“I think, my dear,” she replied, “that Mme. de Lorcy is a fool, and that Count Larinski is a powerful man.”
Antoinette looked at her with a bitter smile, and touched her arm lightly. “Admit, madame,” she said, “that if he had a hundred thousand livres’ income, you would not think of doubting his sincerity.”
Mme. de Lorcy did not reply; she could not say “No,” and she was enraged to feel that she was both right and wrong. It is an accident that happens sometimes to women of the world.
CHAPTER VII
On her entering her coupe to return to Cormeilles, Mlle. Moriaz was the prey of an agitation that did not calm down during the entire drive. Her whole soul was stirred by a tender, passionate sentiment for the man who had swooned away in taking farewell of her; she was filled with anger against the foolish prejudices and the petty finesse of the people of the world; filled with joy at having baffled a monstrous conspiracy against her happiness; filled with pride because she had seen clearly, because she had not mistaken in her choice, and because the man whom she loved was worthy of being loved. During several days she had suffered cruelly from anxiety, from actual agony of mind, and over and over again she had said to herself, “Perhaps they are right.” A woman’s heart believes itself to be at the mercy of error, and it is torture to it to be obliged to doubt itself and its own clairvoyance. When it is unmistakably demonstrated to it that its god is only an idol of wood or of stone, that what was once adored must henceforth be despised, it feels ready to die, and imagines that some spring must give way in the vast machine of the universe, that the sky must fall, the earth crumble away; and yet a woman’s error of judgment is not a matter of such very grave import. The sun continues to shine, the earth to revolve upon its axis, as though it had not occurred. The machine of the universe would be subject to quite too many accidents should it become unsettled every time a woman made a mistake.
“It was I who was right; they were incapable of comprehending him,” though Mlle. Moriaz, as she crossed the Seine, and she contemplated with a delighted eye the lovely blue sky, the tranquil waters, the verdant banks of the river, with their long range of poplar-trees. It seemed to her that all was going well, that order reigned everywhere, that the Great Mechanician was at his post, that the world was in good hands, and that travellers therein had no cause to fear untoward mischance.
When she arrived at Cormeilles, M. Moriaz was shut up in his laboratory, which he had been overjoyed to find just as he had left it. A velvet skull-cap perched on one side of his head, his sleeves turned up, a brown holland apron tied round his neck and his waist, a feather brush in his hand, he had proceeded at once to examine his precious stock in detail—his furnaces, his long-necked, big-bellied matrasses, the curved necks and the tubulures of his retorts, his cucurbits, and his alembics. Balloons, tubes, pipettes, pneumatic vats, receivers, cupels, lamps, bell-glasses, blow-pipes, and mortars, he passed in review to assure himself that during his absence nothing had been damaged. He carefully dusted his jars, examined the labels, made sure that none of his treasures were cracked, that his gauges were not out of order. He was as happy as a king who has his troops pass in review before him, and feels convinced that they bear themselves well; that they will stand fire and do honour to their master.
Agreeable as was the occupation to which for two hours he had devoted himself, M. Moriaz had not forgotten the existence of his daughter and of M. Larinski. He knew that Antoinette had repaired to Maisons Lafitte to have an explanation with Mme. de Lorcy, and this thought cast a shadow over his felicity. He hoped, however, that this interview might turn out according to his wishes; that the Pole star, which had caused him so much disquietude, might disappear forever from his horizon.
Some one knocked at the door of his laboratory. “Come in!” he cried, and turning he saw Antoinette standing upon the threshold. He gazed at her fixedly. Her eye was so animated, her countenance so beaming, so luminous, that involuntarily he dropped his arms and let fall, as he did so, a little vial he held in his hands.