Virginity, the mother of great things, _magna
parens rerum_, holds in her fair white hands the keys of the upper
worlds. In short, that grand and terrible exception deserves all the
honors decreed to her by the Catholic Church.
Thus, in one moment, Lisbeth Fischer had become the Mohican whose
snares none can escape, whose dissimulation is inscrutable, whose
swift decisiveness is the outcome of the incredible perfection of
every organ of sense. She was Hatred and Revenge, as implacable as
they are in Italy, Spain, and the East. These two feelings, the
obverse of friendship and love carried to the utmost, are known only
in lands scorched by the sun. But Lisbeth was also a daughter of
Lorraine, bent on deceit.
She accepted this detail of her part against her will; she began by
making a curious attempt, due to her ignorance. She fancied, as
children do, that being imprisoned meant the same thing as solitary
confinement. But this is the superlative degree of imprisonment, and
that superlative is the privilege of the Criminal Bench.
As soon as she left Madame Marneffe, Lisbeth hurried off to Monsieur
Rivet, and found him in his office.
"Well, my dear Monsieur Rivet," she began, when she had bolted the
door of the room. "You were quite right. Those Poles! They are low
villains--all alike, men who know neither law nor fidelity."
"And who want to set Europe on fire," said the peaceable Rivet, "to
ruin every trade and every trader for the sake of a country that is
all bog-land, they say, and full of horrible Jews, to say nothing of
the Cossacks and the peasants--a sort of wild beasts classed by
mistake with human beings.
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