There is an instinctive delicacy and
dislike of publicity in all deep passion, and true and chaste love
is ever averse to laying aside the veil with which it conceals
itself from the inquisitive. Madame Ferailleur understood this
feeling; but she was a mother, and as such, jealous of her son's
tenderness, and anxious for particulars concerning this rival who
had suddenly usurped her place in the heart where she had long
reigned supreme. She was also a woman--that is to say, distrustful
and suspicious in reference to all other women. So, without
taking pity on Pascal's embarrassment, she urged him to continue.
"I gave the driver five francs on condition that he would hurry
his horses," he resumed, "and we were rattling along at a rapid
rate, when, suddenly, near the Hotel de Chalusse, I noticed a
change in the motion of the vehicle. I looked out and saw that we
were driving over a thick layer of straw which had been spread
across the street. I can scarcely describe my feelings on seeing
this. A cold perspiration came over me--I fancied I saw
Marguerite in agony, dying--far from me, and calling me in vain.
Without waiting for the vehicle to stop, I sprang to the ground,
and was obliged to exercise all my self-control to prevent myself
from rushing into the concierge's lodge, and wildly asking: 'Who
is dying here?' But an unforeseen difficulty presented itself. It
was evident that I ought not to go in person to inquire for Madame
Leon.
Pages:
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351