n the table, when you get the better of him in some political argument,
or when you win a game of chess. For myself, I am conscious that my
veins are as full-blooded as if I had been born in the noble ranks of
the people; and I do not believe that any Mauprat has ever shone at
court for the charm of his manners. Since I was born brave, how would
you have me set much store by life? And yet there are weak moments in
which I get discouraged more than enough, and bemoan my fate like the
true woman that I am. But, let some one offend me, or threaten me, and
the blood of the strong surges through me again; and then, as I cannot
crush my enemy, I fold my arms and smile with compassion at the idea
that he should ever have hoped to frighten me. And do not look upon this
as mere bombast, abbe. To-morrow, this evening perhaps, my words may
turn to deeds. This little pearl-handled knife does not look like deeds
of blood; still, it will be able to do its work, and ever since Don
Marcasse (who knows what he is about) sharpened it, I have had it by me
night and day, and my mind is made up. I have not a very strong fist,
but it will no doubt manage to give myself a good stab with this knife,
even as it manages to give my horse a cut with the whip. Well, that
being so, my honour is safe; it is only my life, which hangs by a
thread, which is at the mercy of a glass of wine, more or less, that
M. Bernard may happen to drink one of these evenings; of some change
meeting, or some exchange of looks between De la Marche and myself that
he may fancy he has detected; a breath of air perhaps! What is to be
done? Were I to grieve, would my tears wash away the past? We cannot
tear out a single page of our lives; but we can throw the book into
the fire. Though I should weep from night till morn, would that prevent
Destiny from having, in a fit of ill-humour, taken me out hunting, sent
me astray in the woods, and made me stumble across a Mauprat, who led me
to his den, where I escaped dishonour and perhaps death only by binding
my life forever to that of a savage who had none of my principles, and
who probably (and who undoubtedly, I should say) never will have them?
All this is a misfortune. I was in the full sunlight of a happy destiny;
I was the pride and joy of my old father; I was about to marry a man
I esteem and like; no sorrows, no fears had come near my path; I knew
neither days fraught with danger nor nights bereft of sleep. Well, God
did no