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PARTITION AND ADSORPTION
OF ORGANIC CONTAMINANTS
IN ENVIRONMENTAL SYSTEMS
PARTITION AND ADSORPTION
OF ORGANIC CONTAMINANTS
IN ENVIRONMENTAL SYSTEMS
Cary T. Chiou
Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: While the publisher and author have used their best
efforts in preparing this book, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the
accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied
warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. No warranty may be created
or extended by sales representatives or written sales materials. The advice and strategies
contained herein may not be suitable for your situation. You should consult with a professional
where appropriate. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any
other commercial damages, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or
other damages.
For general information on our other products and services please contact our Customer Care
Department within the U.S. at 877-762-2974, outside the U.S. at 317-572-3993 or fax 317-572-
4002.
Wiley also publishes its books in a variety of electronic formats. Some content that appears in
print, however, may not be available in electronic format.
ISBN 0-471-23325-0
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
Preface ix
Bibliography 235
Index 249
PREFACE
The concern for the presence of a wide variety of contaminants in the envi-
ronment calls for development and assemblage of information about their
behavioral characteristics so that appropriate strategies can be adopted to
either prevent or minimize their adverse impacts on human welfare and
natural resources. This information is especially warranted for toxic chemicals
that persist for extended periods of time in the environment. When chemicals
enter the environment, they are usually not confined to a specific location but
rather are in dynamic motion either within a medium or across the adjacent
media. The propensity for a contaminant to move into and distribute itself
between the media (or phases) is determined by its physical and chemical
properties and environmental factors and variables. The quantity of a con-
taminant in a given medium and the state of its existence affect its environ-
mental impact. It is therefore important to understand what drives a
contaminant from one medium to another and the manner and extent that a
contaminant associates with the different media or phases within a local envi-
ronmental system.
This book is essentially a monograph that depicts the processes by which
nonionic organic contaminants are sorbed to natural biotic and abiotic sub-
stances. The book focuses on physical principles and system parameters that
affect the contaminant uptake by soil from water, air, and other media, by fish
from water, and by plants from soil and water. Since contaminant uptake by
natural organic substances is often predominantly by a partition interaction,
the partition characteristics in several solvent–water model mixtures are
treated in some detail to elucidate the relevant physicochemical parameters.
When addressing these subjects, the author has relied heavily on the views
drawn from his published studies and on those derived from other supporting
literature sources. At the risk of appearing immodest, the author has made
no attempt to give equal weight to all views on the subject, preferring instead
to present a coherent point of view that accounts for many observed
contaminant-uptake phenomena. This book is intended to be a good starting
point for beginning researchers in the field who might otherwise have diffi-
culties in making sense of the often conflicting and confusing literature.
The book is written primarily for graduate students and beginning profes-
sionals in environmental science and engineering in the hope that it will facil-
itate their research on contaminant sorption to soils and biotic species. Senior
scientists may also find the discussion on certain aspects of the sorption
ix
x PREFACE
1 Important Thermodynamic
Properties
1.1 INTRODUCTION
DE = q - w (1.1)
where q is here taken as positive for heat absorbed by the system and w as
positive for work done by the system. The first law also implies that E is a state
function: that its magnitude is solely dependent on its state variables (e.g., tem-
perature, pressure, and volume). For any series of processes that end with a
return to the original state variables, DE = 0.
For a constant-pressure system involving only the work of expansion and
contraction (i.e., no electrical work), w equals P DV, where P is the (constant)
pressure and DV is the (finite) change in volume. In this case, the change in E
is therefore
DE = q - P DV (1.2)
SECOND LAW OF THERMODYNAMICS 3
H = E + PV (1.3)
DH = DE + P DV (1.4)
The enthalpy is therefore a useful state function for describing the heat
exchange at constant pressure.
dE = T dS - P dV (1.8)
(dS)E, V ≥ 0 (1.9)
that is, the overall entropy change of the system is zero for an equilibrium
process but increases for a spontaneous process. The fact that (dS)E,V can never
be less than zero is a consequence of the second law.
Chemical processes of most interest usually take place at constant temper-
ature and pressure. A new criterion is therefore required to indicate whether
a process is reversible or spontaneous under this condition. If we now allow
a process to take place initially in an isolated system and then adjust the tem-
perature by reversible absorption (or emission) of heat and adjust the pres-
sure by reversible expansion (or contraction) at constant temperature, the
entropy change from the adjustment will be dq/T = (dE + P dV)/T. The change
in entropy of the system, which is no longer an isolated system, after this
adjustment will be
G = E + PV - TS = H - TS (1.12)
(dG)T, P = dE + P dV - T dS (1.13)
(dG)T, P £ 0 (1.14)
SECOND LAW OF THERMODYNAMICS 5
becomes the criterion for any infinitesimal process within a closed system (i.e.,
where no mass transfer occurs across the system boundary) to take place at
equilibrium [i.e., (dG)T,P = 0] or spontaneously [i.e., (dG)T,P < 0] at constant
temperature and pressure. For a single-component system, dG is a function of
temperature and pressure (or volume). For a complex mixture, dG depends
also on the composition, as will be seen.
If a phase transition (e.g., from liquid to vapor) takes place in a closed
single-component system at constant T and P, the transition can thus be
carried out at equilibrium with any phase-mass ratio as long as both phases
coexist in finite amounts. In this case, dG/dl, or DG, is equal to 0, where DG
corresponds to a finite phase transition and l is the progress variable. In a
closed multicomponent system where a chemical reaction takes place or a
component distributes between phases at fixed T and P, usually only one com-
position can satisfy the condition for equilibrium (i.e., dG/dl = DG = 0).
For simple systems without mass and composition changes, one can thus
write
dE = T dS - P dV (1.8)
and
dG = T dS - P dV + P dV + V dP - T dS - S dT
or
dG = V dP - S dT (1.15)
DG = DH - T DS (1.16)
heat absorbed by the system to evaporate the liquid (i.e., DH > 0) increases
virtually linearly with the mass of liquid evaporated, whereas the rate of
increase in system entropy (i.e., DS > 0) is relatively large at first but decreases
as the vapor density increases. Here the unfavorable endothermic heat of
evaporation is outbalanced by the more favorable entropy increase until the
system reaches equilibrium, at which point DH = T DS and DG = 0. Conversely,
when a vapor is adsorbing onto a previously evacuated surface, the exother-
mic heat of adsorption (i.e., DH < 0) is relatively large initially but decreases
rapidly when more vapor is adsorbed (because the adsorption sites are usually
energetically heterogeneous, as discussed in Chapter 4). The system entropy
decreases (i.e., DS < 0) in a similar fashion but at a different rate. Thus the
system reaches equilibrium at some point, where DH = T DS and DG = 0. In
this case, the unfavorable entropy loss is outbalanced by the more favorable
decrease in enthalpy before the system reaches equilibrium.
Intensive properties are those whose magnitudes are not a function of their
sizes or masses. Examples are T, P, r (density), and the partial molar quanti-
ties of the extensive properties.
For any extensive property Y at constant T and P in a multiple-component
system, the differential change of the property is thus
or
two phases. For a system involving a change in the quantity of its components,
due, for example, to chemical reactions or transfer of mass to and out of the
system, the previous differential equations are adjusted to take into account
the changes in the moles (n1, n2, n3, etc.) of individual components. By extend-
ing Eqs. (1.8) and (1.15), one now obtains
and
dE = T dS - P dV + Â m i dni (1.21)
and
dG = V dP - S dT + Â m i dni (1.22)
XXX
XXXI
Odette was at home one evening, and alone. Stretched out upon
a lounge, she was gazing at the photographs of Jean on little tables
or within her reach upon the walls, hypnotizing herself with the sight
of them, kissing them as she always did.
Amelia came in saying that the next apartment was "crammed
full."
"Madame, if there aren't twenty men six feet high in that room, my
own poor husband isn't a prisoner with the Boches!"
In fact there was a great commotion on the other side of the
partition. Furniture and chairs were being moved about, and as all
sounds penetrated through the cracks of the door, the syllables of an
unfamiliar language could be heard, perhaps Rumanian or Russian.
The neighbor was a foreigner.
Suddenly there was silence. Amelia had withdrawn. It was an
imposed, perhaps a concerted, silence. "It is a musical recital," said
Odette to herself. In fact she almost immediately recognized the
sprightly touch of the pianist, mellow, languishing, melting into the
keyboard as into a tender flesh, by turns nervous, light, cruel as a
hammer, heavy as a pile-driver, seeming to crush the instrument,
then suddenly soft, fluttering on the keys like the wing of a dying bird.
Though the woman often played for herself alone, this was not the
first time that many people had gathered around her to hear her
music.
A chorus of men's voices burst forth. It was strange, weird,
enough to make one catch one's breath. Odette listened. That
sensitiveness to music which often reached depths in her unknown
to herself, was suddenly wrought up to its utmost pitch. She did not
know the chorus, and sought in vain for an author to whom to
ascribe it. It might be a popular song, perhaps very ancient, to judge
by its artless simplicity, its pure rhythm, and its wild, sweet accent. At
times a soprano voice uprose in a solo, and the chorus, a third
below, responded softly in whisperings that grew nearer and nearer,
quickly spreading like oil upon the sea, or as if transmitted from man
to man over immense plains and endlessly flowing rivers. Suddenly
two or three raucous or strident cries gathered up all the voices to a
sharp point directed toward the heavens. Then all sound ceased,
and one felt as if falling from a superb altitude into the depths of an
abyss.
Then the fingers of the enchantress executed a ballad of
Balakireff, or Dvorak's hymn, "On the Death of a Hero." And then,
after a pause, another chorus broke forth.
There was in it all a melancholy which no words could so much as
suggest, in which amid the uniformly plaintive murmur one discerned
such lifelike wailings that one could have stretched out the hands to
succor these vague, unrecognized, and multiplied sufferings. They
swelled, spread abroad, took on so mighty an extension that in spite
of oneself one saw the surface of the suffering world, heard the
feeble and resigned voice of man, of man always the sport of fate,
always in leading-strings, always sacrificed like cattle to gods whose
secret he could not fathom. It was the lament of the ancient earth of
humanity, timid, uncouth, and despairing, issuing from bruised
hearts, from torn flesh, from souls robbed of their innocent ideals, a
disturbing lament issuing from the borders of marshes, from forests,
from glacial plains, from desert steppes, from nameless villages,
prisons, palaces, battlefields, tombs, and stoically, pathetically, and
yet childishly addressed to—no one!
Odette had often been on the verge of sentiments corresponding
to this music, primitive, barbarous, perhaps divine, but when music
comes to be mingled with our sentiments it reveals them to
themselves and amplifies them without measure. Odette saw what
she had never dared to see; for the first time she was transported
outside of herself, or at least she felt the conviction that she was. It
produced in her such an overturning of her points of view as almost
to make her dizzy. She suddenly discovered how completely she had
considered everything with reference to herself, even in her
seemingly most generous moments. At this instant she thought of
herself in relation to the incalculable number of persons who were
not she. It was not that the moans of humanity were now reaching
her for the first time, but it was the first time that the sobs of others
came to her ears with a tone of majestic sadness which forced her to
grovel upon the earth, saying: "I no longer count; I am only the
servant of grief."
It was a painful sentiment if there is one, and yet, by a curious
contradiction, a sentiment in the same degree joyful. A boundless
commiseration caused her heart to throb and tears to come to her
eyes, and yet this painful sympathy, far from being cruel or
depressing, wrought in her soul an unsuspected outflowering, like an
outburst of inconceivable elation in which was mingled bitterness
and pity.
There is no compensation for the personal suffering that we may
experience. On the contrary, in a close and complete union with the
sufferings of others is hidden a joy of mutual pain; an active desire to
give aid impels to the beginning of a helpful act, provokes to so
fervent a prayer for heavenly mercy that the heart no longer knows
whether it lies prone in utter distress or has attained to a radiant
phase of existence incomparably higher than its paltry estate as an
isolated being. The word "love" presents itself to a soul thus
irradiated without any sustaining form which might limit its character;
it is without extent as without form; as to the source that feeds it,
springing up no one knows where, one is convinced that there is no
fear that it will ever be exhausted.
Odette often wept, but to-day it was with other tears. She took up
one of Jean's photographs and found but one word to say to it:
"Forgive me!"
She understood neither what she felt nor what she was doing, but
she was conscious of failing Jean. Not of failing Jean in favor of
another, but for the sake of a multitude of others among whom no
one man could be discerned. When she was able to formulate a
thought, she said to herself: "I was pitying." She might have said:
"Charity has taken possession of me."
XXXII
There was no sign that any event had occurred that evening.
Odette had spent it alone in her little drawing-room. The chorus in
the next apartment was stilled. But that evening was made up of the
most important hours which the young wife had experienced since
the death of her husband.
Odette was aware that something had been revealed within
herself, but she was ill adapted to analyze herself, and the
phenomenon was still wrapped in mist. It had manifested its reality
only by a single act of hers—an act which she remembered, which
abode with her: the prayer for forgiveness addressed to the picture
of her beloved Jean. She returned continually to this material fact;
she had seized the photograph and had kissed it as if she had been
at fault. Thanks to this fact, the spiritual operations of which it was
the conclusion were not arrested, did not vanish like smoke, and
pursued her that night, on the morrow, and during the following days.
So sudden a burst of light might indeed have been ephemeral in
character. We are all subject, especially under an exterior influence
acting upon the senses, to similar spasms of enthusiasm, or to
dreams of a like generosity which may be only a passing impulse.
They die away and we return to a condition which we call
reasonable, that is to say, lucid, calm, well-balanced, and tame.
With Odette this illumination had not the character of a sudden
impulse, but was rather the outcome of a long and almost
unconscious preparation. How many words, how many tidings, how
many hints registered in her memory, how many puzzling
suggestions, how many dramatic scenes, how many ideas had been
as so many arrows of direction, guiding her toward the place where
she had received the divine spark! How many books read, how many
musings, apparently without result, had determined the direction that
had brought her here! Odette was like a clay which during two and a
half years had been continually receiving the touches of a thumb or
chisel, powerless to give her the form which an invisible artist
desired her to take, and the last touch, removing an encumbering bit,
had produced precisely the shape desired.
Odette awoke next morning in the same condition in which she
had fallen asleep, with the one difference that she no longer wept.
But the tears of the evening had had their sweetness. She found
herself in an almost grateful tranquillity. She went and came in the
midst of Jean's photographs, and Jean did not reproach her for her
new state of mind. His memory seemed to be in nowise outraged.
And yet Odette did not forget that she had begged his forgiveness,
as if it had been possible that she had failed him. This fact marked a
well-determined date in the perturbations of her soul. But it seemed
to her that she had received to her "Forgive me!" a gentle, calming
reply, a loving approbation.
XXXIII
Yet the moment came when it seemed to her that she was losing
her reason. She had seen many cases of cerebral disturbance since
the war; they had been more or less apparent. Some persons of her
acquaintance had been duly shut up in insane asylums, but there
were many at large who showed the almost imperceptible wound by
which the microbe had penetrated.
By way of discovering whether or no she was mentally affected,
she imposed upon herself the test of behaving for a while like a
woman who has decided to lead the usual life until the end. She said
to herself: "I am not insane, for I think it requires more courage to
adopt, every day and every hour, the attitude of ordinary life, as if the
war did not exist—seeing that the majority of people who act thus
have been crushed or tortured by it—than to give oneself up to the
monster bound hand and foot. I am the less strong in not being able
to endure the commingling of both interests and throwing myself into
these horrors. I should be senseless if I deemed my own actions
alone to be good, beautiful, and worthy. But I am judging myself. I
am therefore not demented."
Out of curiosity she went one day to see Clotilde, still by way of
test. "To measure myself," she said to herself.
Clotilde's undue self-satisfaction made her friends really
uncomfortable, a discomfort which from the first they had sought to
hide or refused to recognize, which until now such a friend as Odette
had even refused to admit, but which to-day she could not endure.
Clotilde, surrounded by flowers, bathed in a perfumed atmosphere,
talked only of a change she had made in the decoration of her
rooms, of her clothes, or of matters so utterly foreign to current
events that it seemed as if for her the latter had no existence. She
never went out, lest she should be obliged to see or hear
disagreeable things, and yet never had she bought so many hats
and gowns as since the war. On her earlier visits Odette had slightly
shrugged her shoulders as if amused and not wholly displeased. By
degrees, the disproportion between such interests and the wound
with which the whole world was bleeding overmastered her ability to
make allowances.
Odette reminded her friend that she had not of late called upon
her for help, and asked if she had lost her blind man. Clotilde was
amazingly frank in her reply:
"My darling, 'my blind man,' as you call him, continues to exist and
to charm my husband. But what would you have? It is not that I am
lost to all sense of humanity, but you can imagine how the presence
of this man annoys me. He cannot see me, I am nothing to him, and
it is necessary for me to please——"
"But one may please even those who don't see us. One can try to
amuse these unfortunates, to make time pass pleasantly for them
——"
"You speak as if you possessed some gift in which I am lacking. It
is only that you like them, and know how to please them——"
"Oh!"
"You succeed in pleasing them! This man who visits us, with
whom you took lunch, is always asking for you. He never so much as
speaks of me. And yet it is I who permit him to come!"
"A man who cannot see you in your place at the head of the table,
and to whom you never give any proof that you are there, may
naturally forget you."
"You find it all right because he doesn't forget you. He dotes upon
you, by what George says; he asks for news of you, he longs to hear
your voice! He annoys me. In fact, child, it was precisely on your
account, I admit, that I was obliged to turn him away; he was falling
in love with you. Can you imagine it? You ought to thank me!"
"In love with me! If that were true I should be all the more sorry for
him, poor man! But he must have heard about me? He knows that I
am not to be had?"
"He hasn't gone as far as that; he only feels happy in your
company. When you are not there he misses you. That is all."
"Well, where is the love in that? He is like the wounded men
whom I have nursed; they were happy in my company; when I went
away, I suppose they missed me. If I had concluded from that that
they were in love with me——"
"You didn't conclude it, on your part, but as for them, what do you
know? Perhaps you broke their hearts!"
"You are romantic and think only of love! Men who have suffered
as they have, prefer to think of their own comfort, and of those who
make them comfortable. I knew a nurse seventy years old for whom
her patients clamored like children. Were they in love with her?"
"That proves nothing. A blind man feels very clearly whether the
woman near him is one who charms."
"Then he ought also to feel the compassion that he inspires, and
that does not lead to love."
"Are you uncomfortable in the presence of a blind man?"
"It is an undefinable emotion; my head turns. I lose my self-
command."
"You didn't seem to, here."
"One does almost involuntarily the thing that costs the most, if one
is determined to comfort those whose misfortunes arouse your
emotions."
And they talked of other things.
XXXIV
Odette would no doubt have forgotten "her" blind man if a visit
which Mme. de Blauve paid her had not recalled him to mind in the
most unexpected manner.
Mme. de Blauve, whose calmness had always impressed every
one, from the time when she was living under the bombardment of
Rheims through the days in which she had made the sacrifice of her
husband, her two sons, and, one may say, her daughter, now
appeared unnerved. She had grown thin; her eyes were sunken; she
was evidently suffering.
With her habitual resolution she opened to Odette the purpose of
her visit. She had heard—it was rumored—that her dear friend,
having amply and worthily overpassed the period of her widowhood,
was purposing—not by inclination, but in order to accomplish a great
act of charity—to become the wife of a blinded officer. People were
talking about it. She herself had been extremely moved by the news,
and all the more because she feared that she had incurred a certain
responsibility in the matter, having probably been one of the first to
urge upon the young widow the duty of a second marriage.
Odette was amazed. What were people about? Never had she
had the slightest idea of such a thing. Startled at first, she went on,
almost laughing, to hear what Mme. de Blauve had to say.
"It is untrue, you say," said Mme. de Blauve; "but, my little friend,
experience has taught me that there is always a grain of truth at the
bottom of a wide-spread rumor. Whether good or bad, such plants do
not grow out of nothing."
Odette told her upon how slight a fact this rumor might possibly
have been based. She had lunched at Clotilde Avvogade's with a
blinded officer, and Clotilde insisted that she had pleased him.
"Nothing more would be needed!" said Mme. de Blauve, "and your
friend has probably told the story all around. It must be so, for I have
heard the name of the man, the institution where he has been re-
educated; I even know all about his circumstances; he is a widower
without fortune of any sort, and father of two little children about
whom he feels great anxiety."
"Well," said Odette, "for my part I knew nothing of these last
particulars, and this is surely a proof that my romance has not gone
very far."
Mme. de Blauve was lost in apologies. Nevertheless, she did not
go so far as to regret the step she had taken. If it proved to have no
reason in the present case, an analogous case might arise; she
knew Odette's susceptibility, the noble impulses of her soul, and it
was her duty to warn her against impressions and impulses——
"What!" interrupted Odette; "you, madame, whose daughter——"
"Yes, yes, precisely I, 'whose daughter'—It is because my
daughter has made a marriage—beautiful, surely, from the moral
point of view, but, after all, a marriage—how shall I say it—somewhat
daring, that I believe myself to be authorized to say to you: 'My very
dear child, be careful, reflect!' Understand me; I regret nothing that
has occurred; I congratulate myself on the happiness which my
daughter is assuring to a victim of the war, who is a hundred times
deserving of it. Let me tell you, by way of parenthesis, that my
daughter has hope of a child, and I trust that God will bring
everything out right, although——"
"Although," repeated Odette anxiously.
"Although—oh, the dear child is lacking neither in love nor in
admiration for her husband, who is a hero; but our poor human
nature has strange revulsions—I tell you, you alone, in confidence;
since my daughter has reason for hope of becoming a mother, she
feels—alas! it is frightful, let me whisper it to you—she feels a sort of
apprehension at the sight of her husband, whose terrible affliction
you know of!— We must, at all costs, prevent her husband having
the slightest suspicion of the—temporary—feeling that he inspires,
and the young wife is obliged to put the strongest restraint upon
herself in order to show nothing. Just how far this incessant
constraint is consistent with the happy maintenance of her condition,
and with hope for its normal outcome, who shall say? This is what
we are asking ourselves, this is our anxiety."
"Oh, dear, dear madame, how sorry I am for you!"
"You understand that I would not wish to have to be sorry for you,
in my turn, for a reason like this. It was to avoid it that I came here,
as much humiliated by my apprehensions as I was proud on the day
of the marriage. You have no plan of the sort, you tell me, my child?
So much the better! But I have become excessively apprehensive; I
am afraid of characters like yours, which may be inclined to do too
well. Sometimes a little pride enters into the good or the noble things
that we do. Do you understand?"
XXXV
Mme. de Blauve had taken her leave with these words, and
Odette, still breathless at the thought that there could be any
question of her marrying, a little ruffled, even, remembered only the
secret discomfiture confessed to by the mother of the poor little
bride. It was one more cause of horror added to all those of which
she was the daily witness. Her calamity had doubtless shaken Mme.
de Blauve's spirit to the point of causing in her mind a sort of
hallucination as to the fate which might be threatening the young
widow. Or else Mme. de Blauve had made the most of slight rumors
with no basis of truth, as a pretext for coming to confess her own
anxiety. Or else—a conjecture which barely touched Odette's mind—
Mme. de Blauve, as she had herself intimated, always erring through
pride, felt a frightful satisfaction in the dangers with which she and
her family were perpetually menaced, jealously guarding this bitter
eminence, lest it might be seized upon by others! For one can come
even to such a point.
What analogy could there be between the marriage of the little de
Blauve girl, an ignorant child, with one of the most horribly mutilated
of soldiers, and an imaginary marriage between her, Odette, who
was going on to her thirtieth year, with a blinded man who was not
disfigured? Young girls, women, were marrying blinded men every
day; many more of them would do so, one must hope! The case
might indeed be peculiarly delicate for her, a widow still in love with
her husband, and who was peculiarly sensitive to blindness; but if
the case ever occurred it was she alone who had the right to judge of
it. No one knew either the lasting nature of her grief or her personal
repugnances; the matter in no slightest degree deserved attention.
In fact, at the point that Odette had reached, she could imagine no
limit to devotion. In the marriages now in question, there was no
mention of anything that had formerly been called happiness; the
only thought was of kindliness toward most deserving beings who
were suffering under the greatest of misfortunes, and the greater
their misfortune, the greater, it appeared, ought to be the pleasure of
alleviating it. She did not approve of Mme. de Blauve, if it was she
who had urged her daughter to a marriage of charity, but she could
perfectly understand the daughter's having made such a marriage. If
a temporary check now and then occurred, it was due to a
pathological condition which would eventually cease. She recalled to
mind one of her friends, a perfectly well-balanced girl, married to a
very fine man whom she adored, who had taken a dislike to her
husband during the whole period of her pregnancy, without in the
least knowing why.
A few days later Odette received a letter from Mme. de Calouas,
still in Surville, alluding to the prospect of her marriage to a blinded
officer. So the utterly unfounded rumor had made its way to the
depths of Normandy! And Mme. de Calouas, who was wisdom itself,
and utterly removed from any suggestion that might have acted upon
Mme. de Blauve, wrote to her as Mme. de Blauve had spoken: "Yes,
dear friend, marry; I have never concealed from you that it is almost
your duty. But beware of an excess of zeal! Take care not to
undertake more than a woman of your temperament, brought up as
you have been, attached to a beloved memory as you still are, will
be able to endure. Remember that many of us can be heroic for a
few seconds, a few hours, a few days, but that is very different from
a whole lifetime."
Odette smiled, not only at the thought of what people were
thinking of her, but at the solicitude which they expressed for her,
and that sort of obsession for heroic acts which every one seemed to
cherish. Odette had not the slightest intention of performing a heroic
act. Nothing in her character had ever inclined her in that direction.
Her heart was made for loving. She loved, she was sure that she
loved. The one whom she loved was her husband—her Jean. She
could ill analyze the character of the tenderness which at the same
time she felt for every suffering creature on earth. And that was all.
What would they have of her?
XXXVI
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