When, on the contrary, a woman talks freely of
such catastrophes, and seems to take pleasure in doing so, allowing
herself to explain the emotions that justify the guilty parties, we
may be sure that she herself is at the crossways of indecision, and
does not know what road she might take.
During this winter, the Comtesse de Vandenesse heard the great voice
of the social world roaring in her ears, and the wind of its stormy
gusts blew round her. Her pretended friends, who maintained their
reputations at the height of their rank and their positions, often
produced in her presence the seductive idea of the lover; they cast
into her soul certain ardent talk of love, the "mot d'enigme" which
life propounds to woman, the grand passion, as Madame de Stael called
it,--preaching by example. When the countess asked naively, in a small
and select circle of these friends, what difference there was between
a lover and a husband, all those who wished evil to Felix took care to
reply in a way to pique her curiosity, or fire her imagination, or
touch her heart, or interest her mind.
"Oh! my dear, we vegetate with a husband, but we live with a lover,"
said her sister-in-law, the marquise.
"Marriage, my dear, is our purgatory; love is paradise," said Lady
Dudley.
"Don't believe her," cried Mademoiselle des Touches; "it is hell."
"But a hell we like," remarked Madame de Rochefide.
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