So noiseless were her movements that the two
sleepers never awoke, and the girl sat in the chair with the
portrait in her hand dreaming of the man whom it represented. She
knew his handsome face was smiling up at her out of the glimmering
gloom, and clenched her hands in anger as she thought how he had
treated her. She let the portrait fall on her lap, and leaning back
in the chair, with all her golden hair showering down loosely over
her shoulders, gave herself up to reflection.
He was going to marry Madame Midas--the man who had ruined her life;
he would hold another woman in his arms and tell her all the false
tales he had told her. He would look into her eyes with his own, and
she would be unable to see the treachery and guile hidden in their
depths. She could not stand it. False friend, false lover, he had
been, but to see him married to another--no! it was too much. And
yet what could she do? A woman in love believes no ill of the man
she adores, and if she was to tell Madame Midas all she would not be
believed. Ah! it was useless to fight against fate, it was too
strong for her, so she would have to suffer in silence, and see them
happy. That story of Hans Andersen's, which she had read, about the
little mermaid who danced, and felt that swords were wounding her
feet while the prince smiled on his bride--yes, that was her case.
She would have to stand by in silence and see him caressing another
woman, while every caress would stab her like a sword.
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