herself. Her father had once taken her there, and they had found
difficulty in getting out, owing to the interlaced branches and briars
and pebbles. She had retained a heroic memory of it with which she used
to dazzle her friends on exceptional occasions.
Albert's mother, who was informed of these adventures, told of the
prowess of her son, who, in his first youth, had loved the mountains for
the purity of their air, for their commanding views, and above all, for
their dangers. Elizabeth, little by little, learned of her husband's
youth--after his childhood, about which she had never been curious. She
was obliged, as well, to satisfy her children, who asked for stories of
adventure. And there she was again, but now with method and a desire to
succeed, at times kneeling on the floor, again mounted on a ladder, to
explore the library shelves which stocked an entire room from floor to
ceiling, into which she had previously seldom gone. After many searches,
she found a volume of stories of Dauphiné, and began to wade through
these tales; then, as she grew more familiar with them, she learned to
change them, to bring out the dramatic effects, and to modify the
endings in an optimistic way, so as not to sadden Marie Louise, who was
too fond of the characters in her stories, while Philippe interpreted
the catastrophes more philosophically. The devil who built a wall of
enclosure round the park at Vizille, and who was captured by Marshall de
Lesdiguières; the fairy Mélusine, who lived in the Sassenage caves,
whose daughter was a siren and became a woman through love, especially
aroused the children's imagination, because they had visited these same
places of enchantment the previous year in the Passerat's motor, which
was for them quite sufficient to give an air of reality to the legend.
"We did not see Mélusine at Sassenage, Mamma," exclaimed Marie Louise.
"She is not there now."
"Where is she?"
"Very far away in the sea."
The little girl remained thoughtful, and then said:
"They ought to have told me her story while we were in the cave. It is
so stupid to walk about a cave without hearing anything about the
fairy!"
Elizabeth's thoughts flew naturally to Albert, who would have been so
amused at this remark. It was the artless criticism, so flattering to an
historian, of so many travelers, who go around the world, seeing nothing
but outward appearances, knowing of nothing but more or less picturesque
forms. As to Philippe, he liked best the devil who builds walls and who
is paid in monkey's money.
Now that the library was in use again, the young woman made a habit of
rummaging among the books. After attending to the needs of her children,
she busied herself with her own. She reread certain of her husband's
works, which she had previously scanned hastily, merely from a sense of
duty, and now found great pleasure in them. Then she read; biographies
for preference, or memoirs which, because of their direct contact with
life, suited her nature, more realistic than imaginative. Little by
little, without being conscious of the slow metamorphosis which was
taking place within her, she came to a better understanding of the human
imprint of ancient civilization in our own country, and the importance
of the past, of great men, of monuments and of works of art. By a
strange conversion, she found herself acquiring her husband's tastes
when she was separated from him--no doubt forever. The influence of
intellectual activity which he had never exercised over her in eight
years of married life, was now being felt from a distance, and he would
never know anything of it.
Better prepared for conversation, having reinforced her thoughts by new
excursions into the world, it happened in the evening that the usual
hour of bed-time passed, as she was talking to her mother-in-law--whose
cultivated mind she at last understood--of subjects which formerly would
not have interested her for a moment. Then glancing at the clock, one of
them remarked:
"How late it is!"
And Elizabeth, tired out, soon fell asleep, instead of more freely and
sorrowfully reviewing her troubles in the darkness of night, as she had
for a long time been in the habit of doing.
Among the elements of instruction which the two women, assisting each
other, gave to the children, she had reserved music for herself, in
which she tried to cultivate their taste by singing simple popular airs,
which she made them repeat. The house, on certain days, was filled with
song and the village children stopped in front of the gate to listen.
Little Philippe threw his big bell-like voice into the music like a ball
into a game of nine pins, and the notes came out with great force. His
sister used to be annoyed at this, but the dispute always ended in
shouts of laughter.
This gayety seemed to an old peasant, Claude Terraz, who was passing
down the road in his cart, to be a good sign, and seeing through the
railings Mme. Derize, Sr., working in her garden, he allowed himself, by
the established rights of a neighbor, to inquire:
"Well, Madame, has M. Albert come home?"
"Not yet, Claude."
"But he will come back?"
"Soon, my friend. We are expecting him."
"Ah, so much the better. There must be a man in the house. A man for the
spade--a woman for the soup, and both to feed the youngsters."
And with this statement he whipped up his team of oxen and went on his
way.
Those were the good days. There were bad ones too. Elizabeth, more
refined and sensitive, had become very susceptible, irritable, and
overemphasized the little things, or again settled into her former
apathy. She knew the rebellion which crushes us as we battle in vain
against the indifference of fate, and the despair which plunges our
souls into the depths. In those hours, she wished she might hear of
Albert's death to put an end to the suffering which her jealousy
brought. With delicate tact, but without words or allusions, Mme. Derize
healed her wounds, as do those nurses in a sick-room, who work silently,
but are never idle.
The heat of July brought back the summer crowd to the little station at
Uriage. But the Molay-Norrois were not as socially active as they had
been. Although they were again occupying Mélèzes on the slope which
leads to the Castle of Saint-Ferriol, the Passerats had given up their
villa and had rented one in the lower part of the valley near
Vaulnaveys. The two families still saw each other, but less frequently.
Through the Vimelles, the Passerats were making very aristocratic
connections. M. Molay-Norrois, on a strict diet since his last attack of
gout, was obliged to agree that he was better off at home, and was
grateful for it to his wife. Attention to the state of his health had
replaced every other thought in his mind. He took care of himself with
the solicitude and keen zest with which he had always sought to please,
and now indulged himself with consultations and medicines, as he had
formerly done with the secret pleasures of love. He had not given up
society, but had subordinated it to his health, and now entered into it
with moderation. He who had spent hours on his toilette, and created
fashions, now found an intimate charm in putting on his slippers and
smoking a pipe after dinner, in noting with satisfaction that his
digestion was in good order. Mme. Molay-Norrois, while she herself
attended to his special soups and broths, a new occupation for her, took
hope again, and did not wish for a too rapid or radical cure. Their two
sons, Oliver and Victor, who came on leave one after the other,
manifested toward Elizabeth a protecting affection which annoyed her.
But they gave up no pleasures for her sake, and neither the one nor the
other thought of curtailing his mode of living, which might have
permitted their parents to make some arrangement about her dowry, which
the young woman, living willingly on her own money, had never requested.
The motor picnics began again. The Derizes were invited. Elizabeth, not
wishing to give her children luxurious habits, refused, quoting the
advice of their physician, who advocated walking. She often went into
Saint Martin to visit her father and mother, and one day, walking under
the shade of the chestnut trees, she met the two young men, who, when
they recognized her the previous year, had loudly praised her. Wearing
a loose-fitting white flannel dress, which made her look younger, she
held Philippe by the hand, while Marie Louise, who had spied some
huckleberries, had climbed the hill a few steps behind. They stared at
her with that coolness which our manners allow and do not stamp as a
proof of bad breeding. Involuntarily the blood mounted to her cheeks.
She wished to hurry on, and turned awkwardly to call her daughter. They
also turned and slackened their steps. Marie Louise joined her at a
gallop to tell her:
"You know, Mamma, you are more beautiful than you were last year."
"Silly little thing, instead of talking nonsense, it would be better
next time if you did not leave me."
But the child clung to her idea which she would not give up.
"It is not nonsense. Those gentlemen down there said so."
"Why did you listen to them?"
"Because they were talking about you."
"That is no reason."
The little girl would not allow herself to be quieted.
"There was a dark one and a light one. The dark one talked like this:
'She has lost, she is thinner.'
"What have you lost, Mamma? And the light one said: 'She is beautiful.'"
"Be quiet," said Elizabeth. "I don't like children who listen to the
conversations of passersby."
It was more than sixteen months since she had separated from her
husband. She had certainly changed very much, and did not notice it
herself until she had made alterations in her old dresses, which, as a
matter of economy, she still wished to wear. Slighter, she appeared to
be like those stems, which add grace to a flower, as they grow longer.
Her limbs, a little long in proportion to her figure, had gained, by her
habit of walking, a greater ease, a freer gait. Her long neck, very
white, which she generally left bare, carried her head more gracefully.
It might be said that she had let her overweight, which had made her
body heavy and weak, fall from her like a garment. The friends of her
family, for the most part, regretted it, thinking she was pining away,
and that it was so sad for such a pretty woman. The open air and her
natural good health fortunately counteracted the slow results of the
mental anguish which was undermining her. But even these assets could
not prevent the imprint of suffering on her youthful face. Two creases
had stamped themselves at each corner of her little mouth. The outline
of her face was finer. A little wrinkle showed between the eyebrows. Her
dark eyes, outlined by the bluish circle around them, reflected a deeper
life. Sometimes languid, sometimes ardent, their expression always
revealed to those who understood, a little fright and homesickness, like
the tender look of those tame deer, who as they eat from your hand, are
always afraid of being ill-treated, and are thinking of their broad
native woods. The play of color on her cheeks was also quicker; it came
and went at almost the same moment. And even her voice had taken on a
more serious intonation, and seemed to have a deeper tone. Thus changed,
with her flimsy gowns and big summer hats, she looked more and more like
those English portraits which give to women so much charm and dignity.
But it was one of those portraits which one comes back to see again,
because of not gaining at one glance a full sense of its beauty.
The new peace she found at Les Mélèzes, made her mother happy. But
Elizabeth heard and disliked the echo of gossip which, as in all
watering places, was making the rounds at Uriage. What did it matter to
her that Mme. de Vimelle could no longer seriously ignore her husband's
liaison, or that Mme. Passerat had promoted Counselor Prémereux to the
degree of chief steward of her kitchen? One day they told her of the
coming marriage of Philippe Lagier, who had been living for some time at
the Park Hotel.
"To whom?" she asked, interestedly.
"To Mlle. Berthe Rivière."
She recalled the girl who had played tennis with a grace intended to
attract the spectators. Before going home to Saint Martin, she went out
of her way to go to the tennis-court. Mlle. Rivière, chuckling with
laughter which sang the joy of life, was scoring, while her partner,
Philippe Lagier, transformed into a faithful knight, was disrespectfully
devouring her with his eyes.
"Yours!" they shouted to him.
But he lost the ball. And the young girl, sure of her power, let him
lose the game without a murmur.
"Already!" thought Elizabeth, as she walked along the chestnut path
which took her back to her solitude.
How soon one was forgotten! What lies, these love vows! It only needed a
smile revealing gleaming teeth, a fresh skin, a movement of the hips to
substitute a new desire for the most exalted emotion. But perhaps she
was not one of those who inspire lasting passions. Perhaps she left only
a fleeting impression, soon to vanish, as she had sometimes heard it
said of certain women with pure impassive features. This little wound to
her self-love she added to that from which she was suffering, and which
would never be healed.
A few days later, invited to dinner at Mélèzes with some other people,
she found herself placed at table next to Philippe Lagier, who had Mlle.
Rivière as his dinner partner. Would she take advantage of this? The
barrister turned toward her, and to keep her attention, made use of all
the resources of a mind trained to please. He understood perfectly the
art of conversation which lends color and picturesqueness to all
subjects, and which seems to imply a flattering sympathy. The glare of
the lights, the bright dresses, the bare shoulders, the air warm, but
invigorating, which came in through the open window, contributed to a
harmony in which life unfolds itself in an atmosphere of joy. She was
listening to Philippe, whose intelligent features were unattractive only
when in repose. Near him, she gave no further thought to the scene which
had separated them. Soothed, forgetting her trouble, happy, she was
enjoying her success. All at once, raising her head, she saw fixed upon
her the gaze of Mlle. Rivière. It was a look of distress, expressing
not hatred, but despair and admiration. It said so clearly, "You are too
beautiful. I know well that I cannot struggle against you--have
pity!"--that she was upset by it, because it made her think of herself.
Thus for a few minutes she had fully enjoyed her power over a man whose
dead or dying passion for her, self-love induced her to revive; and at
the same time, she had felt herself to be mastered by the conversation
of this man whose subtle meaning she still feared. In addition she had
unscrupulously risked breaking another heart. She was ashamed of her
vanity, and particularly of her weakness for which she reproached
herself as a traitor. Turning from Philippe, she gave him back to Mlle.
Rivière, but he had lost his high spirits. At the end of the evening,
she refused his offer to escort her home to Saint Martin. On the road at
night, as she passed the place where the year before she had rebelled so
violently, her new conduct seemed incomprehensible and the humiliation
she felt in her own estimation, aroused in her a greater indulgence
toward the faults of others, and at the same time a resolution to watch
herself more closely.
V
A GHOST
With the first autumn rains, the bathers left Uriage. M. Molay-Norrois
had not waited until the end of September to pack up and go away.
"Don't you feel the dampness, my dear?" he said twenty times a day to
his wife, even when the weather was dry, though not quite so warm. "It
drifts into this narrow valley. Let us get back to town where we can
make ourselves comfortable."
After a little opposition, Mme. de Molay-Norrois gave in. No doubt she
wanted to be near her daughter and grandchildren, but thought more of
her invalid's happiness. Soon Elizabeth recovered the solitude in which
she had been so happy the previous year. Somewhat rheumatic, and wishing
not to become a burden on her daughter-in-law in this resourceless
village, her mother-in-law had gone back to Grenoble at the beginning of
October.
"Come back to me soon," she said at parting. "Solitude at your age is
not a good counselor."
But the youngsters were in splendid health, and Elizabeth let herself
sink into that supine state, which comes with the last rays of the
autumn sun and the treacherous charm of Nature. The view of a deeper
forest, a more impassioned feeling which she was beginning to
understand, filled her this season with a bitterness which soothed her.
She was conscious of her weakness, afraid of it, and forced herself to
struggle against it. In order not to take up the routine of the city so
soon, she invited Blanche Vernier to spend a week or two at Saint Martin
with her children. These, four in number, put themselves under the yoke
of Marie Louise and Philippe who surpassed them in brains and
cleverness. Elizabeth was entertained for several days by the simple joy
expressed by her friend, in following the work in the fields, which was
entirely new to her, in running down the wild paths, in which,
accustomed to city life, she found an almost exaggerated charm. Then she
grew weary of her exclamations, even of her pretty sayings which were
somewhat vulgar. She wearied of it, because, abandoned and neglected,
she was more sensitive and susceptible than usual, at this season which
deepens one's suffering. Then she allowed Blanche to take the crowd of
children out, and remained alone to express her sadness in the music she
interpretated, to begin but not finish books, whose contagious
melancholy she knew, and still more uselessly, to think, aimlessly,
hopelessly and without any object, for no purpose but the pleasure of
giving herself as much pain as possible. And, rousing herself from that
state of languor, she determined that she could no longer remain in the
country.
One day, when she had stayed in the house, she understood, when the
children came in, and from the expression of Blanche Vernier's face,
that something unusual had happened during the walk. Marie Louise, a
little troubled, wore a mysterious circumspect air which was very
evident, while big Philippe was swelled with his own importance almost
to the bursting point. The others tried to explain that they had met a
gentleman--a remarkable phenomenon at Saint Martin at this season--but
the little girl interrupted them brusquely in an authoritative voice:
"Be quiet."
Over the heads of the youngsters, Blanche gave lively signals which
bespoke no good.
"Go and have tea in the dining-room," commanded Elizabeth, out of
patience, and when the drawing-room was empty, she asked her friend,
"What has happened: Anything serious?"
"Well, as we were coming down towards the Château of Saint-Ferriol we
met a man...."
"Who?"
"Wait a minute--a man whom I did not know."
Elizabeth, nervous, asked these questions:
"What was he like?"
"You know I can't distinguish men very well, one from the other. It
seemed to me he was very tall, rather thin, sharp features and a
military air. Is that he?"
"Go on."
"He looked at us as we passed, then after we had gone a few steps he
turned round and called: 'Marie Louise.' Your daughter raised her head
and then ran to him."
"You should not have allowed her to speak to a stranger."
"You know very well that he was not a stranger. Naturally I did not know
it, and I called out and then stopped. But the little girl paid no
attention to what I said. She made a sign to her brother to join her. So
I came up to interfere more directly, and it is to my credit, because
you know how shy I am. 'These children are in my charge.' 'I give them
back to you, Madame,' he replied, bowing very politely to me. 'I am a
relative and I allowed myself to stop them.' He was very much touched.
He was holding Marie Louise and Philippe by the hand. I even think he
had tears in his eyes."
"You are not sure?"
"I am a little short-sighted, and I am always afraid of being indiscreet
in looking too closely. Then he kissed the children passionately--almost
madly. I was sorry for him. I could have cried too. I cry so easily.
"'Come with us,' Marie Louise said to him.
"'I can't--'
"'Mamma did not see you, did she?'
"'I must go away.'
"'Already? This is not a visit. You will come back?'
"'Yes.'
"He passed on hurriedly. I thought he had disappeared behind the
chestnut trees, but as I turned back, I saw him looking after us--"
"That is all?"
"Yes, that is all."
"I placed my children in your charge. You should not have left them--"
"Left them?"
"Yes, even for a minute...."
This reproach was manifestly unjust. Although not far-sighted, Blanche
Vernier possessed that instinct of the heart which penetrates the hidden
causes of our acts or our feelings--Divining her friend's emotion, she
bore this absurd accusation without defending herself. Elizabeth
trembled at the thought that she might have met her husband, not knowing
in her confusion whether she regretted or dreaded this meeting.
"Listen," she said in a softer voice. "Go to the children and send Marie
Louise to me."
A few minutes later, the little girl came in, not with her nose in the
air and a bright face, with the dancing step with which she shook her
blonde curls as she tripped through the house, but instead with a stiff
walk and lowered eyes.
Her mother drew her towards her too jealously and held her arms--
"Look at me!"
As the child hesitated in her embarrassment, Elizabeth who was very
nervous, grew angry.
"But look at me--whom did you meet on the road?"
Marie Louise who did not know how to tell a lie, nevertheless answered:
"Nobody."
"Nobody? How can you deceive your mother. That is bad. That is naughty."
The little girl who was bravely holding her own against this threatening
tone, weakened before this outburst of sorrow. And then, it became great
news to announce--
"Well, yes, we met papa."
"Why did you not tell me when you came back?"
"I don't know, Mamma."
"Did he say you were not to tell?"
"Oh, no."
"You should have no secrets from your mother."
The child began to cry, and had to be consoled--Her silence which she
could not explain, was the mysterious intuition of the divorce of her
parents, whom she had to love separately without the knowledge of either
of them, for fear of hurting them. She could not think that she might
have both a father and mother at the same time like her little
friends--And yet both were alive--The meeting that afternoon had settled
all doubts concerning the existence of her father, whom she never saw,
and about whom she had even heard it said that he was dead to her. But
these complications put her in a state of uneasiness which wearied one
of her age. Elizabeth continued her questions more tenderly this time:
"You recognized him at once?"
"I did not look at him when he passed us--but afterwards he called
me...."
"He called you?"
"Yes, then I knew him."
"Tell me about it, dearie."
"He called: 'Marie Louise.' I raised my head and I ran. When I was quite
near him I cried, 'Papa.' He held me so tight that I choked--and he wet
my cheeks because he was crying. Why, Mamma?"
"He was touched at seeing you after such a long time."
Marie Louise seemed to reflect.
"Why didn't he come home before? He said to me, 'And Philippe?' So I
called 'Philippe!' Philippe came, but he said, 'Who is that?' I said,
'It's papa.' Then Mme. Blanche came up too. They quarreled."
"Quarreled?"
"No, not quarreled, but they looked at each other crossly. Then papa
went away."
Elizabeth overcame her hesitation and again asked:
"He sent no message to me?"
"I said to him, 'Come and see mamma.'"
"Ah, and what did he answer?"
"He did not answer. He said, 'I will come back.'"
"That is all?"
"Yes. Why are you crying, Mamma?"
"I am not crying--"
She pressed her daughter passionately to her heart and covered with
kisses the face that Albert had kissed. With an imperious longing for
affection she murmured in her daughter's ear.
"Do you love me?"
"Oh! dear Mamma--"
"And your father?"
"Papa too, but not as much as you."
"Why?"
"He is never here--You know, he looks sad."
"Really. He looks sad? Are you quite sure?"
"Yes, does that make you glad?"
"Oh, darling--"
"He has promised to come back. You want him to come back, don't you?"
"For your sake and Philippe's--yes, perhaps--Some day a long time from
now."
"No, right away."
Reassured little by little, Elizabeth told little Marie Louise, who was
too impressionable, to go back to her playfellows. She herself being
unable to regain her self-possession, walked up and down the house. At
last she crept on tiptoe to the door. Erect and motionless, on the point
of going out, she looked down the road as far as the trees. Perhaps
Albert was wandering about there, being unable to decide to leave these
places which must recall his childhood and so many memories. So many
memories? No, he had seen his children, nothing else could interest him.
He had gone back, no doubt. Nevertheless, "he seemed sad," Marie Louise
had said. If he were suddenly to appear at the turn of the road, there
before her, what would she do? She did not know, she reached no decision
and time went on.
Evening came, an autumn evening sharp and almost freezing. She looked
for a shawl to cover her shoulders and continued to gaze distractedly,
as if before the day ended, she were calling the danger she feared.
Darkness which already filled the valley, was ascending the mountain,
hastening to overtake the forest of thick, black pine trees, which
seemed like a foretaste of night. The red of the sunset streaked the
sky: the first star shewed itself above Les Quatre Seigneurs.
Elizabeth could not make up her mind to go in. The change in the light
gave an appearance of motion to the bushes and to the trees on the road.
Every moment she thought she saw someone coming and stood trembling, her
feet glued to the threshold. After many mistakes, she recognized a human
shape coming up the road. Fear made her knees tremble. No, it was not
he; it was a woman, bent, thin and slow. It was Albert's mother. Out of
breath, her limbs weak, overcome with weariness, she was painfully
dragging herself along. Elizabeth, reassured, freed herself with a great
effort, ran to her, saw that she was worn out; took her arm, made her
come in, and placed her beside the hearth.
"Why did you not tell me you were coming, Mother? I would have sent the
farmer to meet you with his car. There is no carriage at Uriage now, and
you have had to walk all the way."
Mme. Derize smiled in a way which meant, "How often I have done without
carriages!" But she had not reckoned with her age, nor her weakness, and
was regaining her breath with difficulty. Marie Louise, Philippe and the
little Verniers, who surrounded her, watched her with the surprise of
children at old age or illness. Elizabeth begged her friend Blanche to
take them away. Left alone with her mother-in-law for whom she prepared
a cup of boiling tea, with a little rum in it, she saw her become
refreshed little by little, and then sit up, her face expressing that
peace, so pure and noble, yet tinged with sadness, with which she
accepted all the happenings of life. Then Elizabeth asked herself the
reason for her departure from Grenoble, and whether that unexpected
visit did not have something to do with Albert's arrival. Mme. Derize
did not let her wait long for an explanation which she was eager to
give.
"Elizabeth, my son has been with me for three days. He has changed very
much, he is worried, uneasy and nervous. He is not happy."
Attentive and anxious, Elizabeth was silent.
"He went away this morning," continued the old lady.
"He was here just now."
"Here. You have seen him?"
Albert's mother bent toward her daughter-in-law, her cheekbones suddenly
flushed with a rush of color, contrasting with the pallor of her face,
her eyes fixed and shining with fever, in a state of unaccustomed
exaltation foreign to her nature.
"Not I. But the children."
Elizabeth told the short story of the meeting of Marie Louise and
Philippe with their father. Mme. Derize, resting against her chair, lost
her abnormal excitement as she listened.
"Just now," she said, "I thought he was here, that you were reconciled,
that he had been unable to go away. I was so happy--so happy."
"Oh, Mother, could you hope that?"
"I always hope it. And you do, too, do you not?"
"I no longer know. I am so weary of suffering! And then how can I
forgive him, how can I forget him? He has gone back to _her_."
The old woman took Elizabeth's hand and held it.
"My child, if you prayed to God, as I do, your hope would be
strengthened. Illicit passions can never bring happiness. Happiness
means peace in one's heart. They are powerless to insure that."
"They bring with them a more passionate existence. I do not understand.
That people desire them and die for them suffices to make them endure."
"If you could have seen him, listened to him, you would not speak thus.
It is not on my account that he came to Grenoble. He thought he would
meet the children there. He had no idea that you would remain so late in
the mountains. And this morning, instead of leaving for Italy, he came
up here without further reflection, in the hope of seeing his children.
He has forgotten nothing."
"Oh, Mother, and me?"
"You, Elizabeth? Did you not understand that it was because of you that
he has never tried to see his children until now?"
"He never asked to see them. If he had asked, I should not have refused.
He could not have them come to him, however, in Paris."
"Listen, Elizabeth. All the time he was overwhelming me with questions
about them. He was obsessed with the thought of them."
"And he has never given them any indication that he was still alive."
"Because he did not want to trouble your life, to impose painful
obligations upon you, or remind you of a tie which he thinks is
sorrowful to you."
And she added in a tone of prayer, as if to protect her son:
"At least that is the way I explain it--particularly since his promise."
"What promise?"
"Yesterday I asked him to put nothing definite between you and himself."
"Definite?"
"Yes, not to seek a divorce."
And in a lower voice, she added:
"I should never have survived it."
"What did he answer?" asked Elizabeth anxiously.
"After a slight hesitation, he replied: 'I promise you. Only, it is
Elizabeth's right.' Elizabeth, I believe he will come back to us. Will
you not help him?"
The young woman turned away with that frightened expression which she
often wore.
"What do you wish me to do, Mother? I cannot contend for him with that
woman--I do not know how."
"No, but promise me that if he comes back some day you will receive him,
you will welcome him in spite of the past."
"He will not come back."
"If I went to look for him?"
Elizabeth repeated despairingly:
"He would not come back...."
"And if ..."
"Mother, what is the matter with you?"
"If I fell ill? He would have to come back, would have to see you."
Mme. Derize looked so pale, so fragile, that this suggestion seemed a
reality. Elizabeth, uneasy, realizing that the attack was growing worse,
put her to bed and watched over her. In the evening the old woman laid
her feverish hand on the bent head of her companion:
"I was right when I told him...."
"What, Mother?"
"That you are my daughter."
VI
MADAME DERIZE
After eighteen months, Elizabeth was awaiting her husband. The sad event
which was bringing them together had had its beginning on the evening
when Albert's mother had walked too quickly to Saint Martin. After
Madame Derize's night of suffering, the young wife, foreseeing danger,
instinctively made the wisest decision and telegraphed to her parents
and to her doctor at Grenoble. She asked for immediate help, realizing
that while there was still time, they would have to get away at once
from a village so primitive and resourceless, and requested the most
comfortable means of transport. M. Molay-Norrois--and his wife made no
objection--and told Mme. Passerat how useful her motor would be under
such circumstances; and she, with that keen executive ability and
rapidity of action, of which she had so often given proof in organizing
society fêtes, gave orders that her 40 h.p. car be arranged as an
ambulance, and sent, with it a doctor and a necessary medicine chest to
the mountains of Uriage.
"This is the first time I have traveled in a motor," murmured the
invalid smilingly, as she was carried into it on the bed arranged for
her.
In the afternoon she was brought to her home on the Boulevard des
Adieux, and her daughter-in-law took her place at her bedside. The next
day Blanche Vernier came down with the children, of whom she had offered
to take charge. The case was diagnosed as congestion of the lungs, which
grew no worse until the fifth day. Immediately upon her arrival at
Grenoble, Elizabeth had begged Philippe Lagier to wire to Albert's
address in Paris. As there was no answer, she sent repeated telegrams,
all of which were returned to her marked "Absent." When the invalid was
questioned she could give no exact information. As her son left her, he
had spoken of a rapid journey to Piedmont, returning to Paris over the
Simplon.
"I shall write to you during the trip," he had added.
A post card came, which bore the name of an unknown village in Italy. On
a detailed map they found that it was in the neighborhood of Ivrée. In
accordance with his usual plan, the traveler was journeying through out
of the way places to gain information for his book. Another telegram,
directed there as a last resort, did not reach him. At last he wrote
from Aosta, and his letter stated that he would spend a week there.
Informed directly, he wired that he would leave with all possible haste.
It was the eighth day and his mother had passed away the night before.
They did not tell him so, but he could draw that conclusion from the
telegram.
She would no doubt have recovered from an illness whose symptoms had not
at first given rise to much alarm, had it not been for her age, and more
especially for that gradual weakening, which in time, results from
financial worries, sorrows and mental strain. After the death of her
husband, she had known the worry of financial straits, the necessity for
work, and all the demands of the noblest maternal ambition. This son,
the thought of whom had comforted her broken life, for whose development
she had paved the way, whose success she had followed with so much joy
and confidence, had now in turn, made her suffer, by renouncing the duty
she considered most sacred, the devotion which in the innate
consciousness of one of her race, seemed to her to be most important;
that of continuing, of upholding the tradition of the family. She had
bitterly reproached herself for the excess of delicacy which had
prevented her from acting as peace-maker between Albert and Elizabeth,
in whom she often told herself, she should have been able earlier to
realize the virtue which had lain dormant until it was gradually brought
out by a crisis. This separation had slowly undermined and weakened her.
She exhausted herself in prayer, and in her faith in the expediency of
sacrifice, as of a burnt offering to obtain from God the return of him,
whom she called in secret her prodigal son. With what haste she had gone
to Saint Martin, after her son's last visit, to cheer up Elizabeth's
languishing hopes. On the way she had faced the fatigue which weakened
her limbs, often stopping to take breath, sustained by the idea that she
was bringing a little comfort to the deserted woman. For a moment she
believed that Albert had gone before her. He had come, but had not
remained. Then she had that vision of unusual exaltation; that perhaps
her death might bring about what her life had been unable to accomplish.
If not at once, at least after the second day she understood, alone,
that it was the end, and prepared herself for it. The illness hovered
over her without crushing her, at last took hold of her, but without
that violence which suppresses thought and destroys the intellectual
faculties, in that last struggle that frees an inert body. She departed,
with her brain intact and her heart full. Her calmness was surprising,
almost terrifying to those about her. She asked for religious help and
received it with a piety, which was like the natural breath of her soul.
"Jean," she said several times.
It was the name of her husband, whom no one had heard her mention for a
long time. She was reserved about her most intimate emotions. This name,
so peacefully invoked, revealed the endurance of a deathless love which
eternity would satisfy--or again she would ask:
"Is he coming?"
By this she meant her son. And it was only this question which she asked
so often that had the power to dim her clear eyes, to still her
features, already motionless and almost fixed with a serenity which
anticipated death. She began on the third day, despite the reassuring
prognosis, to show some evidence of what was so soon to occur. With
great composure she told Fanchette, who protested against it, where to
find the sheets and her bridal dress. She asked for a humble funeral,
without flowers or wreaths. She saw Philippe and Marie Louise, tried to
smile at them and begged that they should not be brought again.
Elizabeth, assisted with the best of good-will by Mme. Molay-Norrois,
possessing that almost supernatural strength of woman at the bedside of
invalids--watched over and took care of her day and night. When she came
near her, she felt a sort of fear in seeing her so peaceful and almost
relaxed. Once, being unable to hear the advice her mother-in-law was
quietly giving her, she burst into sobs.
"Do not leave me, Mother," she entreated. "What shall I do without
you--you are still Albert."
"I shall not leave you," said the dying woman with conviction.
And, with infinite tenderness, she added faintly:
"My daughter.--I had formerly regretted having had no daughter. One is
always in a hurry to pity oneself!"
Then she seemed to gather a little strength, sufficient to inquire:
"Elizabeth, he will come back some day, I am certain of it. When he
does, will you promise me that you will forgive him, forgive him without
any restriction?"
How could Elizabeth refuse?
"I promise you," she said solemnly.
"That is right," answered Mme. Derize, "if he were there, I should have
tried to join your hands. It is not time yet."
On the fifth day she appeared to be resigned to the fact that her son
would not return. It was her last hope. She wished to see Philippe
Lagier, who came every day to inquire about her. Their interviews,
entirely alone, were of short duration; talking was already too much for
her. She charged him to tell his friend of Elizabeth's devotion and of
the change which had taken place in her. Was he not called to that
mission and how could she, in the purity of her heart, suspect the
humiliation he had known, which quite recently, he had believed to be
incompatible with his engagement? Finally with great effort and frequent
pauses, she expressed this singular confidence, which revealed to what
degree she had thought of all the possibilities of reconciliation.
"On Albert's last visit, so few days ago, I knew that he was not happy.
I was expecting that. Happiness cannot endure, except in truth. Then I
thought that I would go to Paris, that I would go to see her."
"To see her?" repeated Philippe, who could not believe his ears.
"Yes, her. I have thought a great deal about it. Albert could not have
broken so many ties for a miserable love. I knew him to be incapable of
wickedness, although he is passionate and proud. Now this plan can no
longer be realized...."
"When you are better."
"I shall never be better. Come closer. I want you to hear what I should
have said to her, to her alone. Of his own accord, Albert will not leave
her. I feel it: he has replaced the duty he has renounced with another,
the chains of which he has tightened for himself. It is well said that
one can never escape from his duty in life. I would have said to that
woman:
"Whatever your love may be, it cannot make him happy. You realized that
before I did. You were to blame for loving him when he was not free. If
your love is what I think, it must be capable of sacrifice, even of
secret sacrifice. Be generous, I will bless you and ..."
Choking stopped her, and she was unable to finish that exhausting
communication, which implied so much cleverness and such faith in
heroism. Philippe came back a little later, but the invalid's condition
had grown worse. She tried once again to explain something to him which
he was not able to catch, as her words had already become very
indistinct. Did she wish him to undertake this strange mission on her
behalf? The next day, which was the day of her death, she appeared
transfigured, as if indifferent to all that was going on about her. She
was resting in peace in advance. Her lips which still moved, showed that
she was praying. She paid no attention to Albert's letter which
Elizabeth was reading. Nevertheless, turning her eyes toward her
daughter, whose grief was overcoming her, she tried to put her hand on
her bent head, but it fell back with an uncertain movement. They were
saying prayers for the dying, as she did not stir again. And her last
breath followed the last verse.
Elizabeth, spent with fatigue and conquered by her nerves, called to her
with a loud cry, as if in losing her she lost her love for a second
time, and would henceforth be without protection. Her parents,
considering her extreme in filial devotion, a virtue which, according to
the gossip of the town, their son-in-law had utterly neglected, insisted
upon taking her away.
"Now," said Mme. Molay-Norrois, alarmed at her condition, and wishing to
quiet her overexcitement, "now stay with us. You have fulfilled every
duty and more than your duty. You must take care of your health, for
your children's sake and your own."
But who would be there when Albert arrived with despair in his heart?
Who would receive him, explain the illness to him, tell him about the
last moments of the invalid, give him her last thoughts and that sort of
consolation so essential to strong souls: that of exhausting all the
details of sorrow? No, no, she had not yet finished her work. In the
spirit, if not in actuality, she was Albert's wife. She would be there
to palliate the first shock faithfully, to give to the son the substance
of the words and injunctions which she had received from his mother. One
might accuse her of lack of dignity: what matter? Mme. Derize would be
pleased with her.
She had calculated that he would arrive with the morning train at eight
o'clock. Before eight she went to the Boulevard des Adieux. Her heart
was beating, however, she trembled, she was afraid, but remained there.
Philippe, who had gone to the station, came back with Albert, to whom he
had broken the sad news. In the carriage along the road he alone had
spoken. At the sound of the bell, Fanchette, dragging her feet, came to
open the door.
"My poor Fanchette," said Albert, as he embraced her. It was his first
word of emotion.
She dried her tears and showed him into the drawing-room.
"Madame is there," she said.
He thought she meant his mother and went in. He found himself face to
face with Elizabeth, who was standing and walked to meet him; he made an
involuntary movement of surprise, as if he did not recognize her. He no
longer found the same Elizabeth, whom he had left eighteen months
before, her beauty then somewhat heavy and sluggish, her face round and
expressionless, but he now saw a new Elizabeth, thinner, more graceful,
looking taller in her mourning gown, pale through lack of sleep, her
eyes surrounded with dark circles, her features sunken--all denoting a
life of suffering, which counteracted the disadvantages of sorrow.
Philippe Lagier who followed him, had not anticipated that she would
have the courage to be there. And with a greater freedom of observation,
although equally sorrowful, he noticed that she was wearing a bodice
which showed her figure to advantage. When the bell rang, she had
trembled so that she had been obliged to lean against a table. Then
everything seemed to simplify itself for her quickly. The obligation
which was imposed upon her could not offend her dignity. She would
fulfill it and would then return to the darkness. One imagines in
advance difficulties which disappear of themselves. Seeing her husband
under such circumstances, she realized a great inner peace, as soon as
he came in. With a voice, which too, had changed and become lower, she
said at once without speaking his name.
"She was waiting for you. As I had the privilege of helping her in your
place, I will tell you about her, of her last days, if you wish."
After shaking hands with her, Philippe expressed his intention of
withdrawing, but she detained him for a moment, almost begging for his
protection.
"You will come back soon, will you not? In an hour?"
"Yes, Madame."
They were left alone, facing each other, he confused, motionless,
finding not a word to say; she, carrying on, with amazing ease, this
interview which she had so dreaded.
"I had wired to Paris," she explained. "We did not know where to reach
you. At last your letter came from Aosta."
With dry lips, his face drawn by the sorrow to which he would not give
way, he murmured:
"I had left her so well only a few days ago! I had no presentiment, I
thought I should keep her for a long time to come."
"Yes, we never think we can lose those we love. You must be tired. You
have not eaten nor slept. Will you have something? Later we can speak of
her."
"I want to see her."
"She is there. Come."
She led him into the death chamber, knelt for a moment at the foot of
the bed, motioning to the nun who was watching the body to follow her.
She had divined Albert's desire. When he was sure of being alone, his
sorrow carried him beyond all bounds, as a river its dam. She who lay
there, emaciated and white, her eyes closed, her hands crossed over a
crucifix--and what withered hands!--she whose forehead and cheeks, like
marble, cold, but not hard, froze his mouth, as he kissed them in vain,
she who would never again hear him, never see him or speak to him, she
had twice given him life. After giving him birth, she nourished,
developed and strengthened him without help or fortune. He owed to her
his intellectual power, the moral force of his judgment, the courage to
undertake those lengthy works, which demand a continued effort, of which
so few are capable. In what intimacy they had spent so many years, the
busiest and the happiest of years! He remembered them now with a sorrow
that only one word could express, which re-echoed in the silence, like a
groan.
"Mother!"
From afar he always felt her protection. She was a witness in his
behalf. Now that witness was no more, and parts of his life lost their
meaning, their value. With her he would bury his childhood and his
youth, a whole period of days, clear as the expression of her eyes in
life; a whole period of bright days that he had never found since and
could never find again. And it was not he who had closed her eyes.
Was it not better that it was not he? Between them there was a fixed
gulf. For a long time she had ceased to reproach him, but the direction
of her thoughts was contrary to his, and their conversations, formerly
so intimate, so deep, which were to him an inspiration, had for the most
part, lost their power to interest and uplift him. Many forgotten
details now came back to his memory, expressions of sadness, of words,
indirectly imploring. Yes, he had burdened her last months with a
sorrow, the weight of which she bore without complaint, but which had
finally crushed her. He could not mourn her without a secret remorse.
Formerly, when he was still quite a young man, giving way to a naturally
quick temper, which he had great difficulty in controlling, he had
spoken rudely to her. What shame he had felt! But she, anxious not to
wound his pride, came to him as soon as he was quiet, so that he might
be spared the first step. Then he learned to despise his faults. And now
they were separated forever without a true reconciliation.
He had reached the limit of his despair and was utterly crushed, when
Elizabeth came in quietly to join him. She made him sit down, and too
weary to resist, he meekly obeyed. Their thoughts so long separated,
were at one in the same sorrow. It was one of those unfathomable griefs,
in which the only comfort is to weep with another, and they could not
mingle their tears. Stricken by the same blow, the embrace which would
have brought them comfort, which so many friends can exchange, was
forbidden to them. Thus Albert had a keener realization of his solitude.
"Nobody," he said to himself to arouse himself from his suffering, "can
know what I have lost. I alone shall carry away the memory and knowledge
of the will power which sustained her little body, so fragile beneath
the sheet, the fire which animated those closed eyes. Anne could not
come with me. She pities me from a distance, but she did not know her.
She only knew of her unfriendliness toward her, and her rigid
uprightness. Our love is disarmed before this dear, dead woman who
belongs solely to me. And she who is here is nothing more to me than a
stranger."
"The Stranger," shielded by the beloved presence of the dead, commenced
to tell him in a low voice of the beginning of the illness and its
successive phases. She told of the invalid's composure, her spirit of
calm, her preparation, her desire to see her son again, the good-by she
had sent him. She omitted everything that had reference to their
separation and to her own devotion. She spoke with so much tact and
filial love, that, as he listened, Albert was getting comfort in grief,
which can come to us only by deepening our suffering. Overcome by his
injustice, he murmured:
"You have taken my place. I know you have been a daughter to her. She
said so in all her letters to me. Now I believe it. I thank you."
At these first words expressed with less indifference, inspired by
gratitude and decorum, Elizabeth felt she could no longer play her part.
Tears and her weakness overcame her, but she gazed mechanically on the
pillow, at the face so peaceful and serene, and took sudden comfort from
it.
"I have caused her a great deal of sorrow," added Albert, making this
confession almost in spite of himself, in response to what he had just
heard.
Elizabeth had the strength to reply.
"She had confidence in you."
What did she mean by that? As he tried to interpret it, realizing that
this tête-à-tête could not last much longer, she added:
"Come with me."
He followed her out of the room. She led him into the dining-room where
Fanchette had laid a place for him.
"You must have some breakfast and warm yourself. It is very cold to-day.
I am going back to the children. My friend Blanche Vernier has taken
them to her house. I dare not bring them here. They are so little!"
"Marie Louise, Philippe," he said slowly, with a tenderness which made
him tremble.
"But you can see them there, or at the home of my parents, or at
Philippe Lagier's, as you like."
"At Philippe's."
"Very well. He is coming back. You can arrange with him."
She alone spoke, her mouth drawn, her face tense with the effort. He
could only answer her. Philippe Lagier, faithful to his promise, came to
relieve their embarrassment. As soon as he arrived, while he was trying,
not without a painful acknowledgment, to understand their reciprocal
emotions, and while Albert, suffering from hunger, could not make up his
mind to eat, Elizabeth dressed herself to go out.
"Our friend," she said, turning towards her husband, "wishes to make all
the arrangements. The funeral is the day after to-morrow. I shall be
here. Au revoir."
The two men watched her as she was leaving, but did not mention her
then. She went back into the death chamber, before she left the flat.
"Mother," she entreated, on her knees.
This cry expressed all the emotion she had felt, but had suppressed, on
seeing her husband again; all the torture of love renewed by his actual
presence. For the second time, the peace of death calmed her heart.
In the afternoon Albert saw his children at Philippe Lagier's. At first,
in kissing them, in comparing them with the past--(on the road at Saint
Martin d'Uriage he had held them for only a moment in his arms) he
experienced a sad joy which in his sorrowful condition pained him
exceedingly, making him almost feverish. They surprised him by telling
him the story of Mélusine and that of Lesdiguières.
"Who has told you these stories?"
"Mamma."
He had expected to find a carelessness, a feminine indulgence in the
education of the two children, and he discovered instead an unexpected
development and liveliness of intelligence and body to which he had
contributed nothing. His desertion had not brought with it any loss to
them. Instead of giving to Elizabeth the credit for it, he was irritated
by it, because it seems cruel to us to discover how unimportant our
influence may be.
The little boy was the first to tire of these effusions and put
questions which referred to unimportant events in his life, which were
insolvable to anyone who had not been directly concerned in them. Marie
Louise herself even discontinued her playfulness and fancies, in order
to explain to her brother that Papa could not know, that after all Papa
was only an amateur father, who was very little in touch with their
doings and movements. This was the meaning of her remarks which she
uttered in her little decided authoritative voice. Mamma,--she never
left them, except to look after Grandmamma.
"It is I who am the stranger here," thought Albert, suffering from such
frankness.
The conquest of children, even of his own, could not be undertaken in an
hour. He left Marie Louise and Philippe, his heart sick with
disappointment, his nerves wrung. As soon as he no longer saw their dear
little heads, he was filled with an immediate wish to bring them back,
to keep them with him, without saying anything to her who had separated
them. And when he came back to his mother's house he took with him an
added regret, a deep melancholy which Anne's love could no more satisfy
than it could his grief for his mother. He remained in the death chamber
until evening, filled with despair in relinquishing one by one the ties
which had exalted his life. The next day, spent in the same way, was
even more cruel to him. He had a letter and a telegram from Anne who was
awaiting him at Lyons. He read them absently and in a spirit of
injustice! What could she know of his thoughts?
When on the morning of the funeral he again saw Elizabeth, who came to
do the honors of the house, he wished he had been mistaken the evening
before in finding that her expression was changed, that she was more
awakened and bearing alone a sorrow as great as his own. She asked him
complacently how he was, but pitied him with her looks, with her entire
uneasy attitude, friendly and dismayed at one and the same time. The
Molay-Norrois arrived in their turn, and manifested an attitude of
discreet sympathy toward their son-in-law. Then came other relations and
friends. He was accepted once more by the family connections, relatives
and the social circle with which he had believed all ties were broken.
And in his great pride he endured it with bitterness.
The report was circulated in Grenoble that the death of Mme. Derize had
reconciled the separated couple. Each one in the large crowd determined
to watch for indications of it: to our utmost pity we add so much
curiosity and such sudden indifference. The funeral procession was the
object of attentive inspection to everyone, from Mme. Passerat, who,
having loaned her motor to the invalid, prided herself upon a personal
interest, to the little clerk Malaunay, who was concerned in it because
of his bet. Elizabeth wished to take her place with the relations who
were the chief mourners, behind her husband and her father who followed
the hearse. By her presence, she showed besides her affection for the
dead woman, her unwavering faithfulness to the name she bore.
The cemetery is only a short distance from the Cathedral, which is the
parish church of the Boulevard des Adieux. They had only to go through a
gate in the old ramparts and along the avenue L'Ile Verte, all covered
with dead leaves, which were crushed beneath the horses' hoofs and the
feet of the mourners. The moment when the coffin is lowered into the
ground, is one of the most anguish-filled that a loving heart has to
bear. Albert instinctively lifted his hand to his eyes. A vision
interposed between himself and his sorrow--that of Elizabeth
overwhelmed. Did he remember that sentence in his diary: "She does not
know my mother--she will never know her. If I were to have the
misfortune of losing her, I should mourn for her alone."
On the return, although crushed, she received the procession of guests
who came to pay their condolence calls, then went upstairs to give some
orders to the old servant. Albert came back, accompanied by Philippe
Lagier. Having completed her self-imposed duty, she greeted Philippe
with an "Au revoir" and turning to her husband, said:
"Now good-by, keep up your courage."
Not understanding that that was final, but ill at ease, he asked:
"Are you going away?"
"Yes."
"Where are you going?"
"I am going home. Should I send the children to you?"
He hesitated--then in a dull voice, answered:
"No."
She bowed. The door closed behind her. They would never see each other
again.
As soon as she had gone, Albert made a few steps forward to call her
back. What would he have said to her? Agitated, he walked up and down
the room without speaking. In a few hours what emotions, what sorrow had
he not experienced! His friend, motionless and silent, read with ease
the succession of his thoughts, but by natural inclination had greater
pity for the woman.
Fanchette came in to announce luncheon. Albert looked at her, seemed to
be reflecting, and his decision made, declared in his clear voice:
"I am going to take you back to Paris."
This statement caused a shock at which she gave way as an old piece of
furniture when its wood cracks. She crossed herself at once at the idea
of going to that doomed city to wait upon a wicked woman, no doubt, and
shaking her head from right to left, she stammered:
"No, no, M. Albert."
"Why will you not accept? Where will you go?
"To Madame Elizabeth."
He frowned.
"You will leave me?"
"Oh, no, Monsieur Albert. Only there are the little ones, and then,
Madame Elizabeth has been so kind. You don't know how she took care of
madame. Day and night she was always here."
He cut these praises short.
"I know," he said.
Luncheon was hurried and silent. In the drawing-room to which the two
men returned together, Albert more and more absorbed and bitter, at last
giving full vent to the torrent of his impressions, admitted as if to
himself.
"Yes, she has changed a great deal."
He added:
"Does she still refuse the allowance that I have sent to my solicitor
every month?"
"Yes."
"I ought to have demanded a promise of acceptance from her. She is
depriving me of helping to support my own children and without right. It
is unfair."
Philippe, whose passion had purified itself in following the brave
efforts of Elizabeth, and who was still under the spell of Madame
Derize's last wishes, generously desired to bring about a reconciliation
and continued the praises which Fanchette had begun. He told of the
lives of the two women at Grenoble and Saint Martin, their intimacy, the
sacred devotion of the younger, who had changed the last year of the
dead woman's life. In vain he was interrupted sharply with "I know, I
know."
"No, you cannot know," he concluded, out of patience.
Albert, who had begun his walk again, stopped suddenly. His face wore
that expression which it took on in anger, as his former violence
overcame him again in the face of unbearable contradiction. However, he
tried to master himself, and the insinuation which followed conveyed
only wounding insolence:
"Then it was true what they wrote from Grenoble."
"What then?"
"That you were in love with my wife."
Philippe faced Albert's look, which was hard and imperious.
"Yes," he said calmly. "I have a worshipful admiration for Elizabeth.
You may call it what you like."
"Take care, I shall know how to defend her."
"Against what and by what right?"
And influenced by his own unselfishness which inclined him to greatness
of soul, desiring to expiate his former deception, he rose and held out
his hand to his friend who did not refuse it:
"Come, Albert, how can we talk in this way--here."
Albert returned his handshake with that gratitude we feel toward those
who have saved us from our own pettiness:
"I am unjust. They were infamous anonymous letters that I scarcely read.
And then, her death has recalled so many memories that I believed to be
remote, utterly silenced. A little flame has burst from the embers of my
fireside."
"Can you not rebuild it?"
"No. But I could not see my mother on that bed, my wife, my children,
without yearning for the right life which might have been mine. Do you
understand? Elizabeth closed my mother's eyes; it is she who is bringing
up Marie Louise and little Philippe alone. Yesterday she spoke to me
with so much emotion and consideration. I was not alone in my grief. She
has changed very much. She is more beautiful. And by a strange reaction,
now that we are only strangers, the one to the other, it seems as though
she had acquired all the characteristics which I formerly wished her to
have."
"Strangers? It is not final. There is nothing final."
"Yes, death. Yesterday, I assure you, I envied my mother. Her face was
so peaceful, so calm, so pure. One no longer suffers. And, above all,
one does not make anyone else suffer. Yes, it is a solution. I have
thought of it."
"Albert!"
"The day before yesterday, this morning again. It is a thought which
will return to me. Elizabeth would be free. She deserves to be free, to
be happy. I can do nothing now to make her so, and do not even wish that
she should be: I am so selfish, so illogical."
"You are jealous of her--you still love her."
"I have loved her. The past overwhelms me here. I inhale it with every
breath."
The conversation lagged. Philippe sought a word to turn it.
"When are you going away?" he asked, to change the subject.
"This evening."
"So soon. To Paris?"
"No. Anne is waiting for me at Lyons."
"Ah. When will you be back?"
"I don't know. Perhaps never. Like most men I have not ordered my life.
I can change nothing, and when I cross this threshold, I feel like a
miserable brute. It is odious."
He was exalted by these last words.
"And your children," said Philippe.
"Their mother is not so indifferent to me that I dare to take them from
her. They have become her aim in life. How could I tear them away from
her?"
And tortured by this question which repeated itself over and over again
in his mind, he spoke of it again.
"I am an outsider to my own family. How can I crush my wife by demanding
this from her? And then her shortcomings are no longer anything compared
with mine."
For the first time he condemned himself.
"Will you answer me?" asked Philippe brusquely. "Are you happy?"
Albert looked at him with an expression of bitter irony.
"I have lost my mother without seeing her again. I have lost my
children, my home, my peace--A little while ago I spoke of dying. And
you ask me if I am happy."
"I did not mean to offend you, Albert. There is such power in love that
it longs to subordinate our greatest misfortunes--or it can give us
strength to bear them. You have never known that love--or you no longer
feel it."
"You are wrong: I still feel it. But love has never fulfilled a man's
entire life."
"One last word. If you gave up ... that love...."
"It is useless to go on. I shall give it up only with my life. Just now,
when I was speaking of dying, it was with her. She would follow me, no
matter where, even to death."
"I understand. You are all in all to her, but the contrary is not true.
How you will both suffer, both of you!"
Albert took his friend's arm.
"Listen, I am not a coward," he said. "The choice of my life is not
entirely in my own hands. Circumstances have brought it about that I am
everything to Anne. I shall not give her up--no matter what happens."
"You prefer to sacrifice your children?"
"They have their mother."
"And their mother?"
No answer following the question, Philippe added:
"Shall you see her again before your departure?"
"No, what should I say to her? That she should break our legal ties,
that she should try to remake her own happiness--she is so young, so
lovely, so fascinating--and that I can never be anything to her again?"
"And that you are not happy?"
"What matter."
And those words fell like a stone into a dry well.
All afternoon Elizabeth waited at home for the uncertain event which
would bring her husband to her. She could not believe that he would go
away without seeing her again. Had she not helped his mother, shared his
sorrow with him even that morning? How could he be so cruel as to go
away in this manner?
Night came, and she still held the hope, which was sustaining her, as
she sat, ardent and motionless, in the same armchair, her ear strained
to catch the slightest sound, her eyes vainly fixed on the door. She
knew that he must take the 10:40 express. She knew where Anne de Sézery
was. Finally she went into her children's room, saw that they were
asleep, left them in their nurse's charge, and hastily putting on her
hat and cloak, she hurried toward the station.
"If I went to look for him?" Mme. Derize had said one day.
Without pride, humiliated, conquered, here she was hastening to offer to
the ungrateful faithless one, the heart which he had broken. She did not
find him in the entrance hall. Not daring to cross the station to reach
the platform, trembling with the emotion of her sudden impulse, she went
out into the darkness and watched for the arrival of the carriages. At
last she saw Albert and Philippe get out and she drew back, so as not to
be seen. By the light of the lantern she distinguished Albert's set
expression, as he paid the coachman. Ashamed of her weakness as soon as
they had passed, she fled.
An individual, very smartly dressed--(one of those rich glove merchants
of Grenoble who make their large fortunes in Paris or Lyons and who, as
a result, have acquired at a high price the right of treating women with
familiarity)--after noticing her uneasy manner and her figure, followed
her and dared to speak to her in the Rue Lesdiguières,--which is not
well illuminated. He did not belong to the society she moved in and did
not know her.
"Well, Madame, one must be guided by reason. The king is dead--long live
the king!"
He laughed, he stared insolently at her, a little disturbed by the type
of beauty he saw, which impressed him in spite of himself. Speechless,
she was obliged to stop, and her mouth twisted itself without making a
sound. At last she recovered herself and cried:
"Go away!"
Her frightened face, her terrified eyes more than her words, put the
blackguard to flight. She dragged herself to her staircase, her limbs
giving way under her. This last insult completed her humiliation. She
fell into the deepest despair. She, in turn, envied the dead.
"It is over," she said to herself, "all over forever."
Reaching her room like an animal forced to its lair, crushed by so many
nights of watching and fatigue, by the uselessness of so many efforts,
rebelling against God's forgetfulness, she slid to the floor at the foot
of her bed, and there, collapsing, huddled up, through her sobs, she
mechanically repeated the words which alone kept her from wishing for
death, which, in spite of herself, linked her with life.
"Marie Louise, Philippe--my little ones ..."