As may be supposed, these
speeches did not infuse much hope into Augustine, who, during the
night, gave herself up to the first meditations of love. The events of
the day were like a dream, which it was a joy to recall to her mind.
She was initiated into the fears, the hopes, the remorse, all the ebb
and flow of feeling which could not fail to toss a heart so simple and
timid as hers. What a void she perceived in this gloomy house! What a
treasure she found in her soul! To be the wife of a genius, to share
his glory! What ravages must such a vision make in the heart of a girl
brought up among such a family! What hopes must it raise in a young
creature who, in the midst of sordid elements, had pined for a life of
elegance! A sunbeam had fallen into the prison. Augustine was suddenly
in love. So many of her feelings were soothed that she succumbed
without reflection. At eighteen does not love hold a prism between the
world and the eyes of a young girl? She was incapable of suspecting
the hard facts which result from the union of a loving woman with a
man of imagination, and she believed herself called to make him happy,
not seeing any disparity between herself and him. To her the future
would be as the present. When, next day, her father and mother
returned from the Salon, their dejected faces proclaimed some
disappointment. In the first place, the painter had removed the two
pictures; and then Madame Guillaume had lost her cashmere shawl.
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