turned. She
recognized the objects around her, and that framework, so familiar to
her piety of fervent Catholicism, the enormous square, the obelisk of
Sixte-Quint in the centre, the fountains, the circular portico crowned
with bishops and martyrs, the palace of the Vatican at the corner, and
yonder the facade of the large papal cathedral, with the Saviour and the
apostles erect upon the august pediment.

On any other occasion in life the pious young woman would have seen in
the chance which led her thither, almost unconsciously, an influence
from above, an invitation to enter the church, there to ask the strength
to suffer of the God who said: "Let him who wishes follow me, let him
renounce all, let him take up his cross and follow me!" But she was
passing through that first bitter paroxysm of grief in which it is
impossible to pray, so greatly does the revolt of nature cry out within
us. Later, we may recognize the hand of Providence in the trial imposed
upon us. We see at first only the terrible injustice of fate, and we
tremble in the deepest recesses of our souls with rebellion at the blow
from which we bleed. That which rendered the rebellion more invincible
and more fierce in Maud, was the suddenness of the mortal blow.

Daily some pure, honest woman, like her, acquires the proof of the
treason of a husband whom she has not ceased to love. Ordinarily,
the indisputable proof is preceded by a long period of suspicion. The
faithless one neglects his hearth. A change takes place in his daily
habits. Various hints reveal to the outraged wife the trace of a rival,
which woman's jealousy distinguishes with a scent as certain as that of
a dog which finds a stranger in the house. And, finally, although there
is in the transition from doubt to certainty a laceration of the heart,
it is at least the laceration of a heart prepared. That preparation,
that adaptation, so to speak, of her soul to the truth, Maud had been
deprived of. The care taken by Madame Steno to strengthen the friendship
between her and Alba had suppressed the slightest signs. Boleslas had
no need to change his domestic life in order to see his mistress at
his convenience and in an intimacy entertained, provoked, by his wife
herself. The wife, too, had been totally, absolutely deceived. She
had assisted in her husband's adultery with one of those illusions so
complete that it seemed improbable to the indifferent and to strangers.
The awakening from such i