"Do you really mean it?" asked Maximilien in a broken voice.
Emilie turned her back upon him with amazing insolence. These words,
spoken in an undertone, had escaped the ears of her two
sisters-in-law. When, after buying the cape, the three ladies got into
the carriage again, Emilie, seated with her back to the horses, could
not resist one last comprehensive glance into the depths of the odious
shop, where she saw Maximilien standing with his arms folded, in the
attitude of a man superior to the disaster that has so suddenly fallen
on him. Their eyes met and flashed implacable looks. Each hoped to
inflict a cruel wound on the heart of a lover. In one instant they
were as far apart as if one had been in China and the other in
Greenland.
Does not the breath of vanity wither everything? Mademoiselle de
Fontaine, a prey to the most violent struggle that can torture the
heart of a young girl, reaped the richest harvest of anguish that
prejudice and narrow-mindedness ever sowed in a human soul. Her face,
but just now fresh and velvety, was streaked with yellow lines and red
patches; the paleness of her cheeks seemed every now and then to turn
green. Hoping to hide her despair from her sisters, she would laugh as
she pointed out some ridiculous dress or passer-by; but her laughter
was spasmodic. She was more deeply hurt by their unspoken compassion
than by any satirical comments for which she might have revenged
herself.
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