PART IV

I

THE PALMS

At the end of March, in the mountainous districts, winter still holds

sway. However, on Palm Sunday under a faint sun which gave to the pale

sky the shade of a pearl in the light, Grenoble seemed to come to life

again on its snowy horizon. Before the gate of the Cathedral, flower

vendors, who had come from afar, even from beyond the Alps, as the

harbingers of spring, showed and offered to the faithful who came to

Mass, their bunches of green branches,--a little dead forest, scattered

among the passersby, to be brought together again in the interior of the

church, standing up bravely in the hands of all the worshipers. In

anticipation they cried:

"Two sous for the blessed box-wood!"

Was it not a blessing in itself only to see that fresh verdure before

the trees had even shown their buds?

Elizabeth, who was taking Marie Louise and Philippe to church (the

latter having promised to be good during the service)--stopped before

one of the improvised stands to select three palms. Absentmindedly, she

gave more sous than the ragged little brunette had asked for.

"Here, Madame,--you have given me too much."

"Keep the change. Where do you come from?"

"From Bardonèche in Italy."

"What is your name?"

"Luisa."

"And where are your parents?"

"They are very far from here."

Marie Louise, who was clasping in her left hand a piece of money for the

collection, held it out to the stranger, who took it without noticing

her, as she stared open-mouthed at the young woman.

"And me? You didn't say thank you to me," said the child, vexed that her

generosity should go unnoticed.

Luisa burst out laughing. Despite her innocent eyes she was very

knowing, and in her enthusiasm, speaking again in her native tongue, she

pointed to the object of her admiration:

"_E bella come la Madona_!" (She is as lovely as the Madonna!)

Elizabeth's cheeks grew crimson. The compliment struck her like those

flowers which are thrown into one's face at flower fêtes, and which

flatter and hurt one at the same time. She told her children to hurry.

"We shall be late--let us go in."

Philippe Lagier, who was standing on the square and had witnessed this

scene, came up to her, but made no allusion to what he had just

overheard, so as not to offend her. They were nearing the church steps.

She placed her foot on the first step.

"Are you not coming in?"

"Yes. Does that surprise you? I love the Catholic services. They are

incomparably poetical. To-day I shall go in to find the spring."

"Are you not seeking something else there?"

She smiled with that melancholy half-smile which harmonized so

completely with her appealing expression. But she herself, had she

confidence in God? She continued to mount the steps when he stopped her,

not without visible emotion, but with great respect.

"Listen, Madame, I find you so changed...."

She wished to joke.

"Changed? It seems that it must be for the better. I have just heard

so."

"Yes. Italians have the privilege of crying out what we must content

ourselves with thinking. It is not a question of that. The winter has

affected your health somewhat: it is evident--you must consult...."

"No, no, I am very well, I assure you."

She disappeared into the lobby. Abashed for a moment, he decided to

follow her and sit a few rows behind her during Mass, so that she would

not know of his presence. While her children's clothes were very

carefully looked after, she was wearing a modest black dress, which must

have seen hard service and was beginning to look shiny. As she had drawn

her mourning veil over her shoulder in front, he could see her blonde

hair, of such childish fairness, so delicate, so silky, and a corner of

her white neck. When she rose or knelt, in accordance with the rites of

the service, he noticed the flexibility of her movements and that suave

grace, as of a young girl with whom one could not dare to associate

impure ideas. At intervals her profile was invisible, then again he

would catch a glimpse of it, like a bright spot between her dark hat and

dress. How little she resembled the blooming, but apathetic,

unresponsive wife of Albert Derizel Sorrow, loneliness, the care of

disposing of her time, had sharpened her features, and even the lines of

her figure. Her slender body swayed like the long stalk of a flower. In

her slimness, which began to grow alarming, she retained that look of

youth, which she formerly had as a result of lack of all occupation, and

which now suggested a sort of recoil from the disillusioning revelations

of life.

"She will break down," thought Philippe. "She will die of it. What can

be done to save her?"

He was no longer actuated by selfish motives. In his heart, devoid of

faith, but eager, she was his religious ideal, the Madonna with whom the

little Italian had compared her.

The winter following Mme. Derize's death--(one of those long winters to

which the region of the Alps is exposed)--had not been kind to

Elizabeth. She had lost her firmest support, the contagious courage

which emanates from calmness in time of trial, and also the last

effective tie which linked her with her husband. Thus she had followed a

more difficult path. As that plain at Grenoble, surrounded by mountains,

appears colder in its circle of ice, so she felt desolation and

loneliness about her like high walls. Mme. Molay-Norrois, it is true,

realizing this dangerous state of mind, had given more expression to her

maternal tenderness, but in the way natural to her passive nature, and

rather by lamentations than by actions. Was she not--excellent

woman--monopolized by her husband, who was embittered by illness and was

accepting old age without resignation? He had always exercised the

despotism of his pleasure at home. But his bad temper was preferable to

his infidelity. He might not have rebelled against the effects of old

age, if he could have endured them with Mme. Passerat, instead of being

aggravated by knowing she was taking advantage of her slimness to wear

more youthful clothes, and that by a bold maneuver she had just taken

away the attentions of M. de Vimelle from the rich Mme. Bonnard-Basson.

Providence was watching over her in all her ventures. This last conquest

aroused a sort of exasperation in M. Molay-Norrois which helped the

circulation of bad blood and increased his bad temper. What comfort

could anyone find in such a home?

Elizabeth had not given up her self-imposed duty of giving her children

the elements of their education. Marie Louise was almost nine years old

and Philippe was six. She must think of their futures. She desired a

busy, well-filled youth for them, remembering the weakening relaxation

she had known in hers, and hoped to be able to accustom them to find

their happiness in everyday things. But her moods, even with them, were

now more changeable. She varied from prostration to feverish desire to

amuse and occupy herself. Must one not live every day? She cried, she

laughed nervously over nothing. Consumed with fever, she spent too much

energy, and then fell back into a state of languor. She tried to follow,

as far as possible, the plans she had laid out for herself, but advanced

unevenly, sometimes slowly, sometimes hurriedly.

Out of society, because of her mourning and her sorrow, she did not care

to receive anyone, except her friend Blanche Vernier, whose discreet

devotion was restful, but without influence, and whose four children

were in themselves quite a company for play and study. She had even been

obliged to reject the attentions of M. de Vimelle who had suddenly begun

to take her under his protection. Wearied by the vulgarity of his

mistress and the thankless rôle that she made him fill he had thought

of taking an honorable revenge by paying attention to a woman whom

nobody defended. His natural vanity gave him erroneous ideas of his own

value. Defeated by Elizabeth he fell back on the mature, lively and more

accommodating Mme. Passerat, the conquest of whom would be attended with

more publicity. He avenged himself for his setback by reporting to

society the infrequent visits of Philippe Lagier to the Rue Haxo. Mme.

Molay-Norrois, told by her husband, warned her daughter of this.

Elizabeth was indignant. Upon introspection, however, she found she

might reproach herself. It was true, these visits of Philippe were more

pleasant to her than she had admitted to herself. He came in shyly,

afraid of not being received, and began by talking commonplaces. Shyness

in a man of his worth and self-possession is in itself a homage. Then he

changed his tone, and spoke with all his wit which was quick and

pointed, and which, under the influence of a new tenderness, opened out

and became more scintillating. What he said--apart from the lasting

pleasure which his words gave, and which helped to make her forget the

limitations of her life,--revealed a silent adoration that could never

again be directly expressed. In that sort of mystic exaltation which

comes with a love that is repressed, he cleverly managed to encourage in

her a hope, which all reason and his soul denied.

As a self-imposed task, he wrote very regularly to his friend. At first

Albert had sent only hasty replies; but little by little he acquired the

habit of confidence. His bitter critical letters did not breathe

happiness, and now he began to ask for news of his children. Thus the

tie broken by the death of Mme. Derize was cleverly mended by Philippe

Lagier's sincere friendship. Elizabeth, in the selfishness of her love,

was not conscious that she had made such use of this friendship. Yet

after rebelling against her mother's warning, she was guided by it.

Besides actual honesty, there is an honesty of appearances of which

women of to-day think very little. Above all, she had not the right to

take advantage of a sentiment, which, however respectful, had its origin

in a generous devotion, and in which she took a certain pride, owing to

her deserted state--so harmful to a woman in her prime.

Philippe, delicately warned by her, came to the Rue Haxo only at rare

intervals. It was a cruel deprivation for him. There he had really spent

intense hours, realizing the greatest of all joys,--the joy of

sacrifice. So, not having seen Elizabeth for almost a month, it was

excusable that he should stop in the Cathedral Square at the hour of

High Mass, in the hope of meeting her there; and he was better able than

anyone who saw her daily to notice how thin she was, and all the

symptoms of illness that she showed.

During the service he was wondering how he could help her. A change of

air, a trip to Provence, to one of those little places, where one need

only open his eyes to take in the joy of light and free space! Yes, but

she was obstinately refusing Albert's assistance, and her own small

resources limited her to a modest life without luxury. Perhaps that

would decide the Molay-Norrois to take her back with them. How could

they help noticing how she was fading? But how could Albert have gone

away after being struck with her new fascination, her frailness? So he

looked at her with pity. His prayers dwelt upon her. She was the

tabernacle, which, like an offering, held the pure wish for

self-sacrifice for which he was indebted to her.

Elizabeth tried--not less vainly, to follow the service. A memory and a

fear returned to her successively with her prayers. The memory carried

her back ten years to the time of her engagement on a Palm Sunday. It

was on a sunny April day. But she felt no pleasure in being less than

twenty and in love. Albert had gone to this same church with her and her

parents. The vendors were offering their green branches too.

Thoughtlessly she dwelt on the verge of an emotion, to which another,

better informed or more far-sighted, would have given herself joyfully.

Now she understood--after ten years--what an opportunity for uplifting

their hearts she had lost in accepting with indifference that happy

coincidence of the reawakening of nature, symbolized by the religious

festival and the birth of their love.

"Look," he had said, "at all those branches of box-wood on the ground,

for you--it seems as if you were walking in spring."

"Yes, it is Palm Sunday," she had answered.

This very simple response dispelled surprise. Was not love something

which was due to little girls, and which admits of no pain? Her fiancé

had then admired that tranquillity which contained the germ of their

separation. How should she have expected to be deceived before

understanding the care we must take of our happiness? Why had no one

aroused her,--then, while there was still time--from that apathy which

makes us sink into the beaten path, and does not allow us to reach the

height from which we see the light and a broad vision? She would at

least know how to save her children from her short-comings. They would

not need despair to open their eyes to the sorrows of life. She would

preserve their strength of feeling, their responsiveness, and they

should be like young armed warriors, not heedless and enervated.

Would she have that power? That very morning, as she was dressing

herself, she noticed how pale and thin she was, and before she could

arrange her hair, she had been obliged to begin again several times, her

arms heavy and stricken with an inexplicable weakness. Philippe Lagier

had certainly noticed it. The remark of such a keen observer, coming

back to her mind, startled her. Perhaps she was in danger. But what did

a more or less long life matter to her? The last picture she had of

Albert was that of a traveler, who sets out without looking back,

without even suspecting the humiliated love, sobbing in the darkness a

few feet away. Then why should one want so much to live? Marie Louise

and Philippe, her own flesh, her blessing, and her new hope--Albert

would have them. It was his right. After her death, he would marry that

woman. And that woman would become the mother of her children. Ah, no,

no, she could not conceive of that without a shudder of horror. She must

live; at any price, she must live.

"Mamma, what is the matter with you?" asked Marie Louise, bending over

her.

While the faithful worshiper had risen to receive the priest's blessing,

Elizabeth remained kneeling, her head hidden, her shoulders shaking. The

child repeated her question, and slipped her hand softly under her

mother's arm to pat her cheek.

"Why are you crying? Philippe is good--and I love you so much."

For the child's sake, Elizabeth calmed herself at once. She drew down

her veil to hide her wet eyes, and standing erect, she smiled.

"There is nothing the matter with me."

With this effort, she returned to her prayer. It was a desperate,

exigent supplication which she addressed to God like an accusation:

"You would not allow that--you would not allow that!"

Comforted little by little, she promised herself to consult a doctor, to

take care of herself, to fight against her illness. Philippe, who had

noticed her emotion, dared not approach her, as she went out. His look,

as he bowed to her, was filled with so much respect and compassion, that

it made her uneasy. At the foot of the steps, little Luisa waved her

sheaf of branches, crying.

"The blessed box, two sous."

When she recognized the young woman, she stopped short and forgot her

sales.

"_Primavera_!" (Spring!), she said.

Elizabeth, touched and comforted by this spontaneous admiration, gave

her a little piece of silver. But she shook her head--For her, there was

no more spring.

II

PHILIPPE LAGIER'S MYSTERIOUS JOURNEY

Two or three days after Palm Sunday, Philippe Lagier, during a visit to

M. Molay-Norrois, learned that the doctor had prescribed absolute rest

for Elizabeth, and considering her to be, if not in actual danger--at

any rate, in a serious state of decline which he must check at all

costs, had her under his close observation. He hesitated as to what he

should do then decided to let Albert know. Instead of receiving the

answer he expected, he saw his friend come to his house. That was an

indication of very keen anxiety. He had not been wrong in keeping up the

young wife's hope: what unselfishness friendship demanded!

Albert, through his intermediary, begged, in the interests of his

children, that she would grant him an interview, which she refused. Her

illness, depressing her, made her less accessible to any attempt of

reconciliation. "Is he free?" she had asked. And, as she could not be

answered in the affirmative, of what benefit would be this meeting,

which would only be painful, and could not, in any way, modify their

respective positions? Did not their discretion consist in remaining

apart? Thus set aside, he begged her to accept his help. A change of air

would do her good, would be good for Marie Louise and her brother. When

Philippe brought him another refusal, he flew into a passion, which

terrified his friend, who tried in vain to keep him within bounds. Did

he not speak of taking up the suit again, of claiming his paternal

rights, of again suing for divorce?

On the following day, he acted on his own behalf. It was cruel and yet

good for him. He went to the Saint-Roch cemetery where his parents, whom

death had not separated, were lying side by side;--to the city park,

where he wandered a long time watching the children at play, not knowing

that his own were invited to Blanche Vernier's house; and to the Rue

Haxo to look at the closed windows. Rejected everywhere, out of favor

with fate, he wandered about Grenoble like a stranger, who has seen all

the sights and does not know what to do. Before leaving, he excused

himself to Philippe.

"I was wrong yesterday, you must understand me--I am sowing only

suffering and evil about me--And it is unavoidable: I can do nothing for

it. It is better for me never to return. You will come to see me in

Paris?"

"I shall," said Philippe, "but what have you decided?"

"Nothing!"

"You will remain like this--without an official separation?"

"Yes. I promised my mother that I would never seek a divorce against

Elizabeth's wish, and Anne despises our laws."

The last volume of the "History of the Peasant" had appeared the

previous month, and drawing attention to the whole work, it was the

subject of numerous reviews and even heated discussions in the press. In

Parliament it had inspired the plan of a bill relating to unseizable

family property. The death of an old statesman, forgotten because of his

almost interminable old age, had caused a vacancy in the Academy. The

newspapers, influenced by such brilliant success, had sympathetically

mentioned the candidacy of Albert Derize, without consulting him. To

Philippe's questions, he had only replied:

"In my position, it is impossible. And what do honors matter to me?"

He left with his friend a copy of his book for Marie Louise, with an

appropriate inscription. Through the child, he saw Elizabeth. The

invalid plunged into the reading of it. She discovered therein a sharper

and more bitter tone, an authority which asserted itself without

discretion, almost with insolence. The conclusions concerning the

importance of patrimony, the family, the freedom to make one's will, the

account of rural domain, and of tradition, all accorded with the

strength of the first volumes, perhaps with less force of persuasion,

but a more studied power, and in places, a mood of irritation which

revealed an eloquence, both high-spirited and disillusioned.

Elizabeth's health triumphed over that crisis which was the result of an

excess of moral fatigue--but she remained subject to nervous trouble,

anæmic and susceptible to all injurious influences. Her doctor, who

knew her from childhood, analyzed her case as a psychologist, and was

not satisfied with her condition.

"This state of uncertainty brings about an irregularity of all the vital

functions. A decided position, final separation, divorce would be

preferable. After the shock, she could again take up a normal life. She

is so young."

But she would hear nothing of this. She would wear herself out without

improvement, as long as her strength lasted. Philippe, allowed to visit

her, saw the "History of the Peasant" on a little table next to the sofa.

"You have read it?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Well?"

"It is very fine."

She added, as if speaking of someone else:

"Men can change their feelings without changing their thoughts. Women,

no!"

It was she, who was now generalizing. He appeared to be meditating, as

if weighing a difficult case, and at the end of his reflections,

remarked simply:

"I believe he still loves you."

"Please--"

"I am sure of it. And I know how to give him back to you."

Half reclining on the cushions, she sat up, her cheeks flaming, her eyes

shining with fever.

"I beg of you to give up that idea. He has wrecked his home. It was his

affair to rebuild it. And now--"

"Now."

She allowed herself to fall back.

"It is too late," she said.

Philippe, ever eager to serve her, was painfully affected by this

evidence of her state of disenchantment, and changed the conversation,

which was painful to her.

"What are your plans? Shall you go to Provence into the sunshine?"

"No, spring is there. As soon as the warm weather comes, we shall go to

Saint Martin d'Uriage."

"That is the mountains, and you may find it cold there again. You take

very poor care of yourself."

She tried to make a slight motion of indifference, but her arm was too

weak. As if the future no longer interested her, she explained, with

that smile of conscious invalids, which permits them to mitigate the

strictness of their doctors' orders:

"I shall soon be better, you will see. My health is good. In any case I

have made my will."

"It is absurd! Why these gloomy thoughts?"

"I confide my children to the care of my mother. You understand I do not

wish that woman--You will help mamma to put all obstacles aside, will

you not?"

"Oh, Madame--"

"Will you promise me? Albert is your friend. He will listen to you."

Philippe rose, adding the melancholy of his hopeless love to his pity,

and no longer able to master his emotion:

"No, no, Madame. That will not be."

The next day, using the end of his legal Easter holiday, he took the

train to Paris, without letting anyone know of his journey. This

absence, which would scarcely be remarked, lasted for several days. At

Grenoble nobody suspected it. The lawyer had never been very

confidential, and his goings and comings helped to preserve the mystery.

As soon as he came back he went to the Rue Haxo. Elizabeth, with languor

and an unsteady step, was slowly taking up her routine again. At the end

of his visit, which was very short, he put this question to her:

"If they separated, what would you do?"

She evaded giving an answer.

"I do not know," she said.

"If he were free--if he came back to you."

She fixed him with her eyes, enlarged by illness, and lit up with a

somber flame:

"I no longer believe that possible."

Scarcely had she said these words, than she felt as if she had refused

an offer from Albert. In despair, she recalled the promise that she had

sworn at Mme. Derize's death bed. She had said she would forgive,

forgive without restriction. And now that she was recovering she had

said "Too late," which is the excuse of the weak. When Philippe had

gone, she reproached herself, but she was so weak. Had she not suffered

too much, waited too long? Had she not been sufficiently humiliated by

life? When a person had begun to enter on the path of abnegation and

sacrifice, did he never stop, must he build an everlasting Calvary? To

escape, to come back, to attempt to find personal happiness elsewhere,

that she could not do; but, like an overladen beast, who resists an

ascent, she felt neither the strength, nor the courage to go on. She did

not know that one walks much longer when overtired, than before becoming

fatigued. It is always at the end that an ascent demands the greatest

effort.

After a brief glimpse of spring, the wind and rain had taken possession

of Grenoble. One could hardly distinguish the neighboring mountains

under the leaden sky. Thus the trip to Saint Martin was delayed,

although Elizabeth was anxious to go away, and was eager for the open

air. Encouraged by the change in the weather, she began her preparations

on the 1st of May. A letter, which she received on the 8th, addressed to

Mme. Albert Derize, née Molay-Norrois, Boulevard des Adieux, from

whence it came back to her, altered her plans. It was a letter with the

English postmark, with the address in a handwriting not entirely unknown

to her, and which at once disquieted her. She held it in her hand

defiantly before opening it, and did not decide to break the seal

without a presentiment of evil. She was not mistaken: the foreign paper,

those straight flowing letters, which she had seen before, had already

broken up her life. She turned the pages which were numerous, and read

the signature: "Anne de Sézery." Then she let the letter drop. How

could she have had the audacity to write to her? By what right did she

inflict such an insult upon her? Crushed, she sat down, but

involuntarily looked on the ground. At last she bent over and picked up

the paper which lay there. A few months ago she would have decided not

to read it. But she had nothing more to hope, nor to fear. In certain

excesses of sorrow, we lose the narrow sense of our dignity which we

reserve for our intimate life alone. She began reading this strange

letter with suspicion and aversion, ready at the least stinging word to

discontinue and not to finish it. She read to the end without stopping.

"LONDON, 6th May, 1907.

"Madame:

"When you receive this letter I shall have left for a far distant

country, where no one can follow me and from which I shall never return.

That is my excuse for addressing you, and it is--believe me--your

obligation to read this letter in its entirety.

"As a result of living in England, I have acquired the habit of candor.

I therefore did not want an intermediary between us, for fear of

wounding you. The circumstances in which we find ourselves are beyond

the pettiness of delicacy, and demand courage, above all things. I must

have more than you. If I speak to you of certain things of the past, it

is that they may be useful to you in the future. If you have to make a

decision, you must be informed.

"I can do nothing more for his happiness, and you, you can do much. That

is the whole truth, and the truth must inspire us. I loved him before

you did, and more than any other woman has ever loved him. That is the

pride I shall take with me to the end of the world. He was my sole

thought. When I met him after ten years' absence, I hoped at first to

make a loyal friendship of this unusual love. But you did not welcome me

kindly, and he himself did not help me. It is so difficult, especially

in France, to fathom and to govern these affairs of the heart. After

your departure from Paris, I awaited your return. You did not come back,

and I believed you and he were finally separated. He was unhappy, and on

my account. What could I do, since I loved him? In England we weigh our

resolutions for a long time, and then our decision is final. With you,

uncertainty may last for a lifetime.

"I was resigned to being socially ostracized. His social convictions,

your children, my family traditions, the lack of a religious belief

which I had lost, all united to keep us from a legal union. In my own

conscience, I was his wife, the true companion of his heart and mind:

little else mattered to me, but to live in harmony with him. Last autumn

I knew that even his happiness was threatened. It was some days before

his mother's death: he had met his children on a path in the country of

his own childhood. The children: I did not understand the power of that

tie which cannot break. How could I realize it? I never knew my mother,

and my father was not concerned about my affection.

"The death of Mme. Derize contributed still more to separate our

thoughts. He bore his sorrow alone, and I could not speak to him of her

without irritating him. It is very wretched for a woman to remain a

stranger to a large part of the life of her.... I was going to say, her

husband. He certainly endeavored to lessen the pain he was causing me.

His sorrow was like a wall between us, and there must be no walls when

two people love each other. Then I fell ill this winter. Deprivations,

the struggles of my first years in London, had left no visible traces on

me, only a little inward wear and tear and a weakened power of

resistance. I believed that love would give me back my youth. In my

first illness, in the first breach of our intimacy, I noticed signs of

those hard years in my face. And, as if I longed madly to destroy

myself, I showed them to him one by one. I am no longer a young woman

like you, and the days count for me. You will understand from this

confession whether I have promised myself to be sincere.

"Our life was apparently unchanged. During his silences I followed the

trend of his thoughts. The dead and the living, the past and the future

were calling him to Dauphiné. We were only in accord when we traveled.

One should always travel when one lives outside of ordinary life, but

one cannot always travel. From certain fragments of sentences, from his

absentmindedness, from his last visit to Grenoble, I felt that he had

found a new woman in you. By an unexpected reaction, it was you who now

became my rival. I had not believed that you would be so faithful,

brave, resolute in hope, and so capable of making the most of

unhappiness. The physical memory I retained of you, had very often been

sufficient to inspire me with fear. Since you compelled me to admire you

from afar, I detested you until the day I felt--so unhappily--that you

could still do what I could no longer do, and that I should have to tell

you so.

"His last book opened my eyes. I sought its pages in vain for that

delightful weakness of pity, that bending of the will which I had found

in all the writers whom Fate or their own desires had led to

unconventional living. It treated only of family, of the home, of

hierarchy, of endurance, of tradition, and of the dead. He expresses his

deepest thoughts in his books. He put ours only into a 'Schumann,' which

is heartrending. Finally, the newspapers spoke of his candidacy for the

Academy. I was afraid of hearing it confirmed, when one day two friends,

whom he esteemed highly, paid him a visit. He said nothing to me about

the interview, the purpose of which was all too clear. I asked him about

it, and he put me aside at the first word. No doubt your separation, the

contrast between his convictions and his books, rendered any step

difficult. From his hostile air, I knew he was ambitious, but weary.

"So everything was in league against me. He believed he had duties, as

if there were any in love. One day he suggested that we should die

together, when the slightest happiness is sufficient to restrain us.

From that time, I began to think of disappearing. What should I do, if I

did not go? I owe my practical judgment to English life. As he cannot

forget you, neither you nor his children, since my love is no longer

sufficient for him, my departure will give him back to his natural

destiny, and I have accustomed myself to go on journeys alone. At

another time he would have noticed my preparations, which I delayed,

always awaiting a more favorable opportunity. Yesterday--on a rainy

morning--he was away for the entire day. I took the train from London,

and this evening I embark at Liverpool. He will never know where I am

going. I have taken every precaution that it should remain a mystery.

"It seems to me that these explanations should fix our respective

positions exactly, and that a warning should make it clearer for you

what course to pursue. The harm I have done you, I did not wish to do,

and you are repaying me without wishing it any more than I. Forget that.

Forget me. One does not think of death when one holds life in armfuls,

and when one hopes for love. May yours, Madame, inspire you, as mine has

inspired me.

"ANNE DE SÉZERY."

Despite her despair and her spirit of sacrifice, this letter still

implied that apologetic judgment of which we can so seldom divest our

actions, even our noblest and most unselfish actions. Anne had not

reached that thought of flight of her own volition. The intervention of

another had pointed out that sorrowful course to her. But what is a

thought in comparison with its realization? She had also omitted to

mention that the illness to which she alluded had brought with it a

gloomy mood, very unfavorable to love, and that of Albert's affection

could have been touched by it, it would have required all the

susceptibility of a passion lacking in trust to recognize it through

unceasing devotion. No realization is more heart-rending than that of

kindness, when we are expecting another sentiment.

Elizabeth had no doubts as to what she had just read. The sincerity of

the accent, and that generosity went to her heart, even though the tone

of protection wounded her. She was trembling from head to foot.

Forgetting her abhorrence of all contact with the woman who had stolen

her husband from her, she wished to reread Mlle. de Sézery's letter. In

place of her old rebellion, the second reading made her so jealous that

her nerves were shaken--not because of that physical jealousy which is

less tyrannical in a woman than in a man, and which, moreover, she had

understood so late, but rather a kind of mystic envy, of holy anger

against that rival who had claimed to surpass her in loving: a fever of

sacrifice.

Anne's disappearance was not the end. Free, Albert could, must rebuild

his home and come back. She would consent to forgive him; yes, she would

forgive him unreservedly. But what was this pardon in comparison with

the other's sacrifice? Mme. Derize had told her one day that she was

going to look for her son. Well, she would not be behind her in

generosity. She would not wait till Albert returned, she would not speak

of forgiveness. She would go herself and take her place again. And what

humiliation to go and ask for that place still warm with love for

another woman! Could she really submit to it? One needs more courage for

ordinary circumstances of life in common, than for great departures and

heroic actions. Well, she would have that courage. No sacrifice would be

comparable to hers.

A mistress can prove her love by turning willingly from a life which she

is hindering, and whose happiness no longer depends upon her. She, the

wife, must show hers by her firm adherence to an attachment which is

indissoluble. So Elizabeth, wounded and exalted, roused herself to

vitalize her inactivity.

III

ELIZABETH IN PARIS

She wisely delayed her departure for three weeks. Should not the days

fall like spadefuls of earth upon a coffin, after a separation which had

been cruel? Philippe Lagier, whose rôle she did not suspect, had come

to tell her of Albert's useless voyage to London.

"It will not be long before he returns," he assured her in a tone of

mingled bitterness and irony. "Leave him the customary time for

half-mourning."

But she did not confide any of her plans to him. As the days passed, she

began to fear, and her hesitation took hold of her again. Was it not

better to wait? Could Anne de Sézery be so quickly forgotten? The

memory of Mme. Derize, the future of her children, an overwhelming

desire for sacrifice and her love, drove her on, impelled her to go.

Yes, she would spare her husband the first step, she would go to find

him, she would bring him back. That magnanimous decision affected her

like a fever, and so completely filled her mind, that she did not think

of conjecturing the welcome she would receive.

At the end of May, fearing some new journey of Albert's, or the negative

influence of solitude, she determined to go. Old Fanchette, sharing the

secret, looked with terror at the open trunk.

"Paris! Paris!" she muttered, as if she were naming some beast of the

Apocalypse.

"Sh!" said Elizabeth, not having told Marie Louise and Philippe, who

chattered too much about the object of the journey, on which she was

taking them as useful allies. The two were just disputing about the

matter.

"I tell you we are going to Saint-Martin."

"Certainly not. We are going by train," stated the more competent little

girl.

And their mother, as she listened, was laying her finest black dress in

the top tray, arched so as not to crush it.

Once in the compartment, a second class carriage, the little ones

could not restrain their joy.

"It is Paris!" cried the big boy, as if he had solved a delicate

problem. And the magic syllables fell from his little round mouth like a

golden ball.

Marie Louise looked attentively at her mother, and then came and laid

her face against hers. Their cheeks were of the same delicacy, and their

fair hair mingled.

"Shall we see papa?" asked the child.

"Yes."

"And we shall stay with him?"

"No, darling. We shall take him away."

"Ah, all the better."

And the little one added:

"Jeanne and Renée de Crozet will not be able to make fun of us at

school now."

"Make fun of you?"

"Yes, because we had no papa."

Elizabeth passed her hand through the childish curls.

"Be calm. They won't make fun of you when he is there."

She smiled. She was sure of her victory. The fact of being active, the

movement of the train as it proceeded, gave her a foretaste of heroism

like that which a sheltered troop feels in war, before passing through

the firing-line.

In Paris she settled with her children in a boarding-house on the

Boulevard Saint-Germain, almost opposite Saint Germain des Prés.

"And the Luxembourg garden?" asked Marie Louise, who, after two years,

still remembered her walks.

Trembling, Elizabeth took the children there. He crossed it every day,

no doubt, and they might meet him there. She hastened to return to the

hotel. The day after her arrival she dictated this letter to her

daughter:

"My dear Papa:

"I am in Paris with mamma, and Philippe too. We are here to see a

doctor. But you will come to see us. We must go away soon, so you must

hurry.

"I send you kisses. Your daughter,

"MARIE LOUISE."

The excuse about the doctor had not been invented. The young woman had

wished to take advantage of her trip to consult a specialist about the

nervous temperament of the little girl, who was strong, but too

impressionable, perhaps because she had understood her mother's sorrow,

and the peculiarity of her childish life. The doctor had comforted her,

advising the fresh air of the country and very little study. Then he

turned abruptly to her:

"But you yourself, Madame? Take care; you must take care of yourself."

"Oh, I ..." Elizabeth said indifferently.

"Yes, you. Let me examine you."

After the examination he said:

"Nothing wrong with the heart. But no regularity in the pulse. One

minute it is flying along, and the next it stops, and one no longer

feels it. You have changed very much. I know, I know. The cure? It does

not depend upon me."

"On me, then?"

The old man, who knew something about the Derize separation, concluded

with these words.

"Hurry up and be happy...."

Albert received his daughter's letter in the Rue Bara. He had not

changed his apartment. Before Anne's mysterious flight he went to dine

every evening at Rue Cassini, and every morning she came to lunch with

him. He often took her to the restaurants on the Boulevard Montparnasse,

which look like tea gardens in the suburbs, and are much frequented by

artists. When spring came, he rented at Ville d'Avray on the Sèvres, a

little villa hidden among the trees and covered with clematis, and there

their intimacy was more complete. It was when he came in on the evening

of the 6th of May to see about their future establishment, that he found

this brief farewell left with the porter of the Rue Cassini.

"My life belonged to you as long as it could give you happiness. Now

that it can no longer do so, and that I am quite sure of it, forgive my

taking my liberty once more. Good-by forever.

"ANNE."

He was prostrated by this departure. The silent discords which since his

mother's death had slipped between them, certain disillusioned looks

which he had noticed in the drooping corners of the lips and the long

narrow eyes of his lost love, without attaching much importance to them,

and that want of confidence which she had always expressed regarding

happiness, even at the time of their most ardent passion, warranted him

in imagining the worst catastrophes. He was able to reach the Gare du

Nord in time to jump on an evening train. The next morning--and what a

rough crossing he had--he arrived at Charing Cross and drove immediately

to Bladen Lodge, Miss Pearson's home. If Anne were alive, she must have

taken refuge there. In her hours of sadness, she was always homesick for

English life. When he ran up the doorstep, he thought he could divine

her presence from the other side of the walls. At the door, he parleyed

in very bad English. Miss Pearson was not up at that time, had given no

orders. He presented his card, and waited for a long time in a

drawing-room, whose windows looked out on a miniature park. He seemed

able to recall there the presence of his Anne to whom Bladen Lodge was

home.

"She is here, I shall see her," he repeated with a beating heart.

At last Miss Pearson came to join him. After a few polite remarks and

explanations, he at once asked for Mlle. de Sézery, as if he had a

right to her and all hypocrisy was out of place, under the

circumstances.

"She is not here," said Miss Pearson, whose frank determined face was

severely set this morning.

"I beg of you, Madame, to tell me where I can find her."

"But I do not know."

"You do not know? But you have seen her.... Where is she hidden? I have

the right to know. You have not seen her? ... Well ... But you

understand that I have everything to fear."

Miss Pearson realized the anguish which the man was suffering, and

putting aside her reserve, she betrayed as much of her secret as she

could:

"You need have no fear for her life, Monsieur. Now it is useless to ask

me any more. I shall not answer you."

He tried, however, eloquently, passionately, despairingly, but obtained

no information. The momentary pity of Miss Pearson had not affected her

loyalty. He left without any further information. But what he had heard

agreed with his expectations. Anne had fled from France. Anne was in

England--perhaps at Bladen Lodge, but he could not be sure. Every day he

used his intelligence and his strength, which was exhausting itself in

the unprofitable rôle of detective; he had the surroundings of Bolton

Gardens watched; visited M. Portal, who knew nothing, asked about Lord

Howard, who was shooting on his estate in Scotland: in his distress, he

imagined that Mlle. de Sézery, in leaving him thus, and not revealing

her whereabouts, must have tired of her irregular living, meant to take

up her life alone and live it according to her own fancies. Broken down

by fatigue, he rested only a few hours in the evening, having gained

nothing from his search. The next day he took it up again, assisted by a

French detective, and setting out in another direction, he took the

train for Liverpool. He looked on the registers at the steamship

offices, through the lists of passengers going to America or India, but

Anne's name was not to be found among them. She had been able to

disguise herself. He questioned the clerks. How could they recall a

face, a woman's figure in such a crowd? However, there was a Miss

Lewisham with auburn hair. And golden eyes? They did not know at the

offices whether or not she had golden eyes. He went back by way of

Southampton, began the same questioning with as little success. Anne was

lost to him.

By a phenomenon, usual in the history of passions, he restored to the

absent one all the attributes which, little by little he had taken from

her. Their last months together had not been pleasant. Anne had been

tired and generally sad after her illness. She reproached herself

everlastingly about her youth and her complexion, which were fading. He

patiently bore these complaints, which were the result of an excess of

sensitiveness and of that melancholy natural to those who, too early in

life and without preparation, have endured the miseries and humiliations

of fate. But no man who is at work can entirely suppress the boredom he

meets with in his home, nor the displeasure he experiences in listening

to lamentations. Their intellectual life alone retained the power of a

mutual bond. A chapter of the "History of the Peasant," the biography of

some great man, provided material for endless discussions. Still he did

not relinquish any of his ideas concerning the social order, nor did he

know how to convince her of his view-point. Pure lines of classic art,

the positive force of experience attracted him, when, on the contrary,

she was enthusiastic about elaborate forms, and avoided realities for

all Utopias. At intervals, wearied by their useless clash of opinion,

they appealed to each other through their former love, and grew tender,

not daring to admit to themselves that it was a compromise. And too

often Albert absently went off in a direction where she could not follow

him, and which she very well knew. Now, deserted by her, he did not wish

to owe to her his freedom for which he had often longed, and he fancied

himself linked to the memory of Anne.

The Avenue of the Observatory and the mysterious little Rue Cassini, the

Allée de Mortemart at the Bois de Boulogne, the road which runs along

the pond of La Reine Blanche to Chantilly, saw him pass on his

pilgrimage. In these appropriate frames he could better call to mind the

long golden eyes, the sorrowful mouth, and the step, light and weary at

the same time. In place of spring which was blooming everywhere, he

wished for autumn, whose pathetic grace had so often caressed them. Thus

do our emotions crush us as they die away, and he mistook the sweetness

of having loved for love itself.

Marie Louise's letter came as an untimely interruption in his sorrow.

For six months or perhaps a year, his thoughts had never been so far

from his own family, who had selected a very bad time to come to him.

Why did they worry him in his solitude? He could not ignore this call,

but it was against his will to reply to it. He asked for Mme. Derize at

the boarding house. He was shown into the drawing-room on the ground

floor, which overlooked Saint Germain-des-Prés, whose pointed steeple

and old gray stones he could see between the branches of the chestnuts,

already in full bloom. It was a peaceful retreat from the noise of

Paris. Elizabeth sent her two children in as scouts. How could he

receive them badly? Marie Louise told him about the visit to the doctor,

and Philippe informed him of his interest in the botanical gardens.

When, in her turn, his wife appeared, with a dismayed expression, he

cruelly assumed his unresponsive manner.

"She knows I am deserted," he thought with irritation. "She is coming to

seek me. She is triumphant."

In seeing him again she experienced neither exaltation nor the hope of

departure. She was conscious of that impression of failure which all

know, who, full of their subject and eager to express it, meet with

indifference or hostility; their tongues are no longer persuasive, and

their words grow weak. She explained this journey as well as she could.

Although he evidenced that he was distant and that this intrusion into

his life displeased him, he was more struck than he showed with the

change he saw in Elizabeth's features and the thinness of her body. One

would have thought, with her flexibility and pallor which made her

appear taller, that she was going to break at the slightest blow of

fate. He was angry with her for that frailty which attracted him

irresistibly, and at the same time alarmed him. In his masculine

selfishness, still making her suffer, and already foreseeing her in his

future, he preferred her to be faithful at a distance. After a few

insignificant words, he could not refrain from asking her:

"Have you been ill?"

"Yes," interrupted Marie Louise. "The doctor scolded her."

"Not at all," answered the young woman. "I am quite well."

She sent her children to play at the other end of the room, but the

little girl often came back to them.

With his bitter tone he put her at variance with herself:

"You refused to receive me last month in Grenoble and you come to

surprise me here."

Confusedly, she murmured:

"The circumstances are not the same now."

"What circumstances?"

Having once declared herself, she was no longer shy or afraid. She did

not hesitate to tell the truth. Since he was voluntarily silent, had she

not to remind him of her rights as a woman, and the obligations which

children impose? She thought she had opened his heart, but he had

brutally shut it again. With what reserve and modesty she justified her

step, and how well the exigency of the case helped her with a

proposition that she had not prepared in advance, and which her mind hit

upon with the first words.

"I have come because you are free now. Then, it seemed to me that we

ought to be reconciled at least outwardly, for the sake of the future of

Marie Louise and Philippe, and your future too. I am always your wife. I

was a very poor one before. I understood that too late. But I have

suffered much. I am not reproaching you with anything. Some day perhaps

I shall forget, we shall forget.--I do not know.... Perhaps you might

take your mother's flat in the Boulevard des Adieux for the summer.

Saint Martin is not far from Grenoble. You could come up and see us

sometimes in the daytime. Is it impossible?"

What dignity she preserved in this humiliation which she so little

deserved, and which must have cost her so much. Albert had not been

entirely able to lose her from his memory except in the first months of

his infidelity, and since he had seen her again in circumstances in

which one's sensibility becomes more deeply impregnated with

impressions, the refined and purified charm which he had found in her

recurred to him too often in comparison with Anne. But a man's heart has

so many complicated recesses: free, he puts from him furiously the

solution he ardently wished when he was not free. The romantic pride of

his liaison and the thought of submitting for the second time to lessons

of love, the antipathy which is inevitably aroused in us by the clear

understanding of a reality which imposes itself like a fatal and logical

order of things, made him retire with himself, and separated him from

all outside influence.

"I am detained in Paris," he said after a short silence.

From the beginning of the scene she had had an intuition of her failure,

but nevertheless, she suffered keenly.

"All the summer?" she implored to satisfy her conscience.

"I fear so."

He turned his head toward the children who were looking out at the

neighboring chestnut blossoms, and he immediately digressed: they were,

moreover, old recriminations, which he had often analyzed critically:

"Why did you prevent my helping you to educate the children? I could do

only that for them and you have deprived me of it."

She replied gently:

"I had taken charge of it. You had deserted me. Have they been badly

looked after?"

"I have not deserted you: you went away and you have taken our children.

Do you think I did not love them as much as you? If I did not ask to

take care of them, at least for a part of the year, it is only on your

account, so as not to increase your loneliness and it is because my

mother begged me to leave them to you. Did you not know about it? Did

you not guess it? You thought that I had no interest in them? In

refusing my support you gave me back my rights. Now I am free, now I

mean to see them again, to share them."

He had grown more and more excited, rambling on because of the disorder

of his heart and his brain.

"Marie Louise, Philippe!" called Elizabeth terrified.

The two children hurried to her; Marie Louise had already cried from

afar:

"Naughty papa!"

The young wife pressed them both to her.

"For more than two years they have been mine--mine only. Dare to take

them from me! I will not share them."

He stopped short, like a horse whose spirit is broken and whose gallop

is suddenly brought to a standstill.

"I am unjust, Elizabeth!"

He spoke her name for the first time. In spite of her fear, she

thrilled. He fell into an armchair beside a table on which he was

leaning. His anger spent itself.

"Marie Louise is right. Nobody ever wished to give more happiness than

I, and I spread suffering everywhere. It is a fatality. At least I am

not happy. What shall I do? How should I know it? Elizabeth, it would be

better that you should leave me, forget me, start your life anew."

She pushed the children towards him, but they obeyed her unwillingly.

This confession of weakness was touching on the part of a man who had

always extolled the importance of will power, the spirit of continuity

and energy in both general and individual life. She felt it and wanted

to hold out her arms to him; a secret instinct warned her not to show

her tenderness yet.

"Oh," she murmured simply, "I am not one of those who begin life anew."

She had begun it over again, however, but in the same straight path. He

pulled himself together with an effort to pay her homage.

"Yes, you have already; alone, you helped my mother; you have brought up

our children alone. And I, I can do nothing for you but pity you."

This word separated them still farther.

"It is not your pity that I came to seek. Your mother formerly wished to

take this journey. So I have done it."

Their good-bys were distressing. He kissed his children twice. Then he

wished to offer his hand to Elizabeth, who had let hers fall down at her

sides.

"Later" ... said he, "some day ... but it will be too late. Your

patience has limits."

She thought: "Love has none," and said nothing, since he hesitated about

her and his heart was elsewhere. Albert's last word was an "Au Revoir"

which escaped him, and which she noticed. How long would she have to

continue greater and greater self-sacrifice, and how long would she be

kept on the brink of despair?

He had come in the morning, and in the evening she left.

In the afternoon various packages were sent to her address, containing

all sorts of toys for Marie Louise and Philippe, as well as picture

books chosen with care to give them some ideas of history and art.

Albert had never forgotten to send New Year's presents to Grenoble, but

this time he had stripped the shops and had applied himself to the task

of conquering from a distance.

"It is not little Christmas," the little boy explained to his sister;

"it is big Christmas."

And the little girl agreed that papa was kind. And for herself Elizabeth

found in a jewel box, a ring set with a black pearl.

"Is it an engagement ring?" asked Marie Louise, who often talked about

marriage to her dolls.

But Elizabeth did not answer.

IV

THE RETURN

M. Tabourin's office was in the throes a war. Since Vitrolle, the head

clerk, and the inseparable Dauras and Lestaque, had refused to

acknowledge that the junior clerk Malaunay had won the bet concerning

the Derize trial, the latter played all sorts of tricks on his

colleagues, who retorted by tyranny and intrigue. The lawyer had waited

many months before taking the case off the cause-list, limiting himself

to requesting its adjournment, until the president, out of patience at

hearing it called so often, had it stricken from the calendar. At the

beginning of September, the chief having taken a holiday, the

hostilities were redoubled. A client, who came down from Saint-Martin

d'Uriage, re-established peace in a very unexpected way. He was a

neighbor of the Derize estate, from which he had slyly drained off the

water for his own profit.

"He has threatened me with proceedings," he explained.

"It is his right," answered Vitrolle.

The astute Malaunay interrupted:

"Who threatened you?"

"M. Albert."

Thus he was called in the country where every house had known him as a

child.

"He has come back then?"

"Why to be sure!"

The reconciliation was then an accepted fact, and Albert Derize had won

his case in the most decided fashion. Thus supported by a witness, young

Malaunay showed his comrades insolently that he would not be the victim

of their unfairness. They all felt quite ashamed and Vitrolle was their

interpreter in proposing an agreement.

"We shall go up to Saint Martin on Sunday and assure ourselves of the

state of affairs. If we succeed in seeing the couple together, then very

well, we shall pay the bet at once in the best hotel at Uriage. Is it

agreed?"

"It is agreed," said the other three, satisfied with this solution.

On the following Sunday, their first surprise consisted in finding

Albert Derize on the train. Although he was beginning to grow gray, they

recognized him by his distant air, the poise of his head, and that grace

of movement which preserved his youth. When the car stopped he got out

quickly, avoided the Casino and quickly walked up the path, which

surrounds the Castle of Saint-Ferriol. He had not even deigned to notice

them.

"I certainly won this time," bridled Malaunay.

The annoyed opponents manifested incredulity, despite the evidence. They

agreed to go up to Saint Martin in the afternoon in the heat, to install

themselves in a meadow opposite the Derize house, and to observe. How

could one fill up a Sunday in the country without some romance, and if

one has an empty heart, there still remain the loves of other people to

watch. The wait prolonged itself beyond all expectation. Coming from the

inn, groups of peasants passed by, and one or the other, reeling, took

some time to disappear.

"They have shut themselves in," stated the small clerk.

But towards six o'clock in the evening, as day was dying, Albert and

Elizabeth appeared on the road, preceded by Marie Louise, who was

carrying heather, and Philippe, riding astride on a stick. All denial

became impossible in the face of this family picture.

"It is all right," declared Vitrolle.

And the four clerks came down across the fields to Uriage. At the Hotel

du Parc, Malaunay, who had spent some time selecting his menu, ordered

a sumptuous repast, for which his colleagues had to pay one-third each.

Towards ten o'clock, as they were going back to Grenoble on the last

car, somewhat excited by too many drinks, to their astonishment, they

found themselves face to face with Albert Derize.

"It was only a visit after all," stated Lestaque and Dauras, who

regretted their money.

After his wife's trip, Albert had spent three months in Paris--the

summer months--in almost complete solitude. The information he had

gathered about Anne de Sézery's flight all tended toward Bladen Lodge.

Without his knowledge she had been able to give up her flat, to dispose

of her furniture, to accomplish all the complicated preparations for

departure, and for a final departure at that: how he must have pained

her by his incomplete love! The agency with which she had deposited her

money had received orders to transfer it to London to Miss Pearson's

address, and her mail as well. Albert crossed the Channel a second time

to beg Miss Pearson for information. She would not consent to give him

any definite news. Anne was not in London, he would never see her again,

and that was all. She advised him to be calm, to forget and to be

silent; she assured him it would be best so.

Albert came back to Paris. Must he not accept reality? Alone, he would

take up the burden of days, with application. He threw himself into some

new work with all his heart. But in the evening, exhausted, he was so

depressed that he sometimes wished it were all over.

No doubt, he would never hear from Anne again. She was alive, she could

live far from him and still overpower him with that abnormal, cruel

uncertainty, with which he struggled as with a nightmare. But why was

Elizabeth also so silent? She had contributed to this flight, she who

had not been willing to leave them to their passion, but had taken time

and memories for her allies. Knowing him to be free, she had come at a

most untimely occasion to remind him of his duty. If he had refused to

accompany her, was that a reason for him to give up their children

again? He had the right to be told of their health, of their education,

of their holidays. In spite of himself, in this scorching, deserted

Paris, his thoughts turned to Elizabeth, and he became set on demanding

his rights, and reached the conclusion that he must not allow them to be

disregarded. Nothing now prevented his claiming his children for several

months of the year. He would go to Grenoble, and even to Saint Martin to

find them. In this way he would be able to see Elizabeth, whom he still

thought only of harassing. But to annoy her was precisely the only way

of seeing her again, of seeing once more her touching eyes, her

frightened face, her tense body, fragile and thin, when he had known her

to be only indifferent and unresponsive. In certain more lucid hours, he

reproached himself for his concern about her, as for a new impossible

infidelity. But why did she not write? Had she then tired of her rôle

of faithfulness?

At the end of August, exhausted by an uneasiness of mind which was

unbearable to a man of decided character, he resolved to go to

Dauphiné, to arrange amicably the question of the care of the children.

Certain suggestions, at first put aside, later exert their influence,

make their impression little by little. Elizabeth had spoken to him of

settling in the Boulevard des Adieux in the vacant apartment of Mme.

Derize, and of going from there to Saint Martin d'Uriage some day.

Leaving Paris, where the leaves in the avenues and gardens were already

turning yellow, he buried himself, as it were, at Grenoble, in the

Boulevard des Adieux. Immediately he experienced that sort of

distressing peace, which the tracked beast finds in his lair. The

thought of his mother was strengthening. He succeeded in concentrating

on the history notes which he had brought with him. The atmosphere being

heavy and suffocating, he took some walks in the evening. The first was

as far as the cemetery of Saint-Roch, which is nearby. Then he went to

Saint-Ismier and hardly recognized the old restored castle, the park of

new design, the rows of trees of which a great number had been cut down

to set off the view: Anne de Sézery's vow was realized;--even things

had changed and lost their power of enchantment without her. There, she

had first loved him. Yet that past which he awakened recalled nothing of

her, but stirred up, on the contrary, other memories, as the step of a

sportsman in the forest calls out game which he does not expect, and

impels him to fire another shot. It was the time he met Mlle.

Molay-Norrois in the streets and did not dare to bow to her. The

pilgrimages turned against their own purpose. The Tower of London and

Hyde Park, the allée of Mortemart and Chantilly, the quays of Paris,

the Avenue de l'Observatoire which leads to the Luxembourg Garden as a

river to the sea, the woods of Ville d'Avray, other corners of the great

city and its suburbs, all these comprised the domain reserved for Anne.

Dauphiné, although it had been her home, did not belong to her.

Accustomed to understand the relation of landscape to human life, to

give a soul to surroundings, he unconsciously felt the influence of his

native country. It was, at every step, the return to years of struggle,

to happy years, and it was the picture of a bright child of sixteen,

Elizabeth, his youth. In his loneliness, he was walking towards the

slope, whither his thoughts preceded him. He wished to stop, to leave

again for Paris, and could not decide to do so. But why did she not

write?

Unable to bear it any longer, he went up to Saint Martin d'Uriage one

Sunday morning, opened the gate, crossed the orchard, rang at the door,

although it was half open. He hesitated to enter his home without being

announced. The old servant, hobbling along, came to receive him:

"Goodness me! M. Albert!"

"Good day, Fanchette."

He kissed the cheek, wrinkled like a russet apple, and took pleasure in

it. Did she not maintain in the present, a past, which, without her,

would be more distant? She explained that madame was at high mass with

the children.

"I will wait," he said.

He looked on the rustic drawing-room table at the books lying about, and

at the music on the piano. This examination satisfied him. Through the

open windows, between the branches of the fruit trees which gravely bore

their weight, he could see the huge bulk of Les Quatre Seigneurs, and

farther to the right, the entrance to the Valley of Isère and the

shadowy lines of the Chartreuse mountains. The horizon was bathed in

that bluish mist, which comes at the beginning of autumn, to lessen the

brilliant display of the summer. His heart was again reveling in the

familiarity of these things, when the servant, who had left him to see

to her kitchen stove, came back into the room, her forehead clouded. She

began to fuss about him, as she scratched her head. Absorbed in thought,

he did not see her. At last she opened her old mouth and said:

"Monsieur Albert?"

"What is it?"

"Will Monsieur lunch here? Because I have nothing but rice and boiled

beef with carrots."

He laughed at this uneasiness.

"Well, that is sufficient."

Reassured, she went back to her kitchen. After all, Monsieur had never

been difficult to feed, and he was always delighted with very ordinary

dishes. At the same time Albert was saying to himself, "I am not

invited, and Fanchette's menu makes me hungry." The peace of the

surrounding country put him into a good humor. The wait growing

monotonous, he left the house and went around his estate. His farmers,

good folks, but somewhat indolent, welcomed him with emotion, and

invited him to have a glass of wine.

"The farm has been widowed," they assured him.

And indeed it did not take long for him to discover the neighbors'

encroachments. One was planting pear trees less than two meters from the

dividing line, another was turning off the water from a spring for his

own use.

"Ah, they are taking advantage of my absence!"

How would they not have abused the ignorance of a woman in the village?

With his characteristic promptitude in action, he went to the

encroachers and threatened them with proceedings. It was immediately

known all over Saint Martin that he had come back, and that he would

tolerate no trifling.

It was midday when he returned to the house. The bells of the little

church were ringing out joyfully in two tones, and the sounds seemed

like a release of brilliant birds flying from the old steeple. How

pleasant this joyous welcome! It seemed a happy omen to him. Elizabeth

had come back with the children. From the threshold of the drawing-room

he saw her closing the shutters to keep out the heat. A sunbeam lit up

her fair hair and her slim throat, set off by the black dress, cut low

at the neck.

"Papa!" cried the children.

Although she had been told of his visit, she turned round, blushing. The

bells went on ringing. This return to his house took an importance which

he had not foreseen. They were both thinking of the early days of their

marriage. "My work and you," he said to her then. She had understood too

late, the happiness which she had not appreciated. Quickly composing

herself, she assumed a happy tone to bid him welcome. He would have

preferred her to have been less at ease, and even somewhat constrained.

"Let us go in to luncheon," she said almost at once, as if she had no

doubt as to his acceptance, which was the best way of surmounting the

difficulty.

As the dining-room faced the south, the window could be left open

without inconvenience. It looked out on the meadows and pine woods of

Chamrousse. Albert was seated opposite all this verdure. Nothing

predisposes one more to peace and well-being, than the simple meals one

enjoys in the country, while listening to the sound of running water,

and the light rustling of the branches, swayed by the wind: evidences of

the harmonious life of all things. And how well Elizabeth had been able

to evade the difficulties of so embarrassing a return!

In the afternoon, when he expressed his intention of going, she did not

keep him back, and he was surprised. She did not even seem to listen to

Marie Louise, who talked of accompanying her father to the Castle of

Saint-Ferriol. She had really treated him as a guest, with the tact of a

woman who knows how to receive visitors, and to hide her pleasure or her

boredom: that was, at any rate, the new impression that he took away

with him. Perhaps she had tired of waiting for him, and no longer cared

about a reconciliation. He was not very far from the truth. Elizabeth,

in two and a half years, had accomplished such an endless series of

efforts, had so eagerly desired an outcome, that she had reached that

state of apparent unconcern, in which everything becomes the same to us,

we need no longer reproach ourselves, nor have we any reserve strength.

Now, whatever happened, might happen. She would attempt nothing more.

Her failure in Paris had destroyed her moral energy which she had

acquired through so much sorrow.

He returned on the following Sunday, accompanied, without his knowledge,

by the whole staff of the Tabourin office. The pretext of this second

visit was that he had not broached the subject of the children on the

preceding Sunday, nor did he speak of it this time. Later he came

several times a week.

"You are only half a papa," his daughter said to him.

"Half a papa?"

"Yes, you come in the morning and go away in the evening like the day

boarders at the convent."

One day a tradesman's bill had been presented while he was there. With

haste, and yet embarrassment, he showed such an eagerness to pay it,

that Elizabeth did not protest. And this new share in her household,

which was a pleasure to her, brought him a little closer to her.

Anne had been gone for four or five months. He often estimated the time,

surprised to find it so short. Then he began to indulge in

retrospection. Little by little he regained his former influence over

Marie Louise and Philippe, for whom he invented new games and stories.

The little ones, fascinated by this art of ornamenting life, neglected

their mother, who was miserable about it in secret, but when does one

cease to learn to love unselfishly? However, even if this childish joy

did refresh him, he was too loyal and far-sighted to hide from himself

any longer the fact, that it was Elizabeth who attracted him to

Saint-Martin d'Uriage. He gained an understanding of her from Marie

Louise's remarks, Philippe's questions, and her own words. The young

woman's reserve gave way in their interviews. She showed more freely,

but without display, her intelligence, circumspect, though clear and

just. As he got to know her better, he manifested more eagerness to

reconquer her. She neither repulsed nor encouraged him, flattered by

that strange homage, which he paid her with all the resources of his

mind, and proud too, of showing him what she had become, which he had

not divined. In her turn, she held herself aloof, and was happy in

expectation, and he was sometimes irritated by this unexpected

indifference, and again promised himself to conquer her and to lay down

the law.

With the exception of Philippe Lagier, who was often away, he saw no one

but Elizabeth. In this charm of intimacy which so few men can resist, he

confided to her his entire projects, the plans of his work. One day he

brought along the manuscript of a "Popular Life of Pasteur" which he was

finishing for his collection of biographies. He read it aloud, and when

he had finished, humbly seeking praise, she gave him the highest: that

of a deep emotion, which she felt, even to the degree of silence in

listening to the story of the scientific career, so honorable and so

full of enthusiasm. Another time, he did not conceal his bad humor

because all the Verniers in the world were already there for the day

when he arrived at Saint Martin. Blanche's husband, in his vanity at

being in close touch with a great man, took possession of him, and

Albert, in spite of his desire to be pleasant to his wife's friends, was

wearied by this attitude.

"What is the matter with you to-day?" Elizabeth asked him as he was

going away.

"You are never alone."

The reproach was so droll that she burst out laughing. But he did not

share her gayety. And that evening she watched him for a long time,

until she could no longer see him. He did not turn around, for he gave

himself up passionately to recollections of Anne, and promised himself

to give up all this new life.

Two days later, he remained until after dinner, which he had never dared

to do before, except on a Sunday. Elizabeth, asked to open the piano,

played the "Appassionata," which had revealed to Marie Louise the

attraction of melancholy. He was behind her. Music exercised a deep

influence on him. In addition to his studies in history, he had always

reserved a portion of his time for it, and his works bore the trace of

it. At the last chord, he bent toward her, and murmured:

"Forgive me, Elizabeth."

For a man of so much pride, it was the most pathetic avowal. She stood

up at once before him. Dressed in black, her face in darkness, she held

herself like a flower on a long stem, which is awaiting the day. Her

eyes wide open and bewildered, glowed in the dusk. The mask of unconcern

discarded, he saw her again so fragile, so easy to destroy, no longer

able to resist this state of uncertainty, just as she had appeared to

him at the death bed of his mother, or in Paris in the little,

drawing-room in the Paris Hotel. Softened, he repeated:

"Forgive me."

Her mouth twisted; and it was a contraction he had noticed at the

corners of Anne's lips.

"You know quite well," she said, and he was conscious of the deepened

tone of her voice, "you know quite well that I have forgiven you. I had

my faults as well."

He answered very quickly, with the bitter knowledge of his cruelty, of

his cowardice; but, cowardly and cruel, it would be necessary to love

but once, to overcome that, and even then....

"I did not know how much I loved you. You are the wife of my youth,

Elizabeth. I find all my love for you intact."

"Intact?" she repeated.

And she gazed at him with large troubled eyes. Had the hour come?

Trembling, ready to fall into his arms, she was waiting for one single

word:

"Yes."

He wanted to draw her to him, to press her to his heart. So many bonds

were being renewed; could the distance ever be bridged? Did she read to

the depth of his troubled heart? She knew his desire and gently rejected

it:

"No, no, Albert, not yet, Please!"

"Elizabeth, remember, I have loved you."

And in a lower voice, as if remorsefully:

"I do love you."

"If you love me, go away to-night. Do not remain here. I beg you--if you

love me."

Her eyes, too intense, supplicated him, even more than her words.

"Yes, Elizabeth, I must be worthy of you."

With a heavy heart, only half free from another passion which exaltation

could momentarily cloak with a film, but not suppress, he went away into

the dark and starry night. From the threshold, she tried to pierce the

darkness to catch the sound of his footsteps. Bewildered, trembling,

with a thrill of emotion, she thought:

"Why has he gone?"

V

THE PHANTOM

Exceptional weather had prolonged the season at Uriage a little later

than usual. It was the last day of September, and it might have been

said that the mountains were taking pains to look their best in the

autumn light. How could one decide to leave so peaceful and beautiful a

horizon?

M. Molay-Norrois, enlivened by the heat, but subdued in his manner by

family life, resolved to consummate a master stroke before the coming

departure of the bathers. He made use of his former influence over Mme.

Passerat to urge her to ask Albert and Elizabeth to come to the last

formal luncheon party, that she was planning to give before her return

to Grenoble. It would be the public and official recognition of the

reconciliation, and by this diplomacy he would have earned his own.

Albert Derize and his wife, astonished at this joint invitation, agreed

to go despite their dislike of being the cynosure of all eyes. It was

proper, it was advantageous for their children that they should be seen

together, and that their separation be set aside in the eyes of the

world. So they were welcomed as if they had never been the object of

general curiosity. Another occurrence had replaced theirs as a subject

of conversation. It was told--under the seal of secrecy--that the

utilitarian Mme. de Vimelle, seeing no advantage in the new liaison of

her husband, had resolved to put an obstacle in his way by threatening

to start a scandal by means of Mme. Bonnard-Basson's letters, which she

had intercepted.

"As you please," M. de Vimelle is said to have replied cynically. "That

lady no longer interests me."

Mme. Passerat, too clever to fear the slightest personal danger, and

moreover, sure of the support of her body guard, Messrs. Molay-Norrois,

and Prémereux, reënforced by her own husband, believed she was well

able to prevent this menagerie assembled around her table from devouring

one another. And indeed nothing happened, and the Derize reconciliation

was sanctioned. Elizabeth's mother, who attached great importance to

social opinions, was not annoyed by the result, which helped her to bear

other sorrows, which were the outcome of her husband's attractive

personality. Albert made every effort to please his wife, who, in her

simple dress and with her air of grace and dignity, so resembled those

English portraits whose harmony he enjoyed. All the guests profited by

his conversation, in the art of which he excelled when he cared to take

the trouble.

Philippe Lagier, who had been living at Uriage for a short while,

exchanged clever repartee with his friend, to the great joy of Mlle.

Rivière, seated beside him; she was listening to him, often looking

uneasily at Albert's wife. After luncheon, while coffee was being served

in the garden, the girl came up to Mme. Derize.

"Madame," she said to her, as if admiration compelled her to make this

confidence, "you have never been more beautiful."

Elizabeth blushed at this sincere compliment, which, from anyone else

would have been offensive to her. It was true that her face was radiant,

with the clear complexion, softened by her hair which was caressed by

the light, its beauty intensified by the contrast of her black dress.

And her dark eyes seemed to have grown so big, especially because the

cheeks were thinner. They changed the expression of her features,

revealed that she was living a nobler, more active life.

"You are a child," she murmured with a smile.

"Not any more," sighed the girl, whose eyes were clouded.

She too had changed, and it was not difficult to notice it. Her

coquettishness of former years had led her to understand a deeper

emotion. She had angled for Philippe Lagier as a poor girl determined to

shape her own destiny by an advantageous marriage angles for a good

match. In a word, he was no longer in his first youth, and she was

offering him hers. Little by little she began to understand that he was

exceptional, that his skepticism concealed a contempt for the

commonplace, that he had a superior intellect. Thus she had done

something entirely unexpected, and had fallen hopelessly in love.

Her mother, of old family, but known to be of small means, witnessed

with disappointment the failure of a plan, which would have assured her

about the future of her daughter. Elizabeth asked herself, not without

scruples, if her intervention might possibly be efficacious.

"Come and see me," she said to Mlle. Rivière. And the latter thanked

her, as she sought her assistance with a loyal and confident look.

Just to prove the value of her friendship, Philippe Lagier came over to

Mme. Derize after the girl had left her:

"Will you give me some advice, Madame?"

"At once?"

"No, not here. I shall come to your house."

"To Saint Martin?"

"Yes, after to-morrow, perhaps."

All the way up the hill she was thinking: "what advice? I shall talk to

him about Berthe Rivière." Philippe always made her a little uneasy

because of the complicated, involved manner in which he expressed his

ideas. She wanted to tell her husband of this overture as he was going

back with her; but she dared not, either from delicacy concerning

another's secret, or because she could not yet confide everything to

Albert.

The next day Philippe came to St. Martin d'Uriage. She was in the

orchard, in a straw chair, with some tapestry work, while her children

were playing in the grass a few feet away. She was taking advantage of

the last fine days and the mildness of the air to remain outdoors a good

part of the afternoon. The regular sound of the fountain which was near

by, kept her company without stopping the course of her thoughts. The

apples and pears were ripening in the sunshine. The leaves were already

changing color and the only flowers left were the colchicums in the

meadows.

Marie Louise announced his presence. For how long had he been watching

the young woman, whose face was framed by a large hood? She was a little

offended by this indiscretion, the more so because she was hoping to see

Albert, who had seemed nervous on the previous evening. So she hastened

his explanation of the object of his visit:

"It is you who are to be consulted, not I."

He imagined a vague hostility, but was not offended by it. What he had

to say he would express, at all costs, for he had resolved upon this

course after much hesitation:

"Well, Madame, I have to make a very serious decision now. I am touched,

very deeply touched by a sentiment which has been inspired by

circumstances, much more than by my personality, and the continuance of

which, after having astonished me, is no longer a matter of indifference

to me. At my age, it is a rare favor."

"At your age?"

"I am forty. Mlle. Rivière is twenty-two or twenty-three. It is

certainly a rare favor, and one which I shall perhaps not experience

again if I put it aside."

"But why put it aside?" asked Elizabeth.

And, as he did not reply, and looked at her with a curious smile, she

resumed:

"But why put it aside? Berthe Rivière deserves to be loved, I can

assure you. The emotion of which you speak, whose power she did not at

first suspect, has slowly changed her. She has seen clearly into her own

consciousness. She has grown very different in two years. She is now

reserved and as trustworthy as she is pretty. I should like to see her

your wife."

She had become animated in her enthusiasm. He looked at her as if he

were weighing his words, and turned around suddenly.

"Yes, but my heart is not free."

She blushed while he continued, his eyes on the grass:

"Only die passion that filled it and which was hopeless is purified and

has become a cult, a religion."

She made a motion to stop him.

"Let me finish, Madame. I will never speak of these things again. And it

does not only apply to me. I have often asked myself if a more human

feeling could not exist side by side with that one, and satisfy the

promise of happiness and fidelity with which I would reciprocate. Your

religion does not keep you from loving. But would that be very loyal?"

Seeing her in this peaceful frame of mind, he had, in spite of himself,

changed the meaning of his explanation. Elizabeth wished to get up and

send him away, that he might understand that she considered as

disloyalty that indirect confession which she had been obliged to hear.

She remembered that he had been the first to alter her understanding of

life, and remaining seated, she forgave him for the second time. But in

her reply she expressed an authority which kept him at a distance, at

the same time showing him the way:

"You must know yourself. This ... friendship must no longer occupy your

attention. You will forget it by never again seeing her who inspired

it."

"By never seeing her?"

"No. She will go away. Marry this young girl, who, as you just said, is

not indifferent to you, whom you will love, whom you perhaps already

love. But marry her without mental reservation."

"I cannot."

"Without a hidden thought. She is so young. Look at her and not at the

past. Live near her and patiently form her mind. Let your life be

altogether upright, without any side issues. That is the secret of

happiness."

He bowed and wished to kiss her hand. She gently drew it away. She would

not even allow him this humble caress. In the long silence which

followed, enwrapping them as the evening mist the sloping meadows, each

was indulging in personal reflections. The air was calm; Nature was

motionless. Some fruit, falling from the branches, and its hard impact

against the ground, made them shudder as a call of time.

She was counting all the lost years of her own happiness, the result of

her former daily routine, and was seeking by what enchantment, what

witchcraft, to blot them out, to restore to her clear days, no longer

troubled and cloudy. He repeated the words she had spoken:

"She will go away."

She was going to Paris with Albert. The reconciliation, which, after a

long time, he no longer doubted since the previous day, was then final.

In order that he might carry away a more vivid and tender impression of

her, he gazed for a long time at the young woman, seated in front of her

country home, surrounded by the trees in the orchard, and caressed by

the peace of the country. On this autumn evening (despite a little

pallor and slimness, which would soon vanish), with her big hood, her

charm of youth and the bunch of grasses which Marie Louise had laid on

her knees, she symbolized that picture of hope of the blossoming earth

in springtime. He contrasted her with another woman whom he had seen in

spring, filled with all the melancholy of autumn. It was Anne de

Sézery, on the terrace of the Luxembourg Garden, at the end of April.

He had accompanied her from the Avenue de l'Observatoire to Cluny in

Albert's absence, and how strangely he had taken advantage of that

tête-à-tête which he had sought with so much patience and cleverness.

From tree to tree along the avenue he put off her confidence. In the

garden, as they followed the stone balustrade from which one can

overlook the central basin and the palace, he stopped suddenly:

"I must speak to you, Mademoiselle."

She intuitively imagined something serious, something, even more serious

than he could say, as her question indicated:

"Has our friend asked you to do so?"

"No, no!"

She was somewhat comforted.

"Well, I am listening to you."

He began with a question:

"You are not happy. Albert is not happy."

She tried to smile.

"Is that evident?"

"Yes."

"Well, we prefer our unhappiness to other people's happiness."

"Are you sure?"

Then, with audacity, which he understood better at a distance, and which

only his almost mystical passion for Elizabeth could explain, he had

told her of his last conversation with Albert's mother, and of the

artless plan which she had conceived of coming to claim her son from

her, who must have been convinced by time of the inefficacy of her love.

He could see her face fall, her golden eyes lose their fire as he spoke.

But she had not protested.

"Yes, it is just that," she had said simply. "I have thought so. Albert

must never know anything about it. Good-by, Monsieur. You have pained

me. I shall finish my walk alone."

He had been obliged to leave her thus, despite his urgent request to go

back with her, in order to palliate the suffering he had made her

endure. Several times he turned around to see her again, leaning on the

stone balustrade between two vases, appearing smaller and smaller, until

at last what a little lost creature she seemed! Ashamed of the part he

had played, he had not had the strength to meet Anne and Albert

together, and, as a pretext, he said he was obliged to leave. But his

talk with her had its effect. It had only hastened an event which would

have occurred sooner or later, and perhaps too late. Elizabeth owed to

him her husband's liberty, and the resurrection of her happiness. Yes,

he had served her well. Even that generosity which she would never know,

linked them together, in spite of herself. He would never forget. She

would be his sorrowful secret, his Madonna, and nobody would ever know

it. But would Albert entirely forget Anne de Sézery? Do not most men

live with a hidden wound which reopens on bad days?

This silence could not continue. Philippe broke it with these obscure

words:

"I have had news of _her_."

She was then thinking of Mlle. de Sézery, for she questioned him, not

without visible uneasiness:

"Where is she?"

"In India, at Poona. It is a kind of lay hospital, the Epiphany School,

where they take care of invalids and bring up deserted children. She was

not destined for an ordinary fate."

Why had she written to him? Elizabeth guessed that he was not

unconnected with Anne's flight, and without ascertaining the truth of

her supposition, already overcome by fear only in hearing her spoken of,

she asked:

"Can you tell me what that letter contains?" He took it out of a

pocketbook and gave it to her.

"Read it and destroy it. I answered it yesterday. She will never write

again."

"Have I the right?"

"Yes."

She had just taken the envelope when Albert, having gone through the

house, came out into the orchard.

"I was looking for you," he said to his wife. Seeing Philippe, his face

darkened. The day before at Mme. de Passerat's luncheon party, it had

been unbearable to him that Elizabeth's charm should be felt by anyone

but himself, and after trying impatiently to remain away until the

following day, he could not finish his work without going to Saint

Martin to see her again. He found her somewhat troubled, with the letter

in her hand. Philippe, after a few words, rose and took leave of

Elizabeth.

"I shall follow your advice, Madame."

He shook hands with his friend, whom he would not allow to accompany

him. As soon as he had gone, Albert came over to his wife, and harshly

inquired:

"What advice did he want? Am I indiscreet?"

"He was telling me about his marriage."

"With Mlle. Rivière?"

"Yes."

"Poor girl!"

"Why?"

"Because he loves you."

He did not notice how deeply this remark touched her. She stopped him

reproachfully:

"Albert!"

"He confessed to me that he was devoted to you. Yes, he was the first to

understand you. He realized that inner force which I had never been able

to awaken. I am jealous of him, horribly jealous, not because I suspect

you of ever having given him a word of encouragement--no suspicion could

touch you when you were alone and abandoned--but because I do not

acknowledge that another can know you and love you more than I do now."

"Albert," she murmured distractedly.

"I ought to fall on my knees before you, and at other times I long to

clasp you to my heart and blot out those years which have blighted our

love." Trembling, swayed by her exaltation, she repeated:

"Albert!"

Misunderstanding her manner, he raised his arms in despair:

"Ah! I make you afraid--I see it in your eyes. But I do not dare to

touch even the tips of your fingers. Since I have returned here, even

when we are side by side, there is an abyss between us which we do not

know how to cross. Elizabeth, Elizabeth, I am so unhappy."

Overwhelmed, she wanted to come to him, and the letter which she had

forgotten, fell to the ground. He stooped mechanically to pick it up and

give it to her. Confused, she took it from his hand. He had not even

seen the writing, but Elizabeth's emotion was diverted.

"Farewell!" said he brusquely, and realizing she was repressed, he

hurriedly left the orchard and rushed to the road.

"Albert!" she cried, as she followed him. Nightfall, which was coming

on, hid him. A name, which they had never dared to utter, was sufficient

to separate them. Neither distance nor space could do away with the

past. Anne de Sézery was always there, between them.

VI

THE CHARTREUSE OF PRÉMOL

Elizabeth waited a week for another visit from Albert after that strange

scene of jealousy. Each morning, at the usual time of his arrival, she

took her children to the road, as far as the beginning of the path which

encircles the Château of Saint-Ferriol, and winds through the meadows

to Uriage.

"Don't you see him?" she constantly asked Marie Louise, who was

far-sighted.

But they had to come in to lunch without him. Anxious about his

prolonged absence, she went to Grenoble. She found him in the Boulevard

des Adieux, trying to work, and was surprised at the weary expression on

his face. Why did he not come back? He explained to her that half

separation was more cruel than complete separation, and that they must

choose: either to take up their life together, or to recognize finally

that that was impossible.

"Come," she said. "You will never go away again."

"Do you wish it?"

"Yes."

Next day he went up with his books and his luggage.

"A curious time for a holiday in the mountains," thought the mule-driver,

who brought his cases. It was already October and the last bathers had

left. The old house at Saint Martin was so roomy that Elizabeth could

give him a little suite on the top floor. She herself had summoned him.

They lived under the same roof, they loved each other, and they could

not give expression to their love. An unconquerable force held them

back.

"She lives over there," she thought. "Does he often think of her?"

And, at the sight of her, so fragile and pale, with tender frightened

eyes, he, beginning to understand all the sorrow he had made her suffer,

treated her like a very delicate fiancée whom one must not frighten.

"Our first kiss will come from her," he hoped. "Had she forgotten? ..."

But he himself had not forgotten, would doubtless never forget Anne de

Sézery. Although the suddenness of her disappearance had changed his

remembrance of her, she had been one of the episodes which make a

lasting impression on one's deeper nature, to which men often return in

thought, when searching their past for marks of emotion. Only he had

exhausted its worth. She no longer exerted any influence over him. If

she had come back, she would not have regained her power, whereas

Elizabeth, so well-loved before, added a charm and the attraction of the

unknown to the strength of old desires and illusions. She was the living

representation of his youth and a new wife as well, the finding of whom

uplifted him.

Intimacy, with its thousand renewed ties, joined their lives. One day,

blushing a little, she had begged him to undertake the management of her

property. Thus she gave up her independence, placed herself again under

her husband's protection, and restored to him the charge of the family,

and, as a result of this, Albert felt more buoyant. The days went on

monotonously. After work, there were long walks with the children, and

in the evenings a little music, reading and plans for the future which

they now made together. The season was advancing and they did not speak

of leaving. With the solitude, happiness surrounded and besieged the

hermitage of Saint Martin. What were they waiting, that they did not

open the gates to it?

October, before it was over, gave to autumn that beauty which, in its

dazzling monotony, summer never knows. The riot of color, the clearness

of the air and that charm of all earthly things then constitute a

sublime manifestation of the beauty of Nature.

"Papa, you promised to take me to the Chartreuse de Prémol," said Marie

Louise.

"Did I? Very well, then we will all go there."

The Chartreuse de Prémol is an old ruin hidden among the fir trees, two

or three hours from Saint Martin d'Uriage. At first one follows the open

plains of Chamrousse, then enters the forest. Albert arranged the little

party for the following day. They would spend the entire day there--the

weather was so mild--and would hire the donkey at the farm to carry

Philippe astride, and a basket of provisions as well. A little village

shepherd, rather simple, but very dependable, who was derisively called

"Brains," would lead the animal by the bridle.

In the morning they left without haste. The children began to dispute as

to who should ride, and soon both preferred to walk. They felt as though

they were marching with the step of a conqueror to the end of the world.

Albert hoped that the pleasure of the walk, the healthful fatigue

enjoyed together, the natural blending of the light with the woods,

would touch Elizabeth's heart and give him back her confidence. To

shield her from the heat of the sun, she had put on that big hood, which

gave her the appearance of a very young girl. Her white neck was

outlined by the low collar of her black dress. She was carrying a stick,

which, no doubt, she would need on the excursion, but did not know how

to use. He stopped an instant to look at her and admired that suppleness

which she had acquired.

It was one of those incomparable days, of which one would like to take

hold and press out the beauty, so fearful is one that they will never

come again.

The road climbs across the meadows and orchards before reaching the

woods.

"A golden tree," said Marie Louise, who was going on ahead as a guide.

Before them, outlined against the clear blue sky, was a pear tree, whose

leaves were of a shade of yellow that was almost rose-colored, and so

delicate that one might have thought they were flowers. Even in

springtime, with the delicate whiteness on the branches, it could not

look more beautiful.

After that came the forest, and the children were so impressed that they

were silent. The slope was fairly steep, adorned with fir trees, of

which some were particularly tall and stood out as individuals on this

beautiful day. Among them were centenarians with gigantic tops, which,

rising above the others, robbed them of their strength, air and light,

and relegated them to the shade, in which they became half weakened,

knotty and stunted. Between the trees, the travelers could see the sky

and the Drac mountains, whose impenetrable summits it was difficult to

distinguish, because of the bluish mists of the fine autumnal weather.

They heard that silvery noise of rushing water, and sometimes one of the

little springs crossed the narrow mule path, the stones of which, rubbed

and polished by the trucks, loaded with timber, were as glossy as

hatchets.

"Is nobody here?" asked Philippe, vaguely anxious, and taking shelter

behind the donkey.

"There must be somebody back there," his father promised him.

And indeed, the trunks of the fir trees, stripped of their bark, some so

long and white and still uncut, others ready for transportation, gave

evidence of human effort. And the little procession passed a woodman

seated on one of the most beautiful tree-trunks of the forest, which he

had just cut down with its neighbors.

"Good day, Claude," said Albert, who was walking last, and recognized

his neighbor, Terraz. "A pity to kill such a fine tree. It needs a

hundred years to grow one like that."

"There is no lack of them in the Cross of Prémol," replied the peasant.

"And this will help to nourish my brood."

"How many children have you?"

"Six, Monsieur Albert. And you have only these two?"

"Yes."

"Oh, but that won't be all. At your age! With such a beautiful lady!"

And he burst out laughing with that natural simplicity which is not

offensive. Elizabeth's cheeks were crimson, but she could not help

smiling.

At last, after a steep climb, they arrived at the Chartreuse. Its site

had been chosen with that certainty of selection of the old monks, who

knew how to combine the wild beauty of a place with its almost sacred

charm, inspiring meditation and uplift of the soul. From three sides,

the slopes of fir trees form a circle round the clearing in the open

plain. From the fourth, there is a rise of ground, and then the entrance

to the valley, scarcely visible and disdainfully rejected, like the vain

attractions of the world. The old structure, built in the eleventh

century, was demolished during the Revolution. At first one sees only a

gate restored and fitted to the façade of the forest-house, which

to-day takes the place of the convent; but the mutilated ruins which the

blackberries, wild plants and even the forest have overgrown, lie here

and there in the broad space, like the remains of a disfigured body.

Marie Louise and Philippe, who had visited the grande Chartreuse with

the Passerats, were very much disappointed. Ruins do not interest

children. They want well-built houses, and the newer they are, the more

fascinating to them, because it is life that appeals to them. But they

consoled themselves by setting out their meal on a stone supported by

wooden props, a rustic table that they had discovered under the shelter

of the branches, at the end of a lawn behind the keeper's house. The

latter consented to prepare an omelette for them which completed their

lunch, after which he took the children, including "Brains," to visit his

poultry yard and his rabbit hutch, of which he was very proud.

"Will you follow me?" said Albert to Elizabeth.

He knew the place, as he had been there in his early youth. After a few

steps in the direction of the mountain, which cut them off from all

habitation, she uttered a cry of surprise. Before them an intact

cloister arch reared its graceful curve under the entangled dome formed

by the trees, enormous larches, evergreen and symbolizing protection,

and white birches with silvery leaves. The old well, because of its

covering of moss and wild flowers, could scarcely be distinguished from

all this mass of verdure. And too, the bare roots of stunted fir trees,

which had grown there, as in the midst of a forest, had clutched and

loosened the stones. How did these stones still hold? By what miracle

had time respected the purity of that arch which framed a whole portion

of the forest and even a corner of sky, and stood there like a statue in

a garden? The forest was already encroaching upon it and entwining it;

wrapped in its embrace, it would soon disappear in the grass, and one

would have to stoop to find any trace of it. Thus threatened, surrounded

on all sides by a thick mass of branches and caressed by autumn in that

wild landscape encircled by the mountains, it was only by its charm that

it evoked the thought of man in the midst of Nature, and one knew that

it was doomed.

Elizabeth looked at the arch, and Albert, a little behind, reserved all

his emotion to observe her.

"I am afraid," he was thinking. "She is so delicate. She has been living

for two years, almost three, with an attitude of uncertainty. How tired

she must be! She needs peace. I shall know how to give it back to her.

Now, yes, now, she is at one with me in my life, as we are both

here...."

She had turned around to him, and in the big wide-open eyes which gazed

upon him he no longer read that vaguely frightened expression which was

habitual to her, but, instead, he saw fear, that fear which we

experience from an immediate danger, or a vision fixed and near at hand.

He quickly went to her:

"Elizabeth--what is the matter with you?"

"Nothing, nothing."

He wished to take her in his arms.

"Your eyes, your dear eyes, what did they see in the woods?"

She freed herself from his embrace, and as if she had an hallucination,

held out her hand to indicate to him something or someone whom he did

not see.

"There, there! She is there! Look! Between us!"

"Who?"

"She is always there--when you read to me in the evening, when you tell

me that you love me, when you take me out walking. Just now you wanted

to show me those ruins, to exchange our impressions. She does not wish

it. She has come."

"But who?" he repeated, although he already knew.

"Anne de Sézery."

At the sound of her name which neither one nor the other had ever dared

to utter, the distant girl with the golden eyes appeared actually to

rise under the trees, there, near the cloister arch. Albert resolutely

put away the phantom.

"Listen, Elizabeth," he said. "Nothing is between us, not even she. She

has gone forever. Let us leave her. You are the wife of my youth. You

have cared for our home alone so long. Do not destroy it, in your turn,

for a shadow. I used to love your unawakened mind. When I believed it

was so, I looked elsewhere for that happiness which we do not appreciate

when it is within our grasp, and which requires such constant devotion,

an almost daily watchfulness, to be realized and retained. Now I find it

in you. I was not mistaken when I chose you. You are certainly the one

who was to determine my life, my entire life. I love you and I beg you

to forget."

She had listened to him, trembling, bending towards him, like those

slender birches in the forest which rear themselves to reach the light.

The last word aroused her again.

"But you, Albert, you. How could you forget her?"

"Near her, Elizabeth, I thought of you. Near you I do not think of her."

And with a curious persistence, she said:

"No, you cannot forget her. And I, I do not want to owe my happiness to

her sacrifice. I have tried ever since your return. I cannot."

Surprised and dismayed by this mysterious allusion, he asked her:

"Her sacrifice? What sacrifice? I don't understand."

"That is quite right. You cannot understand."

And in the same frightened and compelling voice, she added this vague

warning:

"You will understand to-night. You will choose to-night."

She would give him no other explanation. They had to go back to the

forest house. They took the children and returned to Saint-Martin

d'Uriage. The return was as dreary as the journey there had been gay.

The children instinctively shared the sadness of their parents, who did

not exchange a word. They guessed that they were again at variance. And

Marie Louise, at a turn in the road, even went up to her father to ask

him:

"Papa, you are not going away again?"

She received no answer. Deep in thought and absentminded, Albert did not

lead the way. The day was fading. At this season, the days are so short.

Below, the darkness which filled the depth of the valleys, was beginning

to ascend the mountains, dispersing the rays of the sun. On coming out

of the Prémol forest, the orchards and chestnut groves presented sheaf

bouquets, made up of golden or copper leaves. The procession, which had

gone along without a leader, came to a short cut, and found they were

lost.

"Where are we?" asked Elizabeth.

She spoke to her husband with so much ease and security that he

considered it a sign of confidence in the future. She showed herself so

delicately to be a woman by putting herself under his protection, and

yet how well she had directed his home during the time he had deserted

her! He found out easily where they were. But they were obliged to climb

the hill again. Night came on as they were still on the way. The donkey,

laden with the two children, went on slowly, and Philippe, who hated the

darkness, wanted someone else than "Brains" to lead him.

"You are not tired?" Albert often asked his wife.

"No, no."

But she slackened her pace. Knowing that she was tired, he pitied her

still more, cherishing her with that tenderness which surrounds and

refreshes its object, as the sea an island. At last the procession

arrived at Saint Martin, accompanied by the flocks which were being led

to the pond. It was a slow trail of oxen and sheep in the twilight. The

shepherds called their separate flocks. They were gathered around the

water which flowed through a tree trunk. But even this disorder was

tranquil. The peace of evening was descending on the mountain-side.

Once again in the house, Albert asked Elizabeth:

"Now, will you explain to me? All along the way I have thought of

nothing else."

"Presently," she said. "When the children are asleep."

VII

THE OPENED EYES

After dinner, which was a cheerful meal, despite the general weariness,

she took Marie Louise and Philippe and put them to bed herself. A moment

later, she came back alone to the drawing-room, where her husband,

standing motionless before the fire, was anxiously awaiting her return.

She held out two letters to him. She had the same expression of fear

which he had noticed at the Chartreuse de Prémol.

"Read," she murmured. "When they are asleep, I shall come back."

He read first the letter Elizabeth had received from Anne de Sézery,

and that revelation of a voluntary renunciation aroused in him, as a

storm stirs the calm waters of a lake, all the passionate recollections

which he had buried in his heart. For a moment he was crushed,

possessed, carried beyond himself. What had become of her, whom he had

not suspected to be capable of such a sacrifice? The second letter,

addressed to Philippe Lagier, informed him. In India, at the Epiphany

School, she was filling the office of Sister of Mercy, and found there

the occupation of her great soul. She would never write again. With a

woman's intuition, she had understood in her far-away post, her lover's

resistance to his own happiness, and was letting him know of the

consolation she was finding in her new life, and of the vow she had

taken to make sure that her renunciation had not been in vain.

"With you, uncertainty may last for a lifetime," she said to her rival,

whom she overwhelmed somewhat with her magnanimity. Albert hated

uncertainty and he would have to choose before Elizabeth's return.

Circumstances would not allow him to hesitate when his surging thoughts

were seeking direction. In refusing to owe her reconquered place to a

person whose character was still to remain a mystery; in giving him the

knowledge of Mlle. de Sézery's splendid courage, even divested of the

exigencies which lessened its value, did not Elizabeth reveal a

greatness of soul equivalent to Anne's? With what superiority both women

gave proof of their love! Ah, man, whatever he may do, is always

surpassed in this, and if he wishes to be favorably judged, he must

invoke the continuance of his efforts to create a lasting work, an

enduring structure: passion never fills his life completely, forever.

The minutes passed. How should he welcome Elizabeth? He could only take

her in his arms and give back to her confidence and the peace of her

heart. And he would even hide his wound from her. Anne, far away--Anne,

lost to him--Anne idealized by her flight, would remain in his life like

one of those mysterious divinities to whom one offers occult homage.

Many men's hearts contain these idols, and no one divines it. It is the

secret garden of each and every one. He would cultivate his secret

garden as a thing apart, rather than have his wife henceforth know the

least doubt, the slightest suffering.

He had arrived at this resolution when he saw Elizabeth before him. She

had returned unheard. She stood waiting for the words he was going to

say, her body bent by anxiety, as a stem by the weight of the flower it

supports. Then he took the two letters and threw them into the flames.

They watched them twist, blacken, dwindle away, and when it was all

over, he drew her to him, trying to smile, so as not to alarm her.

"You see, the fire has devoured them. It is you I love."

In an indistinct voice she asked:

"And her?"

"I have so much pity for her."

"Only pity?"

"Yes."

This was the cruel grave which he gave Anne de Sézery.

But she fixed him with her questioning eyes, with her immense eyes, and

this look disturbed him. He felt it pierce him like a sharp point. She

had reflected too much, suffered too much, lived too much in these last

years not to know his deepest thoughts. Conquered, subdued by this

effort of which she bore the touching trace, the application with which

by stone she had reconstructed their devastated hearth, he was afraid of

lying to her, and gently taking her face between his hands to draw her

to him, he said quite close to her:

"Elizabeth, do not look at me like that. Yes, this letter of Anne's has

hurt me. But it is past now, I swear it. With her, whatever her love

might be, we should walk towards death. With you, it is toward life."

"My Albert!"

"What a distance we have covered only to return to our starting point!"

"I am so weary!"

He rested the dear face against his shoulder.

"I am so happy here," she said with abandon.

Her sorrow, her deep sorrow had not been in vain. It had reestablished

the unity of the family in her charge. How sadly she had learned that we

are much more responsible for the little things than for the great ones

in which circumstances play a large part, and that it is our duty, day

by day, to strengthen the chain of our happiness, so easy to break. The

future owed her compensations. She had been unable to retain the

illusions of her youth. But she understood better, and he as well as

she, the resisting force of human love when it is sustained by a sacred

promise and the visible bond of children. With an energy which had been

dormant she had accomplished the most difficult of all tasks:

reconstruction. And in transforming her, that effort had made her more

worthy of being loved, more developed in intelligence and charm. She had

triumphed over her rival by her unswerving courage, as well as by her

youth; and, freed at last, he recognized it.

"I have learned to love you," she said.

"My wife!"

This word would henceforth keep Albert's heart within bounds, and with

his lips he closed the eyes that had opened little by little to an

understanding of life.

THE END