In the midst of such wretchedness as must soon have destroyed her, one thought only was matter of consolation.  She lived in the same country, breathed the same air as Raymond.  His name as Protector was the burthen of every tongue; his achievements, projects, and magnificence, the argument of every story.  Nothing is so precious to a woman’s heart as the glory and excellence of him she loves; thus in every horror Evadne revelled in his fame and prosperity.  While her husband lived, this feeling was regarded by her as a crime, repressed, repented of.  When he died, the tide of love resumed its ancient flow, it deluged her soul with its tumultuous waves, and she gave herself up a prey to its uncontrollable power.

But never, O, never, should he see her in her degraded state.  Never should he behold her fallen, as she deemed, from her pride of beauty, the poverty-stricken inhabitant of a garret, with a name which had become a reproach, and a weight of guilt on her soul.  But though impenetrably veiled from him, his public office permitted her to become acquainted with all his actions, his daily course of life, even his conversation.  She allowed herself one luxury, she saw the newspapers every day, and feasted on the praise and actions of the Protector.  Not that this indulgence was devoid of accompanying grief.  Perdita’s name was for ever joined with his; their conjugal felicity was celebrated even by the authentic testimony of facts.  They were continually together, nor could the unfortunate Evadne read the monosyllable that designated his name, without, at the same time, being presented with the image of her who was the faithful companion of all his labours and pleasures.  They, their Excellencies, met her eyes in each line, mingling an evil potion that poisoned her very blood.

It was in the newspaper that she saw the advertisement for the design for a national gallery.  Combining with taste her remembrance of the edifices which she had seen in the east, and by an effort of genius enduing them with unity of design, she executed the plan which had been sent to the Protector.  She triumphed in the idea of bestowing, unknown and forgotten as she was, a benefit upon him she loved; and with enthusiastic pride looked forward to the accomplishment of a work of hers, which, immortalized in stone, would go down to posterity stamped with the name of Raymond.  She awaited with eagerness the return of her messenger from the palace; she listened insatiate to his account of each word, each look of the Protector; she felt bliss in this communication with her beloved, although he knew not to whom he addressed his instructions.  The drawing itself became ineffably dear to her.  He had seen it, and praised it; it was again retouched by her, each stroke of her pencil was as a chord of thrilling music, and bore to her the idea of a temple raised to celebrate the deepest and most unutterable emotions of her soul.  These contemplations engaged her, when the voice of Raymond first struck her ear, a voice, once heard, never to be forgotten; she mastered her gush of feelings, and welcomed him with quiet gentleness.