h had completely transformed her, still reflected,
hesitated, struggled, fighting against herself, putting off her decision
in order not to surrender, in her instinctive rebelliousness. And the
misunderstanding continued, in the midst of the mournful silence of the
miserable house, where there was no longer any happiness.

During all this time Pascal suffered terribly, without making any
complaint. He had sunk into a dull distrust, imagining that he was still
being watched, and that if they seemed to leave him at peace it was
only in order to concoct in secret the darkest plots. His uneasiness
increased, even, and he expected every day some catastrophe to
happen--the earth suddenly to open and swallow up his papers, La
Souleiade itself to be razed to the ground, carried away bodily,
scattered to the winds.

The persecution against his thought, against his moral and intellectual
life, in thus hiding itself, and so rendering him helpless to defend
himself, became so intolerable to him that he went to bed every night in
a fever. He would often start and turn round suddenly, thinking he
was going to surprise the enemy behind him engaged in some piece of
treachery, to find nothing there but the shadow of his own fears. At
other times, seized by some suspicion, he would remain on the watch
for hours together, hidden, behind his blinds, or lying in wait in
a passage; but not a soul stirred, he heard nothing but the violent
beating of his heart. His fears kept him in a state of constant
agitation; he never went to bed at night without visiting every room;
he no longer slept, or, if he did, he would waken with a start at the
slightest noise, ready to defend himself.

And what still further aggravated Pascal's sufferings was the constant,
the ever more bitter thought that the wound was inflicted upon him by
the only creature he loved in the world, the adored Clotilde, whom for
twenty years he had seen grow in beauty and in grace, whose life had
hitherto bloomed like a beautiful flower, perfuming his. She, great God!
for whom his heart was full of affection, whom he had never analyzed,
she, who had become his joy, his courage, his hope, in whose young life
he lived over again. When she passed by, with her delicate neck, so
round, so fresh, he was invigorated, bathed in health and joy, as at the
coming of spring.

His whole life, besides, explained this invasion, this subjugation of
his being by the young girl who had entered i