And she could not help thinking, though she knew that such thoughts were both foolish and unjust, that Owen had purposely contrived this thraldom.  Then there was only one thing for her to do, to go to Paris after Ulick....  A moment after there came a sinking feeling.  She knew that she could not.  But what was she to do?  All this uncertainty was loosening her brain....  She might go to Monsignor and lay the whole matter before him and take his advice.  But she knew if she went to him she must confess.  Better that, she thought, than that the intolerable present should endure.

Mental depression and sleepless nights had produced nervous pains in her neck and arms.  She could hardly drag herself along for very weariness.  The very substance of her being seemed to waste away; that amount of unconsciousness without which life is an agony had been abstracted, leaving nothing but a fierce mentality.

She slept a little after dinner, and awakening about eleven, she foresaw another night of insomnia.  The chatter of her conscience continued, tireless as a cricket, and she had lost hope of being able to silence it.  The hysterical tears of last night had brought her four hours of sleep, but there was no chance of any repetition of them.  It would be useless to go upstairs.  She sang through the greater part of “Lohengrin,” and then took up the “Meistersinger,” and read it till it fell from her hands. ...  It was three o’clock; and feeling very tired, she thought that she might be able to sleep.  But all night long she saw her life from end to end.  Her miserable passage through this life, the weakness of her character and the vileness of her sins were shown to her in a hideous magnification.  She was exhibited to herself like an insect in a crystal, and she perceived the remotest antennae of her being.

CHAPTER THIRTY

One night it occurred to her that she might ring for Merat and send her to the chemist’s for a sleeping draught.  But it was four o’clock in the morning, and she did not like to impose such a task on her maid.  Moreover, she might get to sleep a little later on, so she wrote on a piece of paper that Merat was not to come to her room until she rang for her, and she lay down and folded her arms, and once more began to count the sheep through the gate.  But that night sleep seemed further than ever from her eyes, and at eight she was obliged to ring.  “Merat, I have not closed my eyes all night.”

“Mademoiselle ought to have a sleeping draught.”

“Yes, I’ll take one to-night Get me some tea.  Another night like this will drive me mad.”