Chapter VII: Part III: I (1)

THE FIRST STAGE

A German legend, intended to illustrate that time is a mere convention, tells of the marvelous adventure of a young monk, who, doubting eternity, was attracted by the song of a bird in a wood near his hermitage. It was such a delightful song that one never tired of listening to it. When the monk returned to his convent he recognized no one there, and according to his recollections, it was found that three hundred years had elapsed since his departure. He had thought they were only a few minutes.

Elizabeth, after sitting up all night, was so worn out that she believed, on the contrary, that she bore the weight of long years. She was not prepared to penetrate so far into the forest of life. She had sought the way so keenly, that she was tired to death. Her health suffered for it, and she was obliged to remain in bed several days. Her illness was attributed to the treachery of early September evenings which simulate the softness of the summer, and are really cold. This enforced rest allowed her to deepen the resolutions which were to change her life. She felt herself unequal to seeing the visitors who wished to pay her a sick-call, and unable to recommence the worldly show, of which her new point of view showed her the emptiness. As soon as she was well, she declared her intention of settling at St. Martin d'Uriage.

"That is madness," her father objected, "nobody lives in the mountains in the autumn, particularly when recovering from a bad fever. And what will our friends say?"

Quietly, but firmly, she gave her reasons:

"To begin with, it is not the mountains. The sharper air will give me back my health and strengthen the children. And, moreover, I want to see fewer people. It is better in my position. And you will come to us frequently."

"To Albert's," corrected M. Molay-Norrois, who was surprised to find such determination in place of her usual pliable indifference.

Offended, she replied:

"It is true, but he will not come there."

"And if you were mistaken?"

"You will take me, Father."

Pleased to have proved in a word, the value of his paternal rôle, he no longer insisted.

The country house at Saint-Martin was opened again. The children recognized again with shouts of joy, the wooden porches which encircle the walls. A large garden, enclosed by a hedge, separated it from the country road. It was rather a deserted orchard where fruit trees, wild plants and flowers grew without cultivation. On the side of the farm, groups of pine-trees, an arbor and a stream gave it the appearance of a park. Opposite the entrance gate, an alley of plane trees extended to the church, which, new-built, stands against an old Roman steeple with a stone roof, the last vestige of an ancient chapel.

The village of St. Martin is built on a projection of the slopes of Chamrousse. From the mountain, a sea of verdure, meadows and pine woods seem to burst forth into these scattered hamlets, as if to submerge them. Below, that is in the foreground, the Chateau of Saint-Ferriol, standing bolt upright on a wooded promontory, with a pretty swaggering air, looks defiantly at the fortress with its towers, gables and superimposed terraces. Some seven hundred feet below, the fresh valley of Uriage is stretched out. From this terrace hidden by trees, one looks out on an extended view which is bordered by the mountains of Drac and by the Chartreuse in the distance. As the bell nearby sounded the last Angelus, Elizabeth, who had just finished putting her room in order, saw from her window the flocks returning, as evening came up from the plain. The peace of the country was so complete that she felt it in her heart.

The lights in the Casino and the hotels were being turned on. She was happy to be so far away from them. Here, she could master herself. An impression which dated from the first days of her marriage naturally recurred to her. Albert, on such an evening, had taken her hand to kiss it.

"See," he had said, "we are separated from the whole world. With my work and you, I want nothing more."

She had not understood the fullness of happiness which he hoped to find in her, and that this simple happiness must be jealously guarded.

Night began to frighten her. She feared sleeping in this old building, with its long passages and huge rooms, in which every corner seemed as if it concealed some unknown danger. She dared not inspect the rooms, nor fall asleep. For a long time she heard the tick of an old clock standing in the corridor, which seemed at every stroke to announce ghosts. She had never been afraid of anything when Albert was there. Henceforth it would require training to establish her courage and strengthen her weakness.

Marie Louise and Philippe had soon exhausted the novelty of change. The friendship of the farmers' children, calling in the fowls to give them corn, the mystery of the barns and the farm implements, the heat of the stables, the joy of going into the fields with the cows in the charge of their nervous governess, only made them forget for a few days their motor trips and the children's dances at the casino. They imperiously demanded more refined amusements. Their mother tried to take them walking to Prémol or to the Oursière Waterfall in the Chestnut woods. But she did not know the difference between mushrooms and toadstools, and the untiring youngsters wanted to drag her too far; unaccustomed to walking, she became exhausted before they did. This dual inferiority lessened her in their esteem. She ended by forgetting herself in trying to read stories to them. The library at Saint Martin, carelessly arranged on white pinewood shelves, contained all kinds of curious old books, novels of chivalry, collections of popular legends, ballads of France and other countries. Elizabeth had often seen her husband glance hurriedly over them and take out a volume which she thought was chosen at random, but from whose pages, fantastic heroes escaped. When she wished to do likewise, she saw how ignorant she was.

"You don't know," said Marie Louise condescendingly. "Papa knew. And then he did not read--he told us stories. It's much nicer."

And the impertinent little girl finished by saying:

"I will tell you the story of the 'Cup of Happiness.'"

How difficult it was to keep a resolution! After the sad exaltation of her night of awakening, which had inspired her so tremendously in her desire for change and sacrifice, she was now hesitating at little daily obstacles and struggling against them. She would never attain the object which she sought. What was the good of trying? Albert would know nothing of it. The irreparable separated them. He belonged to another love. Thus discouraged, she ceased all resistance and gave way. But she increased her sorrow by worrying, as one irritates a wound by frequent probings. And, at night, the sight of the lights attracted her. She was already considering going back, renouncing the decision made at a time of deadly insomnia. Only self-love still retained her. She pictured the ironical glances of Mme. Passerat or of Mme. de Vimelle.

One day, as she was walking sadly down the plane-tree avenue, whose heavy leaves are the first to become discolored, after the arrival of autumn, she accepted the invitation of the chapel, the door of which was wide open. She never went there, except to take the children to Mass on Sunday. She tried to pray, but no prayer came to her--only complaints and recriminations against her fate. She remembered one of Albert's reflections:--although an unbeliever, he still recognized the motive power of religious faith, but denied the existence of that faith in all those whose life was not the proof of it, at least in serious circumstances. And he added that he had scarcely known--except in the case of his mother--that constant elevation of thought in the humblest actions which are transfigured by the expression of an inner joy. This made her remorseful. She had had no news of Mme. Derize since she left Grenoble. She always spent the summer at Saint Martin: how had she stood the heat? Why should she have been thus deprived of the country air and the companionship of her grandchildren? Why strike her, punish her for a fault which she could not even understand, and so strongly condemned? Elizabeth was ashamed of her forgetfulness, and promised herself to make up for it the following day, while the heat and light of the whole month of September still permitted it. That was her prayer.

Next day, she had the children dressed early. They were delighted to go to Grenoble. But when it was time to leave, Marie Louise looked complainingly at the empty road:

"I don't see the motor," she said.

"We are going to walk as far as Uriage where we are to take the street car."

"The car?" repeated the youngsters bitterly.

Spoiled by the Passerat motor, they had little liking for this mode of travel. Nevertheless, they were resigned. At the Boulevard des Adieux when they had to climb a dark staircase, they complained again.

"It is not nice, not nice," said the little girl insolently.

"It is all dark," Philippe added.

Children do not willingly take the part of those who are conquered: it is life that makes them do so. Elizabeth quieted them with difficulty. She was already worrying about her mother-in-law's welcome, and did not want to bring two badly behaved children to see her. Old Fanchette, who opened the door for them, wore a cross face, as she greeted the young woman, but when she saw her thus accompanied, she was wreathed in smiles. Mme. Derize received her in her sweet, gentle way, as if she had not noticed the neglect she had suffered. In this way she prevented any apologies and awkwardness. She admired the rosy cheeks of the two children who were holding back, uncertain as to whether they should obey their instinctive respect for age, or respond to the tenderness she showed them.

"Back again in Grenoble?" she asked Elizabeth.

"Only for a time. We have come to lunch with you, Mother."

Fanchette, who was listening, muttered between her teeth:

"Now we must feed them, the dinner-hunters!"

"You will fare very badly," Mme. Derize replied in her quiet voice, "but so much the worse for you."

"I have brought a pie with me and some of those little strawberries that you liked from the Chamrousse woods."

"Ah, you spoil me."

"Just as if we had nothing to give them to eat!" still grumbled the servant, who made no pretense of being logical.

This addition to the menu was very welcome. During the meal, Elizabeth realized, with a sense of details which only a woman can recognize, that there was a decrease of the comforts of life. She looked more attentively at Albert's mother and saw a change in her face, which she had not noticed on her arrival. She attributed it to the heat of a long summer, endured without once leaving the town, surrounded by a chain of mountains which seem to focus the rays of the sun on the plain. How wicked she had been in not asking her to come up to Saint Martin, where every year she had enjoyed the good air! Immediately after luncheon, she made the offer which was in her mind.

"Mother," she said, "we are going to take you to Uriage."

"It is very late now," objected Mme. Derize, who blushed immediately, fearing that her words would be construed as a complaint.

But the slight flush did not color her cheeks very long. She added:

"I mean to say that the season is already well advanced."

"We have still part of September and October. Autumn often has many fine days. The church is only a few steps from the house. You will have the children. Come, I beg of you."

Fanchette, who was clearing away the table, was still a victim of contradictory emotions, and rattled her dishes. They might have asked madame before, but a stay in the mountains would still do her good.

Mme. Derize, somewhat surprised at so much insistence, was looking kindly at her daughter-in-law. She asked herself to what this unexpected manifestation was due. Had she been right to entrust Albert's books to the care of Philippe Lagier to be given to his young wife? She had blamed her initiative very much. She had often been remorseful and somewhat afraid. Could her mind be at ease, and did she even see a light in the dark future?

"I shall be very pleased to join you," she finally accepted.

"No, no. This is a kidnapping. We are going to carry you off with us this evening."

Like weak, shy people, Elizabeth manifested a nervous obstinacy. With an uncertain will, one seeks only immediate results.

"Well, let us make up our bundles," answered the old lady almost gayly, understanding that state of mind.

When the arrival of Mme. Derize became known at Uriage, the entire Molay-Norrois set unanimously condemned Elizabeth. It was an absurdly sentimental concession. It would have been better to have continued to maintain her dignity. Saint Martin was little frequented. Nobody bothered to meet an old woman of commonplace family. M. Passerat, who had formerly had occasion to converse with her, took her part, but as usual, showed himself to be a coward.

"She is an educated woman, I assure you."

"Yes, a former post-mistress," said Mme. de Vimelle curtly.

Philippe Lagier, who had left for Florence the day following his distressing defeat, was no longer there to make them respect his old friend. However, Mme. Molay-Norrois visited her daughter more frequently, and even made advances to Albert's mother. Elizabeth, absorbed in her one idea, showed herself to be unjust in not noticing these praiseworthy efforts. Another drama was being played about her which she never suspected.

The absent member of the family was never mentioned at Saint-Martin, but the thought of him abided there. It occupied the two women unceasingly, one of whom, the young wife, kept silent from pride, and the other from a motive of delicacy, feeling awkward even in presence of the children--in order not to violate instructions that she understood, but regretted. Mme. Derize did not compare the faults of her daughter-in-law with those of her son. She simply wanted to incline Elizabeth to indulgence. Orderly in her own inner life and very skeptical about the duration of illegitimate passions, she did not give up hope of Albert's return.

For a fortnight this strained condition continued. In the evenings after Marie Louise and Philippe had gone to bed, it became particularly unbearable. The two women worked under the same lamp; one, wearing spectacles and bent over a thick woolen stocking intended to warm some poor neighbor's baby in the wintertime; the other, very erect; guiding herself from a pattern of some tapestry on which she worked idly and without pleasure. They exchanged a few commonplaces, then the conversation stopped. The stillness of the country at night was all about them, penetrating and quieting them.

"Why does she not speak to me?" thought Elizabeth, reopening her wound. "Albert considered her so intelligent, so superior to poor silly little me. She does not bother with me. I am not worth the trouble. Then why did she come?"

She did not know that the older woman was reproaching herself in the same way.

"She is suffering," the latter said to herself. "She would suffer less, if she told me her secret which I guess, yet fear I may be mistaken. I ought to get closer to her, draw her to me and comfort her, and yet, I dare not--I feel a weight in my heart, which is choking and oppressing me. My lips are about to open, they do open, and I remain silent. Why, O my God, have I so little courage?"

Elizabeth, overcome, was the first to make up her mind, as they were walking along the plane tree avenue, lightly crushing the dead leaves.

"Mother, do you know where _he_ is now?"

Trembling with emotion, Albert's mother answered quickly:

"He does not write to me very often, and not at length. He is traveling."

"In which country?"

"His last letter was dated from Iran in Spain."

She added, as Elizabeth asked no further:

"It is on the other side of the Pyrenees, but quite near the frontier."

This poor sentence fell like one of those heavy autumn leaves, which the slightest breeze carries off. And that was all. The opportunity they had so long awaited had passed.

That evening Elizabeth did not go to bed until very late. She came back into the drawing-room after her mother-in-law had gone, and tried to read a book to cool her fever. To concentrate her attention, she put her hands on either side of her face. Half an hour passed and she had not turned one page. She was still reading the same words--

"He is traveling--he is traveling."

She recalled the uncommon trips on which she had accompanied her husband to Germany, Munich and Nuremberg, to Touraine, to the castles on the bank of the Loire. The departure was to Albert an exuberant happiness, a "joy of conquest" he called it:--he was going to take possession of new countries. In the picture-galleries, as he stood before a landscape rich in historical association, he would grow enthusiastic, explain, comment, make comparisons that she did not even try to grasp. Little by little this good humor changed--he became distrait, absorbed in himself, and ceased to tell her his impressions. And their return was silent and unresponsive. Why?

Why? She had never inquired. Dull and passive, she asked herself very few questions, and did not try to live her own life, or even Albert's with him. What companionship did she give him? As soon as she began to question herself thus, a quantity of small forgotten details came back to her mind.--How much luggage she had always needed! And what importance she had attached to the thousand inconveniences which no traveler avoids! She needed so many things, she complained of everything, as if Albert could keep the trains from smoking, the rain from falling, the sun from overheating, the hotel kitchen from smelling, the tradesmen from stealing, the women from wearing big hats in the theaters, and fatigue from coming. The worst of all was that she had no curiosity. Curiosity is an incentive which lessens the annoyances of the trip for the sake of the pleasures which are before us. "Nothing interests you," he had said one day with a forced laugh. She now understood the mistake she had made in giving the same value to the petty necessities of life as to serious, vital, new experiences. But most women make this mistake, and that was one excuse. Of what use was an excuse with a husband like Albert who had so often offered to guide her?

She got up slowly to look in the dictionary, then in an atlas for this mysterious Iran. She found it on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees, in the heart of the Basque country. He had planned this journey a long time ago. It was a necessary voyage for material for one of his volumes on "The Peasant." There, he said, in the shelter of the mountains, the traditions of the family were preserved in their primitive purity. Some time ago he had suggested taking her there, but with little insistence, when he learned that comforts had to be dispensed with. She found in a Baedeker of Spain with which he had provided himself in advance, praise of the countries which bathe the Bidassoa, and an account of the customs peculiar to the province of Guipuzcoa. These strange syllables which had formerly amused her, now made her thoughtful. She, who had never, so to speak, exercised her imagination, saw clearly, on an evening richer in warmth and color than those of Dauphiné, a peasant cart at Iran, driving along a road separated from a river by leafless bushes, and on the back seat of the cart, close to each other, sat Anne de Sézery and Albert, who was covering his companion's shoulders with an old horse blanket. "Thus clad, she had never appeared more charming to me"--a little sentence from his diary which was indelibly engraved on her heart. That woman would never take account of any inconveniences on a journey, or glance anxiously, with her much praised golden eyes at the changing scene.

Elizabeth fell asleep thinking of these sad pictures. The next day, she was vexed with the old lady, whom she blamed for her nightmares. When the postman came, she was surprised to find herself watching the mail, to see if there were a letter from Albert to his mother. One day a letter came, bearing the postmark of Paris. She was a little relieved by it, as if the intimacy which was torturing her would be lessened by the return.

The embarrassment which had crept in between her mother-in-law and herself increased like a thick fog in which neither could distinguish her real feelings. What comfort could she expect from this presence? Anything which reminded her of Albert irritated her, weakened her, and everything did recall him. Did Mme. Derize take into account the uselessness of her intervention? She manifested a desire to return to Grenoble. October gave every indication of being cold. The morning of her departure, succeeding in overcoming her fear, she at last said to Elizabeth that which she had been preparing since the day after her arrival:

"My child, have confidence and be patient. Your time will come. It cannot fail to come. Only you must not find morbid pleasure in your sorrow."

But the young wife showed an expressionless face.

"I do not understand you, Mother. I have no sorrow. I never give a thought to it."

Mme. Derize tried to smile.

"You came," she said, "to see me, to hear news of him."

"You are wrong. It was not right that you should be deprived of your grand-children's company on his account."

Then Albert's mother, who had exhausted the limit of her boldness, was silenced, when Elizabeth could no longer keep back her tears.

"My dear little girl, why are you crying?"

"I don't know. It is nervousness."

"I know it is, and I love you all the more for it. I shall always be with you. But why make your trouble harder to bear? Wait with perseverance, but with calmness. Occupy yourself with Marie Louise and Philippe. They are your reason for hope and you belong entirely to them at this time. Be busy, very busy. Fill your days. And pray."

"I no longer know how."

"Go back soon to Grenoble--I shall teach you. Good-by, my child. May God keep you."

The two women kissed each other. Elizabeth watched the jaunting-car which took Mme. Derize to Uriage, until it disappeared round a corner and was hidden by a chestnut tree.

"Why has she gone?" she sighed, when she could no longer see.

After this departure her parents fled from deserted Uriage. Alone and made keen by sorrow, she experienced that melancholy, which, with the coming of autumn, arises from the earth at every step in the country, and which, until now, she had considered only as poet's imaginings. She understood now just what Albert had felt two years ago--the unhappiness of an incomplete or misunderstood life, so powerful to vivify all nature. The plane tree avenue, heaped up with thick, strong leaves, no longer hid the Chapel whose invitation, on that account, became more evident; but that was not where she chose to walk. She preferred the roads which go into the heart of the chestnut woods, and where, from time to time one glimpses the picturesque mountains. But she did not venture far because of her fear. Her children were surprised at her changed mood. She thought less about them than of her sorrow. In the evening when she saw the cattle come home and drink from the little pond, she hated this peace that the animals and their drivers inhaled. October enveloped her with an anguish in which she knew a charm. It was a pleasure to experience pain.

Her entire household was conscious of this weakened condition. At last one day she received some news from Grenoble. Madame Derize, uneasy at not seeing her come back, wrote her a pressing letter, the ending of which revealed a power to foresee:

"My dear Elizabeth," wrote the lady, "this time of year and loneliness are not good for you. And you are not thinking of Marie Louise and Philippe. It is time to occupy yourself with their studies, to give them companions for their work and play. You yourself need a little distraction and social intercourse. Come to Grenoble, I beg of you. We shall see each other often, shall we not? If you do not come this week, I shall come and bring you myself--because I am anxious about you, my child...."

She was amenable to the first influence. She hastened her preparations, to the great joy of the two youngsters, satiated with the pleasures of the country.

"All the same," said Marie Louise, "Grenoble is not Paris."

"It is not Saint Martin either," answered Philippe philosophically.

When it was time to get into the carriage, Elizabeth did not want to go away. In town, she would resume her ordinary life: the home of her parents where she was not at home, and the trial for separation, with reference to which she had had several questions from her lawyer that she had left unanswered. She would lose that liberty of suffering from which she derived so much comfort. She would be obliged to busy herself with her children, to use her days, instead of which she had been giving herself entirely to her own sorrow.

When she lost sight of the Château of Saint-Ferriol which overlooks the valley of Uriage, and when she had entered the valley of Gière, whose sides were covered with hardy golden bushes, it seemed to her that her life was also narrowing, and that she was going far away from her love which she mistook for her sorrow. The children laughed and their merriment pained her. She was coming back to real life, in which actions count for more than wishes and regrets.

II

ELIZABETH'S DAY

Maître Tabourin's four clerks, knowing that their chief was lunching in town with a wealthy client, began their afternoon by playing cards. That contempt for the public, which characterizes the small official in France, whether in the service of the state or of a private individual, prevented their stopping or hiding their game when someone knocked at the door.

"Come in," said Vitrolle indistinctly, unhappy in having no trumps.

But to the amazement of his colleagues, the junior clerk, Malaunay, left the card table to meet the intruder, to whom he bowed respectfully. They understood, however, when they caught sight of Mme. Derize, whose soft, blonde hair, lit up by the rays of the winter's sun, contrasted with the reddish fur she was wearing. In spite of the weight of her cloak, she seemed very tall. The cold air out of doors had reddened her cheeks. A black hat, turned up at the side, trimmed with a single feather, gave her the appearance of an English portrait. Hearing of Maître Tabourin's absence, she seemed confused.

"He asked me to come to-day," she said.

"But he will be back, Madame."

"Then I will wait."

They showed her into the little room adjoining his office. And the game continued. When it was over, Lestaque and Dauras, who had won, suggested another. The senior clerk prudently refused, and each one took up a document without enthusiasm. For want of something better to do they talked, paying no attention to the person who was waiting indefinitely. What is more natural than for a client, however charming, to remain in the waiting-room.

"How about our bet?" asked Malaunay.

"What bet?"

"The Derize case. I was the only one who bet on the husband."

"You were wrong."

"Well, well, we shall see."

"We know now."

Lestaque and Dauras thought little, but at the same time interrupted:

"How far have we gotten with the case?"

"Well," explained the clerk with an air of importance. "After the petition to the president, a verbal record of non-reconciliation was filed. M. Derize did not appear, and his wife obtained the temporary care of the children, as well as an allowance. We sent the summons last October. M. Derize has not shown his intention and it is now January. The delays for conclusion have expired, and the case is written on the records to go by default. We have evidence which constitutes a written proof. The separation will be given _de plano_."

"Has anyone seen that evidence?" asked the junior clerk.

"No. Mme. Derize has it. She does not answer our letters, and the delay in the case is due to her silence. I suppose she is bringing it to us. It is high time."

Dauras sought the information which Lestaque enjoyed giving.

"And what is M. Lagier doing, M. Derize's lawyer?"

"What is he doing?" answered Malaunay, expressing envy and admiration on his mobile face. "He is flirting with his lovely enemy. At Uriage they were always together."

"Yes, but at Grenoble they never see each other."

"They are keeping under cover. And yet you can believe that Mme. Derize is in no hurry to get her separation."

"Well, what will she do then?"

"Ah well, she will console herself. Once consoled, she will become reconciled to her husband. It will be a household of four. That is the custom in Paris."

For the little clerk, dazzled by Paris, was much impressed by its free habits. Always on the lookout for something new, and with his eye fixed on the door, he had only time to whisper "Take care!" to them. The chief entered. M. Tabourin had lunched well--too well, in fact. His face was scarlet, his hair--which he had to dampen a great deal to accomplish such a result--flat. Instead of adopting the new fashion and covering his linen with a high vest, he displayed a shirt front, which he had spotted in many places as a result of his lively excitable gestures. As he was finishing his cigar, he assumed the indifferent air of a man of the world, for the especial benefit of Malaunay, who was watching him carefully; but the first word of the head clerk aroused him.

"Madame Albert Derize is waiting for you in your office."

"Ah, ah," he said, "she is making up her mind at last. It is time to get a judgment by default."

A last hasty puff, and then he disappeared. A few minutes later, someone knocked at the office door.

"Maître Lagier," announced the junior clerk jokingly.

It was he. They would like to have laughed, but the newcomer knew how to command respect. The clerks restrained their mirth.

"M. Tabourin is here?"

"Yes, sir," answered Vitrolle. "He is in his office with Mme. Derize. I will tell him you are here."

"No need to. I shall come back."

Then he did not care to meet Mme. Derize? Upset in their calculations, the clerks were astonished, when the Chief reappeared opportunely with his client. He showed every evidence of an unpleasant interview. Philippe Lagier, discovered, just as he was leaving, made a hurried movement of retreat and embarrassment which could not escape so keen an observer as Malaunay; but the young woman, after an imperceptible hesitation, came toward him.

"Monsieur," she said, "I should very much like to speak with you. Will you go a short way with me?"

"Willingly, Madame," he stammered confusedly.

What had become of that self-possession which had never been known to fail him? Why this emotion on so ordinary an occasion? He recovered his composure at once and bowed to the lawyer and his clerks before he went out with the beautiful Mme. Derize. M. Tabourin had other things on his mind than to observe these fine distinctions. The door was hardly closed when he announced tragically to his colleagues:

"The Derize case has fallen through!"

"How? Why?" asked the clerks.

"Mme. Derize withdraws her petition."

Vitrolle, Lestaque and Dauras wore appropriate expressions of despair to fit the occasion. But the junior clerk dared to show unbounded joy and cried:

"I've won!"

The Chief, not understanding, stared at him and repeated mechanically:

"Won?"

"Certainly," explained the clerk insolently. "We had a bet on that case."

"A bet?"

"It is done in all offices. With nothing at stake what interest would we have in a case? Mme. Derize wanted a separation. Her husband demanded nothing--I bet on him. Nothing has happened--therefore I have won."

Leaving M. Tabourin perplexed, he turned towards his comrades.

"You each owe me a dinner at a restaurant of my own choice. Three dinners, what luck!"

The others protested. The lawyer, surprised, but greedy, hesitated a second between the desire for an invitation and the dignity of his position. The latter won, and he grew very angry:

"Take care, sir. You don't treat business matters seriously, and I have already noticed your dangerous inclination to pleasure. Did you not recently win another bet at the Café du Commerce on the longest time one could take to smoke a cigar? The longest time! At your age, I should have understood the shortest. You took more than an hour to do it. It was a sufficient cause, you know, to dismiss you. The interests of a business must be sacred to its employés, and I will not have my clerks betting on the loss of my cases."

And with this speech, in which he gave vent to his anger (a good thing for him, as he needed some helpful exercise to aid his digestion)--he inconsiderately distributed some work to his mournful listeners.

Saint-André's Square is two steps from the Quai de la République, where the Molay-Norrois lived. Instead of going toward the Isère, Elizabeth directed her steps toward the park. Philippe Lagier, who was silently walking beside her was surprised.

"Where are we going, Madame?"

"To my house."

"Then you have left your parents?"

"Did you not know about it? I have taken a flat in the Rue Haxo, almost opposite the Botanical Gardens."

"Ah," said he, making no comment.

"I have been very much criticised for it. Still it is better as it is. I see my parents almost every day, but a mother needs a little liberty to bring up her children."

The park seemed numbed with the cold. Behind the houses, the young elms and plane trees reared their light branches and twigs against the delicate winter sky, so clear and pale. The water in the pond was frozen, and the ice had been broken in one small place to give a little black swan room to swim; but the poor bird, feeling imprisoned, scarcely moved his feet. Near Elizabeth, Philippe remembered the day last summer in this same garden, when before Counselor Prémereux, he had pleaded the cause of passion, against the Molay-Norrois majority.

They scarcely spoke a word, as they walked along the crowded streets which led from there to the Place de la Constitution, out of which branches the Rue Haxo. This square, symmetrical and even, surrounded by office buildings, was almost deserted, and the Rue Haxo was still more so.

"There it is," she said, as they stopped in front of a tall house of modest appearance near the Boulevard des Alpes, bordered by the grassy slopes of the old ramparts.

They walked up four flights. She preceded him going into her apartment.

"There is no fire in the drawing-room. Excuse my receiving you in this room, Monsieur. It is our school-room."

It was a work-room simply furnished, with a large ink-spotted table; and its one window overlooking the trees of the Botanical Gardens.

"My children write their exercises here--at least, Marie Louise does, because your godson can only amuse himself as yet."

She appeared constrained, embarrassed by what she wished to say to him and could not. Philippe Lagier was conscious of it, but could not help her. Remembering the path at Uriage where he had known humiliation and shame, he could not realize that he was again face to face with her. She had tried to smile in saying "Your godson," which was a bond between them. It was a smile of such distress that he finally concluded to aid her by giving to this conversation the motive it required.

"I have had a letter from your husband, Madame,--from Albert. That was my reason for visiting your lawyer, just now when I met you. His solicitor at Grenoble, Maître Randon, tells him that you refuse every month to accept the allowance which he sends you regularly."

"That is so."

"He was astonished and asked me the reason for it, and begged me to insist or to make them prevail upon you to accept it in your own interests, and if you refuse for yourself, then in the interests of Marie Louise and Philippe, who are in your charge."

After giving this explanation with a severe authority due to embarrassment, he looked at the young woman whose confusion he noted; either coming from the cold air outside to the warm air of the room had caused the blood to mount to her cheeks, or else this flush was caused by the awkwardness she experienced in advance, knowing what her answer must be. Blushing, her eyes filled with tears, she regained her breath as if she were choking, and replied with great effort:

"My husband has wrecked his home himself. He has deprived us of his moral support. From now on, I have decided to dispense with his financial support.

"I will bring them up myself. Later, they can do as they like."

"It is the tenth month. The lawyer has already received ten thousand francs in your name. He does not wish to keep it."

"Let him send it back to M. Derize."

"Albert will not take it back. You know him well. He has pride ... like you."

With a gesture of indifference, she indicated that she had nothing to do with the disposal of the money. However, Philippe Lagier's answer, that allusion to Albert's unselfish nature, was secretly pleasant to her. It put an end to the unpleasant memories which the presence of the lawyer would otherwise have awakened. He replied, with a little less assurance:

"May I ask you a question? Do you not need this allowance, which is legal and which you can--which you ought to receive?"

She explained her situation with simplicity. She had received a dowry of two hundred thousand francs, the interest of which would be sufficient for her. She did not add that her parents had not yet given her the last quarter of it, and that she found her income reduced to six thousand francs a year. Philippe really knew this, but only said:

"It is not the position you are accustomed to."

The apartment in which she was living was certainly neither like the one in the Rue Bara in Paris, nor that of the Molay-Norrois on the banks of the Isère.

"I shall get used to it," she said, smiling. "It is nothing. I have no need to wear the garb of a martyr."

The clothes she was wearing suited her so well, bringing out with such brilliance the beauty of her complexion, that he wanted to protest against this. He had lost the right to do so, and he therefore refrained.

"My children's education," she continued, "will suffer in no wise from this reduction. I have promised myself and I shall keep my word. See, I have already begun. I correct Marie Louise's exercises, and I am teaching her her lessons."

"You give yourself much trouble."

"It gives me something to do. One must be occupied with other people when one's own life no longer has a purpose."

She had risen. He believed that she was asking him to go. But she opened the drawer of a writing-table and came over to him to give him a packet, carefully folded, which he recognized.

"I asked you to come back with me so that I could give you M. Derize's note-books. I thank you for having given them to me. I have kept them a very long time, but you did not ask me for them."

He bowed without speaking.

"And here is the letter which had been sent to him and which I kept without the right to do so. You will return it to him."

Philippe, dumbfounded, refused the envelope she held out to him.

"This telegram belongs to you. It is your weapon. You cannot give up the possession of it."

"I have no further need of it."

"But, Madame...."

"I am giving up my petition for separation. Albert may do as he likes."

For the first time in this conversation she used her husband's Christian name. It was the only indication of her emotion.

"Ah!" murmured Philippe, who did not expect this new development. "Does Albert know?"

"I have just told my lawyer. His lawyer will tell him about it in turn."

"You will give me permission to tell it to him?"

"Certainly."

After that there was nothing left for him to do but to go. Standing in front of her he did not know how to show her his respect. In the course of this unlooked-for interview, he had constantly looked for an opportunity to ask her pardon. To the humiliation of his recollections was now added that of his inadequacy in a situation in which he most desired to use the resources of his mind. But there was another surprise in store for him. Elizabeth offered him her hand, and with a trembling voice, said:

"I also wished to tell you, Monsieur, that I have forgotten your last words at Uriage. Give me your hand. You had misjudged me; it was my fault. A woman alone has to be so careful. Remain Albert's friend, and be a little friendly to me, will you? We shall meet seldom. I only remember the truths I heard from you one day, which have made me understand one's own contribution to one's unhappiness.--"

Philippe, bending down, kissed the fingers which she gently drew away.

"Madame," he repeated. "Madame."

And when he could master his emotion, he said:

"I shall be worthy of your pardon. Ah, if you only knew how I have reproached myself! Now I feel so much younger, so much lighter. Ah, one's own contempt is hard to bear."

"Sh!" she said, her finger on her lips as a signal to him not to continue the subject, never to speak of it again.

He bowed.

"Good-by, Madame. You will never have a more devoted friend."

When he had left, Elizabeth took off her hat and her furs. Her cheeks were burning and her hands frozen. The children, who had been out walking with their governess on L'Ile Verte, were about to return home: she would resume her daily work with them which sometimes made her so tired. She sat down by the fire, leaning against the back of her chair motionless, in that position in which one seeks relaxation after intense fatigue. She felt a great need of rest--of not having to think of or do anything more. Darkness was coming on, but she did not light the lamp. Before her, through the window, she saw the snow of Belledonne on the trees, lit up by the rays of the setting sun, and delicately colored like early spring flowers. Kissed by the sun, the glaciers were melting, and yet, even from a distance in the clear evening light, their coldness was apparent. Despite so many praiseworthy efforts, which seemed to give power to her poor, deserted, young life, she felt the touch of death.

What courage she had used, in order to triumph little by little over her natural indolence, to accomplish so many decisions, even the generosity of which, once they were executed, could no longer sustain her! No reward, no hope would be given her. Far away from her, the one close to the other, Albert and his mistress were freely enjoying their love. However, they would know her greatness of soul, her pride, her new and difficult life. She would force them to remember. During that very day, had she not shown of what she was capable? Did Anne's biography, which had been kept with so much admiration, contain a finer page? This comparison with her rival in exciting her jealousy and poisoning her wound, had given her a little energy. Her children, who came in in the semi-darkness to kiss her, aroused her from her torpor. She thought that Albert's mother would approve of her, would thank her, and, in this unaccustomed activity which had demanded of her sluggish youth a display of strength, the use of which she now understood, she found, despite so many causes for despair, that wonderful peace in fatigue which healthful exercise gives to the body. And this new sensation came as a surprise and a relief to her.

III

MADAME MOLAY-NORROIS

Elizabeth had resolved after her return to Grenoble, not to be at home to visitors in her new house. But on the advice of her parents, to her great surprise sanctioned by her mother-in-law as well, she had decided to have a reception-day. In Paris, preferring her own acquaintances, she had taken little trouble to keep up connections useful or pleasant to her husband. Little by little Albert had left her free and had withdrawn from society. But now the sacredness of social life was impressed on her by the Molay-Norrois, and Mme. Derize begged her to avoid solitude.

"I am confident," she said, "that the future will brighten for you. But you must arrange a normal existence for yourself. It is not always a good thing to live with one's memories."

"But how about you?"

"Oh! I am quite old and the past suffices for me. Marie Louise and Philippe will have friends whose parents you will know. You have given me great happiness in renouncing your separation."

"Nobody knows of it as yet."

"Since you bear Albert's name it is right that the sympathy and esteem of the public should go to you. If God wills that some day you shall take up your life together ..."

"I shall never live with Albert again. He has caused me too much unhappiness...."

After the protest, she decided, not from personal conviction, but because of weakness and the need of distraction, to take the advice of Mme. Derize. One of her school friends, Blanche Servin, of whom she had lost track, had married an ordinary clerk, M. Vernier; and knowing that Elizabeth was unhappy, this friend plucked up courage to come to see her, which she would never have cared to do before, because of the difference in their positions. She turned out to be one of those women, who at first glance, seem very insignificant, and find time to devote to good work because they never think about themselves. Elizabeth was surprised at her tact, her radiant sweetness, the gentle gayety she displayed, despite all the difficulties and troubles she had known in raising a large family. What determination she had developed in so commonplace a lot! She promised to return her call, and to bring Marie Louise and Philippe with her.

Then, now and again, the friends of the Molay-Norrois appeared. Mme. Passerat, always active and in a hurry, came first, accompanied by the old Counselor Prémereux, an admirer over whom she held the whip-hand, since M. Molay-Norrois, the victim of an attack of gout, found himself obliged to stay in his room. With her effusive graciousness she looked about the place and ran to the window to enjoy the view.

"Trees, trees of every kind. And Belledonne on the horizon. It is wonderful! But how pretty you look, my dear! You are right always to get your clothes in Paris."

"It is a dress from last winter," explained Elizabeth, whose toilette contrasted with the shabby furniture. "I had it altered here."

Mme. Passerat burst out laughing.

"What an innocent child I One does not mention such things."

The young woman, determined to meet all advances coldly, was nevertheless obliged to recognize her visitor's charming ease of manner. But, having exhausted her ordinary subjects of conversation, in order to gain a confidence which was being withheld, she let Elizabeth understand, with a condescending air, that she knew all about the withdrawal of the petition. Certainly M. Tabourin's office kept no secrets from anyone.

"Yes," she added, "your settling here is only temporary. You are thinking of going back to Paris soon."

"I think not, Madame," answered Elizabeth, who drew herself to her full height at this intrusion into her private life.

"Yes, you will, you will. Your father will be delighted. He has such good judgment, your dear father, such great experience. Listen to me, my child, brilliant surroundings, the movement and glitter of a drawing-room are necessary for the duration of a passion. Men are so vain. Your husband has withdrawn from society. It is a foolish whim which will not last."

"You know better whether it can last, Madame. But you must allow me to be the best judge of my own case," said Elizabeth.

She was surprised at herself in giving utterance to this sentence of double meaning which concluded with a half threat. Mme. Passerat, disconcerted, hesitating at the allusion, was on her guard, and thought: "Still waters run deep."

Mmes. de Vimelle and Bonnard-Basson, intimate because of their husbands' business association, drove together to the out-of-the-way Rue Haxo. Not so fashionable as Mme. Passerat, and therefore given to petty provincial competition, they noticed with silent satisfaction, the condition of the house and the number of storeys. They had hardly entered, when, while conversing, they made an inventory of the furniture, and unpleasantly estimated the value of Elizabeth's dress, which bore the hallmark of its Parisian origin, and was set off in so modest a frame, a contrast which they considered in very bad taste. After the usual exchange of compliments, Mme. de Vimelle smirked, while her friend tried to regain her breath, which she had lost in coming up the stairs.

"We have heard about your new decision, Madame. It is quite right. You have defeated your adversary's plans."

"What plan? What decision?" asked Elizabeth, puzzled.

"Grenoble is a small town where one knows everything that is going on."

"Everything," said Mme. Bonnard-Basson promptly, to emphasize that she had nothing to hide.

"But what?"

"Well, your husband changed from separation to divorce in order to marry the corespondent. You cut the grass from under his feet by giving up your case."

"I had never thought of that."

And Elizabeth, indignant, asked herself by what right they penetrated so impertinently into the sorrows and doubts of her soul. And she let them know it, not without firmness. Mme. de Vimelle took it upon herself to reply:

"Heavens, Madame, a divorce is like a book or a crime--it belongs to the public."

After the ladies had gone, Elizabeth, who had made enemies of them, compared them to Blanche Vernier who was far from brilliant, and who had not mentioned her equivocal position, but had so spontaneously offered her a sincere, loyal, active friendship. From actual experience, day by day, she saw externalities crumble, and the truth which demands a cruel apprenticeship to be understood, appear.

She expected no one else. She had invited Mme. de Crozet, whose children were friends of Marie Louise and Philippe, but she had expressed her regrets in a short note, which was an evident refusal to have anything to do with a woman who was separated from her husband. That first insult was very painful to her. Did it forbade others?

It was already late when her mother came to see her. She had not consulted her about relinquishing her rights and felt remorseful. It was a very general case in family histories:--the wife, after her marriage, continues to remain under her parents' direction, and particularly under that of her mother, even when they do not seek to exert that influence. She asks their advice on every occasion. Then, one fine day, she asserts herself, paying no attention to the painful astonishment, which so radical a change cannot fail to provoke. Elizabeth, after her despair at Uriage, took a long time to release herself. Feeling she was not understood, and realizing that she had been ill-advised in the past, she had without consideration taken her freedom. Made self-centered by sorrow, as happens with weak natures, she did not notice the grief of other people. Mme. Molay-Norrois had suffered from her daughter's reserve, particularly painful to her, but had not been able to do anything but burden her with impolitic advice; so the gulf between them had widened day by day. They exchanged only a few insignificant words like feeble calls which cannot be heard across a ravine.

Elizabeth inquired for her father's health.