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Fabienne, with her pale cheeks, her large eyes with blue circles round them and her tight lips, looked like some captive princess who is tormented by constant ennui, and troubled by evil suggestions; who dreams of flight, and of escape from that prison where fate holds her captive.
Madame de Maurillac is in a lunatic asylum, and Fabienne has married the gardener. What could she have done better? Just at the time when the Concordat was in its most flourishing condition, a young man belonging to a wealthy and highly respected middle class family went to the office of the head of the police at P , and begged for his help and advice, which was immediately promised him.
But Fabienne de Maurillac developed well in spite of everything, and grew up into a woman like some rare flower which is preserved from all contact with the outer air and is reared in a hot-house.
There before her, in the shadow of the myrtle trees, Fabienne was sitting on the knees of a man of the gardener with both her arms round his neck and kissing him ardently, and as if to defy her, and to show her how vain all her precautions and her vigilance had been, the girl was telling her lover in the country dialect, and in a cooing and delightful voice, how she adored him and that she belonged to him....
And Fabienne talked with nobody but her, saw nobody but her, and was like a little novice in a convent. Nobody was allowed to speak to her, or to interfere with her walks in the large garden, or on the white terraces that were reflected in the blue water. As soon as the season for the country and the seaside came, however, they packed up their trunks, and locked the doors of their house of exile.
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