In a word, Christian was handsomer than his rival, and Clemence exaggerated her husband’s superiority over her lover.  Not being able to find the latter awkward or insignificant, she tried to persuade herself that he was ugly.  She then reviewed in her mind all M. de Bergenheim’s good qualities, his attachment and kindness to her, his loyal, generous ways; she recalled the striking instance that Marillac had related of his bravery, a quality without which there is no hope of success for a man in the eyes of any woman.  She did all in her power to inflame her imagination and to see in her husband a hero worthy of inspiring the most fervent love.  When she had exhausted her efforts toward such enthusiasm and admiration, she turned round, in despair, and, burying her head in her pillow, she sobbed: 

“I cannot, I cannot love him!”

She wept bitterly for a long while.  As she recalled her own severity in the past regarding women whose conduct had caused scandal, she employed in her turn the harshness of her judgment in examining her own actions.  She felt herself more guilty than all the others, for her weakness appeared less excusable to her.  She felt that she was unworthy and contemptible, and wished to die that she might escape the shame that made her blush scarlet, and the remorse that tortured her soul.

How many such unhappy tears bathe the eyes of those who should shed only tears of joy!  How many such sighs break the silence of the night!  There are noble, celestial beings among women whom remorse stretches out upon its relentless brasier, but in the midst of the flames that torture them the heart palpitates, imperishable as a salamander.  Is it not human fate to suffer?  After Madame de Bergenheim had given vent, by convulsive sobs and stifled sighs, to her grief for this love which she could not tear from her breast, she formed a desperate resolution.  From the manner in which M. de Gerfaut had taken possession of the chateau the very first day, she recognized that he was master of the situation.  The sort of infatuation which Mademoiselle de Corandeuil seemed to have for him, and Christian’s courteous and hospitable habits, would give him an opportunity to prolong his stay as long as he desired.  She thus compared herself to a besieged general, who sees the enemy within his ramparts.

“Very well!  I will shut myself up in the fortress!” said she, smiling in spite of herself in the midst of her tears.  “Since this insupportable man has taken possession of my drawing-room, I will remain in my own room; we will see whether he dares to approach that!”

She shook her pretty head with a defiant air, but she could not help glancing into the room which was barely lighted with a night lamp.  She sat up and listened for a moment rather anxiously, as if Octave’s dark eyes might suddenly glisten in the obscurity.  When she had assured herself that all was tranquil, and that the throbbing of her heart was all that disturbed the silence, she continued preparing her plan of defense.