Chapter III: Part I: I (3)

However, she could never be induced to follow him to Paris, either because she feared to find herself out of her element, far from her accustomed sphere, or that, and rightly so, she did not wish to take a place which would soon be filled by another woman. From afar, she kept in touch with him by a regular correspondence, and the holidays found them together in their country house at Saint-Martin. Albert's marriage brought about great changes in these lives, with so much in common. She expected it, but she suffered as a result of it: nobody had her confidence. She was even spared the trouble of withholding her influence, as she had for a long time promised herself to do. Very much in love with the hesitating Elizabeth, whose parents kept him waiting for their consent, as if they wished thereby to accentuate the value of their favor, Albert, with the impetuosity and forgetfulness of youth, turned entirely to his love. She thought she had lost him forever. The new family of which he became a member, more brilliant, more desirable than his own, set in a more striking frame, flattered him and turned his head. He was not born satiated like those blasé young men, who cannot be diverted or amused; he keenly appreciated the pleasures of luxury and society. It is often true of authors and artists whose talent demands observation and contact with life, that they are attracted by worldly things. The Molay-Norrois had a very large circle and entertained extensively. As Albert observed his young wife, he saw an unknown light shed upon his own life. It was during that time that his mother moved to the Boulevard des Adieux, and as a traveler who descends in the evening from the still lighted mountain to the plain, so she began to come again into close touch with the past, which had been concealed by the shadow of death. Later on she noticed regretfully, sadly, that her daughter-in-law had not replaced her in the effective rôle of adviser, which requires attention and daily effort. She feared that as a result of Elizabeth's one-sided character, Albert would be ruined by the failure which she believed she had detected. But the situation adjusted itself and grew peaceful, as do those lakes, threatened by a storm and then spared. He added to his lesser writings, doubled his income, readily assumed new financial obligations and sought solitude, only to write his great work, which advanced, but with less rapidity, acuteness, enthusiasm and intellectual force. Elizabeth took charge of the health of her two children, paid visits, dressed well, retained her beautiful, placid face. And beneath this show of happiness was hidden an intimate drama, which had suddenly revealed itself, and his mother reproached herself for being unable to foresee it, when it would have been possible to avert the danger....

So Mme. Derize awaited and feared the arrival of her son. She would certainly greet him affectionately,--in her loneliness was this not a great occasion?--but she would not hide from him her disapproval. Moreover, the remembrance of her grandchildren made her determined to speak her mind. With the aid of all her motherly authority and even with all her former sacrifices, to which, as a rule, she seldom gave thought, she would protest against this separation, which could not be final. As she was working herself up to her duty, the poor woman saw the day fade and the shadows rise, felt herself to be more and more possessed by sorrow and fear, and found herself aging as the hour of his return drew near.

The room was ready, the dinner done to a turn, Fanchette was even beginning to grumble about the delay of the train, when someone knocked at the door.

"It is he," said the servant, hobbling to the entrance.

At the end of the corridor, her black dress scarcely distinguishable in the growing darkness, the mother was holding her breath, more affected than if she were seeing her child recover from a serious illness. All at once a "Good day, Fanchette," sincere and clear as usual, reassured her. The dear boy could not have changed very much.

"Albert, it is you?"

"Mamma."

He called her "Mamma," instead of "Mother" when he was particularly anxious to give expression to his affection, to return to her a power of protection, as though he were still a little boy. With the first word he warmed her heart. After coming up the lighted staircase, he could not see well in the darkness. She came toward him and he embraced her. Then he led her into the little drawing-room where there was a light, and he even removed the lamp-shade to see her more clearly. At each visit, he eagerly made this inspection, and with his penetrating glance which dwelt upon objects, he could judge whether health and age had dealt kindly with her, so far away from him. She took advantage of this to study his expression.

Physically they bore little resemblance to each other: he tall and well-built, with fine features, somewhat pronounced, a broad forehead, heightened by growing baldness, brown eyes, little and sunken, in which inspiration was concentrated, and that ease of movement which contributes so much supple attraction to a man still young; she thin, pale, washed out, faded, also having tremendous personality in her eyes--eyes of light blue, whose deep expression was both clear and candid, as the indication of a forceful spontaneous nobility of soul, with a calm, sure judgment.

As they were trying to get in touch with each other by means of a few insignificant words, Fanchette appeared with a beseeching, tragic face, which they could not fail to understand: they had to go into the dining-room without further delay. That might have helped toward better understanding and agreement, and yet after a few sentences, they became silent, and felt very far apart. They were both thinking of that which they did not say. After the soup, as the old servant went out to bring on the next course, Mme. Derize, astonished at the tranquillity which replaced her agitation, came at once to the issue:

"You are about to be reconciled to your wife?"

He raised his head which he had bent over the tablecloth, and in his most authoritative and cutting manner, answered:

"No."

She was always uneasy before undertaking a step, but once undertaken, all her fear vanished. The brutal refusal of her son did not stop her.

"Listen, Albert," she went on, "a man may become a victim of temptation, he may make mistakes. I know that. Without God's help we are all weak, and you have quite forgotten that. But when one has a home, children, one belongs to them. Nothing in the world has the power to free you."

She was instantly able to read on the hardened features of her son the effect of her exhortation. He wore his most distant and forbidding expression, as though high walls were surrounding him. Protected and powerful he explained with perfect freedom of mind:

"I did not wish to discuss this subject with you, Mother. What is the good? But you are wrong to condemn me. A hearth, the name explains itself--it lives, it revives, it illumines. At mine, I breathed a poison which little by little enervated me. I gave Elizabeth the life which suited her. She lacked nothing. And I, I was choked. I did not want our separation. It is she who unjustly desired it. In reality, we had been separated for years and through her own fault."

"Have you not been impatient with her? And if she had some slight faults, how can you compare them to your wrong-doing?"

"I recognize no wrong-doing."

"Ah!"

"You, you have been happy."

She answered sweetly:

"I have outlived my happiness by thirty-six years."

"That is true, but death strikes only one blow. It may leave a strengthening memory. It is less depressing than that slow, continued descent to mediocrity, to miserable monotony. There were, as it were, water-tight compartments between us."

"No, a man of your type is always somewhat alone. What are these differences of feeling compared to real sorrows: illness, poverty, so many actual griefs which are allotted by destiny. One must know how to accept one's life."

"I am not one of the resigned," said he.

"To accept does not mean to be resigned."

He made a slow movement as if to cut the conversation short:

"Do not let us discuss it any further--you cannot understand me."

"It is you who will understand, but too late."

During this discussion Fanchette, who had been coming and going, was constantly on the verge of spilling the food or breaking a plate, for she was so fearful that her master and mistress were not in accord. Nobody paid any attention to her cooking. It was not to be wondered at in Madame; one could give her boiled beef and potatoes every day and she would never notice it, but Monsieur, who, as a little boy, was so fond of his food and had such a good appetite, Monsieur who was able to appreciate a stew! It was true then that over there in Paris they had turned his head and exhausted his brain.

At dessert, Albert was the first to break the long silence which had succeeded his mother's last words, by inquiring:

"Has Elizabeth come to see you?"

"Only once."

"And you?"

"I went there five times."

As if to excuse herself for not having more frequently renewed her attempts at reconciliation, she added:

"I feel so uncomfortable in their house."

He could have embraced her for this word which had come so spontaneously from the poor woman's lips:

"So do I, Mother.... I have always felt uncomfortable ... in my own house."

She regretted her remark and again they were silent under the indignant gaze of Fanchette, who went back to the pantry, raising her only available arm: he had swallowed his pancakes as if they were medicine, without showing the slightest pleasure!

As they were drinking their coffee, the last hope of the unhappy cook who served it boiling, as he liked it, Albert finally decided to say what his mother had been hoping to hear since his arrival, and the delay of which had wounded her to the heart:

"And the children?"

"They are well," she said, her eyes filling with tears.

"Do you see them?"

"Seldom. Sometimes I go to the park to meet them, but they are not always there."

"You, you _may_ see them?"

This was said with a deep melancholy, but as the declaration of an inevitable fact. She rose from her chair, came over to him and placed her two hands on his shoulders.

"Albert, my Albert, you are not going to desert them?"

"We cannot push them from us," he murmured in a low voice, growing tense. "That would be worse."

But he added in spite of himself:

"Do you think that it is not painful for me?"

She knew his grief and bent farther toward him. Then he took her in his arms.

"Mother ... one may make mistakes in love, may love many times, but one has only one mother. I dare not take theirs from them."

"Marie Louise, Philippe ..." said Mme. Derize simply, relying on the power of those two names.

In his turn, he got up to free himself from the motherly embrace.

"Ah, do not take away my strength. I need it, I assure you."

"You would need less to come back to us."

She insisted, she put so much warmth into her voice, she held out her arms, as if to grasp hold of the victory. Fanchette who had come to take away her tray, stood at the threshold, not knowing whether to enter the room or to go back, and she waited in suspense at these effusions. He knew very well that any argument was quite useless, and he had but timidly to express one short sentence, in order to indicate his mother's failure:

"You do not know _her_. I love her."

Her name had not yet been mentioned. No doubt she would never be discussed, for the mere reminder of her existence separated them. Mme. Derize said no more: what could she answer? In naming the children she had hoped to overcome every obstacle, and the unknown obstacle persisted with all its force.

"Your luggage?" she asked a little later, to break the awkward silence which was oppressing them.

Material details often serve to adjust a situation. She explained:

"Your room is there. You are to have mine."

"I am leaving immediately."

"So soon?"

But this protest did not express the joy she had felt in the mere prospect of keeping him, in little by little finding him changed. It was an unselfish complaint, which was based on concern for him:

"You will tire yourself."

Fanchette, who had finished clearing away the table and brushing off the crumbs, seconded this reflection like a distressing echo. Albert did not stir. He discontentedly withdrew into himself.

"When will you come back?" continued his mother, ready to content herself with the shortest space of time. "This summer?"

"It will be impossible."

Was he then planning to leave everyone, his wife, his children, his mother, his country? She was tempted to murmur, "Why did you come at all?" His visit became more menacing than his absence. At that moment someone rang the door bell. It was unusual, at that hour.

"Shall I open the door?" asked the old servant.

"It is Philippe Lagier," said Albert. "I asked him to come here this evening. I am leaving on the ten-forty express."

Mme. Derize preceded her son into her drawing-room, to receive the lawyer. Philippe, who had the greatest respect for her, bowed and kissed her hand, which always surprised the poor woman. She understood that Albert had made the journey to Grenoble for this interview and that he would go away without seeing his children. The game was certainly lost, and since her presence was futile, she left the two men alone. The lawyer was sorry for her and retained her for a second with these words of regret:

"I tried to reconcile them, Madame. I assure you."

The despair which he understood, and the confidence of his friend dispelled the unhappiness, which old memories and Elizabeth's beauty had recalled to his mind.

"Well?" asked Albert impatiently, as soon as they were alone.

"Well, she refuses."

He briefly summed up his day, repeating almost verbatim the words of the petition to the President of the Court, and when he came to the account of his visit to the Molay-Norrois, he tried to explain the motive which was actuating Elizabeth, who was suffering from the injustice of fate, and intended to base her case on the truth.

Albert, who until then, had listened in silence, jumped up at these last words:

"The truth? Does she want the truth? Very well, I will tell it too. We shall bring to light our home life."

Philippe was amazed at this sudden anger:

"With what have you to reproach her?"

"I? Nothing and everything. Does one encounter in life only serious events, capable of exact limitation and definition? The greatest misfortunes are not the hardest to bear. Listen, in my loneliness--I am speaking of my home,--I have noted down from day to day my impressions of those last years. It happens that I have brought those books with me. Here they are; I shall leave them with you. You will find some causes there. I shall complete them. You will tell everything to the Court, since she wishes the truth. And I am going to contend for our children."

"I have just seen them," said the lawyer, as he took the books. "They are quite well."

With a decided movement, Albert stopped his friend as if to tell him that this subject belonged only to him:

"I know."

Philippe Lagier, who was going to plead their cause, realized the inefficacy of any interference. The restless forehead, the hard look in the eyes, the distressed and absorbed expression of the face, showed traces of that passion about which Albert was silent. And this refusal to speak of it implied a rare force of concentration on the same object. Every confidence is a diminution: it abstracts a spark of that divine fire with which the soul wishes to be filled. Anne de Sézery invisible, was there, in that room, present and dominant.

"It is definite? You will not be reconciled with Elizabeth?"

"Never!"

Elizabeth had given expression to the same final decree. There was nothing further to be done but to let the law take its course.

"And I am going to ask for a divorce," said Albert. "And since they wish to compromise her, I shall marry her."

He stopped short without mentioning her name. In his books he had often called attention to the importance of family ties, and, like his master Auguste Comte, to the value of indissoluble marriage: what authority would he have henceforth to defend such historical conclusions? He continued:

"There remains the question of financial arrangements. My wife will naturally undertake the administration of her own fortune. I have already asked our lawyer to make it over to her, and I shall give my children one thousand francs a month until the courts restore them to me--for at least a part of each year."

"If you remarry, the courts will not give them back to you."

Without answering, Albert went to call his mother, who was seated in the adjoining room, quite motionless and discouraged, looking at all the useless preparations of welcome: the only pair of fine sheets, carefully kept since the days of prosperity, the flowers in the vase and the photograph. She rose and followed him obediently like a woman condemned.

"It is time," he said. "Philippe is going to the station with me."

"Very well."

At the moment of leave-taking, struck by her seeming unconsciousness, he whispered to her as he pressed her to his heart:

"I have given you much sorrow, Mother."

"Yes, a great deal."

"You must not desert me."

"Oh, I ..."

"I am going to confide Marie-Louise and Philippe to you. You will watch over them, from afar, you will see them sometimes. If you have any worries to bear on their account, you will bear them for me."

"You know that quite well."

"Au revoir, Mother, I shall come back."

"May God watch over you!"

The door closed. He had forgotten Fanchette who was awaiting her turn, wiping her eyes on her apron. Mme. Derize came back, with a slower step, into the deserted little drawing-room. She reached the window, to see her son once more, as he was leaving the house. She was thinking:

"He did not come for me, nor for Elizabeth, nor for the children. Some day, however, I feel it, I am sure, he will come back to them, to us. Perhaps it will not be for a very long time. Let us hope that the evil he will have done will not be irretrievable."

Albert, looking up, saw a light in the window which framed a black figure. But he did not hear his mother, who, bending down, was calling to him in a beseeching voice.

And on his way to the station, in the carriage with his friend, he did not say a word.