Chapter XI: Part IV: I (2)

"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.