And she was enraged, too, by their deference, by
the tranquil way in which they waited for her to be no more; for she had
been unable to make them quarrel with her, and was obliged to show
herself grateful for the means they gave her, and to kiss their children,
whom she hated, when they brought her flowers.
Thus, months and years went by, and almost every evening when Morange for
a moment called on Constance, he found her in the same little silent
salon, gowned in the same black dress, and stiffened into a posture of
obstinate expectancy. Though no sign was given of destiny's revenge, of
the patiently hoped-for fall of misfortune upon others, she never seemed
to doubt of her ultimate victory. On the contrary, when things fell more
and more heavily upon her, she drew herself yet more erect, defying fate,
buoyed up by the conviction that it would at last be forced to prove that
she was right. Thus, she remained immutable, superior to fatigue, and
ever relying on a prodigy.
Each evening, when Morange called during those twelve years, the
conversation invariably began in the same way.
"Nothing fresh since yesterday, dear madame?"
"No, my friend, nothing.
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