She
is not a woman if she would not like to know her fortune, for she is
in despair, I think, with all the world; and when a woman is in
despair, as I know by my own experience, she will jump at any chance
for spite, if not for love, as I did when I took the Sieur Tremblay
by your advice, Mere Malheur!"
Dame Tremblay left the old crone making hideous faces in a mirror.
She rubbed her cheeks and mouth with the corner of her apron as she
proceeded to the door of Caroline's apartment. She knocked gently,
and a low, soft voice bade her enter.
Caroline was seated on a chair by the window, knitting her sad
thoughts into a piece of work which she occasionally lifted from
her lap with a sudden start, as something broke the train of her
reflections.
She was weighing over and over in her thoughts, like gold in a
scale, by grains and pennyweights, a few kind words lately spoken to
her by Bigot when he ran in to bid her adieu before departing on his
journey to Trois Rivieres. They seemed a treasure inexhaustible as
she kept on repeating them to herself.
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