m,
Felicie, more especially at meal-times, and every day, bitterly
reproached Madame Nanteuil, in very pointed allusions, and in terms
which were not precisely veiled, in respect of this new "friend of the
family"; and for Monsieur Bondois himself, whenever she met him, she
exhibited an expressive disgust and an unconcealed aversion. Madame
Nanteuil was only moderately distressed by this, and she excused her
daughter by reflecting that the young girl had as yet no experience of
life. And Monsieur Bondois, whom Felicie inspired with a superhuman
terror, strove to placate her by signs of respect and inconsiderable
presents.

She was violent because she was suffering. The letters which she
received from The Hague inflamed her love, so that it was a pain to her.
A prey to consuming visions, she was pining away. When she saw her
absent friend too clearly her temples throbbed, her heart beat
violently, and a dense increasing shadow would darken her mind. All the
sensibility of her nerves, all the warmth of her blood, all the forces
of her being flowed through her, sinking downwards, merging themselves
in desire in the very depths of her flesh. At such times she had no
other thought than to recover Ligny. It was Ligny that she wanted, only
Ligny, and she herself was surprised at the disgust which she felt for
all other men. For her instincts had not always been so exclusive. She
told herself that she would go at once to Bondois, ask him for money,
and take the train for The Hague. And she did not do it. What deterred
her was not so much the idea of displeasing her lover, who would have
looked upon such a journey as bad form, as the vague fear of awakening
the slumbering shadow.

That she had not seen since Ligny's departure. But perturbing things
were happening, within her and around her. In the street she was
followed by a water-spaniel, which appealed and vanished suddenly. One
morning when she was in bed her mother told her "I am going to the
dressmaker's," and went out. Two or three minutes later Felicie saw her
come back into the room as if she had forgotten something. But the
apparition advanced without a look at her, without a word, without a
sounds and disappeared as it touched the bed.

She had even more disturbing illusions. One Sunday, she was acting, in a
matinee of _Athalie_, the part of young Zacharias. As she had very
pretty legs she found the disguise not displeasing; she was glad also to
show that she knew