At the end of an intimacy of three months Isabel felt she knew her
better; her character had revealed itself, and the admirable woman had
also at last redeemed her promise of relating her history from her own
point of view-a consummation the more desirable as Isabel had
already heard it related from the point of view of others. This
history was so sad a one (in so far as it concerned the late M. Merle,
a positive adventurer, she might say, though originally so
plausible, who had taken advantage, years before, of her youth and
of an inexperience in which doubtless those who knew her only now
would find it difficult to believe); it abounded so in startling and
lamentable incidents that her companion wondered a person so
eprouvee could have kept so much of her freshness, her interest in
life. Into this freshness of Madame Merle's she obtained a
considerable insight; she seemed to see it as professional, as
slightly mechanical, carried about in its case like the fiddle of
the virtuoso, or blanketed and bridled like the "favourite" of the
jockey. She liked her as much as ever, but there was a corner of the
curtain that never was lifted; it was as if she had remained after all
something of a public performer, condemned to emerge only in character
and in costume.
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