How has my imagination deceived me! said she; what a picture did it draw of the goodness of the world! And must I then believe that every body is cruel and deceitful? No--let me still be deceived, and still suffer, rather than be condemned to a state of such wretched suspicion. She now endeavoured to extenuate the conduct of Madame La Motte, by attributing it to a fear of her husband. She dares not oppose his will, said she, else she would warn me of my danger, and assist me to escape from it. No--I will never believe her capable of conspiring my ruin; terror alone keeps her silent.
Adeline was somewhat comforted by this thought. The benevolence of her heart taught her, in this instance to sophisticate. She perceived not, that by ascribing the conduct of Madame La Motte to terror, she only softened the degree of her guilt, imputing it to a motive less depraved but not less selfish. She remained in her chamber till summoned to dinner, when, drying her tears, she descended with faltering steps and a palpitating heart to the parlour. When she saw La Motte, in spite of all her efforts she trembled and grew pale; she could not behold even with apparent indifference the man who she knew had destined her to destruction. He observed her emotion, and inquiring if she was ill, she saw the danger to which her agitation exposed her. Fearful lest La Motte should suspect its true cause, she rallied all her spirits, and with a look of complacency answered she was well.
During dinner she preserved a degree of composure that effectually concealed the varied anguish of her heart. When she looked at La Motte, terror and indignation were her predominant feelings; but when she regarded Madame La Motte, it was otherwise: gratitude for her former tenderness had long been confirmed into affection, and her heart now swelled with the bitterness of grief and disappointment. Madame La Motte appeared depressed and said little. La Motte seemed anxious to prevent thought, by assuming a fictitious and unnatural gaiety: he laughed and talked, and threw off frequent bumpers of wine: it was the mirth of desperation. Madame became alarmed, and would have restrained him; but he persisted in his libations to Bacchus till reflection seemed to be almost overcome.