"I have had a letter from your husband, Madame,—from Albert. That was my reason for visiting your lawyer, just now when I met you. His solicitor at Grenoble, Maître Randon, tells him that you refuse every month to accept the allowance which he sends you regularly."
"That is so."
"He was astonished and asked me the reason for it, and begged me to insist or to make them prevail upon you to accept it in your own interests, and if you refuse for yourself, then in the interests of Marie Louise and Philippe, who are in your charge."
After giving this explanation with a severe authority due to embarrassment, he looked at the young woman whose confusion he noted; either coming from the cold air outside to the warm air of the room had caused the blood to mount to her cheeks, or else this flush was caused by the awkwardness she experienced in advance, knowing what her answer must be. Blushing, her eyes filled with tears, she regained her breath as if she were choking, and replied with great effort:
"My husband has wrecked his home himself. He has deprived us of his moral support. From now on, I have decided to dispense with his financial support.
"I will bring them up myself. Later, they can do as they like."
"It is the tenth month. The lawyer has already received ten thousand francs in your name. He does not wish to keep it."
"Let him send it back to M. Derize."
"Albert will not take it back. You know him well. He has pride ... like you."
With a gesture of indifference, she indicated that she had nothing to do with the disposal of the money. However, Philippe Lagier's answer, that allusion to Albert's unselfish nature, was secretly pleasant to her. It put an end to the unpleasant memories which the presence of the lawyer would otherwise have awakened. He replied, with a little less assurance:
"May I ask you a question? Do you not need this allowance, which is legal and which you can—which you ought to receive?"
She explained her situation with simplicity. She had received a dowry of two hundred thousand francs, the interest of which would be sufficient for her. She did not add that her parents had not yet given her the last quarter of it, and that she found her income reduced to six thousand francs a year. Philippe really knew this, but only said:
"It is not the position you are accustomed to."
The apartment in which she was living was certainly neither like the one in the Rue Bara in Paris, nor that of the Molay-Norrois on the banks of the Isère.
"I shall get used to it," she said, smiling. "It is nothing. I have no need to wear the garb of a martyr."
The clothes she was wearing suited her so well, bringing out with such brilliance the beauty of her complexion, that he wanted to protest against this. He had lost the right to do so, and he therefore refrained.
"My children's education," she continued, "will suffer in no wise from this reduction. I have promised myself and I shall keep my word. See, I have already begun. I correct Marie Louise's exercises, and I am teaching her her lessons."
"You give yourself much trouble."
"It gives me something to do. One must be occupied with other people when one's own life no longer has a purpose."
She had risen. He believed that she was asking him to go. But she opened the drawer of a writing-table and came over to him to give him a packet, carefully folded, which he recognized.
"I asked you to come back with me so that I could give you M. Derize's note-books. I thank you for having given them to me. I have kept them a very long time, but you did not ask me for them."
He bowed without speaking.
"And here is the letter which had been sent to him and which I kept without the right to do so. You will return it to him."
Philippe, dumbfounded, refused the envelope she held out to him.
"This telegram belongs to you. It is your weapon. You cannot give up the possession of it."
"I have no further need of it."
"But, Madame...."
"I am giving up my petition for separation. Albert may do as he likes."
For the first time in this conversation she used her husband's Christian name. It was the only indication of her emotion.
"Ah!" murmured Philippe, who did not expect this new development. "Does Albert know?"
"I have just told my lawyer. His lawyer will tell him about it in turn."
"You will give me permission to tell it to him?"
"Certainly."
After that there was nothing left for him to do but to go. Standing in front of her he did not know how to show her his respect. In the course of this unlooked-for interview, he had constantly looked for an opportunity to ask her pardon. To the humiliation of his recollections was now added that of his inadequacy in a situation in which he most desired to use the resources of his mind. But there was another surprise in store for him. Elizabeth offered him her hand, and with a trembling voice, said:
"I also wished to tell you, Monsieur, that I have forgotten your last words at Uriage. Give me your hand. You had misjudged me; it was my fault. A woman alone has to be so careful. Remain Albert's friend, and be a little friendly to me, will you? We shall meet seldom. I only remember the truths I heard from you one day, which have made me understand one's own contribution to one's unhappiness.—"
Philippe, bending down, kissed the fingers which she gently drew away.
"Madame," he repeated. "Madame."
And when he could master his emotion, he said:
"I shall be worthy of your pardon. Ah, if you only knew how I have reproached myself! Now I feel so much younger, so much lighter. Ah, one's own contempt is hard to bear."
"Sh!" she said, her finger on her lips as a signal to him not to continue the subject, never to speak of it again.
He bowed.
"Good-by, Madame. You will never have a more devoted friend."
When he had left, Elizabeth took off her hat and her furs. Her cheeks were burning and her hands frozen. The children, who had been out walking with their governess on L'Ile Verte, were about to return home: she would resume her daily work with them which sometimes made her so tired. She sat down by the fire, leaning against the back of her chair motionless, in that position in which one seeks relaxation after intense fatigue. She felt a great need of rest—of not having to think of or do anything more. Darkness was coming on, but she did not light the lamp. Before her, through the window, she saw the snow of Belledonne on the trees, lit up by the rays of the setting sun, and delicately colored like early spring flowers. Kissed by the sun, the glaciers were melting, and yet, even from a distance in the clear evening light, their coldness was apparent. Despite so many praiseworthy efforts, which seemed to give power to her poor, deserted, young life, she felt the touch of death.
What courage she had used, in order to triumph little by little over her natural indolence, to accomplish so many decisions, even the generosity of which, once they were executed, could no longer sustain her! No reward, no hope would be given her. Far away from her, the one close to the other, Albert and his mistress were freely enjoying their love. However, they would know her greatness of soul, her pride, her new and difficult life. She would force them to remember. During that very day, had she not shown of what she was capable? Did Anne's biography, which had been kept with so much admiration, contain a finer page? This comparison with her rival in exciting her jealousy and poisoning her wound, had given her a little energy. Her children, who came in in the semi-darkness to kiss her, aroused her from her torpor. She thought that Albert's mother would approve of her, would thank her, and, in this unaccustomed activity which had demanded of her sluggish youth a display of strength, the use of which she now understood, she found, despite so many causes for despair, that wonderful peace in fatigue which healthful exercise gives to the body. And this new sensation came as a surprise and a relief to her.
Elizabeth had resolved after her return to Grenoble, not to be at home to visitors in her new house. But on the advice of her parents, to her great surprise sanctioned by her mother-in-law as well, she had decided to have a reception-day. In Paris, preferring her own acquaintances, she had taken little trouble to keep up connections useful or pleasant to her husband. Little by little Albert had left her free and had withdrawn from society. But now the sacredness of social life was impressed on her by the Molay-Norrois, and Mme. Derize begged her to avoid solitude.
"I am confident," she said, "that the future will brighten for you. But you must arrange a normal existence for yourself. It is not always a good thing to live with one's memories."
"But how about you?"
"Oh! I am quite old and the past suffices for me. Marie Louise and Philippe will have friends whose parents you will know. You have given me great happiness in renouncing your separation."
"Nobody knows of it as yet."
"Since you bear Albert's name it is right that the sympathy and esteem of the public should go to you. If God wills that some day you shall take up your life together ..."
"I shall never live with Albert again. He has caused me too much unhappiness...."
After the protest, she decided, not from personal conviction, but because of weakness and the need of distraction, to take the advice of Mme. Derize. One of her school friends, Blanche Servin, of whom she had lost track, had married an ordinary clerk, M. Vernier; and knowing that Elizabeth was unhappy, this friend plucked up courage to come to see her, which she would never have cared to do before, because of the difference in their positions. She turned out to be one of those women, who at first glance, seem very insignificant, and find time to devote to good work because they never think about themselves. Elizabeth was surprised at her tact, her radiant sweetness, the gentle gayety she displayed, despite all the difficulties and troubles she had known in raising a large family. What determination she had developed in so commonplace a lot! She promised to return her call, and to bring Marie Louise and Philippe with her.
Then, now and again, the friends of the Molay-Norrois appeared. Mme. Passerat, always active and in a hurry, came first, accompanied by the old Counselor Prémereux, an admirer over whom she held the whip-hand, since M. Molay-Norrois, the victim of an attack of gout, found himself obliged to stay in his room. With her effusive graciousness she looked about the place and ran to the window to enjoy the view.
"Trees, trees of every kind. And Belledonne on the horizon. It is wonderful! But how pretty you look, my dear! You are right always to get your clothes in Paris."
"It is a dress from last winter," explained Elizabeth, whose toilette contrasted with the shabby furniture. "I had it altered here."
Mme. Passerat burst out laughing.
"What an innocent child I One does not mention such things."
The young woman, determined to meet all advances coldly, was nevertheless obliged to recognize her visitor's charming ease of manner. But, having exhausted her ordinary subjects of conversation, in order to gain a confidence which was being withheld, she let Elizabeth understand, with a condescending air, that she knew all about the withdrawal of the petition. Certainly M. Tabourin's office kept no secrets from anyone.
"Yes," she added, "your settling here is only temporary. You are thinking of going back to Paris soon."
"I think not, Madame," answered Elizabeth, who drew herself to her full height at this intrusion into her private life.
"Yes, you will, you will. Your father will be delighted. He has such good judgment, your dear father, such great experience. Listen to me, my child, brilliant surroundings, the movement and glitter of a drawing-room are necessary for the duration of a passion. Men are so vain. Your husband has withdrawn from society. It is a foolish whim which will not last."
"You know better whether it can last, Madame. But you must allow me to be the best judge of my own case," said Elizabeth.
She was surprised at herself in giving utterance to this sentence of double meaning which concluded with a half threat. Mme. Passerat, disconcerted, hesitating at the allusion, was on her guard, and thought: "Still waters run deep."
Mmes. de Vimelle and Bonnard-Basson, intimate because of their husbands' business association, drove together to the out-of-the-way Rue Haxo. Not so fashionable as Mme. Passerat, and therefore given to petty provincial competition, they noticed with silent satisfaction, the condition of the house and the number of storeys. They had hardly entered, when, while conversing, they made an inventory of the furniture, and unpleasantly estimated the value of Elizabeth's dress, which bore the hallmark of its Parisian origin, and was set off in so modest a frame, a contrast which they considered in very bad taste. After the usual exchange of compliments, Mme. de Vimelle smirked, while her friend tried to regain her breath, which she had lost in coming up the stairs.
"We have heard about your new decision, Madame. It is quite right. You have defeated your adversary's plans."
"What plan? What decision?" asked Elizabeth, puzzled.
"Grenoble is a small town where one knows everything that is going on."
"Everything," said Mme. Bonnard-Basson promptly, to emphasize that she had nothing to hide.
"But what?"
"Well, your husband changed from separation to divorce in order to marry the corespondent. You cut the grass from under his feet by giving up your case."
"I had never thought of that."
And Elizabeth, indignant, asked herself by what right they penetrated so impertinently into the sorrows and doubts of her soul. And she let them know it, not without firmness. Mme. de Vimelle took it upon herself to reply:
"Heavens, Madame, a divorce is like a book or a crime—it belongs to the public."
After the ladies had gone, Elizabeth, who had made enemies of them, compared them to Blanche Vernier who was far from brilliant, and who had not mentioned her equivocal position, but had so spontaneously offered her a sincere, loyal, active friendship. From actual experience, day by day, she saw externalities crumble, and the truth which demands a cruel apprenticeship to be understood, appear.
She expected no one else. She had invited Mme. de Crozet, whose children were friends of Marie Louise and Philippe, but she had expressed her regrets in a short note, which was an evident refusal to have anything to do with a woman who was separated from her husband. That first insult was very painful to her. Did it forbade others?
It was already late when her mother came to see her. She had not consulted her about relinquishing her rights and felt remorseful. It was a very general case in family histories:—the wife, after her marriage, continues to remain under her parents' direction, and particularly under that of her mother, even when they do not seek to exert that influence. She asks their advice on every occasion. Then, one fine day, she asserts herself, paying no attention to the painful astonishment, which so radical a change cannot fail to provoke. Elizabeth, after her despair at Uriage, took a long time to release herself. Feeling she was not understood, and realizing that she had been ill-advised in the past, she had without consideration taken her freedom. Made self-centered by sorrow, as happens with weak natures, she did not notice the grief of other people. Mme. Molay-Norrois had suffered from her daughter's reserve, particularly painful to her, but had not been able to do anything but burden her with impolitic advice; so the gulf between them had widened day by day. They exchanged only a few insignificant words like feeble calls which cannot be heard across a ravine.
Elizabeth inquired for her father's health.
"He is bored in bed," explained her mother. "He is very impatient. I read to him. He needs so much distraction—he is so unaccustomed to suffering!"
What were they going to say, now that they had touched upon their only common interest? Mme. Molay-Norrois hesitated then, timidly ventured, looking down on the floor to lessen her seeming boldness.
"So you ... you are resigned ... as well?"
Quite taken aback by this last word which might have been accidental, referring without definite application to similar cases, and merely said to fill in the silence, Elizabeth looked at her mother attentively. At one glance, she noticed on the face, still youthful, patient and smiling, traces of suffering, which she would have been unable to see several months before. She had no doubts—she could have no doubts—as to her discovery.
"Mother," she sighed affectionately, throwing herself into her arms.
The two women remained for a long time in each other's embrace. Unhappiness restored their intimacy of former days, when one of them was only a little girl.
Without a word they understood each other. Daughterly modesty prevented Elizabeth, who remembered her bitterness at Uriage, from questioning her mother, and she asked herself how long must she have lived with this terrible secret. What strangers we are to one another! How little we can know of the deepest anguish of beings who are dearest to us, and how difficult it is to see and to understand! To perform a duty is easier than to know it, and no one directs or perfects in himself this delicate and complex art of knowledge. Mme. Molay-Norrois was the first to feel the necessity of an explanation.
"My dear, I am finding you again. I thought I had lost you." "Oh, Mother!"
"I did not understand why you were estranged from me. But I blamed myself."
"Blamed yourself?"
"Yes, when you came back to us from Paris ... after Albert's ... deception, I did not admit for a moment that your separation was not inevitable. I aroused you against him, instead of calming you. I still retained, at my age, so many illusions about happiness, about life! Now, I have no more, you understand. I had thought so little about those things. Forgive my mistake."
Elizabeth covered the poor weeping eyes with kisses. In a low voice she asked:
"Is it a long time ... since you found out?"
"The last day at Uriage. And you knew then?"
"Yes."
"You did not tell me—you went away from me.
"Not from you, Mother—from father. How could I have spoken?"
"You are right."
She hesitated a moment, then wished to defend herself, although she had not been accused.
"It is too late. After thirty-two years of marriage. On account of you and your brothers, for the sake of their careers, my hands are tied. What should I have done? I said nothing. He did not even notice it. He is somewhat selfish. Still I have suffered terribly. My ideals are shattered."
"Dear Mother, let us say no more. Lean on me. Let me soothe you, as if I were your mother."
"No. Listen. You must know about it. He is not entirely to blame. When he was in the army and his post was changed, I insisted that he resign. He had nothing to do, and was very attractive. I wanted to live—I did wrong. We are often responsible for the sorrows which crush us."
"Oh, you did not deserve that grief."
"Now he is ill and old age is coming on. It is sad to think, but old age and illness are working in my behalf.Shecomes less willingly. He prefers my care. That is something."
She tried unsuccessfully to smile. Elizabeth continued to hold her hands, not growing weary in observing on the poor, aging face, traces of distress, which seemed living reproaches to her. In spite of her affection, she had for some months misjudged her mother, who was giving her a lesson in endurance, silence, self-denial and resignation. But she did not wish to be resigned. When asked what she thought of doing, she answered:
"I do not know."
"You are still his wife. If he came back to you, would you receive him?"
"I do not think so."
"Well, what are you expecting?"
Elizabeth let her arms fall.
"I am not making any further plans. One day I hope, another, I rebel—or I lose hold of myself. I have not yet chosen my path."
"Dear little girl, there is only one for us. I see it quite clearly now. And I have turned you away from it."
"Oh, it's not you, Mother. But there is another course, that of a new life without any links with the past. I do not wish it. It is of no use to women like us."
"Well?"
"There must be a third."
"Which?"
"I am looking for it."
Elizabeth passed the winter in alternate states of energy and weakness. Her weakness was still the strength of other beings who were dependent upon her. Did she not have to amuse her father, to comfort her mother, to keep in check Marie Louise's rich and exuberant nature, and to develop that of Philippe, less active? All these cares occupied her, filled her days and prevented her from feeling her loneliness too much, but they did not satisfy, and sometimes crushed her. At night she went to bed in despair, giving herself up to sorrow more completely than ever to love, and on awakening, she again found that despair. A visit to Mme. Derize, who welcomed her affectionately, gave her valuable, practical advice and made her turn to God, restored her patience for a while. The old lady had found a way of speaking to her favorably of Albert: it was of Albert as a child that she told her all sorts of forgotten episodes, so as to give her a memory of him less bitter than that she had. Tormented one afternoon, as she was walking with Marie Louise, who constantly demanded stories, Elizabeth tried to repeat one of those childish tales, and was soon drawn, almost in spite of herself, to speak to the children of their father.
One day, as she was crossing the Place de la Constitution with her little girl, she suggested taking her into the museum:
"What is a museum?"
"You will see pictures which represent figures or landscapes."
"Oh, yes, let's go in."
In the first room, Marie Louise stood right in front of the dazzling portrait of Mlle. de Barral, whom Largillière has depicted laughing, in a magnificent red dress, as conspicuous as a sign post.
"Look at this beautiful lady, Mamma."
Elizabeth instantly recalled her own remarks to Albert, as he selected for her, in this same museum, the pictures which could mold her taste. She found the old man, by Fragonard, which was to be found beside the Largillière, and studied it attentively. She had no difficulty in interesting herself in this lined face, which sums up the whole life story of a hard-working peasant, a dreamer, and somewhat of a drunkard. How easy to understand these works of art, which one thinks are only admired by a select few! It was only necessary to compare them with reality, to consider them a more exact transposition in a better frame, of the too vast and complicated panorama of life. Albert's remarks, which she recalled, deepened her vision. She drew Marie Louise towards the old portrait.
"Leave that expressionless face. Look at this one. How much more it tells you! We had a neighbor at St. Martin who was like him. He was found drowned in a stream, one night, but nobody in church sang better than he did. He was not a bad man. He drank too much. He was well punished."
"Mamma," said the little girl, "I like it when you tell stories...."
Another time, resuming her piano study, which had been fairly far developed, but in rather a mechanical way, she took up Beethoven's sonata, so rightly namedThe Appassionata, and lived it so intensely that she forgot her sorrow, or rather, gave to it its pathetic interpretation. After the allegro, harassed, but lightened by the recurrence of a sadly ardent love motive, and the andante which lifts itself above human storms to perfect serenity, she began the third part, which is interrupted as if by despairing cries, when she heard Marie Louise, whose presence she had forgotten, weeping.
"What is the matter, dearest?"
"I don't know. Your playing is so sad."
"I should not have played that for you."
"Oh, yes; I love it when it is sad."
She had been able, then, to transmit her feeling, and to cultivate in her daughter that deep sensibility which the child inherited from her father, and which, developed, might become a source of noble joys and dignity to her. Albert, if he met her later, would be obliged to admit that, separated from him, his children had not deteriorated. That would be the revenge of the deserted woman.
In the spring, Elizabeth, who from time to time watched the book-store windows, saw a new book of her husband's advertised, the third volume of the "History of the Peasant." It was the first he had published since their separation. She had never desired so passionately to read a book. Fascinated, and yet not daring to buy a copy, she passed again and again. In Grenoble she was too well-known for this purchase not to be noticed and become the talk of the town. What was she to do? Her curiosity was so keen that it left her no peace. She discovered near her home in the Rue de Strasbourg, a little book-shop with a wretched window, where she certainly would not be known. At nightfall she slipped into the shop.
"Will you give me the last volume of the 'History of the Peasant' by Albert Derize, if you please?"
"Albert Derize? Don't know him."
She, who had said these syllables with an effort, was irritated to hear them despised. She went out without thanking him, and hastened to the principal book-shop of the town on the Place Victor-Hugo, where, without dissembling, she bought the volume she coveted. As she was hurrying along with her treasure, she met Counselor Prémereux, who, always gallant to the ladies, came up to her. After the usual polite platitudes, he pointed to the parcel.
"I wager it is a novel," he said.
"Yes, it is a novel."
"But, no, it is not the shape...."
She blushed, and finding no ready lie, changed the conversation. As soon as she could get away, she ran home to hide herself. She had never read anything so eagerly. Disturbed by the children's questions, she waited for the evening to devote herself entirely to it.
It was, like the previous volumes, a very scholarly book, but so well constructed that it sustained itself, as it were, and rose page by page like a great building; and moreover, it seemed vibrant with light and filled with experience like one of those old stories of the past, which time cannot kill. Elizabeth imagined that the warmth and light, by which Albert's personality usually manifested itself, were particularly evident in this last volume, and she sought them in her eagerness with a new sensitiveness. She bore a grudge against the despised source of inspiration, and in consequence, her distress was increased. Panting, oppressed, tortured by the reading, and yet unable to put the book down, she reached, in the middle of the night, the last part, which dealt with the customs of the Basque country, and quoted them as examples of the strongest consolidation of a race, through the maintenance of a rural home and the family spirit. The author gave his own observations on the power of inheritance, on the active force of tradition. Following Le Play and Cheysson, he took up the history of the Melouga family, and passing into Spain, he quoted other examples of respect for the land joined with respect for the head of the family. The book finished with a sort of hymn in honor of the race and the soil.
No doubt such a conclusion did not lack irony. By what right was he, who thus exalted the family and the home, and in so solemn, exact and eloquent a style, qualified to speak of them? He showed the importance of unity in the family, of fixed inheritance, indissolubility of marriage; and he himself, voluntarily out of society, had left his wife and children, and visited the Basque countries to gather this sheaf of reflections there, in the company of his mistress. For a reader who knew the circumstances, this must be amusing. So many who lead regular lives, it is true, write anarchistic books, that one must expect by contrast, to receive lessons in conventionality from those who live irregularly, whose weakness in private life touches only the heart or the senses without corrupting the mind. It is so easy, so tempting, so flattering, to convert one's passions into theories, to transform one's own misfortunes into public calamities, to generalize one's mistakes, that it required a clear-sighted point of view to distinguish the lack of solidity in his power of resistance to his own experience, and to understand that this implied a rare force of thought in him.
Elizabeth, when she closed the volume, had not grasped the irony of the contrast. But the realization that Albert had not changed in his social analyses and remained resolutely faithful to his first theories on the subject, which she now remembered having heard him outline, seemed to indicate to her that in place of a lost heart, a mental link still connected him with those whom he had deserted, and that she had not been betrayed as thoroughly as she thought.
At the end of May, Elizabeth left Grenoble to settle in the old house at Saint Martin. Her daughter, a little anæmic and nervous, needed a change of air, and the doctor advised the mountains. She asked her parents, not without a secret mental reservation, to accept her hospitality. M. Molay-Norrois refused her invitation.
"We will go to Uriage in the great heat, of course. But in the middle of winter!"
"The middle of winter, Father? It is spring, and to-morrow it will be summer."
"Well, you must not count on me."
As he appreciated the country only if he could enjoy city pleasures there, with a great deal of social intercourse, he would wait until the hotels of the little watering place were filled. After this refusal, Elizabeth begged Mme. Derize to accompany her.
"You," she said to her, "will be our hostess. I had made up my mind to accept nothing more from Albert, and the property of Saint-Martin belongs to him. Marie Louise's illness necessitates our going. When you are up there with me I shall have no such scruples."
"Why have them? Albert has only one hearth, yours. He owes you his assistance."
"I refuse it. Do you not understand?"
"No, a father has the care of his children. This separation causes me so much pain. As much as to you. He cannot realize it himself."
"Never speak to him of me."
"Of what should I speak to him, if not of his duty? Until my dying day, he will hear my complaint, if he persists in his wicked passion."
"And what does he answer you?"
"Never a word about this subject."
"You see, then!"
"We do not know his thoughts. Those who are proud do not willingly tell them, and his sin must increase his pride. When we are far from the truth, our spirit of rebellion naturally feeds on our wickedness. But comfort yourself, Elizabeth. When it is a question in my letters of you and your children I know how to spare your pride. I only want to ensure his recollection, his remorse."
"Oh, his remorse!"
"He is asleep, perhaps, but he will awaken. Each of us has his hour, and particularly when we add to the numerous sorrows of life those of our own creation."
She added, more sorrowfully:
"I feel old age coming on. Every day I ask God to grant me the joy of seeing you reconciled before I die."
And as if she were following for herself alone the thread of her own reflections:—
"That will bring them together, perhaps."
"What will, Mother?" asked Elizabeth. Mme. Derize looked at her, as if she had come back from afar, and said smilingly:
"Oh, nothing, my dear girl. One sometimes has strange ideas ..."
The life of these two women at Saint-Martin d'Uriage was quite simple and monotonous. The care of the children, some reading, walks, and a little music or long conversations in the evening filled their days, which began and ended early. Mme. Derize often walked along the plane avenue which led to the Chapel. As Elizabeth did not accompany her there, she chose, by preference, the time when the latter took Marie Louise and Philippe out walking in the open air, in the woods or meadows nearby. Her limbs soon felt the fatigue which her mind, remaining active and even keen until old age, did not know.
Elizabeth, recalling that Albert had praised the benefit of physical fatigue in his note-books, trained herself to take a longer walk each day. At the beginning she had to listen to sarcasm from Marie Louise, who ran down the roads like a hare and reproached Philippe and her mother for their laziness. Little by little, as her physical condition improved, she covered greater distances and found that she took a new pleasure in this exercise that she had formerly disliked. On the slopes of Chamrousse, as far from the house as the little legs of her son would allow him to go, she looked with surprise (as if she had only just discovered them) at the high arches formed by the pine trees with their straight tops, resembling the columns of a cathedral. She was impressed by them with a sense of awe. Nature ceased to be to her, as in the previous autumn, a sorrowful companion.
Almost every evening, from the porch, she watched night come on. The flocks and their shepherds, who crowded around the pond, gave her that feeling of peace, which, at the close of day, the country exhales like a perfume.
Marie Louise had to admit that her mother walked almost as well as she did.
"But you can't run!"
"Let us try."
The young woman gathered up her skirts and tried. Her children, who had never seen her so merry, shouted joyfully and forgot to run with her. This new superiority aroused their enthusiasm.
"Certainly," concluded the little girl, "the only thing left for you is the ravine."
"Which ravine?"
"Papa's."
It was a mysterious, wild place, which she had never been able to find herself. Her father had once taken her there, and they had found difficulty in getting out, owing to the interlaced branches and briars and pebbles. She had retained a heroic memory of it with which she used to dazzle her friends on exceptional occasions.
Albert's mother, who was informed of these adventures, told of the prowess of her son, who, in his first youth, had loved the mountains for the purity of their air, for their commanding views, and above all, for their dangers. Elizabeth, little by little, learned of her husband's youth—after his childhood, about which she had never been curious. She was obliged, as well, to satisfy her children, who asked for stories of adventure. And there she was again, but now with method and a desire to succeed, at times kneeling on the floor, again mounted on a ladder, to explore the library shelves which stocked an entire room from floor to ceiling, into which she had previously seldom gone. After many searches, she found a volume of stories of Dauphiné, and began to wade through these tales; then, as she grew more familiar with them, she learned to change them, to bring out the dramatic effects, and to modify the endings in an optimistic way, so as not to sadden Marie Louise, who was too fond of the characters in her stories, while Philippe interpreted the catastrophes more philosophically. The devil who built a wall of enclosure round the park at Vizille, and who was captured by Marshall de Lesdiguières; the fairy Mélusine, who lived in the Sassenage caves, whose daughter was a siren and became a woman through love, especially aroused the children's imagination, because they had visited these same places of enchantment the previous year in the Passerat's motor, which was for them quite sufficient to give an air of reality to the legend.
"We did not see Mélusine at Sassenage, Mamma," exclaimed Marie Louise.
"She is not there now."
"Where is she?"
"Very far away in the sea."
The little girl remained thoughtful, and then said:
"They ought to have told me her story while we were in the cave. It is so stupid to walk about a cave without hearing anything about the fairy!"
Elizabeth's thoughts flew naturally to Albert, who would have been so amused at this remark. It was the artless criticism, so flattering to an historian, of so many travelers, who go around the world, seeing nothing but outward appearances, knowing of nothing but more or less picturesque forms. As to Philippe, he liked best the devil who builds walls and who is paid in monkey's money.
Now that the library was in use again, the young woman made a habit of rummaging among the books. After attending to the needs of her children, she busied herself with her own. She reread certain of her husband's works, which she had previously scanned hastily, merely from a sense of duty, and now found great pleasure in them. Then she read; biographies for preference, or memoirs which, because of their direct contact with life, suited her nature, more realistic than imaginative. Little by little, without being conscious of the slow metamorphosis which was taking place within her, she came to a better understanding of the human imprint of ancient civilization in our own country, and the importance of the past, of great men, of monuments and of works of art. By a strange conversion, she found herself acquiring her husband's tastes when she was separated from him—no doubt forever. The influence of intellectual activity which he had never exercised over her in eight years of married life, was now being felt from a distance, and he would never know anything of it.
Better prepared for conversation, having reinforced her thoughts by new excursions into the world, it happened in the evening that the usual hour of bed-time passed, as she was talking to her mother-in-law—whose cultivated mind she at last understood—of subjects which formerly would not have interested her for a moment. Then glancing at the clock, one of them remarked:
"How late it is!"
And Elizabeth, tired out, soon fell asleep, instead of more freely and sorrowfully reviewing her troubles in the darkness of night, as she had for a long time been in the habit of doing.
Among the elements of instruction which the two women, assisting each other, gave to the children, she had reserved music for herself, in which she tried to cultivate their taste by singing simple popular airs, which she made them repeat. The house, on certain days, was filled with song and the village children stopped in front of the gate to listen. Little Philippe threw his big bell-like voice into the music like a ball into a game of nine pins, and the notes came out with great force. His sister used to be annoyed at this, but the dispute always ended in shouts of laughter.
This gayety seemed to an old peasant, Claude Terraz, who was passing down the road in his cart, to be a good sign, and seeing through the railings Mme. Derize, Sr., working in her garden, he allowed himself, by the established rights of a neighbor, to inquire:
"Well, Madame, has M. Albert come home?"
"Not yet, Claude."
"But he will come back?"
"Soon, my friend. We are expecting him."
"Ah, so much the better. There must be a man in the house. A man for the spade—a woman for the soup, and both to feed the youngsters."
And with this statement he whipped up his team of oxen and went on his way.
Those were the good days. There were bad ones too. Elizabeth, more refined and sensitive, had become very susceptible, irritable, and overemphasized the little things, or again settled into her former apathy. She knew the rebellion which crushes us as we battle in vain against the indifference of fate, and the despair which plunges our souls into the depths. In those hours, she wished she might hear of Albert's death to put an end to the suffering which her jealousy brought. With delicate tact, but without words or allusions, Mme. Derize healed her wounds, as do those nurses in a sick-room, who work silently, but are never idle.
The heat of July brought back the summer crowd to the little station at Uriage. But the Molay-Norrois were not as socially active as they had been. Although they were again occupying Mélèzes on the slope which leads to the Castle of Saint-Ferriol, the Passerats had given up their villa and had rented one in the lower part of the valley near Vaulnaveys. The two families still saw each other, but less frequently. Through the Vimelles, the Passerats were making very aristocratic connections. M. Molay-Norrois, on a strict diet since his last attack of gout, was obliged to agree that he was better off at home, and was grateful for it to his wife. Attention to the state of his health had replaced every other thought in his mind. He took care of himself with the solicitude and keen zest with which he had always sought to please, and now indulged himself with consultations and medicines, as he had formerly done with the secret pleasures of love. He had not given up society, but had subordinated it to his health, and now entered into it with moderation. He who had spent hours on his toilette, and created fashions, now found an intimate charm in putting on his slippers and smoking a pipe after dinner, in noting with satisfaction that his digestion was in good order. Mme. Molay-Norrois, while she herself attended to his special soups and broths, a new occupation for her, took hope again, and did not wish for a too rapid or radical cure. Their two sons, Oliver and Victor, who came on leave one after the other, manifested toward Elizabeth a protecting affection which annoyed her. But they gave up no pleasures for her sake, and neither the one nor the other thought of curtailing his mode of living, which might have permitted their parents to make some arrangement about her dowry, which the young woman, living willingly on her own money, had never requested.
The motor picnics began again. The Derizes were invited. Elizabeth, not wishing to give her children luxurious habits, refused, quoting the advice of their physician, who advocated walking. She often went into Saint Martin to visit her father and mother, and one day, walking under the shade of the chestnut trees, she met the two young men, who, when they recognized her the previous year, had loudly praised her. Wearing a loose-fitting white flannel dress, which made her look younger, she held Philippe by the hand, while Marie Louise, who had spied some huckleberries, had climbed the hill a few steps behind. They stared at her with that coolness which our manners allow and do not stamp as a proof of bad breeding. Involuntarily the blood mounted to her cheeks. She wished to hurry on, and turned awkwardly to call her daughter. They also turned and slackened their steps. Marie Louise joined her at a gallop to tell her:
"You know, Mamma, you are more beautiful than you were last year."
"Silly little thing, instead of talking nonsense, it would be better next time if you did not leave me."
But the child clung to her idea which she would not give up.
"It is not nonsense. Those gentlemen down there said so."
"Why did you listen to them?"
"Because they were talking about you."
"That is no reason."
The little girl would not allow herself to be quieted.
"There was a dark one and a light one. The dark one talked like this: 'She has lost, she is thinner.'
"What have you lost, Mamma? And the light one said: 'She is beautiful.'"
"Be quiet," said Elizabeth. "I don't like children who listen to the conversations of passersby."
It was more than sixteen months since she had separated from her husband. She had certainly changed very much, and did not notice it herself until she had made alterations in her old dresses, which, as a matter of economy, she still wished to wear. Slighter, she appeared to be like those stems, which add grace to a flower, as they grow longer. Her limbs, a little long in proportion to her figure, had gained, by her habit of walking, a greater ease, a freer gait. Her long neck, very white, which she generally left bare, carried her head more gracefully. It might be said that she had let her overweight, which had made her body heavy and weak, fall from her like a garment. The friends of her family, for the most part, regretted it, thinking she was pining away, and that it was so sad for such a pretty woman. The open air and her natural good health fortunately counteracted the slow results of the mental anguish which was undermining her. But even these assets could not prevent the imprint of suffering on her youthful face. Two creases had stamped themselves at each corner of her little mouth. The outline of her face was finer. A little wrinkle showed between the eyebrows. Her dark eyes, outlined by the bluish circle around them, reflected a deeper life. Sometimes languid, sometimes ardent, their expression always revealed to those who understood, a little fright and homesickness, like the tender look of those tame deer, who as they eat from your hand, are always afraid of being ill-treated, and are thinking of their broad native woods. The play of color on her cheeks was also quicker; it came and went at almost the same moment. And even her voice had taken on a more serious intonation, and seemed to have a deeper tone. Thus changed, with her flimsy gowns and big summer hats, she looked more and more like those English portraits which give to women so much charm and dignity. But it was one of those portraits which one comes back to see again, because of not gaining at one glance a full sense of its beauty.
The new peace she found at Les Mélèzes, made her mother happy. But Elizabeth heard and disliked the echo of gossip which, as in all watering places, was making the rounds at Uriage. What did it matter to her that Mme. de Vimelle could no longer seriously ignore her husband's liaison, or that Mme. Passerat had promoted Counselor Prémereux to the degree of chief steward of her kitchen? One day they told her of the coming marriage of Philippe Lagier, who had been living for some time at the Park Hotel.
"To whom?" she asked, interestedly.
"To Mlle. Berthe Rivière."
She recalled the girl who had played tennis with a grace intended to attract the spectators. Before going home to Saint Martin, she went out of her way to go to the tennis-court. Mlle. Rivière, chuckling with laughter which sang the joy of life, was scoring, while her partner, Philippe Lagier, transformed into a faithful knight, was disrespectfully devouring her with his eyes.
"Yours!" they shouted to him.
But he lost the ball. And the young girl, sure of her power, let him lose the game without a murmur.
"Already!" thought Elizabeth, as she walked along the chestnut path which took her back to her solitude.
How soon one was forgotten! What lies, these love vows! It only needed a smile revealing gleaming teeth, a fresh skin, a movement of the hips to substitute a new desire for the most exalted emotion. But perhaps she was not one of those who inspire lasting passions. Perhaps she left only a fleeting impression, soon to vanish, as she had sometimes heard it said of certain women with pure impassive features. This little wound to her self-love she added to that from which she was suffering, and which would never be healed.
A few days later, invited to dinner at Mélèzes with some other people, she found herself placed at table next to Philippe Lagier, who had Mlle. Rivière as his dinner partner. Would she take advantage of this? The barrister turned toward her, and to keep her attention, made use of all the resources of a mind trained to please. He understood perfectly the art of conversation which lends color and picturesqueness to all subjects, and which seems to imply a flattering sympathy. The glare of the lights, the bright dresses, the bare shoulders, the air warm, but invigorating, which came in through the open window, contributed to a harmony in which life unfolds itself in an atmosphere of joy. She was listening to Philippe, whose intelligent features were unattractive only when in repose. Near him, she gave no further thought to the scene which had separated them. Soothed, forgetting her trouble, happy, she was enjoying her success. All at once, raising her head, she saw fixed upon her the gaze of Mlle. Rivière. It was a look of distress, expressing not hatred, but despair and admiration. It said so clearly, "You are too beautiful. I know well that I cannot struggle against you—have pity!"—that she was upset by it, because it made her think of herself. Thus for a few minutes she had fully enjoyed her power over a man whose dead or dying passion for her, self-love induced her to revive; and at the same time, she had felt herself to be mastered by the conversation of this man whose subtle meaning she still feared. In addition she had unscrupulously risked breaking another heart. She was ashamed of her vanity, and particularly of her weakness for which she reproached herself as a traitor. Turning from Philippe, she gave him back to Mlle. Rivière, but he had lost his high spirits. At the end of the evening, she refused his offer to escort her home to Saint Martin. On the road at night, as she passed the place where the year before she had rebelled so violently, her new conduct seemed incomprehensible and the humiliation she felt in her own estimation, aroused in her a greater indulgence toward the faults of others, and at the same time a resolution to watch herself more closely.
With the first autumn rains, the bathers left Uriage. M. Molay-Norrois had not waited until the end of September to pack up and go away.
"Don't you feel the dampness, my dear?" he said twenty times a day to his wife, even when the weather was dry, though not quite so warm. "It drifts into this narrow valley. Let us get back to town where we can make ourselves comfortable."
After a little opposition, Mme. de Molay-Norrois gave in. No doubt she wanted to be near her daughter and grandchildren, but thought more of her invalid's happiness. Soon Elizabeth recovered the solitude in which she had been so happy the previous year. Somewhat rheumatic, and wishing not to become a burden on her daughter-in-law in this resourceless village, her mother-in-law had gone back to Grenoble at the beginning of October.
"Come back to me soon," she said at parting. "Solitude at your age is not a good counselor."
But the youngsters were in splendid health, and Elizabeth let herself sink into that supine state, which comes with the last rays of the autumn sun and the treacherous charm of Nature. The view of a deeper forest, a more impassioned feeling which she was beginning to understand, filled her this season with a bitterness which soothed her. She was conscious of her weakness, afraid of it, and forced herself to struggle against it. In order not to take up the routine of the city so soon, she invited Blanche Vernier to spend a week or two at Saint Martin with her children. These, four in number, put themselves under the yoke of Marie Louise and Philippe who surpassed them in brains and cleverness. Elizabeth was entertained for several days by the simple joy expressed by her friend, in following the work in the fields, which was entirely new to her, in running down the wild paths, in which, accustomed to city life, she found an almost exaggerated charm. Then she grew weary of her exclamations, even of her pretty sayings which were somewhat vulgar. She wearied of it, because, abandoned and neglected, she was more sensitive and susceptible than usual, at this season which deepens one's suffering. Then she allowed Blanche to take the crowd of children out, and remained alone to express her sadness in the music she interpretated, to begin but not finish books, whose contagious melancholy she knew, and still more uselessly, to think, aimlessly, hopelessly and without any object, for no purpose but the pleasure of giving herself as much pain as possible. And, rousing herself from that state of languor, she determined that she could no longer remain in the country.
One day, when she had stayed in the house, she understood, when the children came in, and from the expression of Blanche Vernier's face, that something unusual had happened during the walk. Marie Louise, a little troubled, wore a mysterious circumspect air which was very evident, while big Philippe was swelled with his own importance almost to the bursting point. The others tried to explain that they had met a gentleman—a remarkable phenomenon at Saint Martin at this season—but the little girl interrupted them brusquely in an authoritative voice:
"Be quiet."
Over the heads of the youngsters, Blanche gave lively signals which bespoke no good.
"Go and have tea in the dining-room," commanded Elizabeth, out of patience, and when the drawing-room was empty, she asked her friend, "What has happened: Anything serious?"
"Well, as we were coming down towards the Château of Saint-Ferriol we met a man...."
"Who?"
"Wait a minute—a man whom I did not know."
Elizabeth, nervous, asked these questions:
"What was he like?"
"You know I can't distinguish men very well, one from the other. It seemed to me he was very tall, rather thin, sharp features and a military air. Is that he?"
"Go on."
"He looked at us as we passed, then after we had gone a few steps he turned round and called: 'Marie Louise.' Your daughter raised her head and then ran to him."
"You should not have allowed her to speak to a stranger."
"You know very well that he was not a stranger. Naturally I did not know it, and I called out and then stopped. But the little girl paid no attention to what I said. She made a sign to her brother to join her. So I came up to interfere more directly, and it is to my credit, because you know how shy I am. 'These children are in my charge.' 'I give them back to you, Madame,' he replied, bowing very politely to me. 'I am a relative and I allowed myself to stop them.' He was very much touched. He was holding Marie Louise and Philippe by the hand. I even think he had tears in his eyes."
"You are not sure?"
"I am a little short-sighted, and I am always afraid of being indiscreet in looking too closely. Then he kissed the children passionately—almost madly. I was sorry for him. I could have cried too. I cry so easily.
"'Come with us,' Marie Louise said to him.
"'I can't—'
"'Mamma did not see you, did she?'
"'I must go away.'
"'Already? This is not a visit. You will come back?'
"'Yes.'
"He passed on hurriedly. I thought he had disappeared behind the chestnut trees, but as I turned back, I saw him looking after us—"
"That is all?"
"Yes, that is all."
"I placed my children in your charge. You should not have left them—"
"Left them?"
"Yes, even for a minute...."
This reproach was manifestly unjust. Although not far-sighted, Blanche Vernier possessed that instinct of the heart which penetrates the hidden causes of our acts or our feelings—Divining her friend's emotion, she bore this absurd accusation without defending herself. Elizabeth trembled at the thought that she might have met her husband, not knowing in her confusion whether she regretted or dreaded this meeting.
"Listen," she said in a softer voice. "Go to the children and send Marie Louise to me."
A few minutes later, the little girl came in, not with her nose in the air and a bright face, with the dancing step with which she shook her blonde curls as she tripped through the house, but instead with a stiff walk and lowered eyes.
Her mother drew her towards her too jealously and held her arms—
"Look at me!"
As the child hesitated in her embarrassment, Elizabeth who was very nervous, grew angry.
"But look at me—whom did you meet on the road?"
Marie Louise who did not know how to tell a lie, nevertheless answered:
"Nobody."
"Nobody? How can you deceive your mother. That is bad. That is naughty."
The little girl who was bravely holding her own against this threatening tone, weakened before this outburst of sorrow. And then, it became great news to announce—
"Well, yes, we met papa."
"Why did you not tell me when you came back?"
"I don't know, Mamma."
"Did he say you were not to tell?"
"Oh, no."
"You should have no secrets from your mother."
The child began to cry, and had to be consoled—Her silence which she could not explain, was the mysterious intuition of the divorce of her parents, whom she had to love separately without the knowledge of either of them, for fear of hurting them. She could not think that she might have both a father and mother at the same time like her little friends—And yet both were alive—The meeting that afternoon had settled all doubts concerning the existence of her father, whom she never saw, and about whom she had even heard it said that he was dead to her. But these complications put her in a state of uneasiness which wearied one of her age. Elizabeth continued her questions more tenderly this time:
"You recognized him at once?"
"I did not look at him when he passed us—but afterwards he called me...."
"He called you?"
"Yes, then I knew him."
"Tell me about it, dearie."
"He called: 'Marie Louise.' I raised my head and I ran. When I was quite near him I cried, 'Papa.' He held me so tight that I choked—and he wet my cheeks because he was crying. Why, Mamma?"
"He was touched at seeing you after such a long time."
Marie Louise seemed to reflect.
"Why didn't he come home before? He said to me, 'And Philippe?' So I called 'Philippe!' Philippe came, but he said, 'Who is that?' I said, 'It's papa.' Then Mme. Blanche came up too. They quarreled."
"Quarreled?"
"No, not quarreled, but they looked at each other crossly. Then papa went away."
Elizabeth overcame her hesitation and again asked:
"He sent no message to me?"
"I said to him, 'Come and see mamma.'"
"Ah, and what did he answer?"
"He did not answer. He said, 'I will come back.'"
"That is all?"
"Yes. Why are you crying, Mamma?"
"I am not crying—"
She pressed her daughter passionately to her heart and covered with kisses the face that Albert had kissed. With an imperious longing for affection she murmured in her daughter's ear.
"Do you love me?"
"Oh! dear Mamma—"
"And your father?"
"Papa too, but not as much as you."
"Why?"
"He is never here—You know, he looks sad."
"Really. He looks sad? Are you quite sure?"
"Yes, does that make you glad?"
"Oh, darling—"
"He has promised to come back. You want him to come back, don't you?"
"For your sake and Philippe's—yes, perhaps—Some day a long time from now."
"No, right away."
Reassured little by little, Elizabeth told little Marie Louise, who was too impressionable, to go back to her playfellows. She herself being unable to regain her self-possession, walked up and down the house. At last she crept on tiptoe to the door. Erect and motionless, on the point of going out, she looked down the road as far as the trees. Perhaps Albert was wandering about there, being unable to decide to leave these places which must recall his childhood and so many memories. So many memories? No, he had seen his children, nothing else could interest him. He had gone back, no doubt. Nevertheless, "he seemed sad," Marie Louise had said. If he were suddenly to appear at the turn of the road, there before her, what would she do? She did not know, she reached no decision and time went on.
Evening came, an autumn evening sharp and almost freezing. She looked for a shawl to cover her shoulders and continued to gaze distractedly, as if before the day ended, she were calling the danger she feared. Darkness which already filled the valley, was ascending the mountain, hastening to overtake the forest of thick, black pine trees, which seemed like a foretaste of night. The red of the sunset streaked the sky: the first star shewed itself above Les Quatre Seigneurs.
Elizabeth could not make up her mind to go in. The change in the light gave an appearance of motion to the bushes and to the trees on the road. Every moment she thought she saw someone coming and stood trembling, her feet glued to the threshold. After many mistakes, she recognized a human shape coming up the road. Fear made her knees tremble. No, it was not he; it was a woman, bent, thin and slow. It was Albert's mother. Out of breath, her limbs weak, overcome with weariness, she was painfully dragging herself along. Elizabeth, reassured, freed herself with a great effort, ran to her, saw that she was worn out; took her arm, made her come in, and placed her beside the hearth.
"Why did you not tell me you were coming, Mother? I would have sent the farmer to meet you with his car. There is no carriage at Uriage now, and you have had to walk all the way."
Mme. Derize smiled in a way which meant, "How often I have done without carriages!" But she had not reckoned with her age, nor her weakness, and was regaining her breath with difficulty. Marie Louise, Philippe and the little Verniers, who surrounded her, watched her with the surprise of children at old age or illness. Elizabeth begged her friend Blanche to take them away. Left alone with her mother-in-law for whom she prepared a cup of boiling tea, with a little rum in it, she saw her become refreshed little by little, and then sit up, her face expressing that peace, so pure and noble, yet tinged with sadness, with which she accepted all the happenings of life. Then Elizabeth asked herself the reason for her departure from Grenoble, and whether that unexpected visit did not have something to do with Albert's arrival. Mme. Derize did not let her wait long for an explanation which she was eager to give.
"Elizabeth, my son has been with me for three days. He has changed very much, he is worried, uneasy and nervous. He is not happy."
Attentive and anxious, Elizabeth was silent.
"He went away this morning," continued the old lady.
"He was here just now."
"Here. You have seen him?"
Albert's mother bent toward her daughter-in-law, her cheekbones suddenly flushed with a rush of color, contrasting with the pallor of her face, her eyes fixed and shining with fever, in a state of unaccustomed exaltation foreign to her nature.
"Not I. But the children."
Elizabeth told the short story of the meeting of Marie Louise and Philippe with their father. Mme. Derize, resting against her chair, lost her abnormal excitement as she listened.
"Just now," she said, "I thought he was here, that you were reconciled, that he had been unable to go away. I was so happy—so happy."
"Oh, Mother, could you hope that?"
"I always hope it. And you do, too, do you not?"
"I no longer know. I am so weary of suffering! And then how can I forgive him, how can I forget him? He has gone back toher."
The old woman took Elizabeth's hand and held it.
"My child, if you prayed to God, as I do, your hope would be strengthened. Illicit passions can never bring happiness. Happiness means peace in one's heart. They are powerless to insure that."
"They bring with them a more passionate existence. I do not understand. That people desire them and die for them suffices to make them endure."
"If you could have seen him, listened to him, you would not speak thus. It is not on my account that he came to Grenoble. He thought he would meet the children there. He had no idea that you would remain so late in the mountains. And this morning, instead of leaving for Italy, he came up here without further reflection, in the hope of seeing his children. He has forgotten nothing."
"Oh, Mother, and me?"
"You, Elizabeth? Did you not understand that it was because of you that he has never tried to see his children until now?"
"He never asked to see them. If he had asked, I should not have refused. He could not have them come to him, however, in Paris."
"Listen, Elizabeth. All the time he was overwhelming me with questions about them. He was obsessed with the thought of them."
"And he has never given them any indication that he was still alive."
"Because he did not want to trouble your life, to impose painful obligations upon you, or remind you of a tie which he thinks is sorrowful to you."
And she added in a tone of prayer, as if to protect her son:
"At least that is the way I explain it—particularly since his promise."
"What promise?"
"Yesterday I asked him to put nothing definite between you and himself."
"Definite?"
"Yes, not to seek a divorce."
And in a lower voice, she added:
"I should never have survived it."
"What did he answer?" asked Elizabeth anxiously.
"After a slight hesitation, he replied: 'I promise you. Only, it is Elizabeth's right.' Elizabeth, I believe he will come back to us. Will you not help him?"
The young woman turned away with that frightened expression which she often wore.
"What do you wish me to do, Mother? I cannot contend for him with that woman—I do not know how."
"No, but promise me that if he comes back some day you will receive him, you will welcome him in spite of the past."
"He will not come back."
"If I went to look for him?"
Elizabeth repeated despairingly:
"He would not come back...."
"And if ..."
"Mother, what is the matter with you?"
"If I fell ill? He would have to come back, would have to see you."
Mme. Derize looked so pale, so fragile, that this suggestion seemed a reality. Elizabeth, uneasy, realizing that the attack was growing worse, put her to bed and watched over her. In the evening the old woman laid her feverish hand on the bent head of her companion: