Tears overcame her, as she sat
down like Marius on the ruins of her imagination. But on the day when
she subpoenaed God for the third time she firmly believed that the
Elect of her dreams was within the church, hiding, perhaps out of
delicacy, behind one of the pillars, round all of which she dragged
Madame Latournelle on a tour of inspection. After this failure, she
deposed the Deity from omnipotence. Many were her conversations with
the imaginary lover, for whom she invented questions and answers,
bestowing upon him a great deal of wit and intelligence.
The high ambitions of her heart hidden within these romances were the
real explanation of the prudent conduct which the good people who
watched over Modeste so much admired; they might have brought her any
number of young Althors or Vilquins, and she would never have stooped
to such clowns. She wanted, purely and simply, a man of genius,
--talent she cared little for; just as a lawyer is of no account to a
girl who aims for an ambassador. Her only desire for wealth was to
cast it at the feet of her idol. Indeed, the golden background of
these visions was far less rich than the treasury of her own heart,
filled with womanly delicacy; for its dominant desire was to make some
Tasso, some Milton, a Jean-Jacques Rousseau, a Murat, a Christopher
Columbus happy.
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