In the beginning of July, the lime trees in the city park at Grenoble were, in addition to their shade, still giving forth the heavy scent of their fading flowers. A light breeze to offset the heat of the sun could be found—there and under the trees on the promenade L'Ile Verte, where nobody goes, and where even the nurses do not willingly take their little charges.
After having thrown some bread to the black swan who caught it in his red beak with a loud splash, Marie-Louise and Philippe Derize, who had been summoned home, were saying good-by to their little friends, Jeanne and Renée de Crozet, who were earnestly telling of their early departure.
"We are going to Aix-Les-Bains this year."
"And we are going to Uriage," replied Marie-Louise who was never at a loss for an answer.
"Saint-Martin," explained her stolid brother. "It is in the woods."
But the little girl promptly contradicted him:
"No, Uriage, it is more fashionable."
She thought she had eclipsed Aix-Les-Bains. She loved to excel. On the way back Philippe protested:
"Our house is at Saint-Martin. It is in the mountains."
"Yes, but we are going to Uriage. You, you sleep like a trunk at night."
"I don't sleep like a trunk. Trunks don't sleep!"
"Grandpa says so. I listen at the open door, and have heard that we were going to Uriage not to Saint Martin. And Grandmother said that papa was dead to us."
"What's that 'dead'?"
"It is when you are buried."
"I don't want papa to be buried."
The little girl glanced at him with superiority and began to explain in trying to recall some new expression that she had overheard.
"Well, not exactly. That's what is so funny; he is not dead at all, and he is dead to us."
"Shall we see him again?"
"Of course. But you must not say so."
She inherited from her father, with his curiosity and high spirit, a definite confidence in the future.
The child was not wrong about her mother's summer plans. The Derize family generally left Paris from July until November, spending the summer and part of the autumn at Saint Martin, a village built on the side of the mountain of Chamrousse among the lime and chestnut trees, above the castle of Saint-Ferriol. They lived in the old family mansion which Albert had inherited. It was a large châlet with its beams set in stone; with verandahs all round it, and green shutters to its windows. An avenue of plane-trees led from the house to the church. Mme. Derize, senior, had a room there, so vacation time was the best of the year for her. Out of doors all day long, the children acquired complexions like the country folk; and their cheeks grew rosy like winter apples. Albert worked undisturbed on his "History of the Peasant" and listened to the soothing voices of Nature which sang themselves into his book. But sometimes when nightfall began to come earlier, Elizabeth found that this simple life was growing monotonous; from the heart of the valley came echoes of festivity, the animation of a happy little village; above all she feared the solitude which forces one to seek distraction and happiness within.
The Molay-Norrois rented a villa at Uriage, where they met a gathering of their acquaintances. When the heat made Grenoble unbearable, they easily persuaded their daughter to follow them.
"Why should you shut yourself up in that great lonely barn? What if your husband should take it into his head to return? Come with us—you will be much more at ease."
She had listened to them. In her husband's absence she was beginning to experience again emotions long since forgotten—fear and uneasiness. And the mere thought of the house at St. Martin with its long corridors, its suites of rooms and the monotonous silence of the country, depressed her.
Uriage, three or four miles from Grenoble, and 1500 feet above the sea, easy of access, and quite near the lowland, has at the same time a beautiful view and the invigorating air of the mountain. It is reached through a somewhat narrow and wooded ravine, at the end of which runs a peaceful streamlet—Le Sonnant. After a turn in the road there is a little hill crowned by the castle of Saint Ferriol with its ancient battlements (of which terraces have been made), its towers and its gables. Having encircled it, one finally comes into the valley of Vaulnaveys, where the bathing station is built. This valley of Vaulnaveys, very limited in extent, bounded by the Cross of Chamrousse and the mountain Les Quatre Seigneurs, has been compared to a vessel of which the bow might be the castle of Saint-Ferriol and the stern that of Vizille, doubly historic since it was rebuilt by Lesdiguières and occupied in 1789 by the Assembly of the States of Dauphiné. It resembles a little oasis of fresh verdure between the slopes of woods and prairies. Owing to the supply of water the grass there is as bright as in an English countryside. Here and there it has been mown to make a tennis court, walks, and even a race course.
The Villa Mélèzes which the Molay-Norrois rented for the season stands against the Chamrousse along the sloping road which leads from Uriage to the castle of Saint Ferriol, so that it commands a view of the valley. Pine trees at the back and rose trees in front seem in opposition the one to the other, as happens frequently in this little corner of the world; comparable, as it were, to those faces whose natural sweetness is at first concealed under a serious expression.
On an afternoon in July, Mme. Passerat's motor brought the guests of Mélèzes to their door. She occupied a neighboring villa, where she received the old Counsellor Prémereux (jestingly called her duenna), and the Vimelles; while the Bonnard-Bassons had taken a house a little below. These ladies made all sorts of plans, and Mme. Bonnard-Basson had already discovered on the list of visitors the names of several aristocrats whom she was eager to meet. Marie Louise declared at once that it was much prettier here than at Saint Martin; but little Philippe somewhat startled by the speed of the journey reserved his opinion. Elizabeth saw, above all, her opportunity for avoiding loneliness.
Nobody, in this affair, had given a thought to Albert's mother who was still in Grenoble, despite the heat, and was to be deprived of her little grandchildren. With the best of intentions one cannot please everybody.
As a result of her peculiar position Elizabeth had decided to live very quietly. She had spoken of it to her mother who had approved of her attitude. At first she herself took the two children out walking, manifested a reserved manner with persons whom she knew, and did not come into the drawing-room when there were visitors. One morning, as she was crossing the lawn in front of the casino, with Philippe and Marie Louise, whom she was scolding for picking a flower there, she overheard two young men conversing as follows:
"That is Mme. Albert Derize."
"The wife of the historian?"
"Yes."
"She is very pretty."
She blushed at this compliment intentionally spoken in too loud a tone, but was not displeased to be noticed for something other than the name she bore, which was a burden to her. Her attorney had promised her that at the opening of the courts, separation would be granted without delay in her favor, more especially since the defendant, not having as yet taken any steps, would probably not appear, signifying that he did not intend to enter a counter action. So there would be time to organize her life anew. Until then there was nothing to do but wait, since she lacked nothing and had all the advantages of a home.
But this home grew more lively from day to day. There were motor parties to which she was always invited with the children. She refused; but her friends protested so vehemently or so persuasively that finally she was forced to accept. Thus she found herself in a social whirl. She was taken to the castle of Vizille which rears its enormous mass of gray stone above the blue Romanche; to the old bridge of Claix whose arch is so high that it frames the whole landscape, and over the plain of Matheysine to the little lakes of Laffrey, whose dark waters add a touch of charm to the severity of the neighboring mountains. These short afternoon excursions were gradually prolonged: the Grande Chartreuse, the Lautaret Pass at the foot of the Grand Galibier or to Vercors, where the picturesque Pont-en-Royans, carved out of the rock, rises perpendicularly from the water in the shadow of the castle ruins. The forty-horse power car belonging to the Passerats led the way for the inferior machine of the Bonnard-Bassons, which was driven by M. de Vimelle, as favored in physique as he was weak in intellect. They bought provisions and lunched gayly on the grass, at the edge of a stream, or they went to some quiet inn which they promptly enlivened. Marie Louise was collecting souvenirs to dazzle Jeanne and Renée de Crozet, who had sent remarkable post-cards from Aix-Les-Bains. How could they break up the party at night after such pleasant days? Elizabeth used as a pretext the fact of having to put her two little ones to bed, who were overtired by the long ride, but could give no excuse for not rejoining the party. Home life which had never attracted her, was especially unpleasant to her now. She enjoyed a succession of aimless days, and soon ceased trying to hold herself aloof.
Her parents were obliged to return the hospitality they had accepted. When she appeared in a nile green gown, which she had only worn once at the Duchess of Béard's before the event which had upset her life, she saw in the women's looks that they were not genuinely sincere in the touching sympathy they expressed to her on every occasion. The new-comers in their set made a great deal of her with that easy freedom which results from the absence of a woman's husband. Although she was the least décolleté of all the women, she felt a new awkwardness, which recalled her début as a young girl, in feeling her shoulders exposed: shoulders, whose mother-of-pearl whiteness was greatly admired. She had the impression that this was not her place, and her personal success only half dispelled the idea.
She felt it again, one day as she was walking with her children to Saint Martin d'Uriage. The closed châlet where she had spent so many peaceful summers, the church near-by, the charm of this hamlet lost in the woods, stirred her emotions which sensed the influence of places, as of people. She opened the chapel door, and in her prayer—very short because of her impatient companions—she had time to ask herself if this continual round of gayety were a normal existence for one in her position; if such habits of going about, of amusement and of pleasure, would not later spoil the precocious imagination of Marie Louise and Philippe, who, while rolling about in the grass and playing with the little peasants, were acquiring, along with good health, simplicity of heart. To her great astonishment, on the plane-tree avenue, the little boy, without bashfulness, asked when they would go home, but Marie Louise, blushing and cuddling up to her mother, said:
"And papa?"
"He is away, traveling," she replied evasively.
The little girl, finding again an important association of her short past experience, became nervous and her little bosom heaved.
"When I was a child," she said excitedly, "I lived here. Papa took me away, far away to the mountains. He carried me on his back when I was tired."
"And me too," cried Philippe, who was not going to be left behind.
"He laughed all the time," Marie Louise recalled again.
Their mother was lost in silence at these recollections. She roamed along the enclosure which protected the deserted property, looked at the faded bunches of wistaria, the garden in disorder and the destruction due to neglect; then, saddened, she led her children to the path which winds by many turns towards the castle and the lawns of Uriage. In the evening she invented a headache to refuse at the last moment an invitation which she had already accepted, but the next day and the day after, new opportunities offered, and she soon ceased to struggle against so swift a tide. Her friends purposely selected as her dinner partners—not without thought of consolation—their most charming men-guests, but she was not conscious of their intentions. After the fifteenth of August, Philippe Lagier came and stayed at the best hotel near the casino. There was nothing unusual about his being there. He took advantage of the closing of court to rest in the valley where one breathes the mountain air; every year the bar and magistrates of Grenoble are well represented here. He was immediately surrounded and overwhelmed with invitations; for he brought with him an element of interest into Mme. Passerat's little circle. His caustic wit, his constant irony, his travels and his taste for the plastic arts gave a varied turn to the conversation which made him very much sought after by women: they like the little excitement occasioned by clever paradoxes or original and boldly defended opinions. And so by general consent, it was agreed that Elizabeth and her husband's lawyer be brought together, and that so interesting a flirtation be aided and abetted.
Scorching through Uriage one day, trying to break a record, the little clerk Malaunay, in plaid knickers and with bare calves, bending over his bicycle as if he wished to bite the handle bars, still had eyes to see the young woman and her companion, as they were watching the races, so that the Tabourin office and indeed all Grenoble knew the truth about their friendship.
Philippe Lagier, in visiting Elizabeth, simply fulfilled a duty which gave him renewed pleasure every day. After the useless preliminaries of reconciliation, the deed of separation had been sent out. It had to be answered in Albert's name, so Albert meant to seek a divorce, and in turn take the offensive. Before drawing up such embarrassing conclusions, the lawyer had gone to the Boulevard des Adieux to consult someone for whose advice he had the greatest regard.
"Here," he had explained to Mme. Derize Senior, "is what your son wishes to reply. He is not going to defend himself any longer; he is attacking. He has given me the private diary he has kept intermittently since his marriage. He thinks I am sure to find therein proofs of a continual grievance; but the incompatibility of temperament is not ground for divorce. And then, must I make use of this?"
The old lady had asked to be allowed to read these books. Her son had given permission. She had returned them to Philippe with these words:
"Albert would dishonor himself if he made public use of such writings. The charges he brings against his wife will not affect the court. But they will perhaps wound Elizabeth's heart. She is a good woman, unfortunately too inattentive and indifferent, like so many good women. Ah, if they would only open their eyes! Show her this diary, make her promise to read it."
"This diary?" the astonished lawyer had objected. "Would it be right? Albert tells of his love in it."
"With things as they are, I see only this resort to try. Let her face this interpretation of her own life. She will even realize that this love which I abhor, but which has nothing evil about it, has something to do with her, that it has been born of her unwise carelessness. If she understands, perhaps she will find the courage to pardon and, above all, the patience to wait. If she does not understand, it would be better for Albert to legally give up his children whom he has already forgotten too much, rather than to hurt their mother. Yes, I can see only this way of reconciliation, unusual and dangerous though it be. My friend, go up to Uriage; I count on you. For my part, I shall ask Albert to cease defending himself, if he must use such arguments."
"But he wants a divorce."
Like a Christian she answered:
"'Men have no power to put asunder whom God has joined together.' Life in its brevity still gives us time to exhaust our passion and to recognize the right road, however late. Divorce is irreparable. If he divorces her, I shall not survive it; I will tell him so, if need be."
Philippe had bowed. This little shabby flat was the only place in the world where he left his skepticism outside the door.
Now, before giving up his weapons to his charming antagonist, he wished to observe and study her. He purposely acted deliberately. That is rather the habit of a complex mind. A little earlier in the summer he would have found indications of uneasiness in her glances, and in her social retirement. But when he arrived at Uriage she was quite calm and allowed herself distraction. The coterie of admirers which her friends slyly arranged for her only served to irritate the lawyer. It was composed of insignificant young men, of whom there are many at the watering-places, who would inevitably attract a woman so young and so neglected. Why should they not believe that she was easy prey, being insufficiently protected by lax parents who were absorbed in their own worldly interests? Elizabeth endured them without ennui, but without pleasure. Philippe sent his shafts among them; the on-lookers who were amusing themselves about it, introduced him to take the place of all these admirers, and the young woman did not even deign to notice their absence.
What was he expecting from these meetings? His plans and unforeseen opportunities provided a reason for the necessary interviews. He decided to take Albert's note-books to Elizabeth. She received him in the garden, where, before a background of pines and birches, a few clambering roses were blooming: it was already September.
"What is that package?" she asked him jestingly.
He used that bantering tone which destroys all positive convictions and ultimately leads to a mental attitude that can take nothing seriously.
"Those are your faults. They are many."
"My faults?"
"Have you forgotten our talk at Grenoble. I told you that never in my career had I known a case of divorce where all the grievances were on one side. You have challenged me to enumerate yours. Here they are."
"Well, I am listening," she replied incredulously.
"No, no, you will read them."
"You have taken the trouble to write them."
"No—not I."
"Who then?"
But she had already guessed and thought it wiser to be on her guard.
"It is Albert. Take them."
"Oh, no, thank you."
He took no notice of her refusal.
"In two hours you will have time to decipher these notes. You can read them this evening and return them to me to-morrow."
"I am dining with Mme. Passerat to-night."
"Ah yes,—I am invited, too. And to-morrow?"
"To-morrow we are going to motor to the Castle at Sassenage, and our evening is engaged too."
"Well, you will find a free day."
"Why do you want me to read these books?"
Her refusal was becoming less positive: this persual imposed no obligation upon her.
"You will find there the complaint I am going to formulate against you in my brief."
She was astonished, and blushed, which gave her face the expression of a young girl about to make her début.
"I thought," she said, "that Albert was going to make no defense."
This noticeable anxiety aroused Philippe Lagier, whose reply was not without a touch of cruelty.
"He will make so good a defense that he will sue for a divorce—not separation."
"Ah," she murmured, and the color which had overspread her cheeks faded quickly.
He immediately regretted having tormented her. Was Albert's viewpoint so definite that he had a right to use it as a threat? And had he not decided to play a double rôle, in order to decline to take part in the trial?
"Does he wish to marry her?" she asked weakly.
"I do not know."
But she was ashamed of her question and quickly expressed her indifference.
"Oh, it's all the same to me. He may do as he likes; he is dead to me."
It is true that she added, unconscious of her contradiction:
"Very well, leave me the books. I will glance over them when I have a moment to spare, and shall return them to you."
That evening at Mme. Passerat's dinner, Elizabeth, usually so poised and calm, evidenced nervousness; and he did not doubt that she had at once begun the reading of her husband's diary. During dessert he leaned toward her and questioned her in a low voice. Mme. de Vimelle, seated at the other end of the table, made use of this to give vent to a spiteful reflection.
"Have you read it?" he asked.
"What? ... No, no, not yet. I have not thought of it."
He thought she was feigning astonishment, and seeing her so good an actress, he retracted that impertinent patronage which he had accorded her so-called simplicity. But he was wrong. She had carefully arranged Albert's note-books and was only awaiting the opportunity to take them out of the bureau. The past was the past. It could not be changed. Being a woman of order and logical mind, she liked definite situations. This reversion to the past did not attract her. With what had she to reproach herself? Nothing, according to the world's opinion, absolutely nothing. Then of what could anyone accuse her, who had been so abominably deceived, and for a woman older and less attractive than she?
Another cause had contributed to her confusion. She had been the first arrival at Mme. Passerat's, in order to escape from the temptations of her own awakened curiosity. The salon on the ground floor was not yet lighted. In crossing the lawn in front of the villa, walking carefully because of the dew, she overheard some words of a conversation, the terms and familiarity of which were significant, and saw, or rather guessed, from the open window, hardly distinguishable in the shadow, that a couple whose voices she recognized were sitting there. Without thinking, she hastily ran across the small space which separated her from the Mélèzes, and reached her room to hide the shame she felt in discovering a liaison which her filial devotion would never have permitted her to suspect. When her mother came to look for her, and scolded her for being so late, she understood that she must gain control of herself and keep the secret. If only the poor woman with her might always remain in ignorance. When the two women entered, Mme. Passerat received them in that exaggerated manner which has become fashionable, held both hands of her good friend, Mme. Molay-Norrois, and embraced that dear Elizabeth who unresponsively suffered her kiss, but was upset by it all evening. Thus she appeared excited and uneasy to the observant Philippe Lagier.
Two days later, not having seen her in the interim, he inquired again.
"And our book of grievances?"
This was the name he had given to the private diary of his friend. She still requested more time, and for some days he did not meet her. Indeed she went out seldom. She had proposed to take her parents to Saint Martin to finish the season there; but her father laughed at the offer and her mother never disagreed with him.
Philippe attributed her sudden reserve to her impression of the reading. He was surprised, and unconsciously annoyed at the power which Albert continued to exercise over her from afar. And to add to his irritation, his friend informed him in a letter bearing the German postmark, that he had given up the idea of defending himself in court, and had changed his plan of divorce; perhaps he had listened to his mother's advice, or else his well-ordered mind revolted against the issue of an open breach, or perhaps he had agreed with Anne de Sézery to defy the law.
When the lawyer at last succeeded in joining Elizabeth, he avoided revealing this new situation to her, as if he no longer intended to reconcile her and her husband, and he did not even ask for the note-books. But he tried to distract her, to amuse her by his conversation.
It hardly seemed the beginning of September with its earlier sunsets, more vaporous lines at the mountain summit less clear on the horizon, and its sharper air. The well-watered lawns retained their even green, and as for the clumps of pines, ever green, they need never fear the threats of Autumn. Elizabeth had come as far as the tennis court, but had declined to take part in the game. She instinctively sought out places where there was movement, where she was sure not to hear the voice of her heart or mind. A young brunette in a white flannel dress draped in straight folds, was enlivening the party with her laughter, her remarks, her cleverness. Stopping, on the alert for the ball, running to meet it, or drawing back to return it with all her strength, each of her movements brought into play the curved and flexible lines of her well-built body. Thus she was making a series of little Tanagra studies, and it was a delight to follow her. But she knew it, and from time to time glanced at Philippe, whose age, fortune, and career she well knew, for nowadays civilization is perfected. Elizabeth, whose sorrow had made her keener, noticed this little affair.
"Someone is looking at you," she said.
"I am no longer in the marriage market." And it was he who in his droll manner pointed out all the flirtations which were going on about them. M. de Vimelle, slender and very graceful, was disappearing under the trees with Mme. Bonnard-Basson, who, too tightly laced, often stopped to get her breath. As she was known to be the most scheming young woman in her set, he said:
"She has managed all the same to reserve some aristocratic admirers for herself."
Obliging Mme. de Vimelle had loaned her husband to her friend to take her out walking before dinner.
"I don't understand it," replied Elizabeth to the sarcastic observations of her partner.
"Bah, M. de Vimelle, who is ruined, is besides, the stupidest animal between Paris and Peru—Japan and Rome. She uses him as best she can."
"Nobody finds grace in your eyes."
"I go about with my eyes open."
"You had better close them."
Mlle. Rivière, who had won the last set, as well as all the preceding ones, came over to wish them good evening. Her dull complexion, heated by the game, had become a deep scarlet, and seemed to be burning. Her white teeth glistened. Her eyes sparkled.
"It is a great game," Philippe explained, close behind her, scorning the evident interest she showed. "Her whole soul is in her face."
For several days he had been familiarizing the young woman with all the scandals of their set, making her realize how unimportant they were considered. His insolent and distressing pessimism fell upon prepared soil. Elizabeth, after the shock of her father's conduct, found her illusions completely destroyed.
After many handshakes had been exchanged, tennis was given up. Although the mountains were still covered with the oblique rays of the sun, the valley was in shadow.
There was a definite line of demarcation between themselves and the others. Nobody had joined them. They alone remained behind, as if their tête-à-tête were respected. Vaguely disturbed by this seclusion, Elizabeth directed their steps towards the Mélèzes.
"When the night comes on here it looks as though the mountains were coming nearer and the pine trees were drawing nearer, as if to envelop us."
In order to calm her, Philippe came closer, and murmured in a confidential tone.
"Why are you so sad now-a-days?"
"I am not sad."
Without regarding this denial, leaning toward her, he continued, in a voice which had ceased to be strident, but became, instead, full of charming inflections, cultivated by that art with which he touched such varied chords at the bar:
"You think your life is finished when it is only just beginning. And life can be so beautiful...."
She found no ready answer. She was often given to self-pity; in thinking now of her keen suffering for one so young and through no fault of her own, it seemed to her like a new misfortune. Understanding that she was depressed by this introspection, he pointed out the mountain tops which were priding themselves on still retaining the light; then he pointed to the plain, towards the meadows and the woods which were in peaceful repose. Two or three couples, rather far away from them, acknowledged lovers, and so accepted socially by general agreement, were returning to the villas and hotels.
"We are very comfortable here, are we not? When I came to Uriage you were so popular, so sought after ..."
She did not grasp the exact meaning of the last word.
"I did not notice it," she said.
"I noticed it for you," said Philippe.
In a low voice, choosing his words with care, he continued:
"If you only knew how that irritated me."
"Why?" she asked naively, as they were passing through a little cluster of pine trees which hid them from sight.
Nevertheless, she hastened her steps. It was not yet the psychological moment. The love-making of a man of forty is more clear-sighted and artful, less hurried than that of a young man. He evaded the issue, rather than declare himself.
"When you were a young girl, I had dreamed of asking you to marry me."
"So I have been told."
"Ah.... If you had been happy, I should not have recalled it. I should never have reminded you of it. But I cannot bear the look of pain that crosses your face. You are so young. So many years are before you to retrieve the grief of the past."
She stopped, overwhelmed, trembling. So many years ... Yes ... until the old age of her father. The errors of the past: the soul of Autumn, Anne de Sézery. That was the beauty of living!
"Why do you speak to me like this?" she said in a stifled voice.
He read trouble and confusion in her frightened eyes, which stared at him, and so mistaking her attitude, he dared to hold the young woman's hands affectionately.
"I am so sorry for you. Do you not understand?"
She freed herself, tried to recover her breath, then rebelliously protested:
"You! ... Oh, you! ... Leave me."
"Madame," he begged.
But she had already fled down the path. Motionless, his feet rooted to the spot, he watched her distinct figure until a tree suddenly hid her from sight. Then, seeking support, he threw himself on the grass. His deepest emotions were always controlled and lent themselves to the demands of reason. He pleaded in his own defense the extenuating circumstances of the hour, the season, his vanishing youth. Can a man see with impunity almost daily a young woman of charm, who shows that she takes pleasure in his society? He tried unsuccessfully to become tender in thinking about himself, his loneliness intensified by a superior mentality, hampered in his search for happiness by hesitation, excessive analysis and disenchantment. One thought alone, which he tried to put away with all his force, overlapped all others, as a higher and swifter wave submerges those which precede it: he had betrayed his friend. After one last thought of Albert's aversion, he gave way to his self-contempt, and lying on the earth, his face hidden, humiliated in his faith in himself, he wept tears of despair. This was a moment which he no longer had the power to dismiss; henceforth, its remembrance must come to him relentlessly every time he sought the silence of his inmost heart....
Elizabeth hurried to her room, as a bird with heavy wings beaten down by a tempest rushes to find shelter. Her mouth somewhat twisted, her lips dry, her limbs wearied by the effort to climb the stairs, she fell into an armchair, where, alone with herself, she could better bear her state of fatigue, and uneasiness of heart. This scene had been surprising and terrifying to her, who disliked violent or even unexpected sensations, and sought nothing but peace, order and daily unvarying monotony. Darkness, kind charitable darkness, enveloping her like a veil which hangs lightly from the shoulders, lessened her indignation, but made her more self-pitying. She was confiding in herself as in a friend, and so found relief, when her mother came in, scarcely touching the door, as if in the intimacy of the family, it were almost unnecessary to announce oneself.
"Elizabeth," called Mme. de Molay-Norrois.
Elizabeth did not answer at once, finding added vexation in the fact that she who was so seldom in need of it, was even at this time unable to have a corner in which she might take refuge undisturbed.
"You are tired—why did you not ring?"
"I am not tired, Mamma."
How could she stem this maternal solicitude? Mme. Molay-Norrois had already lighted a lamp, closed the window to keep out the mosquitoes and the September breeze, and was studying the dear face, whose every expression she knew.
"You are flushed. You have been crying. And you have told me nothing."
"I have a headache, that is all."
"A headache? You were out all afternoon. It is not a headache. You have some trouble and you will not tell me."
For the first time the young woman understood that even with those who love one best, one is often alone, and that any presence, even the dearest, may be intolerable. For the first time too, she really understood the tone of voice in which she was being addressed; the one which is suited to little girls, to encourage them, or quiet and control them. By what inexplicable mistake did they continue to use it in speaking to her? Misfortune itself had matured her, and yet they treated her like a little child. Her sadness was intensified by it, as is the pain of a wound that is inflamed by unskillful care.
"There is nothing the matter," she reaffirmed.
Her mother, baffled, was surprised and sorry, and finally, to change the subject, said in an off-hand manner:
"We are dining with the Vimelles to-night; you have just about time to get ready."
"I shall not go."
"What? You have accepted their invitation. It is too late to refuse. Then, the other day you declined at the last minute. And you have just told me you are not ill—no, no, you must come; it is absolutely necessary."
"Nevertheless, I shall not go," Elizabeth repeated with a new note of authority.
For Mme. Molay-Norrois there were no small and great events. She valued equally social obligations and those which concerned the serious affairs of life. Her daughter's defiance shocked her respect for the laws of society, as much as it offended her affection which she now considered to be of no avail. She tried to coax her with gentle insistence which she finally saw would produce no result.
After her departure and slight thought of regret concerning the misunderstanding, Elizabeth found joy in again indulging her melancholy. She was soon aroused out of it, however, by her father who did not even knock at the door, and came in quite unceremoniously, dashing, beaming, smiling, his eyes bright, his mustache curled and a rose bud in the buttonhole of his dinner coat.
"He, too!" she thought, irritated and cross.
He paid no attention to her unfriendly attitude. He never needed to exert himself with Elizabeth, who was always so tractable.
"Well, little one?" he asked, playfully. "You have nerves, you have asserted yourself, you have made your mother cry, and she is crying, on my word! She certainly needs very little to make her weep."
Curled up in her chair, she did not deign to answer him, and to avoid saying too much, she drew her lips together, so that her mouth was tight shut. Despite his white hair, he was very lively in his evening attire. If he had had any idea of what she was thinking of him, he would have ceased to annoy her.
"Are you ill? No ...? Besides, women's nerves! Come along with us. The Vimelles will be so offended if you do not come. Philippe Lagier will amuse you. He is witty and lively. He is rather making love to you, Philippe Lagier, eh. Eh!"
"No one is making love to me."
She said this in such a peremptory way that he stopped short in his teasing. This little girl was certainly in a bad temper; it was better after all to leave her to sulk as she would. The art of living was fast disappearing when people no longer knew how to conceal their troubles, to bear them with fortitude, in order not to burden their neighbors. Society would soon sanction discussing one's private affairs publicly and wearing a sorrowful expression. And that was the inevitable result of a long period of democracy. So now he only thought of hastening his departure. Happily he found some comfort in seeing his face, still fresh, reflected in the mirror of the wardrobe.
"Well, rest, little one, if you are tired."
This expression of interest satisfied his paternal dignity, and as soon as he was out in the corridor, he cheered up.
Elizabeth, thus disturbed, was trying with difficulty to recover the lost trend of her reflections, when her children, having heard of her return, rushed into the room. They had just come in from their walk, and made a great noise with their hobnailed shoes. They were surprised not to see her in evening dress.
"You will be late," declared Marie Louise.
"I am dining with you, my darlings."
"Oh! Oh!" cried Philippe joyfully, using his big voice like a bell.
And the little girl was already calling from the staircase.
"Agatha, set three places."
Nothing pleased her so well as giving orders, except listening to stories or teasing her brother.
At table she did the honors of the dinner, as if her mother were a guest. Elizabeth was amused, but not without a touch of bitterness, noting therein the result of her frequent evenings away from them. Her mind receptive, she also realized that her children, entrusted too much to the care of servants, were losing many of their good habits; the one being proud of all the luxury she enjoyed, and particularly of the Passerat's beautiful motor with which to dazzle her less-favored playfellows; the other eating with his fingers and using kitchen slang in his conversation. Little disposed to scold them, she promised herself to look after them more carefully and to begin to put them to bed herself, a fact of which little Philippe took advantage to show her all the tricks he had learned to do in his night-shirt.
As soon as he was in bed, all curled up with his knees almost under his chin, the little man fell asleep, and, once asleep, he did not move any more than a trunk,—a habit for which Marie Louise took him to task. She, on the other hand, fought sleep with obstinate resistance, and only gave in at last when her eyelids could no longer keep open to see the light of the lamp.
"Tell me a story," she asked when she was tucked in.
Elizabeth sat down beside her and thought her being there would soothe her.
"I don't know one."
"Papa always knew some."
She rarely spoke of her father. This remembrance astonished the young woman and was not pleasant to her.
"Yes," said the little girl, "the one about Jeanne d'Arc and about Cyclops."
"About Cyclops?"
"Y es, the one who had only one eye in the middle of his forehead, and who let the sheep get away from him."
Albert Derize had willingly pruned the forest of the epics, the Iliad, the Odyssey, the "Song of Roland" like any good woodman, to make of them playthings for his children.
"Go to sleep, darling, go to sleep."
"Well, I shall have to tell you one, Mamma."
"You must go to sleep."
"The one about the cup of happiness, if you like. There was once a knight who had a very sad wife in his castle. And she went to sleep when he was away hunting. And then he saw fairies dancing—do fairies dance?"
"Of course, they do. Go to sleep."
"And he saw one there who was the most beautiful of all, and she carried a golden cup with diamonds. It was not for champagne. It was the cup of happiness."
Her mother bent over her, thinking she was asleep, but the little voice continued faintly after a moment.
"So the knight tore it from her hands and rode off on his horse and escaped, and he made a present of it."
"To whom?" Elizabeth asked mechanically.
"To the lady ... who was sad in the castle ... and he went to sleep when he was hunting...."
The story went on like this in a circle, but at last the lids with their long lashes ceased fluttering like little wings, and after two or three nervous movements, the child went to sleep on her pillow of golden curls.
Elizabeth stood motionless for some time comparing the sleep of Marie Louise with that of her brother. She was a much more imaginative child, of finer sensibility, who had to be soothed and strengthened. This duty devolved on the mother alone—now that Albert was no longer there. Albert? Where was he now? Could he desert them? She did not love him now, but when he was there, she felt the house was stronger, better protected from all harm.
To escape this recollection which tormented her, close to her children, she got up and went to her room near by. She half closed the door after her without entirely shutting it, that she might hear the least sound and be out of the draught. After taking these precautions she hastened to open the window, as she was exceedingly warm.
The moon had risen, but was hidden by the roof, and its light resembled a cloth spread over the country. The numerous lawns, without a shadow, unfolded themselves in the distance, smooth, pale and even, only broken here and there by groups of trees, standing like mysterious conspirators in the dark. Scattered stars twinkled on the edge of the horizon, without forming very distinct constellations. And over the neighboring villa, where the Passerats were living, a larch tree stood out, its curved branches outlining the silhouette of a pagoda on the wall.
This silence, this peace which Elizabeth thought she would enjoy on the balcony with the scent of the rose bushes, was disturbed by the noise of fireworks that were being let off at the casino. Rockets sprang up with a loud report, disappeared into the air and fell back again in a colored rain, whose effect was half-destroyed by the moonlight. And this was the signal for shrieks, applause, the expression of festivity, mingled with the fanfare of trumpets.
She went back into the room. The noise of her heart was sufficient for her. Nothing could lessen the impression of disgust that Philippe Lagier's avowal had left upon her, and which she could not forget, as she went from room to room. She drank a glass of water into which she had poured a few drops of ammonia and aniseed to take away the taste of ashes which her lips retained. But they were immediately dry again. A half forgotten, unexpected, almost ludicrous recollection of her childhood came suddenly, to give concrete meaning to her impressions. As a little girl she had read in mythology that there were men with goats' hoofs called fauns. Amused at this peculiarity, she had spent an entire day gazing at the passers-by in the street. "Have you met any?" her best friend and confidante, Blanche Servin, asked incredulously. In order not to make her book seem untrue, she had replied: "How can one tell if they have shoes on?" Our dispositions exert so much influence upon our individual interpretation of things that this old recollection, instead of being a diversion to her, satisfied her desire for revolt and augmented her dislike. One must see life clearly. Well! she had opened her eyes, and saw about her only ignominy and the basest deception, not even glossed over by the outward decency. One woman had a lover, not for love, but to appear up-to-date. Another took advantage of her husband's liaison. That old man—her father—allowed his mistress to be on friendly terms with his wife and daughter. And as to that honor—of which men pretend to make a religion, even if they have renounced every other law, she knew what to think of that, since the lawyer, the counsel, the most intimate friend of Albert hoped to profit by these services to offer himself as a comforter. There was no happy medium between the blindness of her mother, her own before her separation, and the recognition of this wickedness which haunted her like a nightmare. To see clearly was to gaze upon the ground, to find the cloven foot. Bah!
A sigh, then a half stifled cry which she heard from the adjoining room aroused her from the disgust into which she had sunk as into a quicksand, made her get up from her chair and walk softly with a mother's consideration. The little boy had not stirred; he was still in the same uncomfortable position. It was Marie Louise who was sleeping restlessly. Elizabeth put back the blanket which the child had thrown off, and seated herself between the two beds. By the light of the lamp she looked for a long time from right to left, comparing the motionless features of the two little sleeping faces, one quite at ease, the other fidgety and, even in this semi-conscious state, restless, as if the imagination back of the closed eyelids had remained awake and continued to work even with the lights out and the stage darkened.
"What will become of these dear mites?" she thought, turning from thoughts of herself. And the fear of the future brusquely aroused her. Later on, very soon they would learn what life meant, alone, quite alone. Even a mother's most tender devotion was powerless. They would live again the everlasting experience which each must live alone. They would meet the same sorrows, feel the same bitterness, know the same despair. For the world would not change for them. She had discovered it as it is in all its reality. Ah, at least, if she could not protect them, could not accompany them on the road, ought she not strengthen them by cultivating their understanding of disillusions, especially the little girl who took her little joys and sorrows with such intensity and was not able to distinguish, even in her games, the difference between fancy and fact, which was never sufficiently attractive to please her whims?
The night light gave to the objects in the room an animated appearance, and lengthened the shadows to the ceiling. Elizabeth felt herself surrounded by dangers and knew the necessity of protecting her children, threatened as she was. Since her departure from Paris she had given her entire time to the new life which was arranged for her, in the daily distraction of which she had forgotten her troubles. But this new life for herself and the children demanded constant attention and devotion. Now she was meeting it face to face and she feared it. Her arms hanging motionless at her side, she gave herself up to the discouragement of the minute, while she was beginning to grasp the importance of courage. Never, never would she, so unprepared, educated and trained as she was for a very ordinary lot, be able to adapt herself to the life before her.
"The cup of ... happiness ..." stammered Marie Louise in her dreams.
The cup of happiness! What irony this evening! Was it not too unjust that she should be thus punished for no reason; in the fullness of her youth be overwhelmed with so many burdens and have so little help! In her despair she detested Albert, who had deserted her in such cowardly manner. No doubt he was no worse than others, weak as they were, a slave to his desires and cruelly selfish. Now she knew him! How he had deceived her!
"What have I done to him? What have I done to him?" she kept repeating to herself as she wept.
She thought of the note-books which Philippe Lagier had brought her, which might furnish an answer to her question. What hypocritical answer? When the maid came to stay with the children, she went back and lit her lamp. Quite overcome with suffering and bitterness, her nerves trembling, she began the reading which kept her awake late into the night.
The note-books belonging to Albert Derize which Philippe Lagier had given to Elizabeth, contained the story of his life from the month of January 1902 until April 1905, that is to say from the sixth year of his marriage until the time of the separation. In accordance with her habit of regularity, she opened the earliest book at the first page. It was truly a singular diary; it was difficult to recognize oneself therein. In the beginning she saw only notes concerning history, observations of real life, plans of articles, lecture notes hastily written down in a few lines, short accounts of visits to some historic spot, all that preparatory work indispensable to an active writer whose brain demands fresh copy every day. She was at once disheartened, being unused to seek explanations. Again this return to a dead past seemed so useless to her. She was about to give up reading, when a little cross marked in blue pencil caught her eye. The date, underlined with a stroke of the pen, attracted her attention; May 25th, 1903. It was the anniversary of their wedding. Four lines recalled it to her memory—she interpreted them with amazement: