'But, thank goodness, Monsieur Lazare isn't the kind to fall in love

with a bag of bones. He has been in Paris, and knows what's what. He

has too much good taste. Look! he has set her on the ground again just

as if he were throwing a match away!'

Then Véronique, in fear of letting her tongue slip again, began to

flourish her feather brush once more; while Pauline, buried in deep

thought, watched till evening Louise's pink gown and Lazare's white

jacket both gleaming in the distance amidst the dark forms of the

workmen. When she was beginning to feel fairly well again, Chanteau was

seized with another violent attack of the gout; and this induced the

young girl to come downstairs at once. The first time that she left her

room it was to go and sit by the sick man's bedside. As Madame Chanteau

said, very bitterly, the house was becoming quite a hospital. For some

time her husband had not left his chair. After repeated seizures his

whole body was now attacked by his foe; the disease mounted from his

feet to his knees, and then to his elbows and hands. The little white

pearl on his ear had fallen away, but others, of larger size, had

appeared. All his joints became swollen, and spots of chalky tophus

showed whitely, like lobster's eyes, through his skin in all parts. It

was from chronic gout that he now suffered, chronic and incurable; the

kind of gout which stiffens and deforms the body.

'Good heavens! what agony I'm in!' Chanteau kept repeating. 'My left

knee is as stiff as a log; I can't move either my foot or my knee; and

my elbow burns as though it were on fire. Just look at it!'

Pauline looked, and observed an inflamed swelling on his left elbow.

He complained bitterly of the agony he was suffering there; indeed, it

very soon became unendurable. He kept his arm stiffly stretched, as he

sighed and groaned, with his eyes constantly fixed upon his hand, which

was a pitiable sight, with all the finger-joints knotted and swollen,

and the thumb warped as though it had been beaten with a hammer.

'I cannot keep like this. You must come and help me to move. I thought

just now that I had got myself fairly comfortable, but I am as bad

again as ever I was. It is just as though my bones were being scraped

with a saw. Try to raise me a little.'

Twenty times in an hour did he have to be helped to change his

position. He was in a continual state of anxious restlessness, always

hoping to find relief in some new change. But Pauline still felt too

weak to venture to move him without assistance.

'Véronique,' she would say softly, 'take hold of him very gently and

help me to move him.'

'No, no! not Véronique!' Chanteau would cry out, 'she shakes me so!'

Then Pauline was obliged to make the effort herself, and her shoulders

gave way under the strain. And, however gently she turned him round,

he groaned and screamed so terribly that Véronique rushed hastily out

of the room. She said that one needed to be a saint, like Mademoiselle

Pauline, to be able to do such work, for the good God Himself would run

away if He were to hear her master bellowing.

The paroxysms, however, became less acute, though they did not cease,

but recurred frequently both day and night, keeping the sick man in a

state of perpetual exasperation. It was no longer merely in his feet

that he felt as though sharp teeth were gnawing at him, his whole body

seemed bruised, as though it were being crushed beneath a millstone.

It was impossible to afford him any relief; all that Pauline could do

was to remain by his side and yield submissively to his caprices, ever

changing his position for him, though without succeeding in giving

him any lasting ease. The worst of the matter was that pain made him

unjust and violent, and he spoke to her harshly, as though she were a

very clumsy servant.

'Oh, stop! stop! you are as awkward as Véronique! Can't you manage it

without digging your fingers into my body like that? Your hands are as

clumsy as a gendarme's. Go away and leave me alone. I don't want you to

touch me any more.'

But Pauline, without a word of self-defence, showing a submissive

resignation nothing could ruffle, resumed her efforts with increased

gentleness. When she imagined he was getting irritated with her she

would conceal herself for a moment behind the curtains, hoping that

his anger would cool when he no longer saw her. And often she would

give way to silent tears in her hiding-place, not for the poor man's

harshness towards her, but for the frightful martyrdom which made him

so hasty and violent. She listened to him as he talked to himself

amidst his sighing and groaning.

'She has gone away, the heartless girl! Ah! if I were to die, there

would only be Minouche left to close my eyes. It is abominable to

desert a human being in this way! I'll be bound she's gone off to the

kitchen to have some broth!'

Then, after a little wrestling and struggling, he groaned more loudly,

and ended by calling: 'Pauline, are you there? Come and raise me a

little. I can't get easy as I am. Shall we try how the left side will

do--shall we?'

Every now and then he would be suddenly seized with deep regret, and

would beg the girl's pardon for having treated her unkindly. Sometimes

he would tell her to fetch Matthew, for the sake of having another

companion, fancying that the dog's presence would somehow or other

alleviate his pain. But it was in Minouche rather than in Matthew that

he found a faithful associate, for the cat revelled in the close, warm

atmosphere of sick rooms, and spent her days lying on a couch near the

bed. However, when the patient gave a more than usually loud cry she

seemed surprised, and turned upon him, sitting on her tail, and staring

at him with her big round eyes, in which glistened the indignant

astonishment of a sober philosophic nature whose tranquillity had been

deeply disturbed. What could possess him to make all that disagreeable

and useless noise?

Every time that Pauline went out of the room with Doctor Cazenove she

preferred the same request.

'Can't you inject a little morphia? It makes my heart bleed to hear

him.'

But the doctor refused. It would do no good; the paroxysms would return

again with increased violence. Since the salicylic treatment appeared

only to have aggravated the disease, he preferred not to try any other

drug. He spoke, however, of seeing what a milk diet might do as soon as

the violence of the attack was over. Until then the patient was to keep

to the most sparing diet and diuretic drinks, and nothing else.

'The truth is,' said Cazenove, 'that your uncle is a gourmand who is

now paying dearly for all his fine dishes. He has been eating game; I

know he has, for I saw the feathers in the yard. It will be much the

worse for him in the end. I have warned him over and over again that

the reason of his suffering is that, instead of denying himself such

things, he prefers to yield to his appetite and take the consequences.

But you yourself will act still more foolishly, my dear, if you

over-exert yourself and make yourself ill again. Do be careful! You

will, won't you? Your health still requires looking after.'

But she looked after it very little; she devoted herself to her uncle

entirely, and all notion of time and even of life itself seemed to

depart from her during the long days and nights that she passed by his

bedside, with her ears buzzing with the groans and cries which ever

filled the room. Her devotion and self-sacrifice were so complete that

she actually forgot all about Louise and Lazare. She just exchanged

a few words with them now and then, when she ran across them as she

passed through the dining-room. By this time the work on the shore was

finished, and heavy rains had kept the young people in the house for

a week past; and, when the idea that they were together once suddenly

occurred to Pauline, she felt quite happy to know that they were near

her.

Never before had Madame Chanteau appeared so busy. She was taking

advantage, she said, of the confusion into which her husband's illness

threw the household to go through her papers, make up her accounts,

and clear off arrears of correspondence. So in the afternoons she shut

herself up in her bedroom, leaving Louise to her own resources; and the

girl immediately went upstairs to Lazare, for she detested being alone.

They thus got into the way of being together, remaining undisturbed

till dinner-time in the big room on the second floor, that room which

had so long served Pauline both for study and amusement. The young

man's little iron bedstead was still there, hidden away behind the

screen. The piano was covered with dust, and the table buried beneath

an accumulation of papers, books, and pamphlets. In the middle of it,

between two piles of dry seaweed, was a little model of a stockade, cut

out of deal with a knife, and recalling the grandfather's masterpiece,

the bridge which, in its glass case, adorned the mantelpiece in the

dining-room.

For some time Lazare had been falling into a nervous condition. His

workmen had irritated him, and he had just rid himself of the works

on the shore as of a burden beyond his strength, without tasting the

pleasure of seeing his work accomplished. Other plans now filled his

head--vague projects for the future, appointments at Caen, operations

which would bring him great fame. Yet he never took any definite

active steps, but relapsed into a state of idleness which seemed to

render him weaker, less courageous, every hour. The great shock which

he had received from Pauline's illness added to mental disquietude a

perpetual craving for the open air, a peculiar physical longing, as

though he felt some imperious necessity of recouping himself after

his struggle against pain and sorrow. The presence of Louise still

further excited his feverishness. She did not seem able to speak to him

without leaning upon his shoulder; she smiled close to his face, and

her cat-like graces, the warmth that came from her person, and all the

disturbing freedom of her manner quite turned his head. He was seized

with a feeling against which his conscience struggled. With a friend

of his childhood, in his mother's house, any idea of the sort, he told

himself, was not to be thought of for a moment; and his sense of honour

made his arms tingle with pain whenever he caught hold of Louise as

they played together, and a thrill sent his blood surging through his

veins. It was no thought of Pauline that kept him back. She would never

have known anything about the matter. Amidst all his strange fancies

he began to indulge in ferocious, pessimistic sallies respecting women

and love. Every evil originated in women, who were, said he, foolish

and fickle, and perpetuated grief by desire; while love was nothing but

delusion, the onslaught of future generations which wished to come into

existence. He thus retailed all Schopenhauer's views, over which the

blushing girl grew very merry.

By degrees Lazare became more deeply enamoured of her, genuine passion

arose from amidst his disdainful prejudices, and he threw himself

into that fresh love with all his early enthusiasm, which was still

straining after a happiness that ever seemed to evade him.

On Louise's side there had long been nothing but every-day coquetry.

She delighted in receiving attentions and compliments, and flirting

with pleasant men; and when one of them ceased to appear interested

in her she seemed quite melancholy and out of her element. If Lazare

neglected her for a moment or two, to write a letter, or to plunge into

one of his sudden apparently groundless fits of melancholy, she felt so

unhappy that she began to tease and provoke him, preferring danger to

neglect. Later on, however, she experienced some alarm as she felt the

young man's burning breath fanning her neck like a flame. But though

aware of the danger, she seemed unable to change her ways.

On the day when Chanteau's attack reached its worst point the whole

house shook with his bellowing: prolonged heart-rending plaints, like

the death-cries of a beast in the hands of the slaughterer. After

breakfast, of which she had hastily partaken in a state of nervous

irritation, Madame Chanteau rushed from the room, saying:

'I can't endure it any longer; I shall begin to scream myself if I stop

here. If anyone wants me, I shall be in my own room writing. And you,

Lazare, take Louise upstairs with you and try to amuse her, for the

poor girl is not having a very gay time here.'

They heard her bang her door on the first floor, while her son and the

girl climbed to the one above.

Pauline had gone back to her uncle. She, in her pity for so much

suffering, was the only one who retained her calmness. If she could

do nothing but just sit with him, she wished, at any rate, to afford

the poor man whatever comfort could be derived from not being left to

suffer in solitude. She fancied that he bore up more bravely against

his pain when she looked at him, even if she did not speak a single

word. For hours she would sit in this way by his bedside, and the gaze

of her big compassionate eyes indeed soothed him somewhat. But that

day, with his head hanging over the bolster, his arm stretched out,

and his elbow racked with agony, he did not even recognise her, and

screamed yet more loudly whenever she approached him.

About four o'clock Pauline, in a state of desperation, went into the

kitchen to speak to Véronique, leaving the door open behind her, as she

intended returning immediately.

'Something must really be done,' she said. 'I should like to try some

cold compresses. The doctor says they are dangerous, though they are

successful sometimes. Can you give me some linen?'

Véronique was in a frightfully bad temper.

'Linen? I've just been upstairs to get some dusters, and a nice

reception I got! I had no business to come disturbing them up there!

Oh, it's a nice state of things!'

'But you might ask Lazare for some,' Pauline continued, without yet

understanding Véronique's remarks.

Then the servant, carried away by her anger, set her arms a-kimbo, and,

without taking time to think of what she was saying, burst out: 'Yes, I

should think so, indeed! They are much too busy gallivanting up there!'

'What do you mean?' the girl stammered, growing very pale.

Véronique, alarmed at what she had said, attempted to recall those

words which she had so long been keeping to herself. She tried to

think of some explanation, some fib to tell Pauline, but she could hit

upon nothing that seemed of any service. By way of precaution she had

grasped the girl's wrists, but Pauline freed herself with a sudden

jerk, and bounded wildly up the staircase, so choked, so convulsed

by anger that Véronique dared not follow her, trembling as she did

with fear at the sight of that pallid face, which she could scarcely

recognise. The house seemed to be asleep; the upper floors were wrapped

in silence, and nothing but Chanteau's yell came from below to disturb

the perfect quietude. The girl sprang with a bound to the landing of

the first floor, where she jostled against her aunt, who stood there,

like a sentinel, barring any further advance. She had probably been

keeping guard in this way for some little time.

'Where are you going?' she asked.

Pauline, still choking with emotion, and exasperated at this hindrance

to her progress, could not at first answer.

'Let me pass!' she at last managed to stammer, making on angry gesture,

before which Madame Chanteau quailed. Then, with another bound she

rushed up to the second floor, while her aunt, rooted to the spot,

threw up her arms, but spoke no word. Pauline was possessed by one of

those stormy fits of rebellion which broke out amidst all the gentle

gaiety of her nature, and which, even when she was a mere child, had

afterwards left her in a prostrate fainting condition. For some years

past she believed that she had cured herself of them. But an impulse

of jealousy had just thrilled her so violently that she could not have

restrained herself without shattering herself entirely.

When she reached Lazare's door on the top floor, she threw herself

against it. The key was bent by her impetuous onset, and the door

clattered back against the wall. And the sight she then beheld

brought her indignation to a climax. Lazare was clasping Louise in

his arms against the wardrobe and raining kisses on her chin and

neck, she passive, half-fainting, unable to resist his embrace. They

had begun, no doubt, in mere sport, but the sport seemed likely to

have a disastrous ending. At Pauline's appearance there was a moment

of stupefaction. They all three looked at each other. Then, at last,

Pauline burst out:

'Oh! you hussy! you hussy!'

It was the girl's treason that angered her more than anything. With a

scornful gesture she pushed Lazare aside, as though he were a child

of whose pitiful weakness she was well aware. But this girl, her own

familiar friend, had stolen her husband from her while she was busy

nursing a sick man down below! She caught her by the shoulders, shook

her, and was scarcely able to keep from striking her.

'What do you mean by this? Tell me! You have been behaving infamously,

shamelessly! Do you hear me?'

Then Louise, still in a state of stupor, and with her eyes wandering

vacantly, stammered:

'He held me; I could not get away.'

'He! Why, he would have burst into tears if you had simply pushed him

with your little finger!'

The sight of the room itself increased her anger--that room where she

and Lazare had loved each other, where she, too, had felt her blood

pulse more quickly through her veins at the warm touch of the young

man's breath. What should she do to this girl to satisfy her vengeance?

Lazare, dazed, overcome with embarrassment, had just resolved to

attempt some interference, when Pauline dashed Louise from her so

violently that the girl's shoulders struck the wardrobe.

'Ah! I'm afraid of myself. Be off!'

And that was all she could now find to say. She chased the other

through the room, drove her out upon the landing and down the

staircase, crying after her perpetually:

'Be off! be off! Get your things together and be off!'

Madame Chanteau was still standing on the landing of the first floor.

The rapidity of the scene had given her no opportunity to interfere.

But she now recovered her power of speech and signed to Lazare to shut

himself in his own room, while she tried to soothe Pauline, pretending

at first to be very much surprised at what had happened. Meantime

Pauline, having driven Louise into her bedroom, still kept on repeating:

'Be off! be off!'

'What do you mean?' her aunt asked her. 'Why is she to be off? Are you

losing your head?'

Then the young girl stammered out the whole story. She was overcome

with disgust. To her frank, honourable nature such conduct appeared

utterly shameless and incapable of either excuse or pardon. The more

she thought about it the more indignant she felt, rebelling against it

all in her horror of deceit and her faithfulness of heart. When one had

once bestowed one's self, one could not withdraw the gift.

'Be off! Pack up your things at once and be off!' she repeated.

Louise, completely overcome, unable to find a word to say in her own

defence, had already opened her drawers to get her clothes together.

But Madame Chanteau was growing angry.

'Stay where you are, Louisette. Am I the mistress of my own house? Who

is it that presumes to give orders here and allows herself to send my

guests away? Such behaviour is infamous! We are not living in a slum

here!'

'Didn't you hear me, then?' cried Pauline. 'I caught her up there with

Lazare. He had her in his arms, and was kissing her!'

Madame Chanteau shrugged her shoulders. All her stored-up bitterness

broke out in words of base suspicion.

'They were only playing; where was the harm of it? When he was nursing

you in your room, did we ever interfere?'

The young girl's excitement suddenly subsided. She stood quite

motionless, pale, astounded at the accusation which was thus launched

against her. It was she who was now being arraigned as guilty; her aunt

appeared to suspect her of disgraceful conduct.

'What do you mean?' she cried. 'If you had really thought anything

wrong you would not have allowed it for a moment!'

'Well, you are not children! But I don't want my son to lead a whole

life of misconduct. And you had better leave off harassing those who

still remain honest women.'

For a moment Pauline continued silent, with her big pure eyes fixed

upon Madame Chanteau, who turned her own away. Then she went up the

stairs to her room, saying curtly:

'Very well, it is I who will leave.'

Then silence fell again, a heavy silence, in which the whole house

seemed to collapse. Athwart that sudden quietude Chanteau's groans

suddenly rose once more like those of an agonized deserted animal. They

seemed to grow louder and louder; they made themselves distinctly heard

till they drowned all other sound.

And now Madame Chanteau began to regret the words which had escaped

her. She recognised the irreparable nature of the insult, and felt much

disturbed in mind lest Pauline should actually carry out her threat

of immediate departure. With such a girl everything was possible,

and what would people say of herself and her husband if their ward

should set off scouring the country and telling the story of their

rupture? Perhaps she would take refuge with Doctor Cazenove, which

would certainly give rise to a dreadful scandal in the district. At the

bottom of Madame Chanteau's embarrassment there lurked a fear of the

past; of all the money which had been lost--a loss which might suddenly

be brought up against them.

'Don't cry, Louisette,' she said, feeling angry with Pauline again.

'Here we are, in a bother again all through her folly. She's always

going on in this mad, violent way. It's impossible to live quietly with

her. But I will try to make matters comfortable.'

'Oh no, let me go away, I beg you,' Louise cried. 'It would be too

painful for me to stop here. She is right; I had better go.'

'Not to-night, at any rate. I must see you safely to your father's

house. Just wait a moment, and I will go upstairs and see if she is

really packing her things.'

Madame Chanteau gently went upstairs and listened at Pauline's door.

She heard her walking hurriedly about the room, opening and shutting

her drawers. For a moment she thought of entering, provoking an

explanation, and bringing the affair to an end with a flood of tears.

But she was afraid; she felt that she would stammer and blush before

the girl, and this feeling served to increase her hatred of her. So,

instead of knocking at the door, she went downstairs to the kitchen,

treading as silently as she could. An idea had just occurred to her.

'Have you heard the row to which Mademoiselle Pauline has just been

treating us?' she asked Véronique, who had begun furiously polishing

her brass-ware.

The servant, with her head bent over the polish, made no answer.

'She is getting quite unbearable! I can do nothing with her. Would you

believe that she is actually talking about leaving us at once? She is

packing her things at this moment. I wish you would go upstairs and try

to reason with her.'

Then, as she still got no answer, she added:

'Are you deaf?'

'If I don't answer, it's because I don't choose,' Véronique cried

snappishly, bursting with angry excitement, and rubbing a candlestick

violently enough to hurt her fingers. 'She is quite right in going

away. If I had been in her place, I would have taken myself off long

ago.'

Madame Chanteau listened with gaping lips, quite stupefied by this

mutinous outburst of loquacity.

'I'm not talkative,' Véronique continued, 'but you mustn't press me

too far or I shall let out all I think. I should have liked to fling

Mademoiselle Pauline into the sea on the day you first brought her

here as a little girl, but I can't bear to see anyone ill-treated, and

you have all of you treated her so abominably that one of these days

I shall give anyone who hurts her a swinging box on the ears. You can

give me warning, if you like; I don't care a button; but I will let

her into some nice secrets. Yes, she shall know all about how you have

treated her, with all your fine pretences to honour and honesty.'

'Hold your tongue! You are quite mad!' cried Madame Chanteau, much

disquieted by this fresh explosion.

'No, I will not hold my tongue! It is all too shameful! Shameful, I

say! Do you hear me? I have been choking with it all for years and

years! Wasn't it bad enough of you to rob her of her money? Couldn't

you have been content with that, without tearing her poor little

heart to shreds? Oh yes! I know all about it; I have seen through all

your underhand plottings. Monsieur Lazare is perhaps not quite so

calculating as you are; but in other respects he's not much better than

you, for he wouldn't much mind giving her her death-blow out of mere

selfishness, just to save himself from feeling bored! Ah, me! there

are some people who come into this world only to be preyed upon and

devoured by others.'

She flourished the candlestick about, and then caught hold of a pan,

which rumbled like a drum under the violent rubbing she gave it. Madame

Chanteau had been sorely tempted to turn her out of the house at once,

but she succeeded in restraining herself and said to her icily:

'So you won't go up and speak to the girl? It would be for her own

good, to prevent her from committing a piece of folly.'

Véronique became silent again, but at last she growled out:

'I'll go up to her. Reason is reason, after all, and an inconsiderate

act never does any good.'

She stayed for a minute or two to wash her hands, and then took off her

dirty apron. When she opened the door in the passage to make her way to

the stairs a loud wail rushed in. It was the ceaseless heart-rending

wail of Chanteau. Madame Chanteau, who was following Véronique,

thereupon seemed struck with an idea, and exclaimed in an undertone,

emphasising her words:

'Tell her that she can't think of leaving her uncle in the dreadful

state in which he is. Do you hear?'

'Well, he certainly is bellowing hard; there's no doubt of that,'

Véronique replied.

She went up the stairs, while her mistress, who had stretched out her

hand towards her husband's room, purposely refrained from closing the

door. The sick man's groans ascended the staircase, increasing in

volume at every fresh storey. When Véronique reached Pauline's room

she found her just on the point of leaving, having fastened up in a

bundle what little linen she would absolutely require, and intending

to send old Malivoire to fetch the rest in the morning. She had calmed

down again, and, though very pale and low-spirited, was simply obeying

the dictates of her reason without any feeling of anger.

'Either she or I,' was the only answer she returned to all that

Véronique said, and she sedulously avoided mentioning Louise's name.

When Véronique conveyed this reply to Madame Chanteau, she found the

latter in Louise's room, where the girl, having dressed herself--for on

her side she was determined to go away--stood trembling, alarmed at the

slightest creaking of the door. Madame Chanteau was obliged to yield,

and sent to Verchemont for the baker's trap, saying that she would take

Louise to her Aunt Léonie at Arromanches. They would invent some story

to tell this lady; they would make the violence of Chanteau's attack a

pretext, alleging that his screams had become quite unendurable.

After the departure of the two ladies, whom Lazare safely seated in the

baker's trap, Véronique shouted in the passage at the top of her voice:

'You can come downstairs now, Mademoiselle Pauline; there is nobody

here.'

The house seemed empty; the heavy gloomy silence was broken only by

Chanteau's perpetual groans, which became louder and louder. As Pauline

came down the last step Lazare, returning to the house from the yard,

met her face to face. His whole body shook with a nervous trembling; he

paused for a moment, as though anxious to confess his fault and implore

forgiveness, but a rush of tears choked his voice, and he hurried up to

his own room, without having been able to say a word.

Chanteau was still lying with his head across the bolster and his arm

rigidly outstretched. He no longer dared make the slightest movement;

doubtless he had not even been aware of Pauline's absence, as he lay

there with his eyes closed and his mouth open to yell and groan. None

of the sounds of the house reached him; and all he thought of was to

complain as long and as loudly as his breath would let him. His cries

grew more and more desperate, till they at last seriously disturbed

Minouche, who had had a family of four kittens thrown away that

morning, and who, already quite forgetful of them, had been purring

lazily on an arm-chair.

When Pauline took her place again, her uncle howled so loudly that

the cat got up, unable to endure the din. She fixed her eyes steadily

on the sick man, with the indignation of a well-behaved person whose

serenity is disturbed. If she could not be allowed to purr in peace, it

would be impossible for her to stop there. And she took herself off,

with her tail in the air.

VI

When Madame Chanteau returned home again in the evening, a few minutes

before dinner, no further mention was made of Louise. She merely called

to Véronique to come and take her boots off. Her left foot was paining

her.

'Little wonder of that!' the servant murmured. 'It's quite swollen.'

The seams of the leather had indeed left crimson marks on the soft

white skin. Lazare, who had just come downstairs, looked at his

mother's foot and said:

'You have been walking too much.'

But she had really only walked through Arromanches. Besides the pain in

her foot, she that day experienced a difficulty in breathing, such as

had been increasingly affecting her at intervals for some months past.

Presently she began to blame her boots for the pain she was enduring.

'Those tiresome bootmakers don't ever seem to make the instep high

enough! As soon as ever I get my boots on I'm in a state of torture.'

However, as she felt no further pain after she had put on her slippers,

nothing more was thought of the matter. Next morning the swelling

had extended to her ankle, but by the following night it disappeared

altogether.

A week passed. From the very first dinner at which Pauline had again

found herself in the presence of Madame Chanteau and Lazare they had

all forced themselves to resume their ordinary demeanour towards each

other. No allusion was made to what had occurred; everything seemed

to be just the same as usual. The family life went on in the old

mechanical way, with the same customary expressions of affection, the

same good-mornings and good-nights, and the same lifeless kisses given

at fixed hours. A feeling of great relief came, however, that they

were at last able to wheel Chanteau to his place at table. This time

his knees had remained stiff with ankylosis, and he could not stand

upright. But none the less he enjoyed his freedom from actual pain,

and was so entirely wrapped up in egotistical satisfaction at his own

well-being that he never gave a thought to the joys or cares of the

other members of the family. When Madame Chanteau ventured to mention

Louise's sudden departure, he begged her not to speak to him of such

melancholy matters. Pauline, now freed from her attendance in her

uncle's room, tried to find some other means of occupying herself, but

she could not conceal the grief oppressing her. She found the evenings

especially painful, and her distress was plainly visible despite all

her affectation of calmness. Ostensibly everything was just the same as

usual, and the old every-day routine was gone through; but every now

and then a nervous gesture or even a momentary pause would make them

all conscious of the hidden breach, the rift of which they never spoke,

but which was, all the same, always widening.

At first Lazare had felt contempt for himself. The moral superiority

of Pauline, who was so upright and just, had filled him with shame

and vexation. Why had he lacked the courage to go to her, confess his

fault, and ask her pardon? He might have told her the whole truth,

how he had suddenly been excited and carried away by the presence of

Louise, whose glamour had intoxicated him; and his cousin was too

generous and large-hearted not to understand and make allowances. But

insurmountable embarrassment had kept him back; he felt afraid of

cutting a still more contemptible figure in the girl's eyes by entering

upon an explanation in which he would very likely stammer and hesitate

like a child. Beneath his hesitation, too, there lurked the fear of

telling another falsehood, for his thoughts were still full of Louise,

her image was perpetually haunting him. In spite of himself, his long

walks always seemed to lead him into the neighbourhood of Arromanches.

One evening he went right on to Aunt Léonie's little house and prowled

round it, hurriedly taking flight as he heard a shutter move, all

confusion at the baseness he had contemplated. It was the sense of

his own unworthiness that doubled his feeling of shame in Pauline's

presence; and he freely condemned himself, though he could not quench

his passion. The struggle was perpetually going on within his mind, and

never before had his natural irresolution proved such a source of pain

to him. He only had sufficient honesty and strength of purpose left

him to avoid Pauline and thus escape the last dishonour of perjuring

himself. It was possible that he still loved his cousin, but the

alluring image of her friend was ever before him, blotting out the past

and barring the future.

Pauline, on her side, waited for his defence and apology. In her first

outburst of indignation she had sworn that she would never forgive him.

Then she had begun to suffer secretly at finding that her forgiveness

had not been asked. Why did he keep silence, and seem so feverish and

restless, spending all his time out of doors, as though he were afraid

to find himself alone with her? She was quite ready to listen to him

and to forget everything, if only he would show a little repentance.

As the hoped-for explanation failed to come, she racked her mind to

find reasons for her cousin's silence. Her own pride kept her from

making the first advance; and, as the days painfully and slowly passed,

she succeeded in conquering herself so far as to resume all her old

cheerful activity. But beneath that brave show of calmness there lurked

everlasting unhappiness, and in her own room at night she burst into

fits of tears, and had to stifle the sound of her sobs by burying her

head in her pillow. Nobody spoke about the wedding, though it was

evident that they all thought of it. The autumn was coming on; what was

to be done? Nobody seemed to care to say anything on the matter; they

all avoided coming to a decision till they should feel able to discuss

it again.

It was about this time that Madame Chanteau completely lost her head.

She had always been excitable and restless, but the dim causes which

had undermined all her good principles had now reached a period of

great destructiveness. Never before had she found herself so completely

off her balance, so nervously feverish as now. The necessity for

restraint exasperated her torment. She suffered from her rageful

longing for money, which grew stronger day by day and ended by carrying

off her reason and her heart. She was continually attacking Pauline,

whom she now began to blame for Louise's departure, accusing her of

it as of an act of robbery that had despoiled her son. She felt an

ever-open wound which would not close; the smallest trifles assumed

monstrous proportions; she remembered the slightest incidents of the

horrid scene; she could still hear Pauline crying, 'Be off! Be off!'

And she began to imagine that she herself was being driven away,

that all the joy and the fortune of the family was being flung into

the streets. At night-time, as she rolled about in bed in a restless

semi-somnolent state, she even regretted that death had not freed them

from that accursed Pauline. Intricate schemes and calculations sprang

up in wild confusion in her brain, but she was never able to hit upon

any practicable means of getting rid of the girl.

At the same time a kind of reaction seemed to increase her affection

for her own son, and she worshipped him now almost more than she had

done when she had held him in her arms as an infant and had possessed

his undivided love. From morning till night she followed him with her

anxious eyes; and when they were alone together she would throw her

arms around him and kiss him, and beg him not to distress himself.

She swore to him that everything should be put right, that she would

strangle those who opposed her rather than have him unhappy. After a

fortnight of this continual struggling, her face had become as pale as

wax, though she grew no thinner. The swelling in her feet had twice

appeared again, and had then subsided.

One morning she rang for Véronique, to whom she showed her legs, which

had swollen to the thighs during the night.

'Just look at the state I'm in! Isn't it provoking? I wanted to go out

so much to-day, and now I shall be obliged to stay in bed! Don't say

anything about it for fear of alarming Lazare.'

She did not seem to be at all alarmed herself. She merely remarked that

she felt a little tired, and the members of the family simply supposed

that she was suffering from a slight attack of lumbago. As Lazare had

gone off on one of his rambles along the shore, and Pauline refrained

from entering her aunt's room, knowing that her presence there would be

unwelcome, the sick woman occupied herself by dinning furious charges

against her niece into the servant's ears. She seemed to have lost all

control of herself. The immobility to which she was condemned and the

palpitations of the heart which stifled her at the slightest movement

goaded her into ever-increasing exasperation.

'What's she doing downstairs? Up to some fresh wickedness, I'm sure!

She'll never think of bringing me even a glass of water, you'll see!'

'But, Madame,' urged Véronique, 'it is you who drive her from you.'

'Ah! you don't know her! There never was such a hypocrite as she

is. Before other people she pretends to be kind and generous, but

there's nothing she wouldn't do or say when your back's turned. Yes,

my good girl, you were the only one who saw things clearly on the day

I first brought her here. If she had never come, we shouldn't now be

in the state we are. She will prove the ruin of us all. Your master

has suffered all the agonies of the damned since she has been in

this house, and she has worried and distressed me till she has quite

undermined my health; while as for my son, she made him lose his head

entirely.'

'Oh, Madame! how can you say that when she is so kind and good to you

all?'

Right up to the evening Madame Chanteau thus unburdened herself of her

anger. She raved about everything, particularly about the abominable

way in which Louise had been turned out of the house, though it was the

money question that aroused her greatest anger. When Véronique, after

dinner, was able to go down to the kitchen again she found Pauline

there, occupying herself by putting the crockery away; and so the

servant, in her turn, took the opportunity of unburdening herself of

the angry indignation which was choking her.

'Ah! Mademoiselle, it is very good of you to bother about their plates.

If I were you, I should smash the whole lot to bits!'

'What for?' the girl asked in astonishment.

'Because, whatever you were to do, you couldn't come up to half of what

they accuse you of!'

Then she broke out angrily, raking up everything from the day of

Pauline's arrival there.

'It would put God Almighty Himself into a rage to see such things! She

has drained your money away sou by sou, and she has done it in the most

shameless manner imaginable. Upon my word, to hear her talk one would

suppose that it was she who had been keeping you. When she had your

money in her secrétaire she made ever so much fuss about keeping it

safe and untouched, but all that didn't prevent her greedy hands from

digging pretty big holes in it. It's a nice piece of play-acting that

she's been keeping up all this time, contriving to make you pay for

those salt workshops and then keeping the pot boiling with what was

left! Ah! I daresay you don't know, but if it hadn't been for you they

would all have starved! She got into a pretty flurry when the people

in Paris began to worry her about the accounts! Yes, indeed, you could

have had her sent right off to the assize court if you had liked. But

that didn't teach her any lesson; she's still robbing you, and she'll

end by stripping you of your very last copper. I daresay you think I'm

not speaking the truth, but I swear that I am! I have seen it all with

my eyes and heard it with my ears; and I have too much respect for

you, Mademoiselle, to tell you the worst things, such as how she went

on when you were ill and she couldn't go rummaging in your chest of

drawers.'

Pauline listened without finding a single word with which to interrupt

the narrative. The thought that the family were actually living upon

her and rapaciously plundering her had, indeed, frequently cast a

gloom over her happiest days. But she had always refused to allow her

mind to dwell on the subject; she had preferred to go on living in

ignorance and accusing herself secretly of avarice. To-day, however,

she had to hear the whole truth of the matter, and Véronique's

outspokenness seemed to make facts worse than she had believed. At

each fresh sentence the young girl's memory awoke within her; she

recalled old incidents, the exact meaning of which she had not at the

time understood, and she now saw clearly through all Madame Chanteau's

machinations to get hold of her money. Whilst listening she had slowly

dropped upon a chair, as though suddenly overcome with great fatigue,

and an expression of grief and pain appeared upon her lips.

'You are exaggerating!' she murmured.

'Exaggerating! I!' Véronique continued violently. 'It isn't so much

the money part of the business that makes me so angry. But what I

can't forgive her is for having taken Monsieur Lazare from you after

once having given him to you. Oh yes! it was very nice of her to rob

you of your money and then to turn against you because you were no

longer rich enough, and Monsieur Lazare must needs marry an heiress!

Yes, indeed; what do you think of it? They first pillage you, and

then toss you aside because you are no longer rich enough for them!

No, Mademoiselle, I will not give over! There is no need to tear

people's hearts to shreds after emptying their pockets. As you loved

your cousin, and it was his duty to pay you back with affection and

kindness, why, it was abominable of your aunt to steal him from you!

She did everything. I saw through it all! Yes, every evening she

excited the girl; she made her fall in love with the young man by all

her talk about him. As certainly as that lamp is shining, it was she

who threw them into each other's arms. Bah! she would have been only

too glad to have seen them compelled to marry; and it isn't her fault

if that didn't take place. Try and defend her if you can, she who

trampled you under foot and caused you so much grief, for you sob in

the night like a Magdalene! I can hear you from my room! I feel beside

myself with all that cruelty and injustice!'

'Don't say any more, I beseech you!' stammered Pauline, whose courage

failed her. 'You are giving me too great pain.'

Big tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt quite conscious that

Véronique was only telling her the truth, and her heart bled within

her. All the past sprang up before her eyes in lively reality, and she

again saw Lazare pressing Louise to his breast, while Madame Chanteau

kept guard on the landing. Ah, God! what had she done that everyone

should join in deceiving her, when she herself had kept faith with all?

'I beg you, say no more! I am choking with it all!'

Then Véronique, seeing that she was painfully overcome, contented

herself with adding:

'Well, it's for your sake and not for hers that I don't go on. She's

been spitting out a string of abominations about you ever since the

morning. She quite exhausts my patience and makes my blood boil when

I hear her turning all the kindnesses you've done her into evil. Yes,

indeed! She pretends that you have been the ruin of the family, and

that now you are killing her son! Go and listen at the door, if you

don't believe me!'

Then, as Pauline burst into a fit of sobbing, Véronique, quite

unnerved, flung her arms round her neck and kissed her hair, saying:

'There, there, Mademoiselle, I'll say no more. But it's only right that

you should know. It's too shameful for you to be treated in such a

way. But there, I won't say another word, so don't take on so!'

They were silent for a time, while the servant raked out the embers

still burning in the grate, but she could not refrain from growling:

'I know very well why she's swelling out! All her wickedness has

gathered in her knees!'

Pauline, who was looking intently at the tiled floor, her mind upset

and heavy with grief, raised her eyes and asked Véronique what she

meant. Had the swelling, then, come back again? The servant showed some

embarrassment, as she had to break the promise of silence which she

had given to Madame Chanteau. Though she allowed herself full liberty

to judge her mistress, she still obeyed her orders. Now, however, she

was obliged to admit that her legs had again swollen badly during the

night, though Monsieur Lazare was not to know it. While the servant

gave details of Madame Chanteau's condition the expression of Pauline's

face changed--depression gave place to anxiety. In spite of all that

she had just learned of the old lady's conduct, she was painfully

alarmed by the appearance of symptoms which she knew betokened grave

danger.

'But she mustn't be left alone like this!' she exclaimed, springing up.

'She is in danger!'

'In danger, indeed?' cried Véronique, unfeelingly. 'She doesn't at all

look like it, and she certainly doesn't think so herself, for she's

far too busy befouling other folks and giving herself airs in her

bed like a Pasha. Besides, she's asleep just now, and we must wait

till to-morrow, which is just the day when the Doctor always comes to

Bonneville.'

The next day it was no longer possible to conceal from Lazare his

mother's condition. All night long had Pauline listened, constantly

awakened from brief dozes, and ever believing that she heard groans

ascending through the floor. Then in the morning she fell into so deep

a sleep that it was only at nine o'clock she was roused by the slamming

of a door. When, after hastily dressing herself, she went downstairs

to make inquiries, she encountered Lazare on the landing of the first

floor. He had just left his mother's room. The swelling was reaching

her stomach, and Véronique had come to the conclusion that the young

man must be warned.

'Well?' asked Pauline.

At first Lazare, who looked utterly upset, made no reply. Yielding to a

habit that had grown upon him, he grasped his chin with his trembling

fingers, and when at last he tried to speak he could scarcely stammer:

'It is all over with her!'

He went upstairs to his own room with a dazed air. Pauline followed

him. When they reached that big room on the second floor, which she

had never entered since the day she had surprised Louise there in her

cousin's arms, Pauline closed the door and tried to reassure the young

man.

'You don't even know what is the matter with her. Wait till the Doctor

comes, at any rate, before you begin to alarm yourself. She is very

strong, and we may always hope for the best.'

But he was possessed by a sudden presentiment, and repeated obstinately:

'It is all over with her; all over.'

It was a perfectly unexpected blow, and quite overcame him. When he

had risen that morning, he had looked at the sea, as he always did,

yawning with boredom and complaining of the idiotic emptiness of life.

Then, his mother having shown him her knees, the sight of her poor

swollen limbs, puffed out by œdema, huge and pallid, looking already

like lifeless trunks, had thrilled him with panic-stricken tenderness.

It was always like this. At every moment fresh trouble came. Even now,

as he sat upon the edge of his big table, trembling from head to foot,

he did not dare to give the name of the disease whose symptoms he

had recognised. He had ever been haunted by a dread of heart disease

seizing upon himself and his relations, for his two years of medical

study had not sufficed to show him that all diseases were liable to

lead to death. To be stricken at the heart, at the very source of life,

that to him seemed the all-terrible, pitiless cause of death. And it

was this death that his mother was going to die, and which he himself

would infallibly die also in his own turn!

'Why should you distress yourself in this way?' Pauline asked him.

'Plenty of dropsical people live for a very long time. Don't you

remember Madame Simonnot? She died in the end of inflammation of the

lungs.'

But Lazare only shook his head. He was not a child, to be deceived

in that manner. His feet went on swinging to and fro, and he still

continued trembling, while he kept his eyes fixed persistently on the

window. Then, for the first time since their rupture, Pauline kissed

him on the brow in her old manner. They were together again, side by

side, in that big room, where they had grown up, and all their feeling

against one another had died away before the great grief which was

threatening them. The girl wiped the tears from her eyes, but Lazare

could not cry, and simply went on repeating, mechanically, as it were:

'It is all over with her; all over.'

When Doctor Cazenove called, about eleven o'clock, as he generally did

every week after his round through Bonneville, he appeared very much

astonished at finding Madame Chanteau in bed. 'What was the matter

with the dear lady?' he asked. He even grew jocular, and declared that

they were quite turning the house into an ambulance. But when he had

examined and sounded the patient, he became more serious, and, indeed,

needed all his great experience to conceal the fact that he was much

alarmed.

Madame Chanteau herself had no idea of the gravity of her condition.

'I hope you are going to get me out of this, Doctor,' she said gaily.

'There's only one thing I'm frightened about, and that is that this

swelling may stifle me if it goes on mounting higher and higher.'

'Oh! keep yourself easy about that,' he replied, smiling in turn. 'It

won't go any higher, and if it does we shall know how to stop it.'

Lazare, who had come into the room after the Doctor's examination,

listened to him trembling, burning to take him aside and question him,

so that he might know the worst.

'Now, my dear Madame,' Doctor Cazenove resumed, 'don't worry yourself.

I will come and have a little chat with you again to-morrow.

Good-morning; I will write my prescription downstairs.'

When they got down, Pauline prevented the Doctor and Lazare from

entering the dining-room, for in Chanteau's presence nothing more

serious than ordinary lumbago had ever been mentioned. The girl had

already put ink and paper on the table in the kitchen. And, noticing

their impatient anxiety, Doctor Cazenove confessed that the case was

a grave one; but he spoke in long and involved sentences, and avoided

telling them anything definite.

'You mean that it is all over with her, eh?' Lazare cried at last, in a

kind of irritation. 'It's the heart, isn't it?'

Pauline gave the Doctor a glance full of entreaty, which he understood.

'The heart? Well, I'm not quite so sure about that,' he replied. 'But,

at any rate, even if we can't quite cure her, she may go on for a long

time yet, with care.'

The young man shrugged his shoulders in the angry fashion of a child

who is not to be taken in by fine stories. Then he exclaimed:

'And you never gave me any warning, Doctor, though you attended her

quite recently! These dreadful diseases never come on all at once. Had

you no idea of it?'

'Well, yes,' Cazenove murmured, 'I had indeed noticed some faint

indications.'

Then, as Lazare broke out into a sneering laugh, he added:

'Listen to me, my fine fellow. I don't think that I'm a greater fool

than others, and yet this is not the first time when it has happened

to me to have had no inkling of what was coming, and to find myself

taken by surprise. It is absurd of you to expect us to be able to

know everything; it is already a great deal to be able to spell out

the first few lines of what is going on in that intricate piece of

mechanism--the human body.'

He seemed vexed, and dashed his pen about angrily as he wrote his

prescription, tearing the thin paper provided for him. The naval

surgeon cropped up once more in the brusque movements of his big frame.

However, when he stood up again, with his old face tanned brown with

the sea air, he softened as he saw both Pauline and Lazare hanging

their heads hopelessly in front of him.

'My poor children,' he said, 'we will try our best to bring her round.

You know that I never put on grand airs before you. So I tell you

frankly that I can say nothing. But it seems to me that there is, at

any rate, no immediate danger.'

Then he left the house, having ascertained that Lazare had a supply

of tincture of digitalis. The prescription simply ordered some

applications of this tincture to the patient's legs, and a few drops

of it to be taken in a glass of sugar and water. This treatment, said

the Doctor, would suffice for the moment; he would bring some pills

with him in the morning. It was possible, too, that he might make up

his mind to bleed her. Pauline went out with him to his gig in order

to ask him to tell her the real truth, but the real truth was that he

did not dare to say one thing or the other. When she returned into the

kitchen the girl found Lazare re-perusing the prescription. The mere

word digitalis had made him turn pale once more.

'Don't distress yourself so much,' said Véronique, who had begun to

pare some potatoes, as an excuse for remaining where they were and

hearing what was said. 'The doctors are all croakers. And surely there

can't be much the matter when they can't tell you what it is.'

They began to discuss the question round the bowl into which the cook

was cutting the potatoes, and Pauline appeared to grow a little easier

in her mind. She had gone that morning to kiss her aunt, and had found

her looking well. A person with cheeks like hers could not surely be

dying. But Lazare went on twisting the prescription with his feverish

fingers. The word digitalis blazed before his eyes. His mother was

doomed.

'I am going up again,' he said at last.

As he reached the door he seemed to hesitate, and turned to his cousin

and asked:

'Won't you come, just for a minute?'

Pauline then seemed to hesitate in her turn, and finally murmured:

'I'm afraid she mightn't be pleased if I did.'

And so, after a moment of silent embarrassment, Lazare went upstairs by

himself, without saying another word.

When Lazare, for fear lest his father should be disquieted by his

absence, appeared again at luncheon, he was very pale. From time to

time during the day a ring of the bell summoned Véronique, who ran up

with platefuls of soup, which the patient could scarcely be induced to

taste; and when she came downstairs again she told Pauline that the

poor young man was growing perfectly distracted. It was heart-breaking,

she said, to see him shivering with fever by his mother's bedside,

wringing his hands and with his face racked by grief, as though he

every moment feared that he should see her torn from him. About three

o'clock, as the servant came downstairs once more, she leant over

the balustrade and called to Pauline; and as the girl reached the

first-floor landing she said to her:

'You ought to go in, Mademoiselle, and help him a little. So much

the worse if it displeases her. She wants Monsieur Lazare to turn her

round, and he can only groan, without daring to touch her. And she

won't let me go near her!'

Pauline entered the room. Madame Chanteau lay back, propped up by three

pillows, and, as far as mere appearances went, if it had not been for

the quick, distressful breathing which set her shoulders heaving, she

might have been keeping her bed from sheer idleness. Lazare stood

before her, stammering:

'It's on your right side, then, that you want me to turn you?'

'Yes; just turn me a little. Ah! my poor boy, how difficult it seems to

make you understand!'

But Pauline had already taken hold gently of her aunt and turned her,

saying:

'Let me do it! I am used to doing it for my uncle. There! Are you

comfortable now?'

But Madame Chanteau irritably exclaimed that they were shaking her to

pieces. She seemed unable to make the slightest movement without being

almost suffocated, and for a moment, indeed, she lay panting, with her

face quite livid. Lazare had stepped behind the bed-curtains to conceal

his expression of despair; still, he remained present while Pauline

rubbed her aunt's legs with the tincture of digitalis. At first he

turned his head aside, but some fascination ever made his eyes return

to those swollen limbs, those inert masses of pale flesh, the sight of

which made him almost choke with agony. When his cousin saw how utterly

upset he was she thought it safer to send him out of the room. She went

up to him, and, as Madame Chanteau dozed off, tired out by the mere

changing of her position, she whispered to him softly:

'You would do better to go away.'

For a moment or two he resisted; his tears blinded him, Then he yielded

and went down, ashamed, and sobbing:

'Oh, God! God! I cannot endure it! I cannot endure it!'

When the sick woman again awoke, she did not at first notice her son's

absence. She seemed to be in a state of stupor, and as if egotistically

seeking to make sure that she was really alive. Pauline's presence

alone appeared to disquiet her, although the girl sat far away and

neither spoke nor moved. As her aunt bent forward, however, she felt

that she must just say a word to let her know why Lazare was absent.

'It is I. Don't worry. Lazare has gone to Verchemont, where he has to

see the carpenter.'

'All right,' Madame Chanteau murmured.

'You are not so ill that he should neglect his business, are you?'

'Oh! certainly not.'

From that moment she spoke but seldom of her son, notwithstanding

the adoration she had manifested for him only the previous night. He

became obliterated from the rest of her life, after being so long

the sole reason and object of her existence. The softening of her

brain, which was now beginning, merely left her a physical anxiety

about her own health. She accepted her niece's care and attendance,

without apparently being conscious of the change, merely following her

constantly with her eyes, as though she were troubled by increasing

suspicions as she saw the girl pass to and fro before the bed.

Lazare had gone down into the kitchen, where he remained nerveless,

beside himself. The whole house frightened him. He could not stay in

his own room, the emptiness of which oppressed him, and he dared not

cross the dining-room, where the sight of his father, quietly reading

a newspaper, threw him into sobs. So it was to the kitchen that he

constantly betook himself, as being the one warm, cheerful spot in the

house--one where he was comforted by the sight of Véronique, bustling

about amongst her pans, as in the old tranquil times. As she saw him

seat himself near the fireplace on a rush-bottomed chair, which he made

his own, she frankly told him what she thought of his lack of courage.

'It's not much use you are, Monsieur Lazare. It's poor Mademoiselle

Pauline who will have everything to do again. Anyone would suppose, to

see you, that there had never been a sick woman in the house before,

and yet, when your cousin nearly died of her sore throat, you nursed

her so attentively. Yes, you know you did, and you stayed with her for

a whole fortnight helping her to change her position whenever it was

necessary.'

Lazare listened to Véronique with a feeling of surprise. This

inconsistency of his had not struck him before, and he could not

understand his own illogical and varying feelings and thoughts.

'Yes; that is quite true,' he said, 'quite true.'

'You would not let anybody enter the room,' the servant continued,

'and Mademoiselle was even a more distressing sight than Madame is,

her suffering was so great. Whenever I came away from her room I felt

completely upset, and couldn't have eaten a mouthful of anything. But

now the mere sight of your mother in bed makes your heart faint. You

can't even take her a cup of gruel. Whatever your mother may be, you

ought to remember that she's still your mother.'

Lazare no longer heard her; he was gazing before him into space. At

last he said:

'I can't help it; I really can't. It's perhaps because it is my mother,

but I can't do anything. When I see her and those poor legs of hers,

and think that she is dying, something seems to be snapping inside me,

and I should burst out crying if I did not rush from the room.'

He began to tremble all over again. He had picked up a knife which

had fallen from the table, and gazed at it with his tear-dimmed eyes

without seeing it. For some time neither spoke. Véronique busied

herself over her soup, which was cooking, to conceal the emotion which

choked her. At last she resumed:

'You had better go down to the beach for a little while, Monsieur

Lazare. You bother me by always being here in my way. And take Matthew

with you. He is very tiresome, and no more knows what to do with

himself than you do. I have no end of trouble to keep him from going

upstairs to Madame's room.'

The next morning Doctor Cazenove was still doubtful. A sudden

catastrophe was possible, he said, or the patient might recover for

a longer or shorter time, if the swelling could be reduced. He gave

up the idea of bleeding her, and confined himself to ordering her

to take some pills which he brought, and to continue the use of the

tincture of digitalis. His air of vexation showed that he felt little

confidence in those remedies in a case of organic disorder, when the

successive derangement of every organ renders a physician's skill of

no avail. However, he was able to assure them that the sick woman

suffered no pain; and, indeed, Madame Chanteau made no complaint of

actual suffering. Her legs felt as heavy as lead, and she breathed with

constantly increasing difficulty whenever she moved; but, whilst she

lay there quietly on her back, her voice remained so firm and strong,

and her eyes so bright and clear, that even she herself was deceived

as to the gravity of her condition. Her son was the only one of those

around her who did not venture to be hopeful at seeing her looking so

calm. When the Doctor went away in his gig, he told them not to grieve

too much, for that it was a great mercy both for herself and for them

that she was quite unaware of her danger.

The first night had been a very hard one for Pauline. Reclining in

an easy chair, she had not been able to get any sleep, for the heavy

breathing of the sick woman constantly filled her ears. Whenever she

was on the point of dropping off, her aunt's breath seemed to shake

the house; and then, when she opened her eyes again, she felt sad and

oppressed; all the troubles which had been marring her life for the

last few months sprang up in her mind with fresh force. Even by the

side of that death-bed she could not feel at peace, she could not

constrain herself to forgive. Amidst her nightmare-like vigil during

the mournful night hours Véronique's assertions caused her great

torture. Old outbursts of anger and bitter jealousy surged up in her

again, as she mentally recapitulated the painful details. To be loved

no more! To find herself deceived, betrayed by those she had loved! And

to find herself all alone, full of contempt and revolt! Her heart's

wound opened and bled afresh, and never before had she experienced such

bitter pain from Lazare's insulting faithlessness. Since they had, so

to say, murdered her, it mattered little to her now who died! And,

amidst her aunt's heavy breathing, she went on brooding ceaselessly

over the robbery of her money and her affections.

The next morning she still felt contrary influences at work within her;

she experienced no return of affection; it was a sense of duty alone

which kept her in her aunt's room. The consciousness of this made her

unhappy, and she wondered if she too were growing as wicked as the

others. In this troubled state the day passed away, and, discontented

with herself, repelled by her aunt's suspicions, she forced herself

into attentive activity. Madame Chanteau received her ministrations

snappishly, and followed her movements with suspicious eyes, carefully

watching her every action. If she asked her niece for a handkerchief,

she always sniffed it before using it, and when she saw the girl bring

her a hot-water bottle she wanted to examine the jug.

'What's the matter with her?' Pauline whispered very softly to

Véronique. 'Does she think me capable of trying to do her harm?'

When Véronique gave her a dose of her draught after the Doctor had gone

away, Madame Chanteau, not noticing her niece, who was looking for some

linen in the wardrobe, inquired of the servant: 'Did the Doctor prepare

this?'

'No, Madame, it was Mademoiselle Pauline.'

Then the sick woman just sipped it with her lips, and made a grimace.

'Ah! it tastes of copper. I don't know what she has been making me

take, but I've never had the taste of copper out of my mouth since

yesterday.'

And suddenly she tossed the spoon away behind the bed. Véronique looked

on in amazement.

'Whatever's the matter? What an idea to get into your head!'

'I don't want to go away before my time,' replied Madame Chanteau, as

she laid her head back again upon her pillow. 'Listen! my lungs are

quite sound; and it's not impossible that she may go before I do, for

she isn't very healthy.'

Pauline had heard her. She turned with a heart-pang and looked at

Véronique; and instead of coming any nearer she stepped further away,

feeling quite ashamed of her aunt for her abominable suspicions. A

sudden change came over her feelings. The idea of that unhappy woman,

consumed by fear and hatred, moved her to the deepest pity; far from

feeling any increase of bitterness, it was sorrowful emotion that she

experienced as her eyes caught sight of all the medicine which her aunt

had thrown away under the bed, from a fear of being poisoned. Until

the evening she evinced persevering gentleness, and did not appear

to notice the distrustful glances with which her aunt followed every

motion of her hands. Her one ardent desire was to overcome the dying

woman's fears by affectionate attentions, in order that she might not

carry such frightful suspicions to the grave. And she forbade Véronique

to distress Lazare further by telling him the truth.

Only once since morning had Madame Chanteau asked for her son, and she

had appeared quite content with the first excuse made for his absence,

evincing no surprise at not seeing him again. She said nothing about

her husband, expressed no uneasiness whatever about his being left

alone in the dining-room. All the world was gradually disappearing for

her, and, minute by minute, the icy coldness of her limbs seemed to

mount higher till it chilled her very heart. Whenever meal-time came

round, Pauline had to go downstairs and tell some fib to her uncle.

In the evening she told one to Lazare as well, assuring him that the

swelling was subsiding.

In the night, however, the disease made alarming progress, and the

next morning, soon after daybreak, when Pauline and the servant beheld

the sick woman they were terrified by the wandering look in her eyes.

Her face was not changed, and there was no feverishness, but her mind

appeared to be failing her, a fixed idea seemed to be destroying her

reason. She had reached the last phase; her brain, gradually wrought

upon by a single absorbing passion, had now become a prey to insanity.

That morning, before Doctor Cazenove's arrival, they had a terrible

time. Madame Chanteau would not even let her niece come near her.

'Do let me nurse you, I beg you!' Pauline said. 'Just let me raise you

a little, as you are lying so uncomfortably.'

But her aunt began to struggle as though they were trying to suffocate

her.

'No, no! You have got a pair of scissors there! Ah! you are sticking

them into me! I can feel them! I can feel them! I'm bleeding all over!'

The heart-broken girl was obliged to keep at a distance from her aunt.

She was quite overcome with fatigue and distress, breaking down with

her useless kindly endeavours. She was obliged to put up with insults

and accusations which made her burst into tears before she could

induce her aunt to accept the slightest service from her. Sometimes

all her efforts were in vain, and she fell weeping upon a chair,

despairing of ever winning back again that affection of former days,

which was now replaced by insane animosity. Still she would become

all resignation once more, and strive to find some way of making her

assistance acceptable by manifesting even greater care and tenderness.

That morning, however, her persistent entreaties ended by provoking a

paroxysm which long left her trembling.

'Aunt,' she said, as she was preparing a dose of medicine, 'it's time

for you to take your draught. The Doctor, you know, particularly said

that you were to take it regularly.'

Madame Chanteau insisted upon seeing the bottle, and then smelt its

contents.

'Is it the same as I had yesterday?'

'Yes, aunt.'

'Then I won't have any of it!'

However, by much affectionate wheedling and entreaties, her niece

prevailed on her to take just one spoonful. The sick woman's face wore

an expression of deep suspicion, and no sooner was the spoonful of

physic in her mouth than she spat it out again upon the floor, torn by

a violent fit of coughing, and screaming out between her hiccoughs:

'It's vitriol! It is burning me!'

Amidst this supreme paroxysm her hatred and terror of Pauline,

which had gradually increased ever since the day when she had first

abstracted a twenty-franc piece of the other's money, now found vent

in a flood of wild words, to which the poor girl listened, quite

thunderstruck, unable to say a single syllable in her defence.

'Ah! you fancied I shouldn't detect it! You put verdigris and vitriol

into everything! It's that which is killing me! There was nothing the

matter with me, and I should have been able to get up this morning if

you hadn't mixed some verdigris with my broth yesterday evening. Yes,

you are tired of me, and want to get me buried and done with. But I'm

very tough, and it is I who will bury you yet.'

Her speech became thicker, she choked, and her lips turned so black

that an immediate catastrophe seemed probable.

'Oh! aunt, aunt!' cried Pauline, overcome with terror, 'you are making

yourself so much worse by going on like this!'

'Well, that's what you want, I'm sure! Oh! I know you. You have been

planning it for a long time; ever since you have been here your only

thought has been how to kill us off and get hold of our money. You

want to have the house for your own, and I am in your way. Ah! hussy,

I ought to have choked you the first day you came here! I hate you! I

hate you!'

Pauline stood there motionless, weeping in silence. Only one word

rose to her lips, as though in involuntary protest against her aunt's

accusations. 'Oh God! God!'

But Madame Chanteau was completely exhausted by the violence of her

fury, and her mad outburst gave place to a childish terror. She fell

back on her pillow, crying:

'Don't come near me! Don't touch me! If you do I shall scream out for

help! No, no! I won't drink it; it's poison!'

She pulled the bed-clothes over her with her twitching hands, buried

her head amongst the pillows, and kept her mouth tightly closed. When

her niece, who was terribly alarmed, came to her bedside to try to calm

her, she broke out into frightful screams.

'Aunt dear, be reasonable. I won't make you take any against your will.'

'Yes, you will! You've got the bottle! Oh! I'm terrified! I'm

terrified!'

She was almost at the last gasp; her head had got too low, and purple

blotches appeared upon her face. Pauline, imagining that her aunt was

dying, rang the bell for Véronique; and it was as much as the two of

them could do to raise her up and lay her properly on her pillows.

Then Pauline's own personal sufferings and heartaches disappeared

amidst her intense grief. She thought no more about the last wound

which her heart had received; all her passion and jealousy vanished

in presence of that great wretchedness. Every other feeling became

lost in one of deep pity, and she would have gladly endured injustice

and insult and have sacrificed herself still more if by so doing she

could only have given comfort and consolation to the others. She set

herself bravely to bear the principal share of life's woes; and from

that moment she never once gave way, but manifested beside her aunt's

death-bed all the quiet resignation which she had shown when threatened

by death herself. She was always ready; she never recoiled from

anything. Even her old gentle affection came back to her; she forgave

her aunt for all her mad violence during her paroxysms, and wept with

pity at finding that she had gradually become insane; forcing herself

to think of her as she had been in earlier years, loving her as she

had done on that stormy evening when she had first come with her to

Bonneville.

That day Doctor Cazenove did not call till after luncheon. An accident

had detained him at Verchemont; a farmer there had broken his arm,

and the Doctor had stayed to set it. After seeing Madame Chanteau he

came down into the kitchen, and made no attempt to conceal his alarm.

Lazare was sitting there by the fire, in that feverish idleness which

preyed upon him.

'There is no more hope, is there?' he asked. 'I was reading Bouillaud's

Treatise on the Diseases of the Heart again last night.'

Pauline, who had come downstairs with the Doctor, once more gave him an

entreating look, which prompted him to interrupt the young man in his

usual brusque fashion. Whenever an illness turned out badly, he always

showed a little anger.

'Ah! the heart, my good fellow, the heart seems to be the only idea

you have got! One can't be certain of anything. For my own part, I

believe it's rather the liver that is affected. But, of course, when

the machine gets out of order, everything in turn is more or less

affected--the lungs, the stomach, and the heart itself. Instead of

reading Bouillaud last night, which has only upset you, you would have

done much better to go to sleep.'

This dictum of the Doctor's was like an order given to the house. In

Lazare's presence it was always said that his mother was dying from a

diseased liver; but he refused to believe it, and spent his sleepless

hours in turning over the pages of his old books. He grew quite

confused over the different symptoms, and the remark made by the Doctor

that the various organs of the human body became successively deranged

only served to increase his alarm.

'Well,' he said with difficulty, 'how long, then, do you think she will

last?'

Cazenove made a gesture of doubt.

'A fortnight; perhaps a month. You had better not question me, for I

might make a mistake, and then you would be right in saying that we

know nothing and can do nothing. But the progress that the disease has

made since yesterday is terrible.'

Véronique, who was washing some glasses, looked at him in alarm. Could

it really be true, then, that Madame was so very ill and was going to

die? Until then she had been unable to believe there was any actual

danger, and had gone about her work muttering to herself of people

who tried to frighten folks out of pure malice. But she now seemed

stupefied, and when Pauline told her to go upstairs to Madame Chanteau,

that there might be some one with her, she wiped her hands on her

apron and left the kitchen, ejaculating:

'Oh, well, in that case--in that case----'

'We must not forget my uncle, Doctor,' said Pauline, who seemed to be

the only one who retained self-possession. 'Don't you think we ought to

warn him? Will you see him before you go?'

Just at that moment Abbé Horteur came in. He had only heard that

morning of what he called 'Madame Chanteau's indisposition.' When he

learned how seriously ill she really was, an expression of genuine

sorrow passed over his tanned face, so cheerful a moment before as he

came in from the fresh air. The poor lady! Could it be possible? She

who had seemed so well and strong only three days ago!

Then after a moment's silence he asked if he could see her; at the same

time glancing anxiously at Lazare, whom he knew to be little given to

religion. On that account he seemed to anticipate a refusal. But the

young man, who was quite broken down, did not appear to have noticed

the priest's question, and it was Pauline who answered it.

'No, not to-day, your reverence. She does not know the danger she is

in, and your presence might have an alarming effect upon her. We will

see to-morrow.'

'Very well,' the priest at once replied; 'there is no great urgency,

I hope. But we must all do our duty, you know. And as the Doctor here

refuses to believe in God----'

For the last moment or two the Doctor had been gazing earnestly at the

table, absorbed in thought, lost in a maze of doubt, as was always the

case when he could not overcome illness. He had just caught the Abbé's

last words, however, and he interrupted him, saying:

'Who told you that I didn't believe in God? God is not an

impossibility; one sees very strange things! And, after all, who can be

sure?'

Then he shook his head and roused himself from his reverie.

'Stay!' he went on, 'you shall come with me and shake hands with our

good friend Monsieur Chanteau. He will soon stand in need of all the

courage he can muster.'

'If you think it will cheer him at all,' the priest obligingly replied,

'I shall be glad to stay and play a few games of draughts with him.'

Then they both went off to the dining-room, while Pauline hastened back

to her aunt. Lazare, when he was left alone, rose and hesitated for a

moment as to whether he also should not go upstairs; then he went to

the dining-room door to listen to his father's voice, without mustering

enough courage to enter; and finally he came back to the kitchen again,

and sank down upon the same chair as before, surrendering himself to

his despair.

The priest and the Doctor had found Chanteau rolling a paper ball

across the table--a ball formed of a prospectus discovered inside a

newspaper. Minouche, who was lying near, looked on with her green eyes.

She appeared to disdain such an elementary plaything, for she had her

paws stowed away beneath her, never deigning to strike out at it with

her claws, though it had rolled close to her nose.

'Hallo! is it you?' cried Chanteau. 'It is very good of you to come and

see me. I'm very dull--all by myself. Well, Doctor, she's getting on

all right, I hope? Oh! I don't feel at all uneasy about her; she's by

far the strongest of all of us; she will see us all buried.'

It occurred to the Doctor that this would be a good opportunity for

informing Chanteau of the real state of affairs.

'Well, certainly, there's nothing very alarming in her condition, but

she seems to me to be very weak.'

'Ah! Doctor,' Chanteau exclaimed, 'you don't know her. She has an

incredible fund of strength; you will see her on her feet again in a

day or two!'

In his complete belief in his wife's vigorous constitution, he quite

failed to understand the Doctor's hints; and the latter, not wishing to

tell him the dreadful truth in plain words, could say no more. Besides,

he thought that it would be as well to wait a little longer; for just

then Chanteau was free from pain, his gout only troubling him in his

legs, though these were sufficiently incapacitated to make it necessary

to wheel him to bed in his chair.

'If it were not for these wretched legs of mine,' he said, 'I would go

upstairs and see her myself.'

'Resign yourself, my friend,' said Abbé Horteur, who in his turn now

tried to carry out his office of consoler. 'We each have our own cross

to bear, and we are all in the hands of God----'

But he did not fail to notice that these words, so far from consoling

Chanteau, only appeared to bore and even disquiet him, so he cut his

exhortation short and substituted for it something more efficacious.

'Would you like to have a game at draughts? It will do you good.'

He went in person to take the draught-board from the cupboard. Chanteau

was delighted, and shook hands with the Doctor, who then took his

departure. The two others were soon deep in their game, quite forgetful

of all else in the world, when all at once Minouche, who had probably

got tired of seeing the paper ball under her nose, sprang forward, sent

it spinning away, and bounded in wild antics after it all round the

room.

'What a capricious creature!' cried Chanteau, put out in his play. 'She

wouldn't have a game with me on any account a little while ago, and now

she prevents one from thinking by playing all by herself.'

'Never mind her, said the priest mildly: 'cats have their own way of

amusing themselves.'

Meantime, passing through the kitchen, Doctor Cazenove had experienced

sudden emotion on seeing Lazare still sorrowfully brooding on the

same chair; and he caught the young man in his big arms and kissed

him paternally without saying a word. Just at that moment Véronique

came downstairs, driving Matthew before her. The dog was perpetually

prowling about the staircase, making a sort of hissing sound, which

somewhat resembled the plaint of a bird; and, whenever he found the

door of the sick woman's room open, he went in and there vented those

sharp notes of his, which were ear-piercing in their persistency.

'Get away with you, do! Be off!' the servant cried. 'That noise of

yours isn't likely to do her any good.'

And as she caught sight of Lazare she added: 'Take him for a walk

somewhere. He will be out of our way, and it will do you good too.'

It was really an order of Pauline's that Véronique was conveying. The

girl had told her to get Lazare to go out and take some long walks.

But he refused to go; it even seemed to require an effort on his part

to get upon his feet. However, the dog came and stood before him, and

began wailing again.

'That poor Matthew isn't as young as he was once,' said the Doctor, who

was watching him.

'No indeed!' said Véronique. 'He is fourteen years old now, but that

doesn't prevent him from being as wild as ever after mice. Look how

he has rubbed the skin off his nose, and how red his eyes are! He

scented a mouse under the grate last night, and never closed his eyes

afterwards; he turned my kitchen upside down, poking about everywhere.

And such a great big dog, too, to worry about such tiny creatures, it's

quite ridiculous! But it isn't only mice that he runs after. Anything

that's little or crawls, newly hatched chickens or Minouche's kittens,

anything of that sort, excites him to such a point that he even forgets

to eat and drink. Just now I'm sure he scents something out of the

common in the house----'

She checked herself as she caught sight of Lazare's eyes filling with

tears.

'Go out for a walk, my lad,' the Doctor said to him. 'You can't be of

any use here, and it will do you good to go out a little.'

The young man at last rose painfully to his feet. 'Well, we'll go,' he

said. 'Come along, my poor old Matthew.'

When he had accompanied the Doctor to his gig, he set off along the

cliffs with the dog. From time to time he had to stop and wait for

Matthew, for the dog was really ageing quickly. His hind-quarters were

becoming paralysed, and his heavy paws sounded like slippers as he

dragged them along. He was now unable to go scooping out holes in the

kitchen-garden, and quickly rolled over with dizziness when he set

himself spinning after his tail. He had fits of coughing, too, whenever

he plunged into the water, and after a quarter of an hour's walk he

wanted to lie down and snore. He trudged along the beach just in front

of his master's legs.

Lazare stood for a moment watching a fishing-smack coming from

Port-en-Bessin, with its sail skimming over the sea like the wing of

a gull. Then he went his way. The thought that his mother was dying

kept on thrilling him painfully; if ever it left him for a moment, it

was only to come back and rack him more violently than before. And it

brought him perpetual surprise; it was an idea to which he could not

grow reconciled, and which prevented him from thinking of anything

else. If at times it lost distinctness he felt the vague oppression of

a nightmare, in which he remained conscious of some great impending

misfortune. Everything around him then seemed to disappear, and when he

again beheld the sands and seaweed, the distant sea and far-reaching

horizon, he started as if they were all new and strange to him. Could

they be the objects that were so familiar to his eyes? Everything

seemed to have changed; never before had he thus been struck by varying

forms and hues. His mother was dying! And he walked on and on, trying

to escape from that buzzing refrain which was ever sounding in his ears.

Suddenly he heard a deep sigh behind him. He turned and saw the dog

completely exhausted, with his tongue hanging from his mouth.

'Ah! my poor old Matthew,' he said to him, 'you can't get on any

farther. Well, we'll go back again. However far I may go, I shan't rid

myself of my thoughts.'

That evening they hurried over dinner. Lazare, who could only swallow

a few mouthfuls of bread, hastened away upstairs to his own room,

excusing himself to his father by alleging some pressing work. When

he reached the first floor, he went into his mother's room, where he

forced himself to sit for some five minutes before kissing her and

wishing her good-night. She seemed to be forgetting all about him, and

never expressed the least anxiety as to what he might be doing during

the day. When he bent over her, she offered him her cheek and seemed to

consider his hasty good-night quite natural, absorbed as she was in the

instinctive egotism which attends the approach of death. And Pauline

took care to cut his visit as short as possible by inventing an excuse

for sending him out of the room.

But in his own big room on the second floor his mental torment

increased. It was in the night, the long weary night, that his anguish

weighed heaviest upon him. He took up a supply of candles, so that he

might never be without a light, and he kept them burning, one after

another, till morning, terror-stricken by the thought of darkness. When

he got into bed he tried in vain to read. His old medical treatises

were the only books that had now any interest for him; but they filled

him with fear, and he ended by throwing them away. Then he remained

lying upon his back, with his eyes wide open, solely conscious of the

fact that close to him, on the other side of the wall, there was an

awful presence which weighed upon him and suffocated him. His dying

mother's panting breath was for ever in his ears, that panting breath

which had become so loud that for the last two days he had heard it

whenever he climbed the staircase, which he never ascended now without

hastening his steps.

The whole house seemed full of that plaint, which thrilled him as he

lay in bed; the occasional intervals of quiet inspiring him with such

alarm that he would run barefooted to the landing and lean over the

banisters to listen. Pauline and Véronique, who kept watch together

below, left the door of the room open for the sake of ventilation,

and Lazare could see the pale patch of sleepy light which the night

lamp threw upon the tiled floor, and could again hear his mother's

heavy panting, which became louder and more prolonged in the darkness.

When he went back to bed he, too, left his door open, and so intently

did he listen to his mother's breathing that even in the snatches of

sleep into which he fell towards morning he was still pursued by it.

His personal horror of death had vanished again as at the time of his

cousin's illness. His mother was going to die; everything was going to

die! He abandoned himself to the contemplation of that collapse of life

without any other feeling than one of exasperation at his powerlessness

to prevent it.

The next morning saw the commencement of Madame Chanteau's death agony,

a loquacious agony which lasted for twenty-four hours. She was calm,

the dread of poison no longer terrified her, but she rambled on rapidly

in a clear voice, without raising her head from her pillow. What she

said was in no way conversation; she did not address herself to anyone;

it was as though, in the general derangement of her faculties, her

brain hastened to finish its work like a clock running down. That flood

of rapid words seemed to be indeed the last tick-tack of the unwound

chain of her mind. The events of her past life defiled before her; but

she never said a word about the present, about her husband, or her son,

or her niece, or her home at Bonneville, where, with her ambitious

nature, she had suffered for ten long years. She was still Mademoiselle

de la Vignière, giving music-lessons in the most distinguished families

in Caen, and she familiarly spoke of people whom neither Pauline nor

Véronique had ever heard of. She broke out into long rambling stories,

whose details were incomprehensible even to the servant who had

grown old in her service. She seemed to be emptying her brain of the

recollections of her youth before she died; just as one may turn the

faded letters of former days out of a desk in which they have long been

lying.

In spite of her courage, Pauline could not help shuddering slightly as

all those little involuntary confessions were poured out in the very

throes of death. It was no longer difficult, panting breathing that

filled the room, but a weird, rambling babble, of which Lazare caught

fragments as he passed the door. But, however much he might turn them

over in his mind, he was unable to understand them, and grew full of

alarm, as though his mother were already speaking from the other side

of the grave amidst invisible beings to whom she was relating those

strange stories.

When Doctor Cazenove arrived he found Chanteau and Abbé Horteur playing

draughts in the dining-room. From all appearances, they might still

have been engaged on the game which they had commenced the day before,

and have never stirred from the room since the Doctor's previous visit.

Minouche sat near them, intently studying the draught-board. The priest

had arrived at an early hour to resume his duties as consoler. Pauline

no longer felt that his proposed visit to her aunt would be attended

with inconvenience; and so, when the Doctor went upstairs to see her,

the priest accompanied him to the sick woman's bedside, presenting

himself simply as a friend anxious to know how she was getting on.

Madame Chanteau recognised them both, and, having been raised up on

her pillows, she smilingly welcomed them with all the airs of a Caen

lady holding a reception. The dear Doctor was surely quite satisfied

with her, she said; she would soon be able to leave her bed. Then she

questioned the Abbé about his own health. The latter, who had come

upstairs with the intention of fulfilling his priestly duties, was

so overcome by the dying woman's rambling chatter that he could not

open his mouth; and, besides, Pauline, who was in the room, would

have stopped him if he had mentioned certain subjects. The girl had

sufficient control over herself to feign confident cheerfulness. When

the two men went away, she accompanied them to the landing, where the

Doctor, in low tones, gave her instructions as to what she should do

at the last moment. Such words as 'rapid decomposition' and 'carbolic

acid' were frequently mentioned, while the ceaseless chatter from the

dying woman still buzzed through the open doorway.

'You think, then, that she will see the day out?' the girl inquired.

'Yes, I feel sure that she will live till to-morrow,' Cazenove

answered. 'But don't lift her up any more, or she might die in your

arms. I shall come again this evening.'

It was settled that Abbé Horteur should remain with Chanteau and

gradually prepare him for the fatal issue. Véronique stood listening

near the door while this was being agreed upon, and her face assumed

a scared expression. Ever since the probability of her mistress's

death had become clear to her she had scarcely opened her lips, but

sought to render all possible service with the silent devotion of a

faithful animal. But the conversation was hushed, for Lazare, wandering

over the house, now came up the staircase; he had lacked the courage

to be present at the Doctor's visit and to inquire the truth as to

his mother's danger. However, the mournful silence with which he was

greeted forced the knowledge upon him in spite of himself, and he

turned very pale.

'My dear boy,' said the Doctor, 'you had better come along with me. I

will give you some lunch and bring you back with me in the evening.'

The young man turned yet more pallid and replied: 'No, thank you; I

would rather not go away.'

From that moment Lazare waited, feeling a terrible pressure upon his

breast, as if an iron band were drawn tightly round him. The day

seemed as though it would never end, and yet it passed away without

any consciousness on his part of how the hours went by. He had no

recollection of how he had spent them, wandering restlessly up and

down the stairs, and gazing out upon the distant sea, the sight of

whose ceaseless rocking dazed him yet more. At certain moments the

irresistible flight of the minutes seemed to be materialised, and to

become the onslaught of a mass of granite driving everything into the

abyss of nothingness. Then he grew exasperated and longed for the end,

in order that he might be released from the strain of that terrible

waiting. About four o'clock, as he was once more creeping up to his own

room, he turned suddenly aside and entered his mother's chamber. He

felt a desire to see her and kiss her once again. But, as he bent over

her, she went on pouring out her incoherent talk, and did not even turn

her cheek towards him in that weary manner with which she had received

him ever since the beginning of her illness. Perhaps she did not see

him, he thought; indeed, it was no longer his mother who lay there with

that livid face and lips already blackened.

'Go away,' Pauline said to him gently. 'Go out for a little while. I

assure you that the hour has not yet come.'

And then, instead of going up to his room, Lazare rushed downstairs and

out of the house, ever with the sight of that woeful face, which he

could no longer recognise, before him. He told himself that his cousin

had lied, that the hour was really at hand; but then he was stifling,

and needed space and air, and so he rushed on like a madman. The

thought that he would never, never again see his mother tortured him

terribly. But he fancied he heard some one running after him, and when

he turned and saw Matthew, who was trying to overtake him at a heavy

run, he flew without cause into a violent passion, and picked up stones

and hurled them at the dog, storming at him the while, to drive him

back to the house. Matthew, amazed at this reception, trotted back some

distance, and then turned and gazed at his master with his gentle eyes,

in which tears seemed to glisten. He persisted in following Lazare from

a distance, as though to keep watch over his despair, and the young

man found it impossible to drive him away. But the immensity of the

sea had an irritating effect upon Lazare, and he fled into the fields

and wandered about them, looking for out-of-the-way corners where he

could feel alone and concealed. He prowled up and down till night fell,

tramping over ploughed land, breaking his way through hedges. At last,

worn out, he was returning homewards, when he beheld a sight which

thrilled him with superstitious terror. At the edge of a lonely road

there stood a lofty poplar, black and solitary, over which the rising

moon showed like a yellow flame; and the tree suggested a gigantic

taper burning in the dusk at the bedside of some giantess lying out

there across the open country.

'Come, Matthew! Come!' he cried in a choking voice. 'Let us get on!'

He reached the house running, as he had left it. The dog had ventured

to draw near, and licked his hands.

Although the night had now fallen, there was no light in the kitchen.

It was empty and dark, with only the glow of the charcoal embers

reddening the ceiling. The gloom weighed upon Lazare, and he lacked

the courage to go further. Overcome with fear and emotion, he remained

standing amidst the litter of pots and dusters, and strained his ears

to catch the sounds with which the house was quivering. On one side he

heard a slight cough; it came from his father, to whom Abbé Horteur was

talking in low continuous tones. But what most frightened the young

man was the sound of hushed voices and hasty steps on the stairs,

and a muffled noise on the upper floor, which he could not account

for, though it suggested something being hurriedly accomplished with

as little noise as possible. He did not dare to go and see what it

meant. Could it be all was over? He was still standing there perfectly

motionless, without courage enough to go and inquire the truth, when he

saw Véronique come down. She rushed into the kitchen, lighted a candle,

and carried it away with her so hurriedly that she neither spoke to

the young man nor looked at him. The kitchen, after being lighted for

a moment, relapsed into darkness. Up above the stir was ceasing. Once

more did the servant come down, this time to get a bowl, and again she

displayed silent, desperate haste. Lazare no longer felt any doubt.

All must be over. Then, overcome, he sank down upon the edge of the

table, and waited amidst that darkness, without knowing for what he was

waiting, his ears buzzing the while in the deep silence that had just

fallen.

Upstairs, for two hours past, Madame Chanteau's last agony--an agony

so awful that it thrilled Pauline and Véronique with horror--had been

following its course. Her dread of poison having reappeared, she raised

herself up in bed, still wildly rambling on, gradually mastered by

furious delirium. She wished to jump out of bed and escape from the

house, where someone wanted to kill her; and it was all that the young

girl and the servant could do to restrain her.

'Let me go! I shall be murdered! I must escape at once, at once!'

Véronique tried to calm her.

'Oh! Madame, don't you see us? You can't suppose that we should let any

harm come to you.'

The dying woman, exhausted by her violent struggles, lay for a moment

panting. Her dim eyes wandered anxiously round the room, as though she

were looking for something. Then she resumed:

'Shut up the secrétaire! It is in the drawer. Ah! there she is coming

upstairs! Oh! I am afraid! I tell you that I can hear her! Don't give

her the key. Let me go, at once, at once!'

Then again she began to struggle, while Pauline held her in her arms.

'Aunt, there is no one here. There are only ourselves.'

'No! no! Listen! There she is! Oh, God! God! I shall die! The hussy

has made me drink it all--I am going to die! I am going to die!'

Her teeth chattered, and she sought protection in the arms of her

niece, whom she did not recognise. Pauline mournfully strained her to

her heart, no longer fighting against that horrible suspicion, but

resigning herself to the knowledge that her aunt would carry it to her

grave.

Fortunately Véronique was watching, and threw her arms forward crying:

'Take care, Mademoiselle! Take care!'

It was the supreme convulsive struggle. By a violent effort Madame

Chanteau had succeeded in throwing her swollen legs out of bed, and,

but for the servant's presence, she would have fallen on the floor. Her

whole body was shaken by delirium; she broke into incoherent spasmodic

cries, while her fists clenched as though she were engaging in a close

struggle, defending herself against some phantom that clutched her by

the throat. At that supreme moment she must have understood that she

was dying; there was an expression of intelligence in her eyes which

horror dilated. For a moment a frightful spasm of pain made her press

her hands to her breast. Then she fell back on her pillow and turned

black. She was dead.

Deep silence fell. Pauline closed her aunt's eyes, but she was

exhausted, and incapable of doing anything further. When she left the

room, leaving there both Véronique and Prouane's wife, whom she had

sent for after the Doctor's visit, her strength gave way; she was

obliged to sit down for a moment on the stairs, and no longer felt the

courage to go and tell Lazare and Chanteau the truth. The walls seemed

to be turning round her. A few minutes went by; then she again laid

her hand upon the banister, but on hearing Abbé Horteur's voice in the

dining-room she preferred to enter the kitchen. And there she found

Lazare, whose gloomy face showed against the red glow of the embers

in the grate. Without speaking a word she stepped towards him and

opened her arms. He understood, and threw himself upon the young girl's

shoulder, while she pressed him to her in a long embrace. They kissed

each other on the face, while she wept silently; but he was unable

to shed a single tear; emotion was stifling him, he could scarcely

breathe. At last the girl unclasped her arms, saying the first words

that came to her lips:

'Why are you here without a light?'

He made a gesture, as though to signify that he had no need of any

light in his great sorrow.

'We must light a candle,' she said.

Lazare had fallen upon a chair again, incapable, as he was, of keeping

on his feet. Matthew restlessly wandered about the yard, sniffing the

damp night air. At last he came back into the kitchen and looked keenly

at them in turn, and then went and rested his head on his master's

knee, remaining there and silently questioning him, with his eyes fixed

upon the young man's. Lazare began to tremble at the dog's persistent

gaze, and suddenly the tears gushed from his eyes and he burst into

sobs, throwing his arms the while round the neck of the old dog which

his mother had loved for fourteen years. And he began to stammer in

broken words:

'Ah! my poor old fellow! my poor old fellow! We shall never see her

again!'

Notwithstanding her emotion, Pauline had succeeded in finding and

lighting a candle. She made no attempt to console Lazare; she was glad

to find him able to shed tears. There was still a painful task before

her, that of informing her uncle of his wife's death. Just as she was

making up her mind to go into the dining-room, whither Véronique had

taken a lamp at the beginning of the evening, Abbé Horteur had managed

to explain to Chanteau, in long ecclesiastical phrases, that there

was no chance of his wife's recovery, and that her death was only a

question of hours. And so when the old man saw his niece enter the

room, overcome with emotion and her eyes red from weeping, he knew what

had happened, and his first words were:

'_Mon Dieu_! there was only one thing that I would have asked for: I

should have liked to see her once more while she lived!--But, ah, these

wretched legs of mine! These wretched legs!'