Though crushed by the sense of her
irreparable loss, she had not rebelled against the hand that
struck her; but now it was human wickedness that assailed her
through her son, and her suffering was like that of the innocent
man who perishes for want of power to prove his innocence. Her
husband's death had not caused her such bitter tears as her son's
dishonor. She who was so proud, and who had such good reason to
be proud, she could note the glances of scorn she was favored with
as she left her home. She heard the insulting remarks made by
some of her neighbors, who, like so many folks, found their chief
delight in other people's misfortunes.
"Crocodile tears," some had exclaimed. "She is going to meet her
son; and with what he has stolen they will live like princes in
America." Rumor, which enlarges and misrepresents everything, had,
indeed, absurdly exaggerated the affair at Madame d'Argeles's
house. It was reported in the Rue d'Ulm that Pascal had spent
every night at the gaming table for more than five years; and
that, being an incomparable trickster, he had stolen millions.
Meanwhile, Madame Ferailleur was approaching the station. The cab
horse soon slackened its pace to climb the acclivity of the Rue
d'Amsterdam; and shortly afterward the vehicle drew up in the
courtyard of the railway station. Faithfully observing the
directions which had been given her, the worthy woman had her
trunks taken to the baggage-room, declaring that she should not
leave Paris until the next day, whereupon she received a receipt
from the man in charge of the room.
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