discouragement overwhelmed her, as she thought of the impossibility of
happiness to which a deplorable fatality condemned her. Marriage and
love struggled for existence, both powerless to conquer, and qualified
only to cause each other's death. Marriage made love a crime; love made
marriage a torture. She could only choose between two abysses: shame in
her love, despair in her virtue.

The hours passed rapidly in these sad and gloomy meditations; the clock
marked the hour of midnight. Madame de Bergenheim thought it time to try
to sleep; but, instead of ringing for her maid, she decided to go to the
library herself and get a book, thinking that perhaps it might aid her in
going to sleep. As she opened the door leading into the closet adjoining
her parlor, she saw by the light of the candle which she held in her hand
something which shone like a precious stone lying upon the floor. At
first she thought it might be one of her rings, but as she stooped to
pick it up she saw her error. It was a ruby pin mounted in enamelled
gold. She recognized it, at the very first glance, as belonging to M. de
Gerfaut.

She picked up the pin and returned to the parlor. She exhausted in
imagination a thousand conjectures in order to explain the presence of
this object in such a place. Octave must have entered it or he could not
have left this sign of his presence; it meant that he could enter her
room at his will; what he had done once, he could certainly do again!
The terror which this thought gave her dissipated like a dash of cold
water all her former intoxicating thoughts; for, like the majority of
women, she had more courage in theory than in action. A moment before,
she had invoked Octave's image and seated it lovingly by her side.

When she believed this realization possible, all she thought of was to