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