her mind some
things to which she had paid no heed during Germinie's lifetime, trifles
of which the grave makes us take thought and upon which death sheds
light. She had a vague remembrance of certain strange performances on
the part of her maid, of feverish effusions and frantic embraces, of her
throwing herself on her knees as if she were about to make a confession,
of movements of the lips as if a secret were trembling on their verge.
She saw, with the eyes we have for those who are no more, Germinie's
wistful glances, her gestures and attitudes, the despairing expression
of her face. And now she realized that there were deep wounds beneath,
heart-rending pain, the torment of her anguish and her repentance, the
tears of blood of her remorse, all sorts of suffering forced out of
sight throughout her life, and in her whole being a Passion of shame
that dared not ask forgiveness except with silence!

Then she would scold herself for the thought and call herself an old
fool. Her instinct of rigid uprightness, the stern conscience and harsh
judgment of a stainless life, the things which cause a virtuous woman to
condemn a harlot and should have caused a saint like Mademoiselle de
Varandeuil to be without pity for her servant--everything within her
rebelled against a pardon. The voice of justice, stifling her kindness
of heart, cried: "Never! never!" And she would expel Germinie's infamous
phantom with a pitiless gesture.

There were times, indeed, when, in order to make her condemnation and
execration of her memory more irrevocable, she would heap charges upon
her and slander her. She would add to the dead woman's horrible list of
sins. She would reproach Germinie for more than was justly chargeable to
her. She would attribute crimes to her dark thoughts, murderous desires
to her impatient dreams. She would strive to think, she would force
herself to think, that she had desired her mistress's death and had been
awaiting it.

But at that very moment, amid the blackest of her thoughts and
suppositions, a vision arose and stood in a bright light before her. A
figure approached, that seemed to come to meet her glance, a figure
against which she could not defend herself, and which passed through the
hands with which she sought to force it back. Mademoiselle de Varandeuil
saw her dead maid once more. She saw once more the face of which she had
caught a glimpse in the amphitheatre, the crucified face, the tortured
face to wh