Blanchet started; the cart, having no springs, did in fact shake its occupants in a fashion well calculated to rouse their wits. Violette submitted to the jolting, and said nothing; she seemed indifferent to all that went on about her; she understood but one thing, and that was that she ought not to live any longer, because she would be despised by everybody; she was unhappy enough when she went to Nogent in the morning; now she was desperate, and she came away from there with death in her heart; she had hoped to find consolation and protection there, but she had found shame and contempt; she had been turned away, and she did not feel that she had the strength to endure that last affront.
The peasant who had taken the girl into his wagon did not notice her gloomy despair; as he talked all the time, as he asked questions and answered them all himself, other persons did not need to open their mouths with him; his mouth was a word-mill, which was always at work. Thus they arrived at the Barrière de la Courtille, where the peasant stopped Blanchet, and said to the girl:
"My child, this is where I stop; I can't take you any further. But here you are in Paris, and the best part of it is that the rain has stopped; indeed I believe that the weather is going to be fine again; it wouldn't surprise me. I will help you down, for you must have limbered up by now, haven't you? My wagon always produces that effect. Come, lean on me--that's the way! You see, there's Faubourg du Temple in front of you, and the boulevard's at the end of it. That's the way you want to go; all right, good luck; but you'd better dry yourself as soon as you get home."
The peasant left the young girl and entered a wine shop. Violette had not even found a word of thanks to say to the good-natured man; she was in the street, she looked at the barrier, passed her hand over her forehead as if to collect her thoughts, then entered Paris, saying to herself:
"I know where I am, the canal is over yonder!"
Violette was no longer weeping, her eyes were dry. She walked rapidly through the faubourg, and when she reached the canal, instead of crossing the bridge, she turned to the left and walked for some time along the bank. It was ten o'clock at night, and there were few people on the path that she followed. A fatal idea had taken possession of the girl's mind--she was determined to die; she thought that she was dishonored because the man whose assistance she had implored had turned her out of his house. She said to herself that Georget could never love her again now, and she was resolved to rid herself of an existence which would henceforth be nothing but torture to her.