‘For with regard to these ladies, who take pleasure in being loved without loving; the only satisfaction which lies in store for them, is that which vanity can give them.’
She shut it impatiently and opened it again. This time, it was these words that stood out:—
‘Indeed,’ added she, ‘I remember that my dislike came near to hatred for a passably pleasant gentlewoman——’
Madeleine crossed herself nervously, got down from her bed, and took several paces up and down the room, and then opened the book again.
‘Each moment his jealousy and perturbation waxed stronger.’
Three attempts, and not one word of good omen. She had the sense of running round and round in an endless circle between the four walls of a tiny, dark cell. Through the bars she could see one or two stars, and knew that out there lay the wide, cool, wind-blown world of causality, governed by eternal laws that nothing could alter. But knowing this did not liberate her from her cell, round which she continued her aimless running till the process made her feel sick and dizzy.
She opened the book again. This time her eyes fell on words that, in relation to her case, had no sense. She looked restlessly round the room for some other means of divination. The first thing she noticed was her comb. She seized it and began counting the teeth, repeating:—
‘Elle m’aime un peu, beaucoup, passionément, pas de tout.’ ‘Passionément’ came on the last tooth. She gave a great sigh of relief; it was as if something relaxed within her.
Then the door opened, and Berthe padded in, smiling mysteriously.
‘A lackey has brought Mademoiselle this letter.’ Madeleine seized it. It had not been put in an envelope, but just folded and sealed. It was addressed in a very strange hand, large and illegible, to:—