of
fact, the works would belong to that son of the hated Froments, whenever
he might choose to close the doors on their old master, who, as it
happened, was never seen now in the workshops. True, there was a clause
in the covenant which admitted, so long as that covenant should not be
broken, the possibility of repurchasing all the shares at one and the
same time. Was it, then, some mad hope of doing this, a fervent belief
in a miracle, in the possibility of some saviour descending from Heaven,
that kept Constance thus rigid and stubborn, awaiting destiny? Those
twelve years of vain waiting--and increasing decline did not seem to
have diminished her conviction that in spite of everything she would
some day triumph. No doubt her tears had gushed forth at Chantebled in
presence of the victory of Mathieu and Marianne; but she soon recovered
her self-possession, and lived on in the hope that some unexpected
occurrence would at last prove that she, the childless woman, was in the
right.

She could not have said precisely what it was she wished; she was
simply bent on remaining alive until misfortune should fall upon the
over-numerous family, to exculpate her for what had happened in her own
home, the loss of her son who was in the grave, and the downfall of her
husband who was in the gutter--all the abomination, indeed, which had
been so largely wrought by herself, but which filled her with agony.
However much her heart might bleed over her losses, her vanity as an
honest bourgeoise filled her with rebellious thoughts, for she could not
admit that she had been in the wrong. And thus she awaited the revenge
of destiny in that luxurious house, which was far too large now that
she alone inhabited it. She only occupied the rooms on the first floor,
where she shut herself up for days together with an old serving woman,
the sole domestic that she had retained. Gowned in black, as if bent on
wearing eternal mourning for Maurice, always erect, stiff, and haughtily
silent, she never complained, although her covert exasperation had
greatly affected her heart, in such wise that she experienced at times
most terrible attacks of stifling. These she kept as secret as possible,
and one day when the old servant ventured to go for Doctor Boutan she
threatened her with dismissal. She would not even answer the doctor,
and she refused to take any remedies, certain as she felt that she would
last as long as the hope which buoyed her up.

Yet