In vain Paula had attempted to make Iris explain herself, she had been obstinately silent after having merely replied,—
"Reflect well, godmother, and you will understand me."
The princess did reflect.
First, her thoughts dwelt on M. de Hansfeld, and she inquired of herself what were the feelings with which he had inspired lier after his suspicions of her having committed such horrid crimes. She felt as much hatred as contempt for him,—hatred for a man capable of conceiving such suspicions,—contempt for a man so weak as not boldly to accuse the individual he suspected.
Paula was doubly unjust: she forgot that Arnold had passionately loved her, and that all his sufferings had arisen in consequence of this struggle between his love and his doubts.
It was strange, she had never loved her husband with love—she was passionately enamoured of De Morville—and yet she was wounded at the prince's love for Bertha. Nothing is more absurd, and yet more common, than the jealousy of pride.
When Madame de Hansfeld's thoughts dwelt on De Morville, in a moment these sinister words appeared before her in letters of flame,—
If I were a widow!
And she dared not confess to herself that she would have been satisfied had one of the attempts of Iris succeeded.
We have already said that nothing is more fatal than to familiarise the thought and simple supposition, which, when realised, would become crime. How monstrous soever they appear at first, by degrees the mind admits them the more easily, as they the more and more incessantly flatter the interests they subserve.