Hortense read and re-read the note; she saw nothing but this sheet of
white paper streaked with black lines; the universe held for her
nothing but that paper; everything was dark around her. The glare of
the conflagration that was consuming the edifice of her happiness
lighted up the page, for blackest night enfolded her. The shouts of
her little Wenceslas at play fell on her ear, as if he had been in the
depths of a valley and she on a high mountain. Thus insulted at
four-and-twenty, in all the splendor of her beauty, enhanced by pure
and devoted love--it was not a stab, it was death. The first shock had
been merely on the nerves, the physical frame had struggled in the
grip of jealousy; but now certainty had seized her soul, her body was
unconscious.
For about ten minutes Hortense sat under the incubus of this
oppression. Then a vision of her mother appeared before her, and
revulsion ensued; she was calm and cool, and mistress of her reason.
She rang.
"Get Louise to help you, child," said she to the cook. "As quickly as
you can, pack up everything that belongs to me and everything wanted
for the little boy. I give you an hour. When all is ready, fetch a
hackney coach from the stand, and call me.
"Make no remarks! I am leaving the house, and shall take Louise with
me. You must stay here with monsieur; take good care of him----"
She went into her room, and wrote the following letter:--
"MONSIEUR LE COMTE,--
"The letter I enclose will sufficiently account for the
determination I have come to.
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