The idea of taking a volume from those shelves had no more occurred to her than the idea of taking money out of somebody’s purse; that is, up to this moment it had not occurred to her to do so; but now that she had lost all respect for those in authority over her, Jacqueline considered herself released from any obligation to obey them.  She therefore made use of the first opportunity that presented itself to take down a novel of George Sand, which she had heard spoken of as a very dangerous book, not doubting it would throw some light on the subject that absorbed her.  But she shut up the volume in a rage when she found that it had nothing but excuses to offer for the fall of a married woman.  After that, and guided only by chance, she read a number of other novels, most of which were of antediluvian date, thus accounting, she supposed, for their sentiments, which she found old fashioned.  We should be wrong, however, if we supposed that Jacqueline’s crude judgment of these books had nothing in common with true criticism.  Her only object, however, in reading all this sentimental prose was to discover, as formerly she had found in poetry, something that applied to her own case; but she soon discovered that all the sentimental heroines in the so-called bad books were persons who had had bad husbands; besides, they were either widows or old women—­at least thirty years old!  It was astounding!  There was nothing—­absolutely nothing—­about young girls, except instances in which they renounced their hopes of happiness.  What an injustice!  Among these victims the two that most attracted her sympathy were Madame de Camors and Renee Mauperin.  But what horrors surrounded them!  What a varied assortment of deceptions, treacheries, and mysteries, lay hidden under the outward decency and respectability of what men called “the world!” Her young head became a stage on which strange plays were acted.  What one reads is good or bad for us, according to the frame of mind in which we read it—­according as we discover in a volume healing for the sickness of our souls—­or the contrary.  In view of the circumstances in which she found herself, what Jacqueline absorbed from these books was poison.

When, after the physical and moral crisis through which she had passed, Jacqueline resumed the life of every day, she had in her sad eyes, around which for some time past had been dark circles, an expression of anxiety such as the first contact with a knowledge of evil might have put into Eve’s eyes after she had plucked the apple.  Her investigations had very imperfectly enlightened her.  She was as much perplexed as ever, with some false ideas besides.  When she was well again, however, she continued weak and languid; she felt somehow as if, she had come back to her old surroundings from some place far away.  Everything about her now seemed sad and unfamiliar, though outwardly nothing was altered.  Her parents had apparently forgotten the unhappy episode of the