ible
consequences of his own words, but yielding to the inexorable fatality of
his situation, "sometimes madness takes a stupid and brutal form; the
unfortunate creature, who is attacked by it, preserves nothing human but
the shape--has only the instincts of the lower animals--eats with
voracity, and moves ever backwards and forwards in the cell, in which
such a being is obliged to be confined. That is all its life--all."

"Like the woman yonder." cried Adrienne, with a still wilder look, as she
slowly raised her arm towards the window that was visible on the other
side of the building.

"Why--yes," said M. Baleinier. "Like you, unhappy child, those women were
young, fair, and sensible, but like you, alas! they had in them the fatal
germ of insanity, which, not having been destroyed in time, grew, and
grew, larger and ever larger, until it overspread and destroyed their
reason."

"Oh, mercy!" cried Mdlle. de Cardoville, whose head was getting confused
with terror; "mercy! do not tell me such things!--I am afraid. Take me
from this place--oh! take me from this place!" she added, with a
heartrending accent; "for, if I remain here, I shall end by going mad!
No," added she, struggling with the terrible agony which assailed her,
"no, do not hope it! I shall not become mad. I have all my reason. I am
not blind enough to believe what you tell me. Doubtless, I live
differently from others; think differently from others; am shocked by
things that do not offend others; but what does all this prove? Only that
I am different from others. Have I a bad heart? Am I envious or selfish?
My ideas are singular, I knew--yes, I confess it--but then, M. Baleinier,
is not their tendency good, generous, noble!--Oh!" cried Adrienne's
supplicating voice, while her tears flowed abundantly, "I have never in
my life done one malicious action; my worst errors have arisen from
excess of generosity. Is it madness to wish to see everybody about one
too happy? And again, if you are mad, you must feel it yourself--and I do
not feel it--and yet--I scarcely know--you tell me such terrible things
of those two women! You ought to know these things better than I. But
then," added Mdlle, de Cardoville, with an accent of the deepest despair,
"something ought to have been done. Why, if you felt an interest for me,
did you wait so long? Why did you not take pity on me sooner? But the
most frightful fact is, that I do not know whether I ought to believe
you--fo