This edition of the Arabian Nights in a single copy lasted nearly a
year, and taught Modeste the sense of satiety through thought. She
held her life too often in her hand, she said to herself
philosophically and with too real a bitterness, too seriously, and too
often, "Well, what is it, after all?" not to have plunged to her waist
in the deep disgust which all men of genius feel when they try to
complete by intense toil the work to which they have devoted
themselves. Her youth and her rich nature alone kept Modeste at this
period of her life from seeking to enter a cloister. But this sense of
satiety cast her, saturated as she still was with Catholic
spirituality, into the love of Good, the infinite of heaven. She
conceived of charity, service to others, as the true occupation of
life; but she cowered in the gloomy dreariness of finding in it no
food for the fancy that lay crouching in her heart like an insect at
the bottom of a calyx. Meanwhile she sat tranquilly sewing garments
for the children of the poor, and listening abstractedly to the
grumblings of Monsieur Latournelle when Dumay held the thirteenth card
or drew out his last trump.
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