Of course, when she was found to have been cognizant of his
departure, she was in the utmost disgrace. Rage at his evasion
brought on the fit of apoplexy which cost the old count his life; and
the blame was so laid upon her, not only by Mademoiselle de
Gringrimeau, but by Madame and by her confessor, that she almost
believed herself a sort of parricide; and she had not yet completed
the course of penitential exercises that have been imposed on her.
By the time--more than half a year later--her son was born, the old
countess had become too childish to be gratified for more than a
moment. Indeed, poor Cecile herself was so ill that she survived
only by a wonder, since no one cared whether she lived or died,
except her own maid, who watched over her tenderly, and gave her,
when she could read it, a letter from her husband upon the joyful
news. She wore that letter, such as it was, next her heart, and
never told her how my husband had absolutely stood over him while he
wrote it.
So she recovered, if it can be called recovery--for her health had
been shattered by all this want of the most care and consideration;
she was very weak and nervous, and suffered constantly from headache,
and her looks were enough to break one's heart. I suppose nothing
could have made her beautiful, but she had a strange, worn, blighted,
haggard, stunted look, quite dreadful for one not yet eighteen; she
was very short, and fearfully thin and pale, but out of the sad
little face there looked my Philippe's eyes, and now and then his
smile.
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