She was busy with these thoughts all night; and on the morrow, as she opened the shutters, she instinctively cast her first glance across the street towards Monsieur Peirotte's house, and smiled as she contemplated the broad damask curtains hanging in the windows.
Felicite's hopes, in becoming modified, had grown yet more intense.

Like all women, she did not object to a tinge of mystery.

The secret object that her husband was pursuing excited her far more than the Legitimist intrigues of Monsieur de Carnavant had ever done.

She abandoned, without much regret, the calculations she had based on the marquis's success now that her husband declared he would be able to make large profits by other means.

She displayed, moreover, remarkable prudence and discretion.
In reality, she was still tortured by anxious curiosity; she studied Pierre's slightest actions, endeavouring to discover their meaning.
What if by chance he were following the wrong track?
What if Eugene were dragging them in his train into some break-neck pit, whence they would emerge yet more hungry and impoverished?
However, faith was dawning on her.