I
THE FIRST STAGE
A German legend, intended to illustrate that time is a mere convention,
tells of the marvelous adventure of a young monk, who, doubting
eternity, was attracted by the song of a bird in a wood near his
hermitage. It was such a delightful song that one never tired of
listening to it. When the monk returned to his convent he recognized no
one there, and according to his recollections, it was found that three
hundred years had elapsed since his departure. He had thought they were
only a few minutes.
Elizabeth, after sitting up all night, was so worn out that she
believed, on the contrary, that she bore the weight of long years. She
was not prepared to penetrate so far into the forest of life. She had
sought the way so keenly, that she was tired to death. Her health
suffered for it, and she was obliged to remain in bed several days. Her
illness was attributed to the treachery of early September evenings
which simulate the softness of the summer, and are really cold. This
enforced rest allowed her to deepen the resolutions which were to change
her life. She felt herself unequal to seeing the visitors who wished to
pay her a sick-call, and unable to recommence the worldly show, of which
her new point of view showed her the emptiness. As soon as she was well,
she declared her intention of settling at St. Martin d'Uriage.
"That is madness," her father objected, "nobody lives in the mountains
in the autumn, particularly when recovering from a bad fever. And what
will our friends say?"
Quietly, but firmly, she gave her reasons:
"To begin with, it is not the mountains. The sharper air will give me
back my health and strengthen the children. And, moreover, I want to see
fewer people. It is better in my position. And you will come to us
frequently."
"To Albert's," corrected M. Molay-Norrois, who was surprised to find
such determination in place of her usual pliable indifference.
Offended, she replied:
"It is true, but he will not come there."
"And if you were mistaken?"
"You will take me, Father."
Pleased to have proved in a word, the value of his paternal rôle, he no
longer insisted.
The country house at Saint-Martin was opened again. The children
recognized again with shouts of joy, the wooden porches which encircle
the walls. A large garden, enclosed by a hedge, separated it from the
country road. It was rather a deserted orchard where fruit trees, wild
plants and flowers grew without cultivation. On the side of the farm,
groups of pine-trees, an arbor and a stream gave it the appearance of a
park. Opposite the entrance gate, an alley of plane trees extended to
the church, which, new-built, stands against an old Roman steeple with
a stone roof, the last vestige of an ancient chapel.
The village of St. Martin is built on a projection of the slopes of
Chamrousse. From the mountain, a sea of verdure, meadows and pine woods
seem to burst forth into these scattered hamlets, as if to submerge
them. Below, that is in the foreground, the Chateau of Saint-Ferriol,
standing bolt upright on a wooded promontory, with a pretty swaggering
air, looks defiantly at the fortress with its towers, gables and
superimposed terraces. Some seven hundred feet below, the fresh valley
of Uriage is stretched out. From this terrace hidden by trees, one looks
out on an extended view which is bordered by the mountains of Drac and
by the Chartreuse in the distance. As the bell nearby sounded the last
Angelus, Elizabeth, who had just finished putting her room in order, saw
from her window the flocks returning, as evening came up from the plain.
The peace of the country was so complete that she felt it in her heart.
The lights in the Casino and the hotels were being turned on. She was
happy to be so far away from them. Here, she could master herself. An
impression which dated from the first days of her marriage naturally
recurred to her. Albert, on such an evening, had taken her hand to kiss
it.
"See," he had said, "we are separated from the whole world. With my work
and you, I want nothing more."
She had not understood the fullness of happiness which he hoped to find
in her, and that this simple happiness must be jealously guarded.
Night began to frighten her. She feared sleeping in this old building,
with its long passages and huge rooms, in which every corner seemed as
if it concealed some unknown danger. She dared not inspect the rooms,
nor fall asleep. For a long time she heard the tick of an old clock
standing in the corridor, which seemed at every stroke to announce
ghosts. She had never been afraid of anything when Albert was there.
Henceforth it would require training to establish her courage and
strengthen her weakness.
Marie Louise and Philippe had soon exhausted the novelty of change. The
friendship of the farmers' children, calling in the fowls to give them
corn, the mystery of the barns and the farm implements, the heat of the
stables, the joy of going into the fields with the cows in the charge of
their nervous governess, only made them forget for a few days their
motor trips and the children's dances at the casino. They imperiously
demanded more refined amusements. Their mother tried to take them
walking to Prémol or to the Oursière Waterfall in the Chestnut woods.
But she did not know the difference between mushrooms and toadstools,
and the untiring youngsters wanted to drag her too far; unaccustomed to
walking, she became exhausted before they did. This dual inferiority
lessened her in their esteem. She ended by forgetting herself in trying
to read stories to them. The library at Saint Martin, carelessly
arranged on white pinewood shelves, contained all kinds of curious old
books, novels of chivalry, collections of popular legends, ballads of
France and other countries. Elizabeth had often seen her husband glance
hurriedly over them and take out a volume which she thought was chosen
at random, but from whose pages, fantastic heroes escaped. When she
wished to do likewise, she saw how ignorant she was.
"You don't know," said Marie Louise condescendingly. "Papa knew. And
then he did not read--he told us stories. It's much nicer."
And the impertinent little girl finished by saying:
"I will tell you the story of the 'Cup of Happiness.'"
How difficult it was to keep a resolution! After the sad exaltation of
her night of awakening, which had inspired her so tremendously in her
desire for change and sacrifice, she was now hesitating at little daily
obstacles and struggling against them. She would never attain the object
which she sought. What was the good of trying? Albert would know nothing
of it. The irreparable separated them. He belonged to another love. Thus
discouraged, she ceased all resistance and gave way. But she increased
her sorrow by worrying, as one irritates a wound by frequent probings.
And, at night, the sight of the lights attracted her. She was already
considering going back, renouncing the decision made at a time of deadly
insomnia. Only self-love still retained her. She pictured the ironical
glances of Mme. Passerat or of Mme. de Vimelle.
One day, as she was walking sadly down the plane-tree avenue, whose
heavy leaves are the first to become discolored, after the arrival of
autumn, she accepted the invitation of the chapel, the door of which was
wide open. She never went there, except to take the children to Mass on
Sunday. She tried to pray, but no prayer came to her--only complaints
and recriminations against her fate. She remembered one of Albert's
reflections:--although an unbeliever, he still recognized the motive
power of religious faith, but denied the existence of that faith in all
those whose life was not the proof of it, at least in serious
circumstances. And he added that he had scarcely known--except in the
case of his mother--that constant elevation of thought in the humblest
actions which are transfigured by the expression of an inner joy. This
made her remorseful. She had had no news of Mme. Derize since she left
Grenoble. She always spent the summer at Saint Martin: how had she stood
the heat? Why should she have been thus deprived of the country air and
the companionship of her grandchildren? Why strike her, punish her for
a fault which she could not even understand, and so strongly condemned?
Elizabeth was ashamed of her forgetfulness, and promised herself to make
up for it the following day, while the heat and light of the whole month
of September still permitted it. That was her prayer.
Next day, she had the children dressed early. They were delighted to go
to Grenoble. But when it was time to leave, Marie Louise looked
complainingly at the empty road:
"I don't see the motor," she said.
"We are going to walk as far as Uriage where we are to take the street
car."
"The car?" repeated the youngsters bitterly.
Spoiled by the Passerat motor, they had little liking for this mode of
travel. Nevertheless, they were resigned. At the Boulevard des Adieux
when they had to climb a dark staircase, they complained again.
"It is not nice, not nice," said the little girl insolently.
"It is all dark," Philippe added.
Children do not willingly take the part of those who are conquered: it
is life that makes them do so. Elizabeth quieted them with difficulty.
She was already worrying about her mother-in-law's welcome, and did not
want to bring two badly behaved children to see her. Old Fanchette, who
opened the door for them, wore a cross face, as she greeted the young
woman, but when she saw her thus accompanied, she was wreathed in
smiles. Mme. Derize received her in her sweet, gentle way, as if she had
not noticed the neglect she had suffered. In this way she prevented any
apologies and awkwardness. She admired the rosy cheeks of the two
children who were holding back, uncertain as to whether they should obey
their instinctive respect for age, or respond to the tenderness she
showed them.
"Back again in Grenoble?" she asked Elizabeth.
"Only for a time. We have come to lunch with you, Mother."
Fanchette, who was listening, muttered between her teeth:
"Now we must feed them, the dinner-hunters!"
"You will fare very badly," Mme. Derize replied in her quiet voice, "but
so much the worse for you."
"I have brought a pie with me and some of those little strawberries that
you liked from the Chamrousse woods."
"Ah, you spoil me."
"Just as if we had nothing to give them to eat!" still grumbled the
servant, who made no pretense of being logical.
This addition to the menu was very welcome. During the meal, Elizabeth
realized, with a sense of details which only a woman can recognize, that
there was a decrease of the comforts of life. She looked more
attentively at Albert's mother and saw a change in her face, which she
had not noticed on her arrival. She attributed it to the heat of a long
summer, endured without once leaving the town, surrounded by a chain of
mountains which seem to focus the rays of the sun on the plain. How
wicked she had been in not asking her to come up to Saint Martin, where
every year she had enjoyed the good air! Immediately after luncheon, she
made the offer which was in her mind.
"Mother," she said, "we are going to take you to Uriage."
"It is very late now," objected Mme. Derize, who blushed immediately,
fearing that her words would be construed as a complaint.
But the slight flush did not color her cheeks very long. She added:
"I mean to say that the season is already well advanced."
"We have still part of September and October. Autumn often has many fine
days. The church is only a few steps from the house. You will have the
children. Come, I beg of you."
Fanchette, who was clearing away the table, was still a victim of
contradictory emotions, and rattled her dishes. They might have asked
madame before, but a stay in the mountains would still do her good.
Mme. Derize, somewhat surprised at so much insistence, was looking
kindly at her daughter-in-law. She asked herself to what this unexpected
manifestation was due. Had she been right to entrust Albert's books to
the care of Philippe Lagier to be given to his young wife? She had
blamed her initiative very much. She had often been remorseful and
somewhat afraid. Could her mind be at ease, and did she even see a light
in the dark future?
"I shall be very pleased to join you," she finally accepted.
"No, no. This is a kidnapping. We are going to carry you off with us this
evening."
Like weak, shy people, Elizabeth manifested a nervous obstinacy. With an
uncertain will, one seeks only immediate results.
"Well, let us make up our bundles," answered the old lady almost gayly,
understanding that state of mind.
When the arrival of Mme. Derize became known at Uriage, the entire
Molay-Norrois set unanimously condemned Elizabeth. It was an absurdly
sentimental concession. It would have been better to have continued to
maintain her dignity. Saint Martin was little frequented. Nobody
bothered to meet an old woman of commonplace family. M. Passerat, who
had formerly had occasion to converse with her, took her part, but as
usual, showed himself to be a coward.
"She is an educated woman, I assure you."
"Yes, a former post-mistress," said Mme. de Vimelle curtly.
Philippe Lagier, who had left for Florence the day following his
distressing defeat, was no longer there to make them respect his old
friend. However, Mme. Molay-Norrois visited her daughter more
frequently, and even made advances to Albert's mother. Elizabeth,
absorbed in her one idea, showed herself to be unjust in not noticing
these praiseworthy efforts. Another drama was being played about her
which she never suspected.
The absent member of the family was never mentioned at Saint-Martin, but
the thought of him abided there. It occupied the two women unceasingly,
one of whom, the young wife, kept silent from pride, and the other from
a motive of delicacy, feeling awkward even in presence of the
children--in order not to violate instructions that she understood, but
regretted. Mme. Derize did not compare the faults of her daughter-in-law
with those of her son. She simply wanted to incline Elizabeth to
indulgence. Orderly in her own inner life and very skeptical about the
duration of illegitimate passions, she did not give up hope of Albert's
return.
For a fortnight this strained condition continued. In the evenings after
Marie Louise and Philippe had gone to bed, it became particularly
unbearable. The two women worked under the same lamp; one, wearing
spectacles and bent over a thick woolen stocking intended to warm some
poor neighbor's baby in the wintertime; the other, very erect; guiding
herself from a pattern of some tapestry on which she worked idly and
without pleasure. They exchanged a few commonplaces, then the
conversation stopped. The stillness of the country at night was all
about them, penetrating and quieting them.
"Why does she not speak to me?" thought Elizabeth, reopening her wound.
"Albert considered her so intelligent, so superior to poor silly little
me. She does not bother with me. I am not worth the trouble. Then why
did she come?"
She did not know that the older woman was reproaching herself in the
same way.
"She is suffering," the latter said to herself. "She would suffer less,
if she told me her secret which I guess, yet fear I may be mistaken. I
ought to get closer to her, draw her to me and comfort her, and yet, I
dare not--I feel a weight in my heart, which is choking and oppressing
me. My lips are about to open, they do open, and I remain silent. Why, O
my God, have I so little courage?"
Elizabeth, overcome, was the first to make up her mind, as they were
walking along the plane tree avenue, lightly crushing the dead leaves.
"Mother, do you know where _he_ is now?"
Trembling with emotion, Albert's mother answered quickly:
"He does not write to me very often, and not at length. He is
traveling."
"In which country?"
"His last letter was dated from Iran in Spain."
She added, as Elizabeth asked no further:
"It is on the other side of the Pyrenees, but quite near the frontier."
This poor sentence fell like one of those heavy autumn leaves, which the
slightest breeze carries off. And that was all. The opportunity they had
so long awaited had passed.
That evening Elizabeth did not go to bed until very late. She came back
into the drawing-room after her mother-in-law had gone, and tried to
read a book to cool her fever. To concentrate her attention, she put her
hands on either side of her face. Half an hour passed and she had not
turned one page. She was still reading the same words--
"He is traveling--he is traveling."
She recalled the uncommon trips on which she had accompanied her husband
to Germany, Munich and Nuremberg, to Touraine, to the castles on the
bank of the Loire. The departure was to Albert an exuberant happiness, a
"joy of conquest" he called it:--he was going to take possession of new
countries. In the picture-galleries, as he stood before a landscape rich
in historical association, he would grow enthusiastic, explain, comment,
make comparisons that she did not even try to grasp. Little by little
this good humor changed--he became distrait, absorbed in himself, and
ceased to tell her his impressions. And their return was silent and
unresponsive. Why?
Why? She had never inquired. Dull and passive, she asked herself very
few questions, and did not try to live her own life, or even Albert's
with him. What companionship did she give him? As soon as she began to
question herself thus, a quantity of small forgotten details came back
to her mind.--How much luggage she had always needed! And what
importance she had attached to the thousand inconveniences which no
traveler avoids! She needed so many things, she complained of
everything, as if Albert could keep the trains from smoking, the rain
from falling, the sun from overheating, the hotel kitchen from smelling,
the tradesmen from stealing, the women from wearing big hats in the
theaters, and fatigue from coming. The worst of all was that she had no
curiosity. Curiosity is an incentive which lessens the annoyances of the
trip for the sake of the pleasures which are before us. "Nothing
interests you," he had said one day with a forced laugh. She now
understood the mistake she had made in giving the same value to the
petty necessities of life as to serious, vital, new experiences. But
most women make this mistake, and that was one excuse. Of what use was
an excuse with a husband like Albert who had so often offered to guide
her?
She got up slowly to look in the dictionary, then in an atlas for this
mysterious Iran. She found it on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees, in
the heart of the Basque country. He had planned this journey a long time
ago. It was a necessary voyage for material for one of his volumes on
"The Peasant." There, he said, in the shelter of the mountains, the
traditions of the family were preserved in their primitive purity. Some
time ago he had suggested taking her there, but with little insistence,
when he learned that comforts had to be dispensed with. She found in a
Baedeker of Spain with which he had provided himself in advance, praise
of the countries which bathe the Bidassoa, and an account of the customs
peculiar to the province of Guipuzcoa. These strange syllables which had
formerly amused her, now made her thoughtful. She, who had never, so to
speak, exercised her imagination, saw clearly, on an evening richer in
warmth and color than those of Dauphiné, a peasant cart at Iran,
driving along a road separated from a river by leafless bushes, and on
the back seat of the cart, close to each other, sat Anne de Sézery and
Albert, who was covering his companion's shoulders with an old horse
blanket. "Thus clad, she had never appeared more charming to me"--a
little sentence from his diary which was indelibly engraved on her
heart. That woman would never take account of any inconveniences on a
journey, or glance anxiously, with her much praised golden eyes at the
changing scene.
Elizabeth fell asleep thinking of these sad pictures. The next day, she
was vexed with the old lady, whom she blamed for her nightmares. When
the postman came, she was surprised to find herself watching the mail,
to see if there were a letter from Albert to his mother. One day a
letter came, bearing the postmark of Paris. She was a little relieved by
it, as if the intimacy which was torturing her would be lessened by the
return.
The embarrassment which had crept in between her mother-in-law and
herself increased like a thick fog in which neither could distinguish
her real feelings. What comfort could she expect from this presence?
Anything which reminded her of Albert irritated her, weakened her, and
everything did recall him. Did Mme. Derize take into account the
uselessness of her intervention? She manifested a desire to return to
Grenoble. October gave every indication of being cold. The morning of
her departure, succeeding in overcoming her fear, she at last said to
Elizabeth that which she had been preparing since the day after her
arrival:
"My child, have confidence and be patient. Your time will come. It
cannot fail to come. Only you must not find morbid pleasure in your
sorrow."
But the young wife showed an expressionless face.
"I do not understand you, Mother. I have no sorrow. I never give a
thought to it."
Mme. Derize tried to smile.
"You came," she said, "to see me, to hear news of him."
"You are wrong. It was not right that you should be deprived of your
grand-children's company on his account."
Then Albert's mother, who had exhausted the limit of her boldness, was
silenced, when Elizabeth could no longer keep back her tears.
"My dear little girl, why are you crying?"
"I don't know. It is nervousness."
"I know it is, and I love you all the more for it. I shall always be
with you. But why make your trouble harder to bear? Wait with
perseverance, but with calmness. Occupy yourself with Marie Louise and
Philippe. They are your reason for hope and you belong entirely to them
at this time. Be busy, very busy. Fill your days. And pray."
"I no longer know how."
"Go back soon to Grenoble--I shall teach you. Good-by, my child. May God
keep you."
The two women kissed each other. Elizabeth watched the jaunting-car
which took Mme. Derize to Uriage, until it disappeared round a corner
and was hidden by a chestnut tree.
"Why has she gone?" she sighed, when she could no longer see.
After this departure her parents fled from deserted Uriage. Alone and
made keen by sorrow, she experienced that melancholy, which, with the
coming of autumn, arises from the earth at every step in the country,
and which, until now, she had considered only as poet's imaginings. She
understood now just what Albert had felt two years ago--the unhappiness
of an incomplete or misunderstood life, so powerful to vivify all
nature. The plane tree avenue, heaped up with thick, strong leaves, no
longer hid the Chapel whose invitation, on that account, became more
evident; but that was not where she chose to walk. She preferred the
roads which go into the heart of the chestnut woods, and where, from
time to time one glimpses the picturesque mountains. But she did not
venture far because of her fear. Her children were surprised at her
changed mood. She thought less about them than of her sorrow. In the
evening when she saw the cattle come home and drink from the little
pond, she hated this peace that the animals and their drivers inhaled.
October enveloped her with an anguish in which she knew a charm. It was
a pleasure to experience pain.
Her entire household was conscious of this weakened condition. At last
one day she received some news from Grenoble. Madame Derize, uneasy at
not seeing her come back, wrote her a pressing letter, the ending of
which revealed a power to foresee:
"My dear Elizabeth," wrote the lady, "this time of year and loneliness
are not good for you. And you are not thinking of Marie Louise and
Philippe. It is time to occupy yourself with their studies, to give them
companions for their work and play. You yourself need a little
distraction and social intercourse. Come to Grenoble, I beg of you. We
shall see each other often, shall we not? If you do not come this week,
I shall come and bring you myself--because I am anxious about you, my
child...."
She was amenable to the first influence. She hastened her preparations,
to the great joy of the two youngsters, satiated with the pleasures of
the country.
"All the same," said Marie Louise, "Grenoble is not Paris."
"It is not Saint Martin either," answered Philippe philosophically.
When it was time to get into the carriage, Elizabeth did not want to go
away. In town, she would resume her ordinary life: the home of her
parents where she was not at home, and the trial for separation, with
reference to which she had had several questions from her lawyer that
she had left unanswered. She would lose that liberty of suffering from
which she derived so much comfort. She would be obliged to busy herself
with her children, to use her days, instead of which she had been giving
herself entirely to her own sorrow.
When she lost sight of the Château of Saint-Ferriol which overlooks the
valley of Uriage, and when she had entered the valley of Gière, whose
sides were covered with hardy golden bushes, it seemed to her that her
life was also narrowing, and that she was going far away from her love
which she mistook for her sorrow. The children laughed and their
merriment pained her. She was coming back to real life, in which actions
count for more than wishes and regrets.
II
ELIZABETH'S DAY
Maître Tabourin's four clerks, knowing that their chief was lunching in
town with a wealthy client, began their afternoon by playing cards. That
contempt for the public, which characterizes the small official in
France, whether in the service of the state or of a private individual,
prevented their stopping or hiding their game when someone knocked at
the door.
"Come in," said Vitrolle indistinctly, unhappy in having no trumps.
But to the amazement of his colleagues, the junior clerk, Malaunay, left
the card table to meet the intruder, to whom he bowed respectfully. They
understood, however, when they caught sight of Mme. Derize, whose soft,
blonde hair, lit up by the rays of the winter's sun, contrasted with the
reddish fur she was wearing. In spite of the weight of her cloak, she
seemed very tall. The cold air out of doors had reddened her cheeks. A
black hat, turned up at the side, trimmed with a single feather, gave
her the appearance of an English portrait. Hearing of Maître Tabourin's
absence, she seemed confused.
"He asked me to come to-day," she said.
"But he will be back, Madame."
"Then I will wait."
They showed her into the little room adjoining his office. And the game
continued. When it was over, Lestaque and Dauras, who had won, suggested
another. The senior clerk prudently refused, and each one took up a
document without enthusiasm. For want of something better to do they
talked, paying no attention to the person who was waiting indefinitely.
What is more natural than for a client, however charming, to remain in
the waiting-room.
"How about our bet?" asked Malaunay.
"What bet?"
"The Derize case. I was the only one who bet on the husband."
"You were wrong."
"Well, well, we shall see."
"We know now."
Lestaque and Dauras thought little, but at the same time interrupted:
"How far have we gotten with the case?"
"Well," explained the clerk with an air of importance. "After the
petition to the president, a verbal record of non-reconciliation was
filed. M. Derize did not appear, and his wife obtained the temporary
care of the children, as well as an allowance. We sent the summons last
October. M. Derize has not shown his intention and it is now January.
The delays for conclusion have expired, and the case is written on the
records to go by default. We have evidence which constitutes a written
proof. The separation will be given _de plano_."
"Has anyone seen that evidence?" asked the junior clerk.
"No. Mme. Derize has it. She does not answer our letters, and the delay
in the case is due to her silence. I suppose she is bringing it to us.
It is high time."
Dauras sought the information which Lestaque enjoyed giving.
"And what is M. Lagier doing, M. Derize's lawyer?"
"What is he doing?" answered Malaunay, expressing envy and admiration on
his mobile face. "He is flirting with his lovely enemy. At Uriage they
were always together."
"Yes, but at Grenoble they never see each other."
"They are keeping under cover. And yet you can believe that Mme. Derize
is in no hurry to get her separation."
"Well, what will she do then?"
"Ah well, she will console herself. Once consoled, she will become
reconciled to her husband. It will be a household of four. That is the
custom in Paris."
For the little clerk, dazzled by Paris, was much impressed by its free
habits. Always on the lookout for something new, and with his eye fixed
on the door, he had only time to whisper "Take care!" to them. The chief
entered. M. Tabourin had lunched well--too well, in fact. His face was
scarlet, his hair--which he had to dampen a great deal to accomplish
such a result--flat. Instead of adopting the new fashion and covering
his linen with a high vest, he displayed a shirt front, which he had
spotted in many places as a result of his lively excitable gestures. As
he was finishing his cigar, he assumed the indifferent air of a man of
the world, for the especial benefit of Malaunay, who was watching him
carefully; but the first word of the head clerk aroused him.
"Madame Albert Derize is waiting for you in your office."
"Ah, ah," he said, "she is making up her mind at last. It is time to get
a judgment by default."
A last hasty puff, and then he disappeared. A few minutes later, someone
knocked at the office door.
"Maître Lagier," announced the junior clerk jokingly.
It was he. They would like to have laughed, but the newcomer knew how to
command respect. The clerks restrained their mirth.
"M. Tabourin is here?"
"Yes, sir," answered Vitrolle. "He is in his office with Mme. Derize. I
will tell him you are here."
"No need to. I shall come back."
Then he did not care to meet Mme. Derize? Upset in their calculations,
the clerks were astonished, when the Chief reappeared opportunely with
his client. He showed every evidence of an unpleasant interview.
Philippe Lagier, discovered, just as he was leaving, made a hurried
movement of retreat and embarrassment which could not escape so keen
an observer as Malaunay; but the young woman, after an imperceptible
hesitation, came toward him.
"Monsieur," she said, "I should very much like to speak with you. Will
you go a short way with me?"
"Willingly, Madame," he stammered confusedly.
What had become of that self-possession which had never been known to
fail him? Why this emotion on so ordinary an occasion? He recovered his
composure at once and bowed to the lawyer and his clerks before he went
out with the beautiful Mme. Derize. M. Tabourin had other things on his
mind than to observe these fine distinctions. The door was hardly closed
when he announced tragically to his colleagues:
"The Derize case has fallen through!"
"How? Why?" asked the clerks.
"Mme. Derize withdraws her petition."
Vitrolle, Lestaque and Dauras wore appropriate expressions of despair to
fit the occasion. But the junior clerk dared to show unbounded joy and
cried:
"I've won!"
The Chief, not understanding, stared at him and repeated mechanically:
"Won?"
"Certainly," explained the clerk insolently. "We had a bet on that
case."
"A bet?"
"It is done in all offices. With nothing at stake what interest would we
have in a case? Mme. Derize wanted a separation. Her husband demanded
nothing--I bet on him. Nothing has happened--therefore I have won."
Leaving M. Tabourin perplexed, he turned towards his comrades.
"You each owe me a dinner at a restaurant of my own choice. Three
dinners, what luck!"
The others protested. The lawyer, surprised, but greedy, hesitated a
second between the desire for an invitation and the dignity of his
position. The latter won, and he grew very angry:
"Take care, sir. You don't treat business matters seriously, and I have
already noticed your dangerous inclination to pleasure. Did you not
recently win another bet at the Café du Commerce on the longest time
one could take to smoke a cigar? The longest time! At your age, I should
have understood the shortest. You took more than an hour to do it. It
was a sufficient cause, you know, to dismiss you. The interests of a
business must be sacred to its employés, and I will not have my clerks
betting on the loss of my cases."
And with this speech, in which he gave vent to his anger (a good thing
for him, as he needed some helpful exercise to aid his digestion)--he
inconsiderately distributed some work to his mournful listeners.
Saint-André's Square is two steps from the Quai de la République,
where the Molay-Norrois lived. Instead of going toward the Isère,
Elizabeth directed her steps toward the park. Philippe Lagier, who was
silently walking beside her was surprised.
"Where are we going, Madame?"
"To my house."
"Then you have left your parents?"
"Did you not know about it? I have taken a flat in the Rue Haxo, almost
opposite the Botanical Gardens."
"Ah," said he, making no comment.
"I have been very much criticised for it. Still it is better as it is. I
see my parents almost every day, but a mother needs a little liberty to
bring up her children."
The park seemed numbed with the cold. Behind the houses, the young elms
and plane trees reared their light branches and twigs against the
delicate winter sky, so clear and pale. The water in the pond was
frozen, and the ice had been broken in one small place to give a little
black swan room to swim; but the poor bird, feeling imprisoned, scarcely
moved his feet. Near Elizabeth, Philippe remembered the day last summer
in this same garden, when before Counselor Prémereux, he had pleaded
the cause of passion, against the Molay-Norrois majority.
They scarcely spoke a word, as they walked along the crowded streets
which led from there to the Place de la Constitution, out of which
branches the Rue Haxo. This square, symmetrical and even, surrounded by
office buildings, was almost deserted, and the Rue Haxo was still more
so.
"There it is," she said, as they stopped in front of a tall house of
modest appearance near the Boulevard des Alpes, bordered by the grassy
slopes of the old ramparts.
They walked up four flights. She preceded him going into her apartment.
"There is no fire in the drawing-room. Excuse my receiving you in this
room, Monsieur. It is our school-room."
It was a work-room simply furnished, with a large ink-spotted table; and
its one window overlooking the trees of the Botanical Gardens.
"My children write their exercises here--at least, Marie Louise does,
because your godson can only amuse himself as yet."
She appeared constrained, embarrassed by what she wished to say to him
and could not. Philippe Lagier was conscious of it, but could not help
her. Remembering the path at Uriage where he had known humiliation and
shame, he could not realize that he was again face to face with her. She
had tried to smile in saying "Your godson," which was a bond between
them. It was a smile of such distress that he finally concluded to aid
her by giving to this conversation the motive it required.
"I have had a letter from your husband, Madame,--from Albert. That was
my reason for visiting your lawyer, just now when I met you. His
solicitor at Grenoble, Maître Randon, tells him that you refuse every
month to accept the allowance which he sends you regularly."
"That is so."
"He was astonished and asked me the reason for it, and begged me to
insist or to make them prevail upon you to accept it in your own
interests, and if you refuse for yourself, then in the interests of
Marie Louise and Philippe, who are in your charge."
After giving this explanation with a severe authority due to
embarrassment, he looked at the young woman whose confusion he noted;
either coming from the cold air outside to the warm air of the room had
caused the blood to mount to her cheeks, or else this flush was caused
by the awkwardness she experienced in advance, knowing what her answer
must be. Blushing, her eyes filled with tears, she regained her breath
as if she were choking, and replied with great effort:
"My husband has wrecked his home himself. He has deprived us of his
moral support. From now on, I have decided to dispense with his
financial support.
"I will bring them up myself. Later, they can do as they like."
"It is the tenth month. The lawyer has already received ten thousand
francs in your name. He does not wish to keep it."
"Let him send it back to M. Derize."
"Albert will not take it back. You know him well. He has pride ... like
you."
With a gesture of indifference, she indicated that she had nothing to do
with the disposal of the money. However, Philippe Lagier's answer, that
allusion to Albert's unselfish nature, was secretly pleasant to her. It
put an end to the unpleasant memories which the presence of the lawyer
would otherwise have awakened. He replied, with a little less assurance:
"May I ask you a question? Do you not need this allowance, which is
legal and which you can--which you ought to receive?"
She explained her situation with simplicity. She had received a dowry of
two hundred thousand francs, the interest of which would be sufficient
for her. She did not add that her parents had not yet given her the last
quarter of it, and that she found her income reduced to six thousand
francs a year. Philippe really knew this, but only said:
"It is not the position you are accustomed to."
The apartment in which she was living was certainly neither like the one
in the Rue Bara in Paris, nor that of the Molay-Norrois on the banks of
the Isère.
"I shall get used to it," she said, smiling. "It is nothing. I have no
need to wear the garb of a martyr."
The clothes she was wearing suited her so well, bringing out with such
brilliance the beauty of her complexion, that he wanted to protest
against this. He had lost the right to do so, and he therefore
refrained.
"My children's education," she continued, "will suffer in no wise from
this reduction. I have promised myself and I shall keep my word. See, I
have already begun. I correct Marie Louise's exercises, and I am
teaching her her lessons."
"You give yourself much trouble."
"It gives me something to do. One must be occupied with other people
when one's own life no longer has a purpose."
She had risen. He believed that she was asking him to go. But she opened
the drawer of a writing-table and came over to him to give him a packet,
carefully folded, which he recognized.
"I asked you to come back with me so that I could give you M. Derize's
note-books. I thank you for having given them to me. I have kept them a
very long time, but you did not ask me for them."
He bowed without speaking.
"And here is the letter which had been sent to him and which I kept
without the right to do so. You will return it to him."
Philippe, dumbfounded, refused the envelope she held out to him.
"This telegram belongs to you. It is your weapon. You cannot give up the
possession of it."
"I have no further need of it."
"But, Madame...."
"I am giving up my petition for separation. Albert may do as he likes."
For the first time in this conversation she used her husband's Christian
name. It was the only indication of her emotion.
"Ah!" murmured Philippe, who did not expect this new development. "Does
Albert know?"
"I have just told my lawyer. His lawyer will tell him about it in turn."
"You will give me permission to tell it to him?"
"Certainly."
After that there was nothing left for him to do but to go. Standing in
front of her he did not know how to show her his respect. In the course
of this unlooked-for interview, he had constantly looked for an
opportunity to ask her pardon. To the humiliation of his recollections
was now added that of his inadequacy in a situation in which he most
desired to use the resources of his mind. But there was another surprise
in store for him. Elizabeth offered him her hand, and with a trembling
voice, said:
"I also wished to tell you, Monsieur, that I have forgotten your last
words at Uriage. Give me your hand. You had misjudged me; it was my
fault. A woman alone has to be so careful. Remain Albert's friend, and
be a little friendly to me, will you? We shall meet seldom. I only
remember the truths I heard from you one day, which have made me
understand one's own contribution to one's unhappiness.--"
Philippe, bending down, kissed the fingers which she gently drew away.
"Madame," he repeated. "Madame."
And when he could master his emotion, he said:
"I shall be worthy of your pardon. Ah, if you only knew how I have
reproached myself! Now I feel so much younger, so much lighter. Ah,
one's own contempt is hard to bear."
"Sh!" she said, her finger on her lips as a signal to him not to
continue the subject, never to speak of it again.
He bowed.
"Good-by, Madame. You will never have a more devoted friend."
When he had left, Elizabeth took off her hat and her furs. Her cheeks
were burning and her hands frozen. The children, who had been out
walking with their governess on L'Ile Verte, were about to return home:
she would resume her daily work with them which sometimes made her so
tired. She sat down by the fire, leaning against the back of her chair
motionless, in that position in which one seeks relaxation after intense
fatigue. She felt a great need of rest--of not having to think of or do
anything more. Darkness was coming on, but she did not light the lamp.
Before her, through the window, she saw the snow of Belledonne on the
trees, lit up by the rays of the setting sun, and delicately colored
like early spring flowers. Kissed by the sun, the glaciers were melting,
and yet, even from a distance in the clear evening light, their coldness
was apparent. Despite so many praiseworthy efforts, which seemed to give
power to her poor, deserted, young life, she felt the touch of death.
What courage she had used, in order to triumph little by little over her
natural indolence, to accomplish so many decisions, even the generosity
of which, once they were executed, could no longer sustain her! No
reward, no hope would be given her. Far away from her, the one close to
the other, Albert and his mistress were freely enjoying their love.
However, they would know her greatness of soul, her pride, her new and
difficult life. She would force them to remember. During that very day,
had she not shown of what she was capable? Did Anne's biography, which
had been kept with so much admiration, contain a finer page? This
comparison with her rival in exciting her jealousy and poisoning her
wound, had given her a little energy. Her children, who came in in the
semi-darkness to kiss her, aroused her from her torpor. She thought that
Albert's mother would approve of her, would thank her, and, in this
unaccustomed activity which had demanded of her sluggish youth a display
of strength, the use of which she now understood, she found, despite so
many causes for despair, that wonderful peace in fatigue which healthful
exercise gives to the body. And this new sensation came as a surprise
and a relief to her.
III
MADAME MOLAY-NORROIS
Elizabeth had resolved after her return to Grenoble, not to be at home
to visitors in her new house. But on the advice of her parents, to her
great surprise sanctioned by her mother-in-law as well, she had decided
to have a reception-day. In Paris, preferring her own acquaintances, she
had taken little trouble to keep up connections useful or pleasant to
her husband. Little by little Albert had left her free and had withdrawn
from society. But now the sacredness of social life was impressed on her
by the Molay-Norrois, and Mme. Derize begged her to avoid solitude.
"I am confident," she said, "that the future will brighten for you. But
you must arrange a normal existence for yourself. It is not always a
good thing to live with one's memories."
"But how about you?"
"Oh! I am quite old and the past suffices for me. Marie Louise and
Philippe will have friends whose parents you will know. You have given
me great happiness in renouncing your separation."
"Nobody knows of it as yet."
"Since you bear Albert's name it is right that the sympathy and esteem
of the public should go to you. If God wills that some day you shall
take up your life together ..."
"I shall never live with Albert again. He has caused me too much
unhappiness...."
After the protest, she decided, not from personal conviction, but
because of weakness and the need of distraction, to take the advice of
Mme. Derize. One of her school friends, Blanche Servin, of whom she had
lost track, had married an ordinary clerk, M. Vernier; and knowing that
Elizabeth was unhappy, this friend plucked up courage to come to see
her, which she would never have cared to do before, because of the
difference in their positions. She turned out to be one of those women,
who at first glance, seem very insignificant, and find time to devote to
good work because they never think about themselves. Elizabeth was
surprised at her tact, her radiant sweetness, the gentle gayety she
displayed, despite all the difficulties and troubles she had known in
raising a large family. What determination she had developed in so
commonplace a lot! She promised to return her call, and to bring Marie
Louise and Philippe with her.
Then, now and again, the friends of the Molay-Norrois appeared. Mme.
Passerat, always active and in a hurry, came first, accompanied by the
old Counselor Prémereux, an admirer over whom she held the whip-hand,
since M. Molay-Norrois, the victim of an attack of gout, found himself
obliged to stay in his room. With her effusive graciousness she looked
about the place and ran to the window to enjoy the view.
"Trees, trees of every kind. And Belledonne on the horizon. It is
wonderful! But how pretty you look, my dear! You are right always to get
your clothes in Paris."
"It is a dress from last winter," explained Elizabeth, whose toilette
contrasted with the shabby furniture. "I had it altered here."
Mme. Passerat burst out laughing.
"What an innocent child I One does not mention such things."
The young woman, determined to meet all advances coldly, was
nevertheless obliged to recognize her visitor's charming ease of manner.
But, having exhausted her ordinary subjects of conversation, in order to
gain a confidence which was being withheld, she let Elizabeth
understand, with a condescending air, that she knew all about the
withdrawal of the petition. Certainly M. Tabourin's office kept no
secrets from anyone.
"Yes," she added, "your settling here is only temporary. You are
thinking of going back to Paris soon."
"I think not, Madame," answered Elizabeth, who drew herself to her full
height at this intrusion into her private life.
"Yes, you will, you will. Your father will be delighted. He has such
good judgment, your dear father, such great experience. Listen to me, my
child, brilliant surroundings, the movement and glitter of a
drawing-room are necessary for the duration of a passion. Men are so
vain. Your husband has withdrawn from society. It is a foolish whim
which will not last."
"You know better whether it can last, Madame. But you must allow me to
be the best judge of my own case," said Elizabeth.
She was surprised at herself in giving utterance to this sentence of
double meaning which concluded with a half threat. Mme. Passerat,
disconcerted, hesitating at the allusion, was on her guard, and thought:
"Still waters run deep."
Mmes. de Vimelle and Bonnard-Basson, intimate because of their husbands'
business association, drove together to the out-of-the-way Rue Haxo. Not
so fashionable as Mme. Passerat, and therefore given to petty provincial
competition, they noticed with silent satisfaction, the condition of the
house and the number of storeys. They had hardly entered, when, while
conversing, they made an inventory of the furniture, and unpleasantly
estimated the value of Elizabeth's dress, which bore the hallmark of its
Parisian origin, and was set off in so modest a frame, a contrast which
they considered in very bad taste. After the usual exchange of
compliments, Mme. de Vimelle smirked, while her friend tried to regain
her breath, which she had lost in coming up the stairs.
"We have heard about your new decision, Madame. It is quite right. You
have defeated your adversary's plans."
"What plan? What decision?" asked Elizabeth, puzzled.
"Grenoble is a small town where one knows everything that is going on."
"Everything," said Mme. Bonnard-Basson promptly, to emphasize that she
had nothing to hide.
"But what?"
"Well, your husband changed from separation to divorce in order to marry
the corespondent. You cut the grass from under his feet by giving up
your case."
"I had never thought of that."
And Elizabeth, indignant, asked herself by what right they penetrated so
impertinently into the sorrows and doubts of her soul. And she let them
know it, not without firmness. Mme. de Vimelle took it upon herself to
reply:
"Heavens, Madame, a divorce is like a book or a crime--it belongs to the
public."
After the ladies had gone, Elizabeth, who had made enemies of them,
compared them to Blanche Vernier who was far from brilliant, and who had
not mentioned her equivocal position, but had so spontaneously offered
her a sincere, loyal, active friendship. From actual experience, day by
day, she saw externalities crumble, and the truth which demands a cruel
apprenticeship to be understood, appear.
She expected no one else. She had invited Mme. de Crozet, whose children
were friends of Marie Louise and Philippe, but she had expressed her
regrets in a short note, which was an evident refusal to have anything
to do with a woman who was separated from her husband. That first insult
was very painful to her. Did it forbade others?
It was already late when her mother came to see her. She had not
consulted her about relinquishing her rights and felt remorseful. It was
a very general case in family histories:--the wife, after her marriage,
continues to remain under her parents' direction, and particularly under
that of her mother, even when they do not seek to exert that influence.
She asks their advice on every occasion. Then, one fine day, she asserts
herself, paying no attention to the painful astonishment, which so
radical a change cannot fail to provoke. Elizabeth, after her despair at
Uriage, took a long time to release herself. Feeling she was not
understood, and realizing that she had been ill-advised in the past, she
had without consideration taken her freedom. Made self-centered by
sorrow, as happens with weak natures, she did not notice the grief of
other people. Mme. Molay-Norrois had suffered from her daughter's
reserve, particularly painful to her, but had not been able to do
anything but burden her with impolitic advice; so the gulf between them
had widened day by day. They exchanged only a few insignificant words
like feeble calls which cannot be heard across a ravine.
Elizabeth inquired for her father's health.
"He is bored in bed," explained her mother. "He is very impatient. I
read to him. He needs so much distraction--he is so unaccustomed to
suffering!"
What were they going to say, now that they had touched upon their only
common interest? Mme. Molay-Norrois hesitated then, timidly ventured,
looking down on the floor to lessen her seeming boldness.
"So you ... you are resigned ... as well?"
Quite taken aback by this last word which might have been accidental,
referring without definite application to similar cases, and merely said
to fill in the silence, Elizabeth looked at her mother attentively. At
one glance, she noticed on the face, still youthful, patient and
smiling, traces of suffering, which she would have been unable to see
several months before. She had no doubts--she could have no doubts--as
to her discovery.
"Mother," she sighed affectionately, throwing herself into her arms.
The two women remained for a long time in each other's embrace.
Unhappiness restored their intimacy of former days, when one of them was
only a little girl.
Without a word they understood each other. Daughterly modesty prevented
Elizabeth, who remembered her bitterness at Uriage, from questioning her
mother, and she asked herself how long must she have lived with this
terrible secret. What strangers we are to one another! How little we can
know of the deepest anguish of beings who are dearest to us, and how
difficult it is to see and to understand! To perform a duty is easier
than to know it, and no one directs or perfects in himself this delicate
and complex art of knowledge. Mme. Molay-Norrois was the first to feel
the necessity of an explanation.
"My dear, I am finding you again. I thought I had lost you." "Oh,
Mother!"
"I did not understand why you were estranged from me. But I blamed
myself."
"Blamed yourself?"
"Yes, when you came back to us from Paris ... after Albert's ...
deception, I did not admit for a moment that your separation was not
inevitable. I aroused you against him, instead of calming you. I still
retained, at my age, so many illusions about happiness, about life! Now,
I have no more, you understand. I had thought so little about those
things. Forgive my mistake."
Elizabeth covered the poor weeping eyes with kisses. In a low voice she
asked:
"Is it a long time ... since you found out?"
"The last day at Uriage. And you knew then?"
"Yes."
"You did not tell me--you went away from me.
"Not from you, Mother--from father. How could I have spoken?"
"You are right."
She hesitated a moment, then wished to defend herself, although she had
not been accused.
"It is too late. After thirty-two years of marriage. On account of you
and your brothers, for the sake of their careers, my hands are tied.
What should I have done? I said nothing. He did not even notice it. He
is somewhat selfish. Still I have suffered terribly. My ideals are
shattered."
"Dear Mother, let us say no more. Lean on me. Let me soothe you, as if I
were your mother."
"No. Listen. You must know about it. He is not entirely to blame. When
he was in the army and his post was changed, I insisted that he resign.
He had nothing to do, and was very attractive. I wanted to live--I did
wrong. We are often responsible for the sorrows which crush us."
"Oh, you did not deserve that grief."
"Now he is ill and old age is coming on. It is sad to think, but old age
and illness are working in my behalf. _She_ comes less willingly. He
prefers my care. That is something."
She tried unsuccessfully to smile. Elizabeth continued to hold her
hands, not growing weary in observing on the poor, aging face, traces of
distress, which seemed living reproaches to her. In spite of her
affection, she had for some months misjudged her mother, who was giving
her a lesson in endurance, silence, self-denial and resignation. But she
did not wish to be resigned. When asked what she thought of doing, she
answered:
"I do not know."
"You are still his wife. If he came back to you, would you receive him?"
"I do not think so."
"Well, what are you expecting?"
Elizabeth let her arms fall.
"I am not making any further plans. One day I hope, another, I rebel--or
I lose hold of myself. I have not yet chosen my path."
"Dear little girl, there is only one for us. I see it quite clearly now.
And I have turned you away from it."
"Oh, it's not you, Mother. But there is another course, that of a new
life without any links with the past. I do not wish it. It is of no use
to women like us."
"Well?"
"There must be a third."
"Which?"
"I am looking for it."
Elizabeth passed the winter in alternate states of energy and weakness.
Her weakness was still the strength of other beings who were dependent
upon her. Did she not have to amuse her father, to comfort her mother,
to keep in check Marie Louise's rich and exuberant nature, and to
develop that of Philippe, less active? All these cares occupied her,
filled her days and prevented her from feeling her loneliness too much,
but they did not satisfy, and sometimes crushed her. At night she went
to bed in despair, giving herself up to sorrow more completely than ever
to love, and on awakening, she again found that despair. A visit to Mme.
Derize, who welcomed her affectionately, gave her valuable, practical
advice and made her turn to God, restored her patience for a while. The
old lady had found a way of speaking to her favorably of Albert: it was
of Albert as a child that she told her all sorts of forgotten episodes,
so as to give her a memory of him less bitter than that she had.
Tormented one afternoon, as she was walking with Marie Louise, who
constantly demanded stories, Elizabeth tried to repeat one of those
childish tales, and was soon drawn, almost in spite of herself, to speak
to the children of their father.
One day, as she was crossing the Place de la Constitution with her
little girl, she suggested taking her into the museum:
"What is a museum?"
"You will see pictures which represent figures or landscapes."
"Oh, yes, let's go in."
In the first room, Marie Louise stood right in front of the dazzling
portrait of Mlle. de Barral, whom Largillière has depicted laughing, in
a magnificent red dress, as conspicuous as a sign post.
"Look at this beautiful lady, Mamma."
Elizabeth instantly recalled her own remarks to Albert, as he selected
for her, in this same museum, the pictures which could mold her taste.
She found the old man, by Fragonard, which was to be found beside the
Largillière, and studied it attentively. She had no difficulty in
interesting herself in this lined face, which sums up the whole life
story of a hard-working peasant, a dreamer, and somewhat of a drunkard.
How easy to understand these works of art, which one thinks are only
admired by a select few! It was only necessary to compare them with
reality, to consider them a more exact transposition in a better frame,
of the too vast and complicated panorama of life. Albert's remarks,
which she recalled, deepened her vision. She drew Marie Louise towards
the old portrait.
"Leave that expressionless face. Look at this one. How much more it
tells you! We had a neighbor at St. Martin who was like him. He was
found drowned in a stream, one night, but nobody in church sang better
than he did. He was not a bad man. He drank too much. He was well
punished."
"Mamma," said the little girl, "I like it when you tell stories...."
Another time, resuming her piano study, which had been fairly far
developed, but in rather a mechanical way, she took up Beethoven's
sonata, so rightly named _The Appassionata_, and lived it so intensely
that she forgot her sorrow, or rather, gave to it its pathetic
interpretation. After the allegro, harassed, but lightened by the
recurrence of a sadly ardent love motive, and the andante which lifts
itself above human storms to perfect serenity, she began the third part,
which is interrupted as if by despairing cries, when she heard Marie
Louise, whose presence she had forgotten, weeping.
"What is the matter, dearest?"
"I don't know. Your playing is so sad."
"I should not have played that for you."
"Oh, yes; I love it when it is sad."
She had been able, then, to transmit her feeling, and to cultivate in
her daughter that deep sensibility which the child inherited from her
father, and which, developed, might become a source of noble joys and
dignity to her. Albert, if he met her later, would be obliged to admit
that, separated from him, his children had not deteriorated. That would
be the revenge of the deserted woman.
In the spring, Elizabeth, who from time to time watched the book-store
windows, saw a new book of her husband's advertised, the third volume of
the "History of the Peasant." It was the first he had published since
their separation. She had never desired so passionately to read a book.
Fascinated, and yet not daring to buy a copy, she passed again and
again. In Grenoble she was too well-known for this purchase not to be
noticed and become the talk of the town. What was she to do? Her
curiosity was so keen that it left her no peace. She discovered near her
home in the Rue de Strasbourg, a little book-shop with a wretched
window, where she certainly would not be known. At nightfall she slipped
into the shop.
"Will you give me the last volume of the 'History of the Peasant' by
Albert Derize, if you please?"
"Albert Derize? Don't know him."
She, who had said these syllables with an effort, was irritated to hear
them despised. She went out without thanking him, and hastened to the
principal book-shop of the town on the Place Victor-Hugo, where, without
dissembling, she bought the volume she coveted. As she was hurrying
along with her treasure, she met Counselor Prémereux, who, always
gallant to the ladies, came up to her. After the usual polite platitudes,
he pointed to the parcel.
"I wager it is a novel," he said.
"Yes, it is a novel."
"But, no, it is not the shape...."
She blushed, and finding no ready lie, changed the conversation. As soon
as she could get away, she ran home to hide herself. She had never read
anything so eagerly. Disturbed by the children's questions, she waited
for the evening to devote herself entirely to it.
It was, like the previous volumes, a very scholarly book, but so well
constructed that it sustained itself, as it were, and rose page by page
like a great building; and moreover, it seemed vibrant with light and
filled with experience like one of those old stories of the past, which
time cannot kill. Elizabeth imagined that the warmth and light, by which
Albert's personality usually manifested itself, were particularly
evident in this last volume, and she sought them in her eagerness with a
new sensitiveness. She bore a grudge against the despised source of
inspiration, and in consequence, her distress was increased. Panting,
oppressed, tortured by the reading, and yet unable to put the book down,
she reached, in the middle of the night, the last part, which dealt with
the customs of the Basque country, and quoted them as examples of the
strongest consolidation of a race, through the maintenance of a rural
home and the family spirit. The author gave his own observations on the
power of inheritance, on the active force of tradition. Following Le
Play and Cheysson, he took up the history of the Melouga family, and
passing into Spain, he quoted other examples of respect for the land
joined with respect for the head of the family. The book finished with a
sort of hymn in honor of the race and the soil.
No doubt such a conclusion did not lack irony. By what right was he, who
thus exalted the family and the home, and in so solemn, exact and
eloquent a style, qualified to speak of them? He showed the importance
of unity in the family, of fixed inheritance, indissolubility of
marriage; and he himself, voluntarily out of society, had left his wife
and children, and visited the Basque countries to gather this sheaf of
reflections there, in the company of his mistress. For a reader who knew
the circumstances, this must be amusing. So many who lead regular lives,
it is true, write anarchistic books, that one must expect by contrast,
to receive lessons in conventionality from those who live irregularly,
whose weakness in private life touches only the heart or the senses
without corrupting the mind. It is so easy, so tempting, so flattering,
to convert one's passions into theories, to transform one's own
misfortunes into public calamities, to generalize one's mistakes, that
it required a clear-sighted point of view to distinguish the lack of
solidity in his power of resistance to his own experience, and to
understand that this implied a rare force of thought in him.
Elizabeth, when she closed the volume, had not grasped the irony of the
contrast. But the realization that Albert had not changed in his social
analyses and remained resolutely faithful to his first theories on the
subject, which she now remembered having heard him outline, seemed to
indicate to her that in place of a lost heart, a mental link still
connected him with those whom he had deserted, and that she had not been
betrayed as thoroughly as she thought.
IV
THE NEW LIFE
At the end of May, Elizabeth left Grenoble to settle in the old house at
Saint Martin. Her daughter, a little anæmic and nervous, needed a
change of air, and the doctor advised the mountains. She asked her
parents, not without a secret mental reservation, to accept her
hospitality. M. Molay-Norrois refused her invitation.
"We will go to Uriage in the great heat, of course. But in the middle of
winter!"
"The middle of winter, Father? It is spring, and to-morrow it will be
summer."
"Well, you must not count on me."
As he appreciated the country only if he could enjoy city pleasures
there, with a great deal of social intercourse, he would wait until the
hotels of the little watering place were filled. After this refusal,
Elizabeth begged Mme. Derize to accompany her.
"You," she said to her, "will be our hostess. I had made up my mind to
accept nothing more from Albert, and the property of Saint-Martin
belongs to him. Marie Louise's illness necessitates our going. When you
are up there with me I shall have no such scruples."
"Why have them? Albert has only one hearth, yours. He owes you his
assistance."
"I refuse it. Do you not understand?"
"No, a father has the care of his children. This separation causes me so
much pain. As much as to you. He cannot realize it himself."
"Never speak to him of me."
"Of what should I speak to him, if not of his duty? Until my dying day,
he will hear my complaint, if he persists in his wicked passion."
"And what does he answer you?"
"Never a word about this subject."
"You see, then!"
"We do not know his thoughts. Those who are proud do not willingly tell
them, and his sin must increase his pride. When we are far from the
truth, our spirit of rebellion naturally feeds on our wickedness. But
comfort yourself, Elizabeth. When it is a question in my letters of you
and your children I know how to spare your pride. I only want to ensure
his recollection, his remorse."
"Oh, his remorse!"
"He is asleep, perhaps, but he will awaken. Each of us has his hour, and
particularly when we add to the numerous sorrows of life those of our
own creation."
She added, more sorrowfully:
"I feel old age coming on. Every day I ask God to grant me the joy of
seeing you reconciled before I die."
And as if she were following for herself alone the thread of her own
reflections:--
"That will bring them together, perhaps."
"What will, Mother?" asked Elizabeth. Mme. Derize looked at her, as if
she had come back from afar, and said smilingly:
"Oh, nothing, my dear girl. One sometimes has strange ideas ..."
The life of these two women at Saint-Martin d'Uriage was quite simple
and monotonous. The care of the children, some reading, walks, and a
little music or long conversations in the evening filled their days,
which began and ended early. Mme. Derize often walked along the plane
avenue which led to the Chapel. As Elizabeth did not accompany her
there, she chose, by preference, the time when the latter took Marie
Louise and Philippe out walking in the open air, in the woods or meadows
nearby. Her limbs soon felt the fatigue which her mind, remaining active
and even keen until old age, did not know.
Elizabeth, recalling that Albert had praised the benefit of physical
fatigue in his note-books, trained herself to take a longer walk each
day. At the beginning she had to listen to sarcasm from Marie Louise,
who ran down the roads like a hare and reproached Philippe and her
mother for their laziness. Little by little, as her physical condition
improved, she covered greater distances and found that she took a new
pleasure in this exercise that she had formerly disliked. On the slopes
of Chamrousse, as far from the house as the little legs of her son would
allow him to go, she looked with surprise (as if she had only just
discovered them) at the high arches formed by the pine trees with their
straight tops, resembling the columns of a cathedral. She was impressed
by them with a sense of awe. Nature ceased to be to her, as in the
previous autumn, a sorrowful companion.
Almost every evening, from the porch, she watched night come on. The
flocks and their shepherds, who crowded around the pond, gave her that
feeling of peace, which, at the close of day, the country exhales like a
perfume.
Marie Louise had to admit that her mother walked almost as well as she
did.
"But you can't run!"
"Let us try."
The young woman gathered up her skirts and tried. Her children, who had
never seen her so merry, shouted joyfully and forgot to run with her.
This new superiority aroused their enthusiasm.
"Certainly," concluded the little girl, "the only thing left for you is
the ravine."
"Which ravine?"
"Papa's."