There was something sublime in the satanic pride with which she
carried with her the terrible secrets of her race, which in her own
mind made her the superior of every one around her, and whom she
regarded as living only by her permission or forbearance.
For human love other than as a degraded menial, to make men the
slaves of her mercenary schemes, La Corriveau cared nothing. She
never felt it, never inspired it. She looked down upon all her sex
as the filth of creation and, like herself, incapable of a chaste
feeling or a pure thought. Every better instinct of her nature had
gone out like the flame of a lamp whose oil is exhausted; love of
money remained as dregs at the bottom of her heart. A deep grudge
against mankind, and a secret pleasure in the misfortunes of others,
especially of her own sex, were her ruling passions.
Her mother, Marie Exili, had died in her bed, warning her daughter
not to dabble in the forbidden arts which she had taught her, but to
cling to her husband and live an honest life as the only means of
dying a more hopeful death than her ancestors.
Pages:
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663
664
665
666
667
668
669
670
671
672
673
674
675
676