character, and her regret at having ever loved him, the same haughty soul which had formerly overwhelmed him with such cutting insults in the library of the hotel de la Mole.
"In justice to the glory of your stock, Heaven should have had you born a man," he said to her.
"But as for myself," he thought, "I should be very foolish to go on living for two more months in this disgusting place, to serve as a butt for all the infamous humiliations which the patrician party can devise,[1] and having the outburst of this mad woman for my only consolation … Well, the morning after to-morrow I shall fight a duel with a man known for his self-possession and his remarkable skill … his very remarkable skill," said the Mephistophelian part of him; "he never makes a miss. Well, so be it—good." (Mathilde continued to wax eloquent). "No, not for a minute," he said to himself, "I shall not appeal."
Having made this resolution, he fell into meditation …
"The courier will bring the paper at six o'clock as usual, as he passes; at eight o'clock, after M. de Rênal has finished reading it, Elisa will go on tiptoe and place it on her bed. Later on she will wake up; suddenly, as she reads it she will become troubled; her pretty hands will tremble; she will go on reading down to these words: At five minutes past ten he had ceased to exist.
"She will shed hot tears, I know her; it will matter nothing that I tried to assassinate her—all will be forgotten, and the person whose life I wished to take will be the only one who will sincerely lament my death.
"Ah, that's a good paradox," he thought, and he thought about nothing except madame de Rênal during the good quarter of an hour which the scene Mathilde was making still lasted. In spite of himself, and though he made frequent answers to what Mathilde was saying, he could not take his mind away from the thought of the bedroom at Verrières. He saw the Besançon Gazette on the counterpane of orange taffeta; he saw that white hand clutching at it convulsively. He saw madame de Rênal cry … He followed the path of every tear over her charming face.
Mademoiselle de la Mole, being unable to get anything out
- ↑ The speaker is a Jacobin.
