" repeated Madeline. She involuntarily cast her eyes upon the portrait, which bore so strong a resemblance to de Sevignie. It was her disordered fancy, no doubt, which made her at that moment imagine the eyes regarded her with an expression of the deepest melancholy; every tender scene she had experienced with him rushed to her recollection. She felt she could never cease to adore him; she felt that, in the arms of another, she must still sigh for him: and, shuddering, almost shrieking, at the idea of the dreadful destiny which would soon render such sighs a crime, she fell in convulsive agitation upon the bosom of D'Alembert. He supported her to a window, and in a few minutes she began a little to revive. She then disengaged herself from his arms.
"You are still ill (said he); permit me therefore to support you."
