But then, she further reflected, breakfasting at an
hotel might probably cost a great deal of money, and she had
so little money to spare; so that on the whole it might be
better to see what she could find in a shop, and she walked
quickly up the village street. Chaudfontaine contains none of
the luxuries, and as few as possible of the necessaries of
life, which are for the most part supplied from Liege; but
sour bread is not unknown there, and Madelon having procured a
great, dark tough hunch for her sous, turned back towards the
hotel. She stood outside the iron railing, eating her bread,
and watching what was going on inside; the stir and small
bustle had a positive fascination for her, after her months of
seclusion in the convent. It brought back her old life with
the strangest vividness, joining on the present with the past
which had been so happy; it was as if she had been suddenly
brought back into air and light after long years of darkness
and silence. Through the open door of the hotel she could see
the shadowy green of the garden beyond. Was the swing in which
she had so often sat for hours still there? The windows of the
salon were open too, and there were the old pictures on the
wall, the piano just where it used to stand, and a short,
stout figure, in skirt and camisole, moving about, who might
be Mademoiselle Cecile herself.
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