She incurred such a risk of
awakening suspicion by wandering about near her son's home that
she seldom allowed herself that pleasure, but sometimes her
anxiety overpowered her reason. So, on this occasion, she ordered
the coachman to stop near the Rue du Helder, and she reached the
street just in time to betray her secret to Victor Chupin, and
receive a foul insult from M. Wilkie. The latter's cruel words
stabbed her to the heart, and yet she tried to construe them as
mere proofs of her son's honesty of feeling--as proof of his scorn
for the depraved creatures who haunt the boulevards each evening.
But though her energy was indomitable, her physical strength was
not equal to her will. On returning home, she felt so ill that
she was obliged to go to bed. She shivered with cold, and yet the
blood that flowed in her veins seemed to her like molten lead.
The physician who was summoned declared that her illness was a
mere trifle, but prescribed rest and quiet. And as he was a very
discerning man, he added, not without a malicious smile, that any
excess is injurious--excess of pleasure as well as any other. As
it was Sunday, Madame d'Argeles was able to obey the physician,
and so she closed her doors against every one, the baron excepted.
Still, fearing that this seclusion might seem a little strange,
she ordered her concierge to tell any visitors that she had gone
into the country, and would not return until her usual reception-
day.
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