XXIMarie cried.
I have seen women cry before. As a rule their tears leave me cold and indifferent, sometimes they make me hard. They flow too easily and their source is seldom deep and pure. There are women who weep only with their eyes, weep only because their lachrymal glands have become inflamed. And there are other women whose tears mean only obstinacy and vanity, bad temper and bad manners.
But Marie's tears came from her heart, and never have I seen a woman cry so beautifully. Her weeping was not marred by anger or lamentation, it was unaccompanied by whine or complaint. At first her tears fell sparingly, they forced their way in heavy drops, for Marie—with an effort which shook her whole body—fought to keep them back. But when at last she had to give up the struggle, they came rich and powerful as from a newly-opened spring.
From Marie I learned to understand that in tears there may be blissful healing for all wounds. Like a soft rain Marie's tears flowed soothingly over her burning despair and turned it into a gentle sorrow.
A sorrow so gentle that it even forgave the sinner whose hard heart was its cruel cause.
Forgave me? yes, even more than forgave.
