The impression made upon Hermione was
that the real Vere had sunk far down in her child, out of sight and
hearing, out of reach, beyond pursuit, to a depth where none could
follow, where the soul enjoyed the safety of utter isolation.
Hermione did not wish to pursue this anchorite. She did not wish to
draw near to Vere that evening. To do so would have been impossible to
her, even had Vere been willing to come to her. Since the brutal
outburst of the Marchesino, she, too, had felt the desire, the
necessity, of a desert place, where she could sit alone and realize
the bareness of her world.
In that outburst of passion the Marchesino had gathered together and
hurled at her beliefs that had surely been her own, but that she had
striven to avoid, that she had beaten back as spectres and unreal,
that she had even denied, tricking, or trying to trick, her terrible
sense of truth. His brutality had made the delicacy in her crouch and
sicken. It had been almost intolerable to her, to see her friend,
Emile, thus driven out into the open, like one naked, to be laughed
at, condemned, held up, that the wild folly, the almost insane
absurdity of his secret self might be seen and understood even by the
blind, the determined in stupidity.
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