She quivered more than
once as she arranged the folds of the green damask above the bed, and
studied the fall of the drapery which concealed it. Such preparations
have a secret, ineffable happiness about them; they cause so many
delightful emotions that a woman as she makes them forgets her doubts;
and Mademoiselle de Verneuil forgot hers. There is in truth a
religious sentiment in the multiplicity of cares taken for one beloved
who is not there to see them and reward them, but who will reward them
later with the approving smile these tender preparations (always so
fully understood) obtain. Women, as they make them, love in advance;
and there are few indeed who would not say to themselves, as
Mademoiselle de Verneuil now thought: "To-night I shall be happy!"
That soft hope lies in every fold of silk or muslin; insensibly, the
harmony the woman makes about her gives an atmosphere of love in which
she breathes; to her these things are beings, witnesses; she has made
them the sharers of her coming joy. Every movement, every thought
brings that joy within her grasp. But presently she expects no longer,
she hopes no more, she questions silence; the slightest sound is to
her an omen; doubt hooks its claws once more into her heart; she
burns, she trembles, she is grasped by a thought which holds her like
a physical force; she alternates from triumph to agony, and without
the hope of coming happiness she could not endure the torture.
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