"October 28th: Why did I speak? She had accepted my invitation to spend the day at Chantilly. To-morrow we should not be able to go. To-morrow my house will no longer be empty. We had lunched at the keeper's near the Château of the White Queen. The weather was so fine that we were able to remain outdoors a long time, and we had a good view of the pond of Comelle which continues along the Thève and the zigzag slopes of the forest. We could even see, standing out in the heart of the wood, the black tree-trunks growing more and more slender, the ground being covered with a mass of their leaves. However, they still retained sufficient foliage to show us from a distance, like a bouquet, their varied tones of gold and reddish copper.
"I suggested that we walk along an unsanded path as far as the crossways of the Table. About her head and over her neck floated one of those white veils such as women are wearing nowadays, which seem befitting to a certain type of face, as sea gulls to a ship on the water. From time to time I watched her as she walked. She trod so gently on the dead leaves that they scarcely rustled. I followed the delicacy of her movements. In her long falcon eyes flashed sparks of pleasure. The sun was already setting in the woods through which we could see the horizon; the days have grown so short. A pleasant forest whose extent is not overwhelming like the German forests—whose order rests and soothes, instead of suffocating one, and which invites us to the hunt, to merry-making, to sentimental walks. A stag, crossing an avenue, looked at us fearlessly. At the crossways of the Table we saw twelve short roads comparable under their light archways to a dozen slender rays.
"Our return was much slower. I felt her nearness to me. I should only have had to bend a little to take her in my arms. But the expression of her eyes often seems somewhat distant to me. I walked more slowly and said to her:
"'Why do we realize life so powerfully when we are together?'
"'Because we are friends.'
"She understood immediately whither I was tending. Her face is so expressive that I read her impressions at once. She was overwrought. She tried to stop me.
"'Say no more,' she begged.
"It was too late. She realized, even if she did not already know it, the place she filled in my heart. With teeth clenched, trembling and shrinking, taken unawares as a stream which freezes, she listened to my love. Was I mistaken in believing I saw her grow and brighten? She did not hide from me her agitation, nor even her joy.
"'I should have interrupted you; I had not the courage. Forgive me. I have not been happy, and it is so inspiring for a woman to hear a man like you say these things, which have entered into my soul as the sun into the forest. I did not know how to resist them. Be indulgent with me—why have you come so late into my life?'
"'Too late?'
"'Yes.'
"'I had forgotten. You still love?'
"She dismissed my emotion with a smile.
"'Yes, perhaps.'
"'Let us go back,' I said, somewhat brusquely. 'The train to Paris leaves at five.'
"'We shall take the next one.'
"'No, Anne, it is better to go back now.'
"And I explained to her gently, as an arrangement of necessity, that it was better that we did not see each other again, at least, not for a while. I was amazed at the peace which followed my exaltation. She protested energetically, almost violently.
"'No, no, I cannot lose you. You have become indispensable to my moral life. Since I met you my dull days have taken on color. I do not wish to fall back into my old state of indifference.'
"The unexpected outburst surprised me.
"'But how about me?'
"'Cannot a man love unselfishly? I shall help you.'
"'To forget you?'
"'Yes. You will have no difficulty. In seeing me frequently you will not fail to see that I am no longer beautiful. A sincere friendship is not impossible. Will you not try? I ask it of you.'
"Her request was disconcerting insistence. By what strange and sudden change was she now pleading with me? I concluded by saying:
"'Let us decide nothing, Anne. Circumstances will decide for us.'
"'No, not circumstances. We! I assure you that we can.'
"During this discussion darkness had come on. Between the branches the sky was crimson. We had to hurry to escape the cold. In the carriage we looked at each other without speaking. The light which served as a background to the tree-trunks grew fainter by degrees, and the forest embraced us with added mystery. The wheels made no noise; only the sound of the horses' hoofs could be heard sinking into the thick bed of sand as we rode along the avenue. It was a dull, regular sound. Nothing disturbed our emotion. I took her hand which was still ungloved and raised it to my lips. It was frozen, but its touch was like fire to me.
"'Friends, are we not?' she said to me later as she left me.
"She smiled. I feared to promise more than I could perform, so I said nothing, nothing. The impressions of nature, of art which I have enjoyed alone all these years, that I wanted to enjoy alone, to gain a deeper understanding of them, I now share with her. She has broadened my outlook on life."
"November: I have hardly been out of the house for a fortnight. I tried to become absorbed in my work. At the time I generally went to see her, I feel as though fever had attacked me. No longer able to bear it, I told her so last evening.
"'Why do you not come?' she replied, laughing. 'I shall give you some quinine.'"
"December: Every time I come back from the Rue Cassini, it seems to me, as I enter my house, that I put on a mask or hide something I have stolen. It is a sensation of cruel restraint. But the welcome I receive dissipates it at once. There is no comparison whatsoever between the intellectual stimulation which I experience in my unlimited conversations with Anne, and the colorless calm which awaits me at home. I now feel the need of that thought and our excitement to make me know that I am alive. And I am growing accustomed to this sort of double life.
"How can a woman so blindly accept the deepest of all separations, the moral separation? After more than seven years of marriage, I am still amazed at it. She lacks curiosity as she does distrust. The daily round satisfies her. Just now I was studying her under the lamplight. She is scarcely thirty, and her expressionless face reveals no doubt of the heart, no personal thought. She can see in me neither a new joy, nor despair. I am all in all to her, but I do not know to-day how I have been able to please her. I no longer think of her love. Nevertheless I am so weak or so complex that her youth still touches me, and that my desire to animate her, futile as it is, is not entirely crushed. I have loved her too much for her happiness or grief ever to be indifferent to me, yet I am giving myself with delight to the danger which threatens us. The younger we are, the less we can discern in reality the object of our devotion. We modify it, we recreate it, and later, when we awake to our mistake, we blame the object, instead of our capacity to idealize. We should know how to make use of the truth, which, although different, still has its attractions. But we do not forgive it for having deceived us.
"What I am passionately fond of never interests Elizabeth. She does not know or else she disregards the treasures of life. Either through thoughtlessness or indifference, she takes no part in it and narrows her life, when I try to enlarge it. We live together: she knows nothing of me and never will. There is neither discussion nor intimacy between us. It is the peace of the household, of so many households unconsciously divided against themselves. Children and the active life of Paris give to this secret divorce an appearance of harmony."
"December 28th: Marie Louise and Philippe are asked to two children's matinées on the same day. Philippe would try to get out of going to both of them, but his sister will give up neither. She is offered her choice: she goes from one to the other, and as soon as we wish to carry out her decision, she takes it back. Her desire for amusement is not gratified by one affair."
"January 1st, 1905: What has this New Year in store for us?
"Anne is very sad on these days of family gatherings, and wishes to hide it from me.
"'One cannot help regretting Christmas,' she said to me with a smile, belied by the drooping corners of her mouth.
"Two or three English friends on a trip came to greet her effusively. After they had gone, I said to her:
"'Everybody kisses to-day. Is it not my turn?'
"She began to laugh.
"'There is no mistletoe, my friend. Ah, if there were only mistletoe!'
"'Would you go under it with me?'
"'In Paris your drawing-rooms are so small.'
"My exaltation of the Autumn has quieted itself, or rather has become as the red leaves inlaid in a Galle vase that I gave her as a souvenir. That which I thought impossible is materializing little by little. A lasting tie ill-defined and somewhat uncertain is binding us. I prefer her glance to her eyes, her voice to her lips, her friendship to my desire."
"January 2nd: Dr. Heaume died yesterday, regardless of so untimely a date. I saw him in his bed. He had regained his stature. His face was impressively calm, with a serenity which startles one—yes, startles and attracts—on features that have only appeared sorrowful and tortured.
"In reality, he adored life. It was his only faith. Instead of finishing his treatise on nervous diseases, he had begun a study of the development of the passions. He multiplied the reasons for prolonging his life and did not fear failing his masterpiece as everyone had failed him.
"At his side, his wife was weeping as if she had always recognized the rare force of that spirit now fled.
"Overcome by the realization of so much lost power, I went to share my reflections with Anne. Even our silence is the echo of our thoughts. At home mine have no echo."
"January: Visited the Conciergie together. One of her ancestors was killed in this court on the first day of the September massacres.
"'He once appeared to me,' she told me.
"At the beginning of our conversations there is always a short digression. Her indifferent manner keeps me on the alert; then I find again her candor and her deep soul. It always requires time to harmonize.
"She does not try to convince me. I ask at all hazards:
"'Where and when?'
"'Do you want to know? It was in a lawyer's office.'
"'An extraordinary place for a ghost.'
"'Yes, they were advising me to give up my father's estate. He looked at me severely and showed me this wound. The dead always advise us to consent. They don't have to bear the consequences. At that time I thought that there were no useless sacrifices.'
"'And now?'
"'All sacrifices are useless.'
"Her golden eyes fixed me boldly as if she were defying me. I recalled her look of pride in London when she told me she had paid the last family debt.
"Along the quay, behind Notre Dame, she talked to me of her childhood, of her early youth in Dauphiné. It is a subject to which she seldom refers. Her recollection of our meeting is more exact than mine. She recalls forgotten circumstances. I was shy, unsociable and proud in those days.
"'A little absurd, is it not?'
"She replies gravely:
"'I recognized your superiority.'
"'What superiority?'
"She is seeking a definition, which is always embarrassing.
"'The passion to see clearly, but Philippe Lagier had it too; above all the power of never knowing a state of indifference, the wonderful instinct of all the innumerable resources of life.'
"'Thank you,' I said, smiling. 'You are too kind.'
"But she retained her serious expression."
"January 26th: It is all over! Our walks in Paris, our free talks at the fireside, at least for a time. She leaves to-night for London to visit Miss Pearson for three weeks!
"Something more than absence saddens our farewells. Shall we find intact on her return this rather diverse friendship in which we have known such rare joy? I tell her of my doubts.
"'I am half English,' she replies. 'The country is so attractive to me because of the habit of self-government one acquires there and the evidence of honesty in the ideal of friendship. Do you not owe to it this friendship of which you are speaking? A Frenchwoman would never have asked you for it.'
"'Is this friendship singular, Anne? I know nothing of your life over there. Only, I am uneasy. Uneasy and jealous.'
"'Have you no confidence in me? You have the essential.'
"'And the rest?'
"'The rest is not worth while.'
"There is something in these words which leaves a deep melancholy. Before leaving her I looked at the ceiling.
"'Still no mistletoe?'
"She laughed with all her youthfulness.
"'Still no mistletoe!'
"'I shall bring some for your return.'
"'Not till next Christmas, mind!'"
"March 26th: When I saw her again two months later, I verified the presentiment I had on her departure. Something inexplicable has changed our relations. Anne is more reserved, and again at moments almost wild. Will time give back to us the harmonious peace of former days?
"Her letters, though long and frequent, full of details of her daily doings, make me realize this. Another feeling absorbs her, or with her love of independence, she does not care to commit herself."
"April 2nd: Little by little the same passionate taste for conversation draws us together. She is exalted, and I find her again as she was, and all of a sudden her expression becomes tense, as if she regretted giving way to her feelings. There is a tragedy going on in her of which I know nothing."
"April 5th: I know now. And after the shock of my discovery, I continue in that happy state of languor in which one prolongs and deepens an emotion, desiring to retain it in the present, rather than abandon it to the past.
"I received a letter from Miss Pearson to-day begging me to use my influence with Anne, in favor of a marriage with that Lord Howard, who has asked her so often. There is no longer any thought of M. Portal. In England questions concerning fortune, position and family connections are of the greatest importance. Miss Pearson enumerated to me the advantages of such a union, which would place our friend in her proper rank. She appealed with authority to the confidence Mlle. de Sézery had in me.
"A curious mission which has upset me! However, I went to see Anne at my usual time, and without comment, gave her the letter. I still see the flame which flashed from her eyes.
"'Miss Pearson,' she said angrily to me, 'is hateful. She had no right to—Why did she keep me from going to India?'
"'You wanted to go?'
"'Yes, last month.'
"'Without telling me? Why?'
"'I do as I please.'
"This cruel suppression of our friendship offended me. I rose to leave.
"'So you will be able to decide without me.'
"She hastened to detain me. I have never seen her so overwrought, so pale. Her long golden eyes were veiled. I am powerless before their sorrowful expression.
"'No, no,' she said. 'You will choose for me.'
"Conciliated by her agitation, I made a gesture of despair.
"'Oh! I ...'
"'Speak!'
"'How could I live without you?'
"And the fire instantly reappeared in her glance and lit up her face, which, in its changing expression, revealed her thoughts. I could not fail to notice it.
"'Never mention this marriage to me again,' she said.
"I had recovered possession of myself and pleaded another cause.
"'It is not a question of myself, Anne. This marriage would give you, if not the joy of youth, at least peace and that distraction which one readily finds in a circle suitable to one's tastes and personal value.'
"'You no longer love me?'
"'There was no question of my love,' I said.
"'You would give it up? I am no longer capable of a sacrifice. Life has demanded top many of me.'
"'From you?'
"'You did not understand? For ten years...."
"She was quite close to me. I had only to hold out my arms for her to come and rest against my heart, with her head on my shoulder.
"'Anne—'
"'Let us say no more. I am so ashamed of myself—'
"I felt her all a-quiver. How long did we remain so? Those wonderful moments had a greater weight—the weight of years. The April evening was prolonging its light, its invitation of Spring. Our love made us tremble together. When she gained control of herself she lifted her bowed head and smiled like a young, cajoling girl:
"'You did not bring the mistletoe?'
"I touched her burning cheek. I wished to touch her lips, to possess that which had betrayed her secret. She did not permit me. With a quick movement she tore herself away from me.
"'No, no,' she murmured, frightened, 'our love must suffice.'
"'It is my first kiss.'
"Surprised, I repeated. 'The first?'
"She blushed delightfully.
"'Yes, at my age. Now I should like to die. It would be the last.'
"'Anne!'
"Thus our happiness was tinged with melancholy. How should we now unite the past with the future? Do not let us look so far ahead. Let us content ourselves to-night in exhausting the strength of our emotion. To-morrow we shall make lasting resolutions."
"April 6th: Eleven o'clock at night. My home is broken up. I should never have destroyed it. Anne knew it. I cannot write of this scene. I am crushed. Shall I never see Marie Louise and Philippe again? Shall I allow them to be torn away from me? Elizabeth has misunderstood, belittled and lowered our love; so I have rebelled. She has reproached me for lying to her, and she was incapable of understanding or hearing the truth about our life. It is her desire. I am free. And this thought obsesses me: if Anne were not to give herself to me now that my love is the only thing left to me—"
The remainder of the note-book consisted of blank pages. Albert had given up his diary on that date, and the sudden silence, after so long a confession, spoke volumes. Elizabeth turned over the leaves till the last, seeking an excess of sadness with which to avoid reflection. At last, she lost all external pretext of escaping from her own thoughts. She looked at the clock: it was three in the morning. Her body on fire, she dragged herself mechanically to the window and opened it. Fainting, she sought relief, she wanted to call for help. The peace of night prevented her crying aloud. In place of the moonlight she had left, she found herself face to face with darkness, and went back to put out the lamp. Then she rested on her elbows.
She could distinguish only the vague slope of the meadows and the dark mass of the mountain on the other side of the valley. But, over the black arch stretched like a velvet cloth, countless stars stood out in relief. She saw such nights every time she returned from an evening party. Nevertheless, this one was different—new. She inhaled its sweet breath eagerly. The air breathed out by the rose trees in the garden, and the pine trees in the park laden with a healthy scent, caressed her like the hand of a friend. She felt a cold delicate touch on her overheated cheek, and leaned forward to get the full benefit of its relief. And in her gratitude she noticed the different lights, the continued throbbing of the stars whose multitude had never interested her. One particularly, which was nearing the summit of Les Quatre Seigneurs rapidly changed color, being alternately green and rose like an opal. So the night, which, in her indifference, had thus far seemed only lifeless chaos, stirred itself, took pity on her, comforted her as a living being, as the only living being capable of lightening her despair.
But this same night, whose pure calmness she invoked, was wrapping in its coolness of closing summer, the love of Albert and Anne. By a sudden change she detested it, and called for daylight, less indulgent to lovers, and therefore less distressing to her. After accepting her desertion patiently and calmly for five months, she was now rebelling and wringing her hands, as she reproached the night. Ignorance, the feeling of offended dignity, contempt, no longer protected her from the jealous fury which possessed her. They were together at this hour—side by side, and too late she knew the strength of that passion which had attracted them, the one to the other, and which she herself, by leaving him, had allowed to develop. This Anne de Sézery whom she had received in her home without heeding her ardent nature, whom she had never looked at except to find fault with her—of whom she never thought till then, except to attribute to her the basest of motives, she now pictured with her golden eyes, her face lighted up by emotion and the intellectual delight which emanated from her. She hated her—while she tried to be just to her. She was keenly alive to her suffering, as though she had just been deceived.
A cry which echoed from afar aroused her. It was one of those calls which the shepherds send from one hill to another: a prolonged and lingering note—followed by a sharp trill which seemed to mock her. It was repeated once, then again, growing more distant, less distinct. The silence added to it, accentuated its dual expression of mockery and despair. Was it the signal of a lover or the good-by of shepherd? Elizabeth, overwhelmed, listened for its repetition. The return to her thoughts tired her so, that she longed to find rest from the expression of her sorrow in any external manifestation, even in discordant music. But in the silence, she surrendered again to the loneliness of love. Had she ever felt that love before, or, so aroused, was she experiencing it for the first time? It dispelled triumphantly, with brutality and certainty, all the contempt she had felt in the past few weeks, since she had known of the secret wickedness going on about her in the name of love. She even forgave Philippe Lagier his impertinent confession, for the sake of the warning he had given her at Grenoble, which now came back to her memory like a realized prediction.
"To love, if one sincerely loves you," he had said—"if one spares you every difficulty, every effort, is not to one's credit. To love when you are deserted, betrayed, forgotten, when your heart is trampled upon,—that is love."
Why had she then rebelled against such just words? Albert had trampled on her heart all that night—had she ever loved him as she did at that hour when she was opening her eyes wide to the obscurity of life? The morning when he had first whispered in her ear the words that every young girl expects and which do not surprise her, the afternoon when her fiancé had shyly touched her cheek with his lips at St. Martin d'Uriage, the evening she became a wife without even understanding how to make of her suffering an offering of love, none of these experiences had brought her memories, comparable in depth of feeling to this distress which was crushing her. Did she have to lose her happiness to know its value?—And she had even lost it without understanding it. That her humiliation might be complete, she had to learn it from another love which was passed over her, like an infectious illness, devouring her with its fire.
The increasing coolness of those last hours of night did not calm her fever. The wind grew cooler, as it touched her face—She clung to the window sash with all her strength to support herself. So many and such overwhelming thoughts crushed her at the same time. Murmurs, then short stifled sobs from the children's room, made her start, listen, but she did not move from her place. Contrary to her habits, she did not go to the door, but let Marie Louise, whose voice she had distinguished, fight alone against her nightmare. She shut herself up savagely in her despair, and the last sentence of Albert's diary, so cruel in its selfishness, became intelligible to her. The little girl had gone to sleep again when she felt able to go to her.
"The cup ... of happiness" she thought in recalling the last words the child had said.
She had held it in her hands—the divine cup—She had received it as a treasure which was her due, and scarcely noticing it, she had quaffed it unconcernedly, and had then allowed it to be taken from her.
How had she been unable to suspect what life could hold for her? She no longer defended herself against Albert's accusations. To defend herself meant to increase the influence of the rival. She preferred to be the guilty one. Yes, in her home, one breathed the odor of death, and not the fascination of life. Instead of a warm light on entering, one met darkness—cold.
"Why," she beseeched in condemning her past, "why was I not warned? I was so young, so simple and ignorant. Would I not have molded myself? Young girls do not know. No one tells them that everyone has to make his own home and watch his fire. They collect stones by chance, and the first breath of wind disperses their ashes. It is wicked not to help them."
But her memory unhesitatingly gave her the answer. She remembered all the circumstances, particularly frequent in the first days of their marriage, when Albert had tried to shake off her apathy, to give to her a little vital energy. In traveling, at the fireside, in the wintertime, in Paris, on the terrace at Saint Martin, in the summer, he had tried to vivify the past, nature, art, books, the fleeting moment. How much time and effort he had used to try to interest her, to awaken her passion, to increase the value of her days! She thought of this with tenderness and understood it to be proofs of his love.
"He did love me. He loved me before he loved her—When he spoke to me enthusiastically, feelingly, about his favorite works or things of the past, it was love that he was holding out to me. To understand life one must love it—one must love. I see it now...."
She had built up that wall against which all force is useless: the power of unresponsiveness. Her resistance had been constant. To her understanding, to live meant to let live. Had she not filled daily her petty duties as mistress of the house, and her simple maternal duties as well? What more could she do? The bitterness her husband sometimes manifested, which he rapidly overcame, but which showed frequently on his face when he came home, had seemed unjust. Now she explained it to herself. The home lacked a living, happy soul to give meaning to the humblest cares; to the most trifling needs, diffusing that spirit of harmony, relaxation, peace, which allows the man of mental activity to follow the course of his thoughts, to gather them and afterwards give expression to them—not in muddled sentences, but with quiet authority, capable of soothing and comforting other people, and awakening them to a realization of the flight of time. So, by an exalted intuition, vague and pathetic—she began to understand the rôle that fate had assigned to her in which she had failed.
Her children had appreciated their father more than she had. When they welcomed him with their laughter, with their shouts of joy, and when they unceasingly asked him for new toys or stories, they were instinctively paying him homage. They attributed to him the power of doubling their happiness in life. And he himself met with only indolence or indifference, as if, in spite of his strength, he never had need of rest and relaxation. Year by year he felt himself more alone and unsatisfied. And other women, noticing that loneliness, waited upon him, and recognizing his superiority, tempted him. She had never guessed at this menace which hung over her. She had not anticipated Anne de Sézery. Without doubt she was the cause and origin of her own unhappiness.
She hastily withdrew from the window, seeing before her like an apparition, the most cruel passage of the diary, which entered so deeply into the heart of man,—that referring to the mystery, to the fatality of love,—that passage which dared to express the thought that even in happiness, one can never be quite sure of one's desires. She held out her arms to push it from her. No, no, it would have been a warning to her to be on her guard. Defenseless, she had been surprised in her sleep. But her defeat was irreparable. The other one had understood too well what she had neglected. Reaching this last stage of the mad course that her thoughts followed without direction, she gave way to her despair. Why had she not been so cruelly wounded when she discovered her husband's treachery? Sorrow was like love, an abyss whose depths can never be explored. The thought which took hold of her with all its force, which was like a death watch at the side of a departed relative, instantly transformed her knowledge, but not her courage. She saw clearly into the depths of her own soul, but she fathomed her weakness and gave way to it. Of what value to discover one's mistake so late when all was lost?
Night was stealing away like a wolf. Over the mountain tops the first lights of dawn were appearing, all golden on a sky of green, a sky of a color, so delicate, so pure. The stars were fading away, melting into the fresh air as snow in the heat. Suddenly Elizabeth felt the touch of the sun upon her face which was bathed in tears. Overcome by her sorrow, she shuddered and put her hands over her eyes, as if to protect them from this unwelcome contact. The light shone through her fingers. All about her the garden, woods, meadows, all nature, was awakening. The trees, which had been so indistinct, were outlined against the golden light which was rising and filling space. In the bushes the birds were welcoming the return of day with joyous song. It was life which was again coming into its own with a full sense of possession. She too was filled with a mad longing to live.
To live? She did not know how, she would try. She would struggle against her stupidity, her apathy, her ignorance. For herself? It was too late. For her children who should not be like her. But was it not difficult then to think of anyone's else happiness than her own? Timidly she went to her mirror, and beautified by the dawn as were the flowers, she saw herself, although pale and with reddened eyes, withal still so young, that hope entered into her heart like a sunbeam.
"I am young. She is not so young."
She tried to smile at herself but could not. The dawning day bathed her in all its beauty. Nevertheless, she trembled with cold.
"The day—Life—They do not revive me."
Turning from her mirror, she concentrated her mind, her poor tired mind, on a single idea—which became the axis of her actions, as a star that of the world.
"Now, yes, now, I know that I love him. And I hope for nothing from him but sorrow...."
And she understood vaguely that this exaltation of suffering signified a new life dawning for her.
A German legend, intended to illustrate that time is a mere convention, tells of the marvelous adventure of a young monk, who, doubting eternity, was attracted by the song of a bird in a wood near his hermitage. It was such a delightful song that one never tired of listening to it. When the monk returned to his convent he recognized no one there, and according to his recollections, it was found that three hundred years had elapsed since his departure. He had thought they were only a few minutes.
Elizabeth, after sitting up all night, was so worn out that she believed, on the contrary, that she bore the weight of long years. She was not prepared to penetrate so far into the forest of life. She had sought the way so keenly, that she was tired to death. Her health suffered for it, and she was obliged to remain in bed several days. Her illness was attributed to the treachery of early September evenings which simulate the softness of the summer, and are really cold. This enforced rest allowed her to deepen the resolutions which were to change her life. She felt herself unequal to seeing the visitors who wished to pay her a sick-call, and unable to recommence the worldly show, of which her new point of view showed her the emptiness. As soon as she was well, she declared her intention of settling at St. Martin d'Uriage.
"That is madness," her father objected, "nobody lives in the mountains in the autumn, particularly when recovering from a bad fever. And what will our friends say?"
Quietly, but firmly, she gave her reasons:
"To begin with, it is not the mountains. The sharper air will give me back my health and strengthen the children. And, moreover, I want to see fewer people. It is better in my position. And you will come to us frequently."
"To Albert's," corrected M. Molay-Norrois, who was surprised to find such determination in place of her usual pliable indifference.
Offended, she replied:
"It is true, but he will not come there."
"And if you were mistaken?"
"You will take me, Father."
Pleased to have proved in a word, the value of his paternal rôle, he no longer insisted.
The country house at Saint-Martin was opened again. The children recognized again with shouts of joy, the wooden porches which encircle the walls. A large garden, enclosed by a hedge, separated it from the country road. It was rather a deserted orchard where fruit trees, wild plants and flowers grew without cultivation. On the side of the farm, groups of pine-trees, an arbor and a stream gave it the appearance of a park. Opposite the entrance gate, an alley of plane trees extended to the church, which, new-built, stands against an old Roman steeple with a stone roof, the last vestige of an ancient chapel.
The village of St. Martin is built on a projection of the slopes of Chamrousse. From the mountain, a sea of verdure, meadows and pine woods seem to burst forth into these scattered hamlets, as if to submerge them. Below, that is in the foreground, the Chateau of Saint-Ferriol, standing bolt upright on a wooded promontory, with a pretty swaggering air, looks defiantly at the fortress with its towers, gables and superimposed terraces. Some seven hundred feet below, the fresh valley of Uriage is stretched out. From this terrace hidden by trees, one looks out on an extended view which is bordered by the mountains of Drac and by the Chartreuse in the distance. As the bell nearby sounded the last Angelus, Elizabeth, who had just finished putting her room in order, saw from her window the flocks returning, as evening came up from the plain. The peace of the country was so complete that she felt it in her heart.
The lights in the Casino and the hotels were being turned on. She was happy to be so far away from them. Here, she could master herself. An impression which dated from the first days of her marriage naturally recurred to her. Albert, on such an evening, had taken her hand to kiss it.
"See," he had said, "we are separated from the whole world. With my work and you, I want nothing more."
She had not understood the fullness of happiness which he hoped to find in her, and that this simple happiness must be jealously guarded.
Night began to frighten her. She feared sleeping in this old building, with its long passages and huge rooms, in which every corner seemed as if it concealed some unknown danger. She dared not inspect the rooms, nor fall asleep. For a long time she heard the tick of an old clock standing in the corridor, which seemed at every stroke to announce ghosts. She had never been afraid of anything when Albert was there. Henceforth it would require training to establish her courage and strengthen her weakness.
Marie Louise and Philippe had soon exhausted the novelty of change. The friendship of the farmers' children, calling in the fowls to give them corn, the mystery of the barns and the farm implements, the heat of the stables, the joy of going into the fields with the cows in the charge of their nervous governess, only made them forget for a few days their motor trips and the children's dances at the casino. They imperiously demanded more refined amusements. Their mother tried to take them walking to Prémol or to the Oursière Waterfall in the Chestnut woods. But she did not know the difference between mushrooms and toadstools, and the untiring youngsters wanted to drag her too far; unaccustomed to walking, she became exhausted before they did. This dual inferiority lessened her in their esteem. She ended by forgetting herself in trying to read stories to them. The library at Saint Martin, carelessly arranged on white pinewood shelves, contained all kinds of curious old books, novels of chivalry, collections of popular legends, ballads of France and other countries. Elizabeth had often seen her husband glance hurriedly over them and take out a volume which she thought was chosen at random, but from whose pages, fantastic heroes escaped. When she wished to do likewise, she saw how ignorant she was.
"You don't know," said Marie Louise condescendingly. "Papa knew. And then he did not read—he told us stories. It's much nicer."
And the impertinent little girl finished by saying:
"I will tell you the story of the 'Cup of Happiness.'"
How difficult it was to keep a resolution! After the sad exaltation of her night of awakening, which had inspired her so tremendously in her desire for change and sacrifice, she was now hesitating at little daily obstacles and struggling against them. She would never attain the object which she sought. What was the good of trying? Albert would know nothing of it. The irreparable separated them. He belonged to another love. Thus discouraged, she ceased all resistance and gave way. But she increased her sorrow by worrying, as one irritates a wound by frequent probings. And, at night, the sight of the lights attracted her. She was already considering going back, renouncing the decision made at a time of deadly insomnia. Only self-love still retained her. She pictured the ironical glances of Mme. Passerat or of Mme. de Vimelle.
One day, as she was walking sadly down the plane-tree avenue, whose heavy leaves are the first to become discolored, after the arrival of autumn, she accepted the invitation of the chapel, the door of which was wide open. She never went there, except to take the children to Mass on Sunday. She tried to pray, but no prayer came to her—only complaints and recriminations against her fate. She remembered one of Albert's reflections:—although an unbeliever, he still recognized the motive power of religious faith, but denied the existence of that faith in all those whose life was not the proof of it, at least in serious circumstances. And he added that he had scarcely known—except in the case of his mother—that constant elevation of thought in the humblest actions which are transfigured by the expression of an inner joy. This made her remorseful. She had had no news of Mme. Derize since she left Grenoble. She always spent the summer at Saint Martin: how had she stood the heat? Why should she have been thus deprived of the country air and the companionship of her grandchildren? Why strike her, punish her for a fault which she could not even understand, and so strongly condemned? Elizabeth was ashamed of her forgetfulness, and promised herself to make up for it the following day, while the heat and light of the whole month of September still permitted it. That was her prayer.
Next day, she had the children dressed early. They were delighted to go to Grenoble. But when it was time to leave, Marie Louise looked complainingly at the empty road:
"I don't see the motor," she said.
"We are going to walk as far as Uriage where we are to take the street car."
"The car?" repeated the youngsters bitterly.
Spoiled by the Passerat motor, they had little liking for this mode of travel. Nevertheless, they were resigned. At the Boulevard des Adieux when they had to climb a dark staircase, they complained again.
"It is not nice, not nice," said the little girl insolently.
"It is all dark," Philippe added.
Children do not willingly take the part of those who are conquered: it is life that makes them do so. Elizabeth quieted them with difficulty. She was already worrying about her mother-in-law's welcome, and did not want to bring two badly behaved children to see her. Old Fanchette, who opened the door for them, wore a cross face, as she greeted the young woman, but when she saw her thus accompanied, she was wreathed in smiles. Mme. Derize received her in her sweet, gentle way, as if she had not noticed the neglect she had suffered. In this way she prevented any apologies and awkwardness. She admired the rosy cheeks of the two children who were holding back, uncertain as to whether they should obey their instinctive respect for age, or respond to the tenderness she showed them.
"Back again in Grenoble?" she asked Elizabeth.
"Only for a time. We have come to lunch with you, Mother."
Fanchette, who was listening, muttered between her teeth:
"Now we must feed them, the dinner-hunters!"
"You will fare very badly," Mme. Derize replied in her quiet voice, "but so much the worse for you."
"I have brought a pie with me and some of those little strawberries that you liked from the Chamrousse woods."
"Ah, you spoil me."
"Just as if we had nothing to give them to eat!" still grumbled the servant, who made no pretense of being logical.
This addition to the menu was very welcome. During the meal, Elizabeth realized, with a sense of details which only a woman can recognize, that there was a decrease of the comforts of life. She looked more attentively at Albert's mother and saw a change in her face, which she had not noticed on her arrival. She attributed it to the heat of a long summer, endured without once leaving the town, surrounded by a chain of mountains which seem to focus the rays of the sun on the plain. How wicked she had been in not asking her to come up to Saint Martin, where every year she had enjoyed the good air! Immediately after luncheon, she made the offer which was in her mind.
"Mother," she said, "we are going to take you to Uriage."
"It is very late now," objected Mme. Derize, who blushed immediately, fearing that her words would be construed as a complaint.
But the slight flush did not color her cheeks very long. She added:
"I mean to say that the season is already well advanced."
"We have still part of September and October. Autumn often has many fine days. The church is only a few steps from the house. You will have the children. Come, I beg of you."
Fanchette, who was clearing away the table, was still a victim of contradictory emotions, and rattled her dishes. They might have asked madame before, but a stay in the mountains would still do her good.
Mme. Derize, somewhat surprised at so much insistence, was looking kindly at her daughter-in-law. She asked herself to what this unexpected manifestation was due. Had she been right to entrust Albert's books to the care of Philippe Lagier to be given to his young wife? She had blamed her initiative very much. She had often been remorseful and somewhat afraid. Could her mind be at ease, and did she even see a light in the dark future?
"I shall be very pleased to join you," she finally accepted.
"No, no. This is a kidnapping. We are going to carry you off with us this evening."
Like weak, shy people, Elizabeth manifested a nervous obstinacy. With an uncertain will, one seeks only immediate results.
"Well, let us make up our bundles," answered the old lady almost gayly, understanding that state of mind.
When the arrival of Mme. Derize became known at Uriage, the entire Molay-Norrois set unanimously condemned Elizabeth. It was an absurdly sentimental concession. It would have been better to have continued to maintain her dignity. Saint Martin was little frequented. Nobody bothered to meet an old woman of commonplace family. M. Passerat, who had formerly had occasion to converse with her, took her part, but as usual, showed himself to be a coward.
"She is an educated woman, I assure you."
"Yes, a former post-mistress," said Mme. de Vimelle curtly.
Philippe Lagier, who had left for Florence the day following his distressing defeat, was no longer there to make them respect his old friend. However, Mme. Molay-Norrois visited her daughter more frequently, and even made advances to Albert's mother. Elizabeth, absorbed in her one idea, showed herself to be unjust in not noticing these praiseworthy efforts. Another drama was being played about her which she never suspected.
The absent member of the family was never mentioned at Saint-Martin, but the thought of him abided there. It occupied the two women unceasingly, one of whom, the young wife, kept silent from pride, and the other from a motive of delicacy, feeling awkward even in presence of the children—in order not to violate instructions that she understood, but regretted. Mme. Derize did not compare the faults of her daughter-in-law with those of her son. She simply wanted to incline Elizabeth to indulgence. Orderly in her own inner life and very skeptical about the duration of illegitimate passions, she did not give up hope of Albert's return.
For a fortnight this strained condition continued. In the evenings after Marie Louise and Philippe had gone to bed, it became particularly unbearable. The two women worked under the same lamp; one, wearing spectacles and bent over a thick woolen stocking intended to warm some poor neighbor's baby in the wintertime; the other, very erect; guiding herself from a pattern of some tapestry on which she worked idly and without pleasure. They exchanged a few commonplaces, then the conversation stopped. The stillness of the country at night was all about them, penetrating and quieting them.
"Why does she not speak to me?" thought Elizabeth, reopening her wound. "Albert considered her so intelligent, so superior to poor silly little me. She does not bother with me. I am not worth the trouble. Then why did she come?"
She did not know that the older woman was reproaching herself in the same way.
"She is suffering," the latter said to herself. "She would suffer less, if she told me her secret which I guess, yet fear I may be mistaken. I ought to get closer to her, draw her to me and comfort her, and yet, I dare not—I feel a weight in my heart, which is choking and oppressing me. My lips are about to open, they do open, and I remain silent. Why, O my God, have I so little courage?"
Elizabeth, overcome, was the first to make up her mind, as they were walking along the plane tree avenue, lightly crushing the dead leaves.
"Mother, do you know whereheis now?"
Trembling with emotion, Albert's mother answered quickly:
"He does not write to me very often, and not at length. He is traveling."
"In which country?"
"His last letter was dated from Iran in Spain."
She added, as Elizabeth asked no further:
"It is on the other side of the Pyrenees, but quite near the frontier."
This poor sentence fell like one of those heavy autumn leaves, which the slightest breeze carries off. And that was all. The opportunity they had so long awaited had passed.
That evening Elizabeth did not go to bed until very late. She came back into the drawing-room after her mother-in-law had gone, and tried to read a book to cool her fever. To concentrate her attention, she put her hands on either side of her face. Half an hour passed and she had not turned one page. She was still reading the same words—
"He is traveling—he is traveling."
She recalled the uncommon trips on which she had accompanied her husband to Germany, Munich and Nuremberg, to Touraine, to the castles on the bank of the Loire. The departure was to Albert an exuberant happiness, a "joy of conquest" he called it:—he was going to take possession of new countries. In the picture-galleries, as he stood before a landscape rich in historical association, he would grow enthusiastic, explain, comment, make comparisons that she did not even try to grasp. Little by little this good humor changed—he became distrait, absorbed in himself, and ceased to tell her his impressions. And their return was silent and unresponsive. Why?
Why? She had never inquired. Dull and passive, she asked herself very few questions, and did not try to live her own life, or even Albert's with him. What companionship did she give him? As soon as she began to question herself thus, a quantity of small forgotten details came back to her mind.—How much luggage she had always needed! And what importance she had attached to the thousand inconveniences which no traveler avoids! She needed so many things, she complained of everything, as if Albert could keep the trains from smoking, the rain from falling, the sun from overheating, the hotel kitchen from smelling, the tradesmen from stealing, the women from wearing big hats in the theaters, and fatigue from coming. The worst of all was that she had no curiosity. Curiosity is an incentive which lessens the annoyances of the trip for the sake of the pleasures which are before us. "Nothing interests you," he had said one day with a forced laugh. She now understood the mistake she had made in giving the same value to the petty necessities of life as to serious, vital, new experiences. But most women make this mistake, and that was one excuse. Of what use was an excuse with a husband like Albert who had so often offered to guide her?
She got up slowly to look in the dictionary, then in an atlas for this mysterious Iran. She found it on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees, in the heart of the Basque country. He had planned this journey a long time ago. It was a necessary voyage for material for one of his volumes on "The Peasant." There, he said, in the shelter of the mountains, the traditions of the family were preserved in their primitive purity. Some time ago he had suggested taking her there, but with little insistence, when he learned that comforts had to be dispensed with. She found in a Baedeker of Spain with which he had provided himself in advance, praise of the countries which bathe the Bidassoa, and an account of the customs peculiar to the province of Guipuzcoa. These strange syllables which had formerly amused her, now made her thoughtful. She, who had never, so to speak, exercised her imagination, saw clearly, on an evening richer in warmth and color than those of Dauphiné, a peasant cart at Iran, driving along a road separated from a river by leafless bushes, and on the back seat of the cart, close to each other, sat Anne de Sézery and Albert, who was covering his companion's shoulders with an old horse blanket. "Thus clad, she had never appeared more charming to me"—a little sentence from his diary which was indelibly engraved on her heart. That woman would never take account of any inconveniences on a journey, or glance anxiously, with her much praised golden eyes at the changing scene.
Elizabeth fell asleep thinking of these sad pictures. The next day, she was vexed with the old lady, whom she blamed for her nightmares. When the postman came, she was surprised to find herself watching the mail, to see if there were a letter from Albert to his mother. One day a letter came, bearing the postmark of Paris. She was a little relieved by it, as if the intimacy which was torturing her would be lessened by the return.
The embarrassment which had crept in between her mother-in-law and herself increased like a thick fog in which neither could distinguish her real feelings. What comfort could she expect from this presence? Anything which reminded her of Albert irritated her, weakened her, and everything did recall him. Did Mme. Derize take into account the uselessness of her intervention? She manifested a desire to return to Grenoble. October gave every indication of being cold. The morning of her departure, succeeding in overcoming her fear, she at last said to Elizabeth that which she had been preparing since the day after her arrival:
"My child, have confidence and be patient. Your time will come. It cannot fail to come. Only you must not find morbid pleasure in your sorrow."
But the young wife showed an expressionless face.
"I do not understand you, Mother. I have no sorrow. I never give a thought to it."
Mme. Derize tried to smile.
"You came," she said, "to see me, to hear news of him."
"You are wrong. It was not right that you should be deprived of your grand-children's company on his account."
Then Albert's mother, who had exhausted the limit of her boldness, was silenced, when Elizabeth could no longer keep back her tears.
"My dear little girl, why are you crying?"
"I don't know. It is nervousness."
"I know it is, and I love you all the more for it. I shall always be with you. But why make your trouble harder to bear? Wait with perseverance, but with calmness. Occupy yourself with Marie Louise and Philippe. They are your reason for hope and you belong entirely to them at this time. Be busy, very busy. Fill your days. And pray."
"I no longer know how."
"Go back soon to Grenoble—I shall teach you. Good-by, my child. May God keep you."
The two women kissed each other. Elizabeth watched the jaunting-car which took Mme. Derize to Uriage, until it disappeared round a corner and was hidden by a chestnut tree.
"Why has she gone?" she sighed, when she could no longer see.
After this departure her parents fled from deserted Uriage. Alone and made keen by sorrow, she experienced that melancholy, which, with the coming of autumn, arises from the earth at every step in the country, and which, until now, she had considered only as poet's imaginings. She understood now just what Albert had felt two years ago—the unhappiness of an incomplete or misunderstood life, so powerful to vivify all nature. The plane tree avenue, heaped up with thick, strong leaves, no longer hid the Chapel whose invitation, on that account, became more evident; but that was not where she chose to walk. She preferred the roads which go into the heart of the chestnut woods, and where, from time to time one glimpses the picturesque mountains. But she did not venture far because of her fear. Her children were surprised at her changed mood. She thought less about them than of her sorrow. In the evening when she saw the cattle come home and drink from the little pond, she hated this peace that the animals and their drivers inhaled. October enveloped her with an anguish in which she knew a charm. It was a pleasure to experience pain.
Her entire household was conscious of this weakened condition. At last one day she received some news from Grenoble. Madame Derize, uneasy at not seeing her come back, wrote her a pressing letter, the ending of which revealed a power to foresee:
"My dear Elizabeth," wrote the lady, "this time of year and loneliness are not good for you. And you are not thinking of Marie Louise and Philippe. It is time to occupy yourself with their studies, to give them companions for their work and play. You yourself need a little distraction and social intercourse. Come to Grenoble, I beg of you. We shall see each other often, shall we not? If you do not come this week, I shall come and bring you myself—because I am anxious about you, my child...."
She was amenable to the first influence. She hastened her preparations, to the great joy of the two youngsters, satiated with the pleasures of the country.
"All the same," said Marie Louise, "Grenoble is not Paris."
"It is not Saint Martin either," answered Philippe philosophically.
When it was time to get into the carriage, Elizabeth did not want to go away. In town, she would resume her ordinary life: the home of her parents where she was not at home, and the trial for separation, with reference to which she had had several questions from her lawyer that she had left unanswered. She would lose that liberty of suffering from which she derived so much comfort. She would be obliged to busy herself with her children, to use her days, instead of which she had been giving herself entirely to her own sorrow.
When she lost sight of the Château of Saint-Ferriol which overlooks the valley of Uriage, and when she had entered the valley of Gière, whose sides were covered with hardy golden bushes, it seemed to her that her life was also narrowing, and that she was going far away from her love which she mistook for her sorrow. The children laughed and their merriment pained her. She was coming back to real life, in which actions count for more than wishes and regrets.
Maître Tabourin's four clerks, knowing that their chief was lunching in town with a wealthy client, began their afternoon by playing cards. That contempt for the public, which characterizes the small official in France, whether in the service of the state or of a private individual, prevented their stopping or hiding their game when someone knocked at the door.
"Come in," said Vitrolle indistinctly, unhappy in having no trumps.
But to the amazement of his colleagues, the junior clerk, Malaunay, left the card table to meet the intruder, to whom he bowed respectfully. They understood, however, when they caught sight of Mme. Derize, whose soft, blonde hair, lit up by the rays of the winter's sun, contrasted with the reddish fur she was wearing. In spite of the weight of her cloak, she seemed very tall. The cold air out of doors had reddened her cheeks. A black hat, turned up at the side, trimmed with a single feather, gave her the appearance of an English portrait. Hearing of Maître Tabourin's absence, she seemed confused.
"He asked me to come to-day," she said.
"But he will be back, Madame."
"Then I will wait."
They showed her into the little room adjoining his office. And the game continued. When it was over, Lestaque and Dauras, who had won, suggested another. The senior clerk prudently refused, and each one took up a document without enthusiasm. For want of something better to do they talked, paying no attention to the person who was waiting indefinitely. What is more natural than for a client, however charming, to remain in the waiting-room.
"How about our bet?" asked Malaunay.
"What bet?"
"The Derize case. I was the only one who bet on the husband."
"You were wrong."
"Well, well, we shall see."
"We know now."
Lestaque and Dauras thought little, but at the same time interrupted:
"How far have we gotten with the case?"
"Well," explained the clerk with an air of importance. "After the petition to the president, a verbal record of non-reconciliation was filed. M. Derize did not appear, and his wife obtained the temporary care of the children, as well as an allowance. We sent the summons last October. M. Derize has not shown his intention and it is now January. The delays for conclusion have expired, and the case is written on the records to go by default. We have evidence which constitutes a written proof. The separation will be givende plano."
"Has anyone seen that evidence?" asked the junior clerk.
"No. Mme. Derize has it. She does not answer our letters, and the delay in the case is due to her silence. I suppose she is bringing it to us. It is high time."
Dauras sought the information which Lestaque enjoyed giving.
"And what is M. Lagier doing, M. Derize's lawyer?"
"What is he doing?" answered Malaunay, expressing envy and admiration on his mobile face. "He is flirting with his lovely enemy. At Uriage they were always together."
"Yes, but at Grenoble they never see each other."
"They are keeping under cover. And yet you can believe that Mme. Derize is in no hurry to get her separation."
"Well, what will she do then?"
"Ah well, she will console herself. Once consoled, she will become reconciled to her husband. It will be a household of four. That is the custom in Paris."
For the little clerk, dazzled by Paris, was much impressed by its free habits. Always on the lookout for something new, and with his eye fixed on the door, he had only time to whisper "Take care!" to them. The chief entered. M. Tabourin had lunched well—too well, in fact. His face was scarlet, his hair—which he had to dampen a great deal to accomplish such a result—flat. Instead of adopting the new fashion and covering his linen with a high vest, he displayed a shirt front, which he had spotted in many places as a result of his lively excitable gestures. As he was finishing his cigar, he assumed the indifferent air of a man of the world, for the especial benefit of Malaunay, who was watching him carefully; but the first word of the head clerk aroused him.
"Madame Albert Derize is waiting for you in your office."
"Ah, ah," he said, "she is making up her mind at last. It is time to get a judgment by default."
A last hasty puff, and then he disappeared. A few minutes later, someone knocked at the office door.
"Maître Lagier," announced the junior clerk jokingly.
It was he. They would like to have laughed, but the newcomer knew how to command respect. The clerks restrained their mirth.
"M. Tabourin is here?"
"Yes, sir," answered Vitrolle. "He is in his office with Mme. Derize. I will tell him you are here."
"No need to. I shall come back."
Then he did not care to meet Mme. Derize? Upset in their calculations, the clerks were astonished, when the Chief reappeared opportunely with his client. He showed every evidence of an unpleasant interview. Philippe Lagier, discovered, just as he was leaving, made a hurried movement of retreat and embarrassment which could not escape so keen an observer as Malaunay; but the young woman, after an imperceptible hesitation, came toward him.
"Monsieur," she said, "I should very much like to speak with you. Will you go a short way with me?"
"Willingly, Madame," he stammered confusedly.
What had become of that self-possession which had never been known to fail him? Why this emotion on so ordinary an occasion? He recovered his composure at once and bowed to the lawyer and his clerks before he went out with the beautiful Mme. Derize. M. Tabourin had other things on his mind than to observe these fine distinctions. The door was hardly closed when he announced tragically to his colleagues:
"The Derize case has fallen through!"
"How? Why?" asked the clerks.
"Mme. Derize withdraws her petition."
Vitrolle, Lestaque and Dauras wore appropriate expressions of despair to fit the occasion. But the junior clerk dared to show unbounded joy and cried:
"I've won!"
The Chief, not understanding, stared at him and repeated mechanically:
"Won?"
"Certainly," explained the clerk insolently. "We had a bet on that case."
"A bet?"
"It is done in all offices. With nothing at stake what interest would we have in a case? Mme. Derize wanted a separation. Her husband demanded nothing—I bet on him. Nothing has happened—therefore I have won."
Leaving M. Tabourin perplexed, he turned towards his comrades.
"You each owe me a dinner at a restaurant of my own choice. Three dinners, what luck!"
The others protested. The lawyer, surprised, but greedy, hesitated a second between the desire for an invitation and the dignity of his position. The latter won, and he grew very angry:
"Take care, sir. You don't treat business matters seriously, and I have already noticed your dangerous inclination to pleasure. Did you not recently win another bet at the Café du Commerce on the longest time one could take to smoke a cigar? The longest time! At your age, I should have understood the shortest. You took more than an hour to do it. It was a sufficient cause, you know, to dismiss you. The interests of a business must be sacred to its employés, and I will not have my clerks betting on the loss of my cases."
And with this speech, in which he gave vent to his anger (a good thing for him, as he needed some helpful exercise to aid his digestion)—he inconsiderately distributed some work to his mournful listeners.
Saint-André's Square is two steps from the Quai de la République, where the Molay-Norrois lived. Instead of going toward the Isère, Elizabeth directed her steps toward the park. Philippe Lagier, who was silently walking beside her was surprised.
"Where are we going, Madame?"
"To my house."
"Then you have left your parents?"
"Did you not know about it? I have taken a flat in the Rue Haxo, almost opposite the Botanical Gardens."
"Ah," said he, making no comment.
"I have been very much criticised for it. Still it is better as it is. I see my parents almost every day, but a mother needs a little liberty to bring up her children."
The park seemed numbed with the cold. Behind the houses, the young elms and plane trees reared their light branches and twigs against the delicate winter sky, so clear and pale. The water in the pond was frozen, and the ice had been broken in one small place to give a little black swan room to swim; but the poor bird, feeling imprisoned, scarcely moved his feet. Near Elizabeth, Philippe remembered the day last summer in this same garden, when before Counselor Prémereux, he had pleaded the cause of passion, against the Molay-Norrois majority.
They scarcely spoke a word, as they walked along the crowded streets which led from there to the Place de la Constitution, out of which branches the Rue Haxo. This square, symmetrical and even, surrounded by office buildings, was almost deserted, and the Rue Haxo was still more so.
"There it is," she said, as they stopped in front of a tall house of modest appearance near the Boulevard des Alpes, bordered by the grassy slopes of the old ramparts.
They walked up four flights. She preceded him going into her apartment.
"There is no fire in the drawing-room. Excuse my receiving you in this room, Monsieur. It is our school-room."
It was a work-room simply furnished, with a large ink-spotted table; and its one window overlooking the trees of the Botanical Gardens.
"My children write their exercises here—at least, Marie Louise does, because your godson can only amuse himself as yet."
She appeared constrained, embarrassed by what she wished to say to him and could not. Philippe Lagier was conscious of it, but could not help her. Remembering the path at Uriage where he had known humiliation and shame, he could not realize that he was again face to face with her. She had tried to smile in saying "Your godson," which was a bond between them. It was a smile of such distress that he finally concluded to aid her by giving to this conversation the motive it required.