Was it, then, some mad hope of doing this, a fervent belief in
a miracle, in the possibility of some saviour descending from Heaven,
that kept Constance thus rigid and stubborn, awaiting destiny? Those
twelve years of vain waiting--and increasing decline did not seem to have
diminished her conviction that in spite of everything she would some day
triumph. No doubt her tears had gushed forth at Chantebled in presence of
the victory of Mathieu and Marianne; but she soon recovered her
self-possession, and lived on in the hope that some unexpected occurrence
would at last prove that she, the childless woman, was in the right.
She could not have said precisely what it was she wished; she was simply
bent on remaining alive until misfortune should fall upon the
over-numerous family, to exculpate her for what had happened in her own
home, the loss of her son who was in the grave, and the downfall of her
husband who was in the gutter--all the abomination, indeed, which had
been so largely wrought by herself, but which filled her with agony.
However much her heart might bleed over her losses, her vanity as an
honest bourgeoise filled her with rebellious thoughts, for she could not
admit that she had been in the wrong.
Pages:
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672