"I was right when I told him...."
"What, Mother?"
"That you are my daughter."
After eighteen months, Elizabeth was awaiting her husband. The sad event which was bringing them together had had its beginning on the evening when Albert's mother had walked too quickly to Saint Martin. After Madame Derize's night of suffering, the young wife, foreseeing danger, instinctively made the wisest decision and telegraphed to her parents and to her doctor at Grenoble. She asked for immediate help, realizing that while there was still time, they would have to get away at once from a village so primitive and resourceless, and requested the most comfortable means of transport. M. Molay-Norrois—and his wife made no objection—and told Mme. Passerat how useful her motor would be under such circumstances; and she, with that keen executive ability and rapidity of action, of which she had so often given proof in organizing society fêtes, gave orders that her 40 h.p. car be arranged as an ambulance, and sent, with it a doctor and a necessary medicine chest to the mountains of Uriage.
"This is the first time I have traveled in a motor," murmured the invalid smilingly, as she was carried into it on the bed arranged for her.
In the afternoon she was brought to her home on the Boulevard des Adieux, and her daughter-in-law took her place at her bedside. The next day Blanche Vernier came down with the children, of whom she had offered to take charge. The case was diagnosed as congestion of the lungs, which grew no worse until the fifth day. Immediately upon her arrival at Grenoble, Elizabeth had begged Philippe Lagier to wire to Albert's address in Paris. As there was no answer, she sent repeated telegrams, all of which were returned to her marked "Absent." When the invalid was questioned she could give no exact information. As her son left her, he had spoken of a rapid journey to Piedmont, returning to Paris over the Simplon.
"I shall write to you during the trip," he had added.
A post card came, which bore the name of an unknown village in Italy. On a detailed map they found that it was in the neighborhood of Ivrée. In accordance with his usual plan, the traveler was journeying through out of the way places to gain information for his book. Another telegram, directed there as a last resort, did not reach him. At last he wrote from Aosta, and his letter stated that he would spend a week there. Informed directly, he wired that he would leave with all possible haste. It was the eighth day and his mother had passed away the night before. They did not tell him so, but he could draw that conclusion from the telegram.
She would no doubt have recovered from an illness whose symptoms had not at first given rise to much alarm, had it not been for her age, and more especially for that gradual weakening, which in time, results from financial worries, sorrows and mental strain. After the death of her husband, she had known the worry of financial straits, the necessity for work, and all the demands of the noblest maternal ambition. This son, the thought of whom had comforted her broken life, for whose development she had paved the way, whose success she had followed with so much joy and confidence, had now in turn, made her suffer, by renouncing the duty she considered most sacred, the devotion which in the innate consciousness of one of her race, seemed to her to be most important; that of continuing, of upholding the tradition of the family. She had bitterly reproached herself for the excess of delicacy which had prevented her from acting as peace-maker between Albert and Elizabeth, in whom she often told herself, she should have been able earlier to realize the virtue which had lain dormant until it was gradually brought out by a crisis. This separation had slowly undermined and weakened her. She exhausted herself in prayer, and in her faith in the expediency of sacrifice, as of a burnt offering to obtain from God the return of him, whom she called in secret her prodigal son. With what haste she had gone to Saint Martin, after her son's last visit, to cheer up Elizabeth's languishing hopes. On the way she had faced the fatigue which weakened her limbs, often stopping to take breath, sustained by the idea that she was bringing a little comfort to the deserted woman. For a moment she believed that Albert had gone before her. He had come, but had not remained. Then she had that vision of unusual exaltation; that perhaps her death might bring about what her life had been unable to accomplish.
If not at once, at least after the second day she understood, alone, that it was the end, and prepared herself for it. The illness hovered over her without crushing her, at last took hold of her, but without that violence which suppresses thought and destroys the intellectual faculties, in that last struggle that frees an inert body. She departed, with her brain intact and her heart full. Her calmness was surprising, almost terrifying to those about her. She asked for religious help and received it with a piety, which was like the natural breath of her soul.
"Jean," she said several times.
It was the name of her husband, whom no one had heard her mention for a long time. She was reserved about her most intimate emotions. This name, so peacefully invoked, revealed the endurance of a deathless love which eternity would satisfy—or again she would ask:
"Is he coming?"
By this she meant her son. And it was only this question which she asked so often that had the power to dim her clear eyes, to still her features, already motionless and almost fixed with a serenity which anticipated death. She began on the third day, despite the reassuring prognosis, to show some evidence of what was so soon to occur. With great composure she told Fanchette, who protested against it, where to find the sheets and her bridal dress. She asked for a humble funeral, without flowers or wreaths. She saw Philippe and Marie Louise, tried to smile at them and begged that they should not be brought again.
Elizabeth, assisted with the best of good-will by Mme. Molay-Norrois, possessing that almost supernatural strength of woman at the bedside of invalids—watched over and took care of her day and night. When she came near her, she felt a sort of fear in seeing her so peaceful and almost relaxed. Once, being unable to hear the advice her mother-in-law was quietly giving her, she burst into sobs.
"Do not leave me, Mother," she entreated. "What shall I do without you—you are still Albert."
"I shall not leave you," said the dying woman with conviction.
And, with infinite tenderness, she added faintly:
"My daughter.—I had formerly regretted having had no daughter. One is always in a hurry to pity oneself!"
Then she seemed to gather a little strength, sufficient to inquire:
"Elizabeth, he will come back some day, I am certain of it. When he does, will you promise me that you will forgive him, forgive him without any restriction?"
How could Elizabeth refuse?
"I promise you," she said solemnly.
"That is right," answered Mme. Derize, "if he were there, I should have tried to join your hands. It is not time yet."
On the fifth day she appeared to be resigned to the fact that her son would not return. It was her last hope. She wished to see Philippe Lagier, who came every day to inquire about her. Their interviews, entirely alone, were of short duration; talking was already too much for her. She charged him to tell his friend of Elizabeth's devotion and of the change which had taken place in her. Was he not called to that mission and how could she, in the purity of her heart, suspect the humiliation he had known, which quite recently, he had believed to be incompatible with his engagement? Finally with great effort and frequent pauses, she expressed this singular confidence, which revealed to what degree she had thought of all the possibilities of reconciliation.
"On Albert's last visit, so few days ago, I knew that he was not happy. I was expecting that. Happiness cannot endure, except in truth. Then I thought that I would go to Paris, that I would go to see her."
"To see her?" repeated Philippe, who could not believe his ears.
"Yes, her. I have thought a great deal about it. Albert could not have broken so many ties for a miserable love. I knew him to be incapable of wickedness, although he is passionate and proud. Now this plan can no longer be realized...."
"When you are better."
"I shall never be better. Come closer. I want you to hear what I should have said to her, to her alone. Of his own accord, Albert will not leave her. I feel it: he has replaced the duty he has renounced with another, the chains of which he has tightened for himself. It is well said that one can never escape from his duty in life. I would have said to that woman:
"Whatever your love may be, it cannot make him happy. You realized that before I did. You were to blame for loving him when he was not free. If your love is what I think, it must be capable of sacrifice, even of secret sacrifice. Be generous, I will bless you and ..."
Choking stopped her, and she was unable to finish that exhausting communication, which implied so much cleverness and such faith in heroism. Philippe came back a little later, but the invalid's condition had grown worse. She tried once again to explain something to him which he was not able to catch, as her words had already become very indistinct. Did she wish him to undertake this strange mission on her behalf? The next day, which was the day of her death, she appeared transfigured, as if indifferent to all that was going on about her. She was resting in peace in advance. Her lips which still moved, showed that she was praying. She paid no attention to Albert's letter which Elizabeth was reading. Nevertheless, turning her eyes toward her daughter, whose grief was overcoming her, she tried to put her hand on her bent head, but it fell back with an uncertain movement. They were saying prayers for the dying, as she did not stir again. And her last breath followed the last verse.
Elizabeth, spent with fatigue and conquered by her nerves, called to her with a loud cry, as if in losing her she lost her love for a second time, and would henceforth be without protection. Her parents, considering her extreme in filial devotion, a virtue which, according to the gossip of the town, their son-in-law had utterly neglected, insisted upon taking her away.
"Now," said Mme. Molay-Norrois, alarmed at her condition, and wishing to quiet her overexcitement, "now stay with us. You have fulfilled every duty and more than your duty. You must take care of your health, for your children's sake and your own."
But who would be there when Albert arrived with despair in his heart? Who would receive him, explain the illness to him, tell him about the last moments of the invalid, give him her last thoughts and that sort of consolation so essential to strong souls: that of exhausting all the details of sorrow? No, no, she had not yet finished her work. In the spirit, if not in actuality, she was Albert's wife. She would be there to palliate the first shock faithfully, to give to the son the substance of the words and injunctions which she had received from his mother. One might accuse her of lack of dignity: what matter? Mme. Derize would be pleased with her.
She had calculated that he would arrive with the morning train at eight o'clock. Before eight she went to the Boulevard des Adieux. Her heart was beating, however, she trembled, she was afraid, but remained there. Philippe, who had gone to the station, came back with Albert, to whom he had broken the sad news. In the carriage along the road he alone had spoken. At the sound of the bell, Fanchette, dragging her feet, came to open the door.
"My poor Fanchette," said Albert, as he embraced her. It was his first word of emotion.
She dried her tears and showed him into the drawing-room.
"Madame is there," she said.
He thought she meant his mother and went in. He found himself face to face with Elizabeth, who was standing and walked to meet him; he made an involuntary movement of surprise, as if he did not recognize her. He no longer found the same Elizabeth, whom he had left eighteen months before, her beauty then somewhat heavy and sluggish, her face round and expressionless, but he now saw a new Elizabeth, thinner, more graceful, looking taller in her mourning gown, pale through lack of sleep, her eyes surrounded with dark circles, her features sunken—all denoting a life of suffering, which counteracted the disadvantages of sorrow. Philippe Lagier who followed him, had not anticipated that she would have the courage to be there. And with a greater freedom of observation, although equally sorrowful, he noticed that she was wearing a bodice which showed her figure to advantage. When the bell rang, she had trembled so that she had been obliged to lean against a table. Then everything seemed to simplify itself for her quickly. The obligation which was imposed upon her could not offend her dignity. She would fulfill it and would then return to the darkness. One imagines in advance difficulties which disappear of themselves. Seeing her husband under such circumstances, she realized a great inner peace, as soon as he came in. With a voice, which too, had changed and become lower, she said at once without speaking his name.
"She was waiting for you. As I had the privilege of helping her in your place, I will tell you about her, of her last days, if you wish."
After shaking hands with her, Philippe expressed his intention of withdrawing, but she detained him for a moment, almost begging for his protection.
"You will come back soon, will you not? In an hour?"
"Yes, Madame."
They were left alone, facing each other, he confused, motionless, finding not a word to say; she, carrying on, with amazing ease, this interview which she had so dreaded.
"I had wired to Paris," she explained. "We did not know where to reach you. At last your letter came from Aosta."
With dry lips, his face drawn by the sorrow to which he would not give way, he murmured:
"I had left her so well only a few days ago! I had no presentiment, I thought I should keep her for a long time to come."
"Yes, we never think we can lose those we love. You must be tired. You have not eaten nor slept. Will you have something? Later we can speak of her."
"I want to see her."
"She is there. Come."
She led him into the death chamber, knelt for a moment at the foot of the bed, motioning to the nun who was watching the body to follow her. She had divined Albert's desire. When he was sure of being alone, his sorrow carried him beyond all bounds, as a river its dam. She who lay there, emaciated and white, her eyes closed, her hands crossed over a crucifix—and what withered hands!—she whose forehead and cheeks, like marble, cold, but not hard, froze his mouth, as he kissed them in vain, she who would never again hear him, never see him or speak to him, she had twice given him life. After giving him birth, she nourished, developed and strengthened him without help or fortune. He owed to her his intellectual power, the moral force of his judgment, the courage to undertake those lengthy works, which demand a continued effort, of which so few are capable. In what intimacy they had spent so many years, the busiest and the happiest of years! He remembered them now with a sorrow that only one word could express, which re-echoed in the silence, like a groan.
"Mother!"
From afar he always felt her protection. She was a witness in his behalf. Now that witness was no more, and parts of his life lost their meaning, their value. With her he would bury his childhood and his youth, a whole period of days, clear as the expression of her eyes in life; a whole period of bright days that he had never found since and could never find again. And it was not he who had closed her eyes.
Was it not better that it was not he? Between them there was a fixed gulf. For a long time she had ceased to reproach him, but the direction of her thoughts was contrary to his, and their conversations, formerly so intimate, so deep, which were to him an inspiration, had for the most part, lost their power to interest and uplift him. Many forgotten details now came back to his memory, expressions of sadness, of words, indirectly imploring. Yes, he had burdened her last months with a sorrow, the weight of which she bore without complaint, but which had finally crushed her. He could not mourn her without a secret remorse. Formerly, when he was still quite a young man, giving way to a naturally quick temper, which he had great difficulty in controlling, he had spoken rudely to her. What shame he had felt! But she, anxious not to wound his pride, came to him as soon as he was quiet, so that he might be spared the first step. Then he learned to despise his faults. And now they were separated forever without a true reconciliation.
He had reached the limit of his despair and was utterly crushed, when Elizabeth came in quietly to join him. She made him sit down, and too weary to resist, he meekly obeyed. Their thoughts so long separated, were at one in the same sorrow. It was one of those unfathomable griefs, in which the only comfort is to weep with another, and they could not mingle their tears. Stricken by the same blow, the embrace which would have brought them comfort, which so many friends can exchange, was forbidden to them. Thus Albert had a keener realization of his solitude.
"Nobody," he said to himself to arouse himself from his suffering, "can know what I have lost. I alone shall carry away the memory and knowledge of the will power which sustained her little body, so fragile beneath the sheet, the fire which animated those closed eyes. Anne could not come with me. She pities me from a distance, but she did not know her. She only knew of her unfriendliness toward her, and her rigid uprightness. Our love is disarmed before this dear, dead woman who belongs solely to me. And she who is here is nothing more to me than a stranger."
"The Stranger," shielded by the beloved presence of the dead, commenced to tell him in a low voice of the beginning of the illness and its successive phases. She told of the invalid's composure, her spirit of calm, her preparation, her desire to see her son again, the good-by she had sent him. She omitted everything that had reference to their separation and to her own devotion. She spoke with so much tact and filial love, that, as he listened, Albert was getting comfort in grief, which can come to us only by deepening our suffering. Overcome by his injustice, he murmured:
"You have taken my place. I know you have been a daughter to her. She said so in all her letters to me. Now I believe it. I thank you."
At these first words expressed with less indifference, inspired by gratitude and decorum, Elizabeth felt she could no longer play her part. Tears and her weakness overcame her, but she gazed mechanically on the pillow, at the face so peaceful and serene, and took sudden comfort from it.
"I have caused her a great deal of sorrow," added Albert, making this confession almost in spite of himself, in response to what he had just heard.
Elizabeth had the strength to reply.
"She had confidence in you."
What did she mean by that? As he tried to interpret it, realizing that this tête-à-tête could not last much longer, she added:
"Come with me."
He followed her out of the room. She led him into the dining-room where Fanchette had laid a place for him.
"You must have some breakfast and warm yourself. It is very cold to-day. I am going back to the children. My friend Blanche Vernier has taken them to her house. I dare not bring them here. They are so little!"
"Marie Louise, Philippe," he said slowly, with a tenderness which made him tremble.
"But you can see them there, or at the home of my parents, or at Philippe Lagier's, as you like."
"At Philippe's."
"Very well. He is coming back. You can arrange with him."
She alone spoke, her mouth drawn, her face tense with the effort. He could only answer her. Philippe Lagier, faithful to his promise, came to relieve their embarrassment. As soon as he arrived, while he was trying, not without a painful acknowledgment, to understand their reciprocal emotions, and while Albert, suffering from hunger, could not make up his mind to eat, Elizabeth dressed herself to go out.
"Our friend," she said, turning towards her husband, "wishes to make all the arrangements. The funeral is the day after to-morrow. I shall be here. Au revoir."
The two men watched her as she was leaving, but did not mention her then. She went back into the death chamber, before she left the flat.
"Mother," she entreated, on her knees.
This cry expressed all the emotion she had felt, but had suppressed, on seeing her husband again; all the torture of love renewed by his actual presence. For the second time, the peace of death calmed her heart.
In the afternoon Albert saw his children at Philippe Lagier's. At first, in kissing them, in comparing them with the past—(on the road at Saint Martin d'Uriage he had held them for only a moment in his arms) he experienced a sad joy which in his sorrowful condition pained him exceedingly, making him almost feverish. They surprised him by telling him the story of Mélusine and that of Lesdiguières.
"Who has told you these stories?"
"Mamma."
He had expected to find a carelessness, a feminine indulgence in the education of the two children, and he discovered instead an unexpected development and liveliness of intelligence and body to which he had contributed nothing. His desertion had not brought with it any loss to them. Instead of giving to Elizabeth the credit for it, he was irritated by it, because it seems cruel to us to discover how unimportant our influence may be.
The little boy was the first to tire of these effusions and put questions which referred to unimportant events in his life, which were insolvable to anyone who had not been directly concerned in them. Marie Louise herself even discontinued her playfulness and fancies, in order to explain to her brother that Papa could not know, that after all Papa was only an amateur father, who was very little in touch with their doings and movements. This was the meaning of her remarks which she uttered in her little decided authoritative voice. Mamma,—she never left them, except to look after Grandmamma.
"It is I who am the stranger here," thought Albert, suffering from such frankness.
The conquest of children, even of his own, could not be undertaken in an hour. He left Marie Louise and Philippe, his heart sick with disappointment, his nerves wrung. As soon as he no longer saw their dear little heads, he was filled with an immediate wish to bring them back, to keep them with him, without saying anything to her who had separated them. And when he came back to his mother's house he took with him an added regret, a deep melancholy which Anne's love could no more satisfy than it could his grief for his mother. He remained in the death chamber until evening, filled with despair in relinquishing one by one the ties which had exalted his life. The next day, spent in the same way, was even more cruel to him. He had a letter and a telegram from Anne who was awaiting him at Lyons. He read them absently and in a spirit of injustice! What could she know of his thoughts?
When on the morning of the funeral he again saw Elizabeth, who came to do the honors of the house, he wished he had been mistaken the evening before in finding that her expression was changed, that she was more awakened and bearing alone a sorrow as great as his own. She asked him complacently how he was, but pitied him with her looks, with her entire uneasy attitude, friendly and dismayed at one and the same time. The Molay-Norrois arrived in their turn, and manifested an attitude of discreet sympathy toward their son-in-law. Then came other relations and friends. He was accepted once more by the family connections, relatives and the social circle with which he had believed all ties were broken. And in his great pride he endured it with bitterness.
The report was circulated in Grenoble that the death of Mme. Derize had reconciled the separated couple. Each one in the large crowd determined to watch for indications of it: to our utmost pity we add so much curiosity and such sudden indifference. The funeral procession was the object of attentive inspection to everyone, from Mme. Passerat, who, having loaned her motor to the invalid, prided herself upon a personal interest, to the little clerk Malaunay, who was concerned in it because of his bet. Elizabeth wished to take her place with the relations who were the chief mourners, behind her husband and her father who followed the hearse. By her presence, she showed besides her affection for the dead woman, her unwavering faithfulness to the name she bore.
The cemetery is only a short distance from the Cathedral, which is the parish church of the Boulevard des Adieux. They had only to go through a gate in the old ramparts and along the avenue L'Ile Verte, all covered with dead leaves, which were crushed beneath the horses' hoofs and the feet of the mourners. The moment when the coffin is lowered into the ground, is one of the most anguish-filled that a loving heart has to bear. Albert instinctively lifted his hand to his eyes. A vision interposed between himself and his sorrow—that of Elizabeth overwhelmed. Did he remember that sentence in his diary: "She does not know my mother—she will never know her. If I were to have the misfortune of losing her, I should mourn for her alone."
On the return, although crushed, she received the procession of guests who came to pay their condolence calls, then went upstairs to give some orders to the old servant. Albert came back, accompanied by Philippe Lagier. Having completed her self-imposed duty, she greeted Philippe with an "Au revoir" and turning to her husband, said:
"Now good-by, keep up your courage."
Not understanding that that was final, but ill at ease, he asked:
"Are you going away?"
"Yes."
"Where are you going?"
"I am going home. Should I send the children to you?"
He hesitated—then in a dull voice, answered:
"No."
She bowed. The door closed behind her. They would never see each other again.
As soon as she had gone, Albert made a few steps forward to call her back. What would he have said to her? Agitated, he walked up and down the room without speaking. In a few hours what emotions, what sorrow had he not experienced! His friend, motionless and silent, read with ease the succession of his thoughts, but by natural inclination had greater pity for the woman.
Fanchette came in to announce luncheon. Albert looked at her, seemed to be reflecting, and his decision made, declared in his clear voice:
"I am going to take you back to Paris."
This statement caused a shock at which she gave way as an old piece of furniture when its wood cracks. She crossed herself at once at the idea of going to that doomed city to wait upon a wicked woman, no doubt, and shaking her head from right to left, she stammered:
"No, no, M. Albert."
"Why will you not accept? Where will you go?
"To Madame Elizabeth."
He frowned.
"You will leave me?"
"Oh, no, Monsieur Albert. Only there are the little ones, and then, Madame Elizabeth has been so kind. You don't know how she took care of madame. Day and night she was always here."
He cut these praises short.
"I know," he said.
Luncheon was hurried and silent. In the drawing-room to which the two men returned together, Albert more and more absorbed and bitter, at last giving full vent to the torrent of his impressions, admitted as if to himself.
"Yes, she has changed a great deal."
He added:
"Does she still refuse the allowance that I have sent to my solicitor every month?"
"Yes."
"I ought to have demanded a promise of acceptance from her. She is depriving me of helping to support my own children and without right. It is unfair."
Philippe, whose passion had purified itself in following the brave efforts of Elizabeth, and who was still under the spell of Madame Derize's last wishes, generously desired to bring about a reconciliation and continued the praises which Fanchette had begun. He told of the lives of the two women at Grenoble and Saint Martin, their intimacy, the sacred devotion of the younger, who had changed the last year of the dead woman's life. In vain he was interrupted sharply with "I know, I know."
"No, you cannot know," he concluded, out of patience.
Albert, who had begun his walk again, stopped suddenly. His face wore that expression which it took on in anger, as his former violence overcame him again in the face of unbearable contradiction. However, he tried to master himself, and the insinuation which followed conveyed only wounding insolence:
"Then it was true what they wrote from Grenoble."
"What then?"
"That you were in love with my wife."
Philippe faced Albert's look, which was hard and imperious.
"Yes," he said calmly. "I have a worshipful admiration for Elizabeth. You may call it what you like."
"Take care, I shall know how to defend her."
"Against what and by what right?"
And influenced by his own unselfishness which inclined him to greatness of soul, desiring to expiate his former deception, he rose and held out his hand to his friend who did not refuse it:
"Come, Albert, how can we talk in this way—here."
Albert returned his handshake with that gratitude we feel toward those who have saved us from our own pettiness:
"I am unjust. They were infamous anonymous letters that I scarcely read. And then, her death has recalled so many memories that I believed to be remote, utterly silenced. A little flame has burst from the embers of my fireside."
"Can you not rebuild it?"
"No. But I could not see my mother on that bed, my wife, my children, without yearning for the right life which might have been mine. Do you understand? Elizabeth closed my mother's eyes; it is she who is bringing up Marie Louise and little Philippe alone. Yesterday she spoke to me with so much emotion and consideration. I was not alone in my grief. She has changed very much. She is more beautiful. And by a strange reaction, now that we are only strangers, the one to the other, it seems as though she had acquired all the characteristics which I formerly wished her to have."
"Strangers? It is not final. There is nothing final."
"Yes, death. Yesterday, I assure you, I envied my mother. Her face was so peaceful, so calm, so pure. One no longer suffers. And, above all, one does not make anyone else suffer. Yes, it is a solution. I have thought of it."
"Albert!"
"The day before yesterday, this morning again. It is a thought which will return to me. Elizabeth would be free. She deserves to be free, to be happy. I can do nothing now to make her so, and do not even wish that she should be: I am so selfish, so illogical."
"You are jealous of her—you still love her."
"I have loved her. The past overwhelms me here. I inhale it with every breath."
The conversation lagged. Philippe sought a word to turn it.
"When are you going away?" he asked, to change the subject.
"This evening."
"So soon. To Paris?"
"No. Anne is waiting for me at Lyons."
"Ah. When will you be back?"
"I don't know. Perhaps never. Like most men I have not ordered my life. I can change nothing, and when I cross this threshold, I feel like a miserable brute. It is odious."
He was exalted by these last words.
"And your children," said Philippe.
"Their mother is not so indifferent to me that I dare to take them from her. They have become her aim in life. How could I tear them away from her?"
And tortured by this question which repeated itself over and over again in his mind, he spoke of it again.
"I am an outsider to my own family. How can I crush my wife by demanding this from her? And then her shortcomings are no longer anything compared with mine."
For the first time he condemned himself.
"Will you answer me?" asked Philippe brusquely. "Are you happy?"
Albert looked at him with an expression of bitter irony.
"I have lost my mother without seeing her again. I have lost my children, my home, my peace—A little while ago I spoke of dying. And you ask me if I am happy."
"I did not mean to offend you, Albert. There is such power in love that it longs to subordinate our greatest misfortunes—or it can give us strength to bear them. You have never known that love—or you no longer feel it."
"You are wrong: I still feel it. But love has never fulfilled a man's entire life."
"One last word. If you gave up ... that love...."
"It is useless to go on. I shall give it up only with my life. Just now, when I was speaking of dying, it was with her. She would follow me, no matter where, even to death."
"I understand. You are all in all to her, but the contrary is not true. How you will both suffer, both of you!"
Albert took his friend's arm.
"Listen, I am not a coward," he said. "The choice of my life is not entirely in my own hands. Circumstances have brought it about that I am everything to Anne. I shall not give her up—no matter what happens."
"You prefer to sacrifice your children?"
"They have their mother."
"And their mother?"
No answer following the question, Philippe added:
"Shall you see her again before your departure?"
"No, what should I say to her? That she should break our legal ties, that she should try to remake her own happiness—she is so young, so lovely, so fascinating—and that I can never be anything to her again?"
"And that you are not happy?"
"What matter."
And those words fell like a stone into a dry well.
All afternoon Elizabeth waited at home for the uncertain event which would bring her husband to her. She could not believe that he would go away without seeing her again. Had she not helped his mother, shared his sorrow with him even that morning? How could he be so cruel as to go away in this manner?
Night came, and she still held the hope, which was sustaining her, as she sat, ardent and motionless, in the same armchair, her ear strained to catch the slightest sound, her eyes vainly fixed on the door. She knew that he must take the 10:40 express. She knew where Anne de Sézery was. Finally she went into her children's room, saw that they were asleep, left them in their nurse's charge, and hastily putting on her hat and cloak, she hurried toward the station.
"If I went to look for him?" Mme. Derize had said one day.
Without pride, humiliated, conquered, here she was hastening to offer to the ungrateful faithless one, the heart which he had broken. She did not find him in the entrance hall. Not daring to cross the station to reach the platform, trembling with the emotion of her sudden impulse, she went out into the darkness and watched for the arrival of the carriages. At last she saw Albert and Philippe get out and she drew back, so as not to be seen. By the light of the lantern she distinguished Albert's set expression, as he paid the coachman. Ashamed of her weakness as soon as they had passed, she fled.
An individual, very smartly dressed—(one of those rich glove merchants of Grenoble who make their large fortunes in Paris or Lyons and who, as a result, have acquired at a high price the right of treating women with familiarity)—after noticing her uneasy manner and her figure, followed her and dared to speak to her in the Rue Lesdiguières,—which is not well illuminated. He did not belong to the society she moved in and did not know her.
"Well, Madame, one must be guided by reason. The king is dead—long live the king!"
He laughed, he stared insolently at her, a little disturbed by the type of beauty he saw, which impressed him in spite of himself. Speechless, she was obliged to stop, and her mouth twisted itself without making a sound. At last she recovered herself and cried:
"Go away!"
Her frightened face, her terrified eyes more than her words, put the blackguard to flight. She dragged herself to her staircase, her limbs giving way under her. This last insult completed her humiliation. She fell into the deepest despair. She, in turn, envied the dead.
"It is over," she said to herself, "all over forever."
Reaching her room like an animal forced to its lair, crushed by so many nights of watching and fatigue, by the uselessness of so many efforts, rebelling against God's forgetfulness, she slid to the floor at the foot of her bed, and there, collapsing, huddled up, through her sobs, she mechanically repeated the words which alone kept her from wishing for death, which, in spite of herself, linked her with life.
"Marie Louise, Philippe—my little ones ..."
At the end of March, in the mountainous districts, winter still holds sway. However, on Palm Sunday under a faint sun which gave to the pale sky the shade of a pearl in the light, Grenoble seemed to come to life again on its snowy horizon. Before the gate of the Cathedral, flower vendors, who had come from afar, even from beyond the Alps, as the harbingers of spring, showed and offered to the faithful who came to Mass, their bunches of green branches,—a little dead forest, scattered among the passersby, to be brought together again in the interior of the church, standing up bravely in the hands of all the worshipers. In anticipation they cried:
"Two sous for the blessed box-wood!"
Was it not a blessing in itself only to see that fresh verdure before the trees had even shown their buds?
Elizabeth, who was taking Marie Louise and Philippe to church (the latter having promised to be good during the service)—stopped before one of the improvised stands to select three palms. Absentmindedly, she gave more sous than the ragged little brunette had asked for.
"Here, Madame,—you have given me too much."
"Keep the change. Where do you come from?"
"From Bardonèche in Italy."
"What is your name?"
"Luisa."
"And where are your parents?"
"They are very far from here."
Marie Louise, who was clasping in her left hand a piece of money for the collection, held it out to the stranger, who took it without noticing her, as she stared open-mouthed at the young woman.
"And me? You didn't say thank you to me," said the child, vexed that her generosity should go unnoticed.
Luisa burst out laughing. Despite her innocent eyes she was very knowing, and in her enthusiasm, speaking again in her native tongue, she pointed to the object of her admiration:
"E bella come la Madona!" (She is as lovely as the Madonna!)
Elizabeth's cheeks grew crimson. The compliment struck her like those flowers which are thrown into one's face at flower fêtes, and which flatter and hurt one at the same time. She told her children to hurry.
"We shall be late—let us go in."
Philippe Lagier, who was standing on the square and had witnessed this scene, came up to her, but made no allusion to what he had just overheard, so as not to offend her. They were nearing the church steps. She placed her foot on the first step.
"Are you not coming in?"
"Yes. Does that surprise you? I love the Catholic services. They are incomparably poetical. To-day I shall go in to find the spring."
"Are you not seeking something else there?"
She smiled with that melancholy half-smile which harmonized so completely with her appealing expression. But she herself, had she confidence in God? She continued to mount the steps when he stopped her, not without visible emotion, but with great respect.
"Listen, Madame, I find you so changed...."
She wished to joke.
"Changed? It seems that it must be for the better. I have just heard so."
"Yes. Italians have the privilege of crying out what we must content ourselves with thinking. It is not a question of that. The winter has affected your health somewhat: it is evident—you must consult...."
"No, no, I am very well, I assure you."
She disappeared into the lobby. Abashed for a moment, he decided to follow her and sit a few rows behind her during Mass, so that she would not know of his presence. While her children's clothes were very carefully looked after, she was wearing a modest black dress, which must have seen hard service and was beginning to look shiny. As she had drawn her mourning veil over her shoulder in front, he could see her blonde hair, of such childish fairness, so delicate, so silky, and a corner of her white neck. When she rose or knelt, in accordance with the rites of the service, he noticed the flexibility of her movements and that suave grace, as of a young girl with whom one could not dare to associate impure ideas. At intervals her profile was invisible, then again he would catch a glimpse of it, like a bright spot between her dark hat and dress. How little she resembled the blooming, but apathetic, unresponsive wife of Albert Derizel Sorrow, loneliness, the care of disposing of her time, had sharpened her features, and even the lines of her figure. Her slender body swayed like the long stalk of a flower. In her slimness, which began to grow alarming, she retained that look of youth, which she formerly had as a result of lack of all occupation, and which now suggested a sort of recoil from the disillusioning revelations of life.
"She will break down," thought Philippe. "She will die of it. What can be done to save her?"
He was no longer actuated by selfish motives. In his heart, devoid of faith, but eager, she was his religious ideal, the Madonna with whom the little Italian had compared her.
The winter following Mme. Derize's death—(one of those long winters to which the region of the Alps is exposed)—had not been kind to Elizabeth. She had lost her firmest support, the contagious courage which emanates from calmness in time of trial, and also the last effective tie which linked her with her husband. Thus she had followed a more difficult path. As that plain at Grenoble, surrounded by mountains, appears colder in its circle of ice, so she felt desolation and loneliness about her like high walls. Mme. Molay-Norrois, it is true, realizing this dangerous state of mind, had given more expression to her maternal tenderness, but in the way natural to her passive nature, and rather by lamentations than by actions. Was she not—excellent woman—monopolized by her husband, who was embittered by illness and was accepting old age without resignation? He had always exercised the despotism of his pleasure at home. But his bad temper was preferable to his infidelity. He might not have rebelled against the effects of old age, if he could have endured them with Mme. Passerat, instead of being aggravated by knowing she was taking advantage of her slimness to wear more youthful clothes, and that by a bold maneuver she had just taken away the attentions of M. de Vimelle from the rich Mme. Bonnard-Basson. Providence was watching over her in all her ventures. This last conquest aroused a sort of exasperation in M. Molay-Norrois which helped the circulation of bad blood and increased his bad temper. What comfort could anyone find in such a home?
Elizabeth had not given up her self-imposed duty of giving her children the elements of their education. Marie Louise was almost nine years old and Philippe was six. She must think of their futures. She desired a busy, well-filled youth for them, remembering the weakening relaxation she had known in hers, and hoped to be able to accustom them to find their happiness in everyday things. But her moods, even with them, were now more changeable. She varied from prostration to feverish desire to amuse and occupy herself. Must one not live every day? She cried, she laughed nervously over nothing. Consumed with fever, she spent too much energy, and then fell back into a state of languor. She tried to follow, as far as possible, the plans she had laid out for herself, but advanced unevenly, sometimes slowly, sometimes hurriedly.
Out of society, because of her mourning and her sorrow, she did not care to receive anyone, except her friend Blanche Vernier, whose discreet devotion was restful, but without influence, and whose four children were in themselves quite a company for play and study. She had even been obliged to reject the attentions of M. de Vimelle who had suddenly begun to take her under his protection. Wearied by the vulgarity of his mistress and the thankless rôle that she made him fill he had thought of taking an honorable revenge by paying attention to a woman whom nobody defended. His natural vanity gave him erroneous ideas of his own value. Defeated by Elizabeth he fell back on the mature, lively and more accommodating Mme. Passerat, the conquest of whom would be attended with more publicity. He avenged himself for his setback by reporting to society the infrequent visits of Philippe Lagier to the Rue Haxo. Mme. Molay-Norrois, told by her husband, warned her daughter of this.
Elizabeth was indignant. Upon introspection, however, she found she might reproach herself. It was true, these visits of Philippe were more pleasant to her than she had admitted to herself. He came in shyly, afraid of not being received, and began by talking commonplaces. Shyness in a man of his worth and self-possession is in itself a homage. Then he changed his tone, and spoke with all his wit which was quick and pointed, and which, under the influence of a new tenderness, opened out and became more scintillating. What he said—apart from the lasting pleasure which his words gave, and which helped to make her forget the limitations of her life,—revealed a silent adoration that could never again be directly expressed. In that sort of mystic exaltation which comes with a love that is repressed, he cleverly managed to encourage in her a hope, which all reason and his soul denied.
As a self-imposed task, he wrote very regularly to his friend. At first Albert had sent only hasty replies; but little by little he acquired the habit of confidence. His bitter critical letters did not breathe happiness, and now he began to ask for news of his children. Thus the tie broken by the death of Mme. Derize was cleverly mended by Philippe Lagier's sincere friendship. Elizabeth, in the selfishness of her love, was not conscious that she had made such use of this friendship. Yet after rebelling against her mother's warning, she was guided by it. Besides actual honesty, there is an honesty of appearances of which women of to-day think very little. Above all, she had not the right to take advantage of a sentiment, which, however respectful, had its origin in a generous devotion, and in which she took a certain pride, owing to her deserted state—so harmful to a woman in her prime.
Philippe, delicately warned by her, came to the Rue Haxo only at rare intervals. It was a cruel deprivation for him. There he had really spent intense hours, realizing the greatest of all joys,—the joy of sacrifice. So, not having seen Elizabeth for almost a month, it was excusable that he should stop in the Cathedral Square at the hour of High Mass, in the hope of meeting her there; and he was better able than anyone who saw her daily to notice how thin she was, and all the symptoms of illness that she showed.
During the service he was wondering how he could help her. A change of air, a trip to Provence, to one of those little places, where one need only open his eyes to take in the joy of light and free space! Yes, but she was obstinately refusing Albert's assistance, and her own small resources limited her to a modest life without luxury. Perhaps that would decide the Molay-Norrois to take her back with them. How could they help noticing how she was fading? But how could Albert have gone away after being struck with her new fascination, her frailness? So he looked at her with pity. His prayers dwelt upon her. She was the tabernacle, which, like an offering, held the pure wish for self-sacrifice for which he was indebted to her.
Elizabeth tried—not less vainly, to follow the service. A memory and a fear returned to her successively with her prayers. The memory carried her back ten years to the time of her engagement on a Palm Sunday. It was on a sunny April day. But she felt no pleasure in being less than twenty and in love. Albert had gone to this same church with her and her parents. The vendors were offering their green branches too. Thoughtlessly she dwelt on the verge of an emotion, to which another, better informed or more far-sighted, would have given herself joyfully. Now she understood—after ten years—what an opportunity for uplifting their hearts she had lost in accepting with indifference that happy coincidence of the reawakening of nature, symbolized by the religious festival and the birth of their love.
"Look," he had said, "at all those branches of box-wood on the ground, for you—it seems as if you were walking in spring."
"Yes, it is Palm Sunday," she had answered.
This very simple response dispelled surprise. Was not love something which was due to little girls, and which admits of no pain? Her fiancé had then admired that tranquillity which contained the germ of their separation. How should she have expected to be deceived before understanding the care we must take of our happiness? Why had no one aroused her,—then, while there was still time—from that apathy which makes us sink into the beaten path, and does not allow us to reach the height from which we see the light and a broad vision? She would at least know how to save her children from her short-comings. They would not need despair to open their eyes to the sorrows of life. She would preserve their strength of feeling, their responsiveness, and they should be like young armed warriors, not heedless and enervated.
Would she have that power? That very morning, as she was dressing herself, she noticed how pale and thin she was, and before she could arrange her hair, she had been obliged to begin again several times, her arms heavy and stricken with an inexplicable weakness. Philippe Lagier had certainly noticed it. The remark of such a keen observer, coming back to her mind, startled her. Perhaps she was in danger. But what did a more or less long life matter to her? The last picture she had of Albert was that of a traveler, who sets out without looking back, without even suspecting the humiliated love, sobbing in the darkness a few feet away. Then why should one want so much to live? Marie Louise and Philippe, her own flesh, her blessing, and her new hope—Albert would have them. It was his right. After her death, he would marry that woman. And that woman would become the mother of her children. Ah, no, no, she could not conceive of that without a shudder of horror. She must live; at any price, she must live.
"Mamma, what is the matter with you?" asked Marie Louise, bending over her.
While the faithful worshiper had risen to receive the priest's blessing, Elizabeth remained kneeling, her head hidden, her shoulders shaking. The child repeated her question, and slipped her hand softly under her mother's arm to pat her cheek.
"Why are you crying? Philippe is good—and I love you so much."
For the child's sake, Elizabeth calmed herself at once. She drew down her veil to hide her wet eyes, and standing erect, she smiled.
"There is nothing the matter with me."
With this effort, she returned to her prayer. It was a desperate, exigent supplication which she addressed to God like an accusation:
"You would not allow that—you would not allow that!"
Comforted little by little, she promised herself to consult a doctor, to take care of herself, to fight against her illness. Philippe, who had noticed her emotion, dared not approach her, as she went out. His look, as he bowed to her, was filled with so much respect and compassion, that it made her uneasy. At the foot of the steps, little Luisa waved her sheaf of branches, crying.
"The blessed box, two sous."
When she recognized the young woman, she stopped short and forgot her sales.
"Primavera!" (Spring!), she said.
Elizabeth, touched and comforted by this spontaneous admiration, gave her a little piece of silver. But she shook her head—For her, there was no more spring.
Two or three days after Palm Sunday, Philippe Lagier, during a visit to M. Molay-Norrois, learned that the doctor had prescribed absolute rest for Elizabeth, and considering her to be, if not in actual danger—at any rate, in a serious state of decline which he must check at all costs, had her under his close observation. He hesitated as to what he should do then decided to let Albert know. Instead of receiving the answer he expected, he saw his friend come to his house. That was an indication of very keen anxiety. He had not been wrong in keeping up the young wife's hope: what unselfishness friendship demanded!
Albert, through his intermediary, begged, in the interests of his children, that she would grant him an interview, which she refused. Her illness, depressing her, made her less accessible to any attempt of reconciliation. "Is he free?" she had asked. And, as she could not be answered in the affirmative, of what benefit would be this meeting, which would only be painful, and could not, in any way, modify their respective positions? Did not their discretion consist in remaining apart? Thus set aside, he begged her to accept his help. A change of air would do her good, would be good for Marie Louise and her brother. When Philippe brought him another refusal, he flew into a passion, which terrified his friend, who tried in vain to keep him within bounds. Did he not speak of taking up the suit again, of claiming his paternal rights, of again suing for divorce?
On the following day, he acted on his own behalf. It was cruel and yet good for him. He went to the Saint-Roch cemetery where his parents, whom death had not separated, were lying side by side;—to the city park, where he wandered a long time watching the children at play, not knowing that his own were invited to Blanche Vernier's house; and to the Rue Haxo to look at the closed windows. Rejected everywhere, out of favor with fate, he wandered about Grenoble like a stranger, who has seen all the sights and does not know what to do. Before leaving, he excused himself to Philippe.
"I was wrong yesterday, you must understand me—I am sowing only suffering and evil about me—And it is unavoidable: I can do nothing for it. It is better for me never to return. You will come to see me in Paris?"
"I shall," said Philippe, "but what have you decided?"
"Nothing!"
"You will remain like this—without an official separation?"
"Yes. I promised my mother that I would never seek a divorce against Elizabeth's wish, and Anne despises our laws."
The last volume of the "History of the Peasant" had appeared the previous month, and drawing attention to the whole work, it was the subject of numerous reviews and even heated discussions in the press. In Parliament it had inspired the plan of a bill relating to unseizable family property. The death of an old statesman, forgotten because of his almost interminable old age, had caused a vacancy in the Academy. The newspapers, influenced by such brilliant success, had sympathetically mentioned the candidacy of Albert Derize, without consulting him. To Philippe's questions, he had only replied:
"In my position, it is impossible. And what do honors matter to me?"
He left with his friend a copy of his book for Marie Louise, with an appropriate inscription. Through the child, he saw Elizabeth. The invalid plunged into the reading of it. She discovered therein a sharper and more bitter tone, an authority which asserted itself without discretion, almost with insolence. The conclusions concerning the importance of patrimony, the family, the freedom to make one's will, the account of rural domain, and of tradition, all accorded with the strength of the first volumes, perhaps with less force of persuasion, but a more studied power, and in places, a mood of irritation which revealed an eloquence, both high-spirited and disillusioned.
Elizabeth's health triumphed over that crisis which was the result of an excess of moral fatigue—but she remained subject to nervous trouble, anæmic and susceptible to all injurious influences. Her doctor, who knew her from childhood, analyzed her case as a psychologist, and was not satisfied with her condition.
"This state of uncertainty brings about an irregularity of all the vital functions. A decided position, final separation, divorce would be preferable. After the shock, she could again take up a normal life. She is so young."
But she would hear nothing of this. She would wear herself out without improvement, as long as her strength lasted. Philippe, allowed to visit her, saw the "History of the Peasant" on a little table next to the sofa.
"You have read it?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Well?"
"It is very fine."
She added, as if speaking of someone else:
"Men can change their feelings without changing their thoughts. Women, no!"
It was she, who was now generalizing. He appeared to be meditating, as if weighing a difficult case, and at the end of his reflections, remarked simply:
"I believe he still loves you."
"Please—"
"I am sure of it. And I know how to give him back to you."
Half reclining on the cushions, she sat up, her cheeks flaming, her eyes shining with fever.
"I beg of you to give up that idea. He has wrecked his home. It was his affair to rebuild it. And now—"
"Now."
She allowed herself to fall back.
"It is too late," she said.
Philippe, ever eager to serve her, was painfully affected by this evidence of her state of disenchantment, and changed the conversation, which was painful to her.
"What are your plans? Shall you go to Provence into the sunshine?"
"No, spring is there. As soon as the warm weather comes, we shall go to Saint Martin d'Uriage."
"That is the mountains, and you may find it cold there again. You take very poor care of yourself."
She tried to make a slight motion of indifference, but her arm was too weak. As if the future no longer interested her, she explained, with that smile of conscious invalids, which permits them to mitigate the strictness of their doctors' orders:
"I shall soon be better, you will see. My health is good. In any case I have made my will."
"It is absurd! Why these gloomy thoughts?"
"I confide my children to the care of my mother. You understand I do not wish that woman—You will help mamma to put all obstacles aside, will you not?"
"Oh, Madame—"
"Will you promise me? Albert is your friend. He will listen to you."
Philippe rose, adding the melancholy of his hopeless love to his pity, and no longer able to master his emotion:
"No, no, Madame. That will not be."
The next day, using the end of his legal Easter holiday, he took the train to Paris, without letting anyone know of his journey. This absence, which would scarcely be remarked, lasted for several days. At Grenoble nobody suspected it. The lawyer had never been very confidential, and his goings and comings helped to preserve the mystery. As soon as he came back he went to the Rue Haxo. Elizabeth, with languor and an unsteady step, was slowly taking up her routine again. At the end of his visit, which was very short, he put this question to her:
"If they separated, what would you do?"
She evaded giving an answer.
"I do not know," she said.
"If he were free—if he came back to you."
She fixed him with her eyes, enlarged by illness, and lit up with a somber flame:
"I no longer believe that possible."
Scarcely had she said these words, than she felt as if she had refused an offer from Albert. In despair, she recalled the promise that she had sworn at Mme. Derize's death bed. She had said she would forgive, forgive without restriction. And now that she was recovering she had said "Too late," which is the excuse of the weak. When Philippe had gone, she reproached herself, but she was so weak. Had she not suffered too much, waited too long? Had she not been sufficiently humiliated by life? When a person had begun to enter on the path of abnegation and sacrifice, did he never stop, must he build an everlasting Calvary? To escape, to come back, to attempt to find personal happiness elsewhere, that she could not do; but, like an overladen beast, who resists an ascent, she felt neither the strength, nor the courage to go on. She did not know that one walks much longer when overtired, than before becoming fatigued. It is always at the end that an ascent demands the greatest effort.
After a brief glimpse of spring, the wind and rain had taken possession of Grenoble. One could hardly distinguish the neighboring mountains under the leaden sky. Thus the trip to Saint Martin was delayed, although Elizabeth was anxious to go away, and was eager for the open air. Encouraged by the change in the weather, she began her preparations on the 1st of May. A letter, which she received on the 8th, addressed to Mme. Albert Derize, née Molay-Norrois, Boulevard des Adieux, from whence it came back to her, altered her plans. It was a letter with the English postmark, with the address in a handwriting not entirely unknown to her, and which at once disquieted her. She held it in her hand defiantly before opening it, and did not decide to break the seal without a presentiment of evil. She was not mistaken: the foreign paper, those straight flowing letters, which she had seen before, had already broken up her life. She turned the pages which were numerous, and read the signature: "Anne de Sézery." Then she let the letter drop. How could she have had the audacity to write to her? By what right did she inflict such an insult upon her? Crushed, she sat down, but involuntarily looked on the ground. At last she bent over and picked up the paper which lay there. A few months ago she would have decided not to read it. But she had nothing more to hope, nor to fear. In certain excesses of sorrow, we lose the narrow sense of our dignity which we reserve for our intimate life alone. She began reading this strange letter with suspicion and aversion, ready at the least stinging word to discontinue and not to finish it. She read to the end without stopping.
"LONDON, 6th May, 1907.
"Madame:
"When you receive this letter I shall have left for a far distant country, where no one can follow me and from which I shall never return. That is my excuse for addressing you, and it is—believe me—your obligation to read this letter in its entirety.
"As a result of living in England, I have acquired the habit of candor. I therefore did not want an intermediary between us, for fear of wounding you. The circumstances in which we find ourselves are beyond the pettiness of delicacy, and demand courage, above all things. I must have more than you. If I speak to you of certain things of the past, it is that they may be useful to you in the future. If you have to make a decision, you must be informed.
"I can do nothing more for his happiness, and you, you can do much. That is the whole truth, and the truth must inspire us. I loved him before you did, and more than any other woman has ever loved him. That is the pride I shall take with me to the end of the world. He was my sole thought. When I met him after ten years' absence, I hoped at first to make a loyal friendship of this unusual love. But you did not welcome me kindly, and he himself did not help me. It is so difficult, especially in France, to fathom and to govern these affairs of the heart. After your departure from Paris, I awaited your return. You did not come back, and I believed you and he were finally separated. He was unhappy, and on my account. What could I do, since I loved him? In England we weigh our resolutions for a long time, and then our decision is final. With you, uncertainty may last for a lifetime.
"I was resigned to being socially ostracized. His social convictions, your children, my family traditions, the lack of a religious belief which I had lost, all united to keep us from a legal union. In my own conscience, I was his wife, the true companion of his heart and mind: little else mattered to me, but to live in harmony with him. Last autumn I knew that even his happiness was threatened. It was some days before his mother's death: he had met his children on a path in the country of his own childhood. The children: I did not understand the power of that tie which cannot break. How could I realize it? I never knew my mother, and my father was not concerned about my affection.
"The death of Mme. Derize contributed still more to separate our thoughts. He bore his sorrow alone, and I could not speak to him of her without irritating him. It is very wretched for a woman to remain a stranger to a large part of the life of her.... I was going to say, her husband. He certainly endeavored to lessen the pain he was causing me. His sorrow was like a wall between us, and there must be no walls when two people love each other. Then I fell ill this winter. Deprivations, the struggles of my first years in London, had left no visible traces on me, only a little inward wear and tear and a weakened power of resistance. I believed that love would give me back my youth. In my first illness, in the first breach of our intimacy, I noticed signs of those hard years in my face. And, as if I longed madly to destroy myself, I showed them to him one by one. I am no longer a young woman like you, and the days count for me. You will understand from this confession whether I have promised myself to be sincere.
"Our life was apparently unchanged. During his silences I followed the trend of his thoughts. The dead and the living, the past and the future were calling him to Dauphiné. We were only in accord when we traveled. One should always travel when one lives outside of ordinary life, but one cannot always travel. From certain fragments of sentences, from his absentmindedness, from his last visit to Grenoble, I felt that he had found a new woman in you. By an unexpected reaction, it was you who now became my rival. I had not believed that you would be so faithful, brave, resolute in hope, and so capable of making the most of unhappiness. The physical memory I retained of you, had very often been sufficient to inspire me with fear. Since you compelled me to admire you from afar, I detested you until the day I felt—so unhappily—that you could still do what I could no longer do, and that I should have to tell you so.
"His last book opened my eyes. I sought its pages in vain for that delightful weakness of pity, that bending of the will which I had found in all the writers whom Fate or their own desires had led to unconventional living. It treated only of family, of the home, of hierarchy, of endurance, of tradition, and of the dead. He expresses his deepest thoughts in his books. He put ours only into a 'Schumann,' which is heartrending. Finally, the newspapers spoke of his candidacy for the Academy. I was afraid of hearing it confirmed, when one day two friends, whom he esteemed highly, paid him a visit. He said nothing to me about the interview, the purpose of which was all too clear. I asked him about it, and he put me aside at the first word. No doubt your separation, the contrast between his convictions and his books, rendered any step difficult. From his hostile air, I knew he was ambitious, but weary.
"So everything was in league against me. He believed he had duties, as if there were any in love. One day he suggested that we should die together, when the slightest happiness is sufficient to restrain us. From that time, I began to think of disappearing. What should I do, if I did not go? I owe my practical judgment to English life. As he cannot forget you, neither you nor his children, since my love is no longer sufficient for him, my departure will give him back to his natural destiny, and I have accustomed myself to go on journeys alone. At another time he would have noticed my preparations, which I delayed, always awaiting a more favorable opportunity. Yesterday—on a rainy morning—he was away for the entire day. I took the train from London, and this evening I embark at Liverpool. He will never know where I am going. I have taken every precaution that it should remain a mystery. "It seems to me that these explanations should fix our respective positions exactly, and that a warning should make it clearer for you what course to pursue. The harm I have done you, I did not wish to do, and you are repaying me without wishing it any more than I. Forget that. Forget me. One does not think of death when one holds life in armfuls, and when one hopes for love. May yours, Madame, inspire you, as mine has inspired me.