‘The woman is hateful!’ she said to her father; she was ready to agree with him about the woman and Alvan.  She was ashamed to have hoped anything of the woman, and stamped down her disappointment under a vehement indignation, that disfigured the man as well.  He had put the matter into the hands of this most detestable of women, to settle it as she might think best!  He and she!—­the miserable old thing with her ancient arts and cajoleries had lured him back!  She had him fast again, in spite of—­for who could tell? perhaps by reason of her dirty habits:  she smoked dragoon cigars!  All day she was emitting tobacco-smoke; it was notorious, Clotilde had not to learn it from her father; but now she saw the filthy rag that standard of female independence was—­that petticoated Unfeminine, fouler than masculine!  Alvan preferred the lichen-draped tree to the sunny flower, it was evident, for never a letter from Alvan had come to her.  She thought in wrath, nothing but the thoughts of wrath, and ran her wits through every reasonable reflection like a lighted brand that flings its colour, if not fire, upon surrounding images.  Contempt of the square-jawed withered woman was too great for Clotilde to have a sensation of her driving jealousy until painful glimpses of the man made jealousy so sharp that she flew for refuge to contempt of the pair.  That beldam had him back:  she had him fast.  Oh! let her keep him!  Was he to be regretted who could make that choice?

Her father did not let the occasion slip to speak insistingly as the world opined of Alvan and his baroness.  He forced her to swallow the calumny, and draw away with her family against herself through strong disgust.

Out of a state of fire Clotilde passed into solid frigidity.  She had neither a throb nor a passion.  Wishing seemed to her senseless as life was.  She could hear without a thrill of her frame that Alvan was in the city, without a question whether it was true.  He had not written, and he had handed her over to the baroness!  She did not ask herself how it was that she had no letter from him, being afraid to think about it, because, if a letter had been withheld by her father, it was a part of her whipping; if none had been written, there was nothing to hope for.  Her recent humiliation condemned him by the voice of her sufferings for his failure to be giant, eagle, angel, or any of the prodigious things he had taught her to expect; and as he had thus deceived her, the glorious lover she had imaged in her mind was put aside with some of the angry disdain she bestowed upon the woman by whom she had been wounded.  He ceased to be a visioned Alvan, and became an obscurity; her principal sentiment in relation to him was, that he threatened her peace.  But for him she would never have been taught to hate her parents; she would have enjoyed the quiet domestic evenings with her people, when Marko sang, and her sisters knitted, and the betrothed sister wore a look very enviable in the abstract; she would be seeing a future instead of a black iron gate!  But for him she certainly would never have had, that letter from the baroness!