Her reason was shaken by so many
repeated blows, and her son, her brother, Marguerite, Pascal
Ferailleur, Coralth, Valorsay--all those whom she loved or feared,
or hated--rose like spectres before her troubled brain. The
horror of the truth exceeded her most frightful apprehensions.
The strangeness of the reality surpassed every flight of fancy.
And, moreover, the baron's calmness increased her stupor. She so
often had heard him give vent to his rage and despair in terrible
threats, that she could not believe he would be thus resigned.
But was his calmness real? Was it not a mask, would not his fury
suddenly break forth?
However, he continued, "It is thus that destiny makes us its
sport--it is thus that it laughs at our plans. Do you remember,
Lia, the day when I met you wandering through the streets of
Paris--with your child in your arms--pale and half dead with
fatigue, faint for want of food, homeless and penniless? You saw
no refuge but in death, as you have since told me. How could I
imagine when I rescued you that I was saving my greatest enemy's
sister from suicide--the sister of the man whom I was vainly
pursuing? And yet this might not be the end, if I chose to have it
otherwise. The count is dead, but I can still return him disgrace
for disgrace. He dishonored me. What prevents me from casting
ineffaceable opprobrium upon the great name of Chalusse, of which
he was so proud? He seduced my wife.
Pages:
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121