The awakening

Elizabeth waited a week for another visit from Albert after that strange scene of jealousy. Each morning, at the usual time of his arrival, she took her children to the road, as far as the beginning of the path which encircles the Château of Saint-Ferriol, and winds through the meadows to Uriage.

"Don't you see him?" she constantly asked Marie Louise, who was far-sighted.

But they had to come in to lunch without him. Anxious about his prolonged absence, she went to Grenoble. She found him in the Boulevard des Adieux, trying to work, and was surprised at the weary expression on his face. Why did he not come back? He explained to her that half separation was more cruel than complete separation, and that they must choose: either to take up their life together, or to recognize finally that that was impossible.

"Come," she said. "You will never go away again."

"Do you wish it?"

"Yes."

Next day he went up with his books and his luggage.

"A curious time for a holiday in the mountains," thought the mule-driver, who brought his cases. It was already October and the last bathers had left. The old house at Saint Martin was so roomy that Elizabeth could give him a little suite on the top floor. She herself had summoned him. They lived under the same roof, they loved each other, and they could not give expression to their love. An unconquerable force held them back.

"She lives over there," she thought. "Does he often think of her?"

And, at the sight of her, so fragile and pale, with tender frightened eyes, he, beginning to understand all the sorrow he had made her suffer, treated her like a very delicate fiancée whom one must not frighten.

"Our first kiss will come from her," he hoped. "Had she forgotten? ..."

But he himself had not forgotten, would doubtless never forget Anne de Sézery. Although the suddenness of her disappearance had changed his remembrance of her, she had been one of the episodes which make a lasting impression on one's deeper nature, to which men often return in thought, when searching their past for marks of emotion. Only he had exhausted its worth. She no longer exerted any influence over him. If she had come back, she would not have regained her power, whereas Elizabeth, so well-loved before, added a charm and the attraction of the unknown to the strength of old desires and illusions. She was the living representation of his youth and a new wife as well, the finding of whom uplifted him.

Intimacy, with its thousand renewed ties, joined their lives. One day, blushing a little, she had begged him to undertake the management of her property. Thus she gave up her independence, placed herself again under her husband's protection, and restored to him the charge of the family, and, as a result of this, Albert felt more buoyant. The days went on monotonously. After work, there were long walks with the children, and in the evenings a little music, reading and plans for the future which they now made together. The season was advancing and they did not speak of leaving. With the solitude, happiness surrounded and besieged the hermitage of Saint Martin. What were they waiting, that they did not open the gates to it?

October, before it was over, gave to autumn that beauty which, in its dazzling monotony, summer never knows. The riot of color, the clearness of the air and that charm of all earthly things then constitute a sublime manifestation of the beauty of Nature.

"Papa, you promised to take me to the Chartreuse de Prémol," said Marie Louise.

"Did I? Very well, then we will all go there."

The Chartreuse de Prémol is an old ruin hidden among the fir trees, two or three hours from Saint Martin d'Uriage. At first one follows the open plains of Chamrousse, then enters the forest. Albert arranged the little party for the following day. They would spend the entire day there—the weather was so mild—and would hire the donkey at the farm to carry Philippe astride, and a basket of provisions as well. A little village shepherd, rather simple, but very dependable, who was derisively called "Brains," would lead the animal by the bridle.

In the morning they left without haste. The children began to dispute as to who should ride, and soon both preferred to walk. They felt as though they were marching with the step of a conqueror to the end of the world. Albert hoped that the pleasure of the walk, the healthful fatigue enjoyed together, the natural blending of the light with the woods, would touch Elizabeth's heart and give him back her confidence. To shield her from the heat of the sun, she had put on that big hood, which gave her the appearance of a very young girl. Her white neck was outlined by the low collar of her black dress. She was carrying a stick, which, no doubt, she would need on the excursion, but did not know how to use. He stopped an instant to look at her and admired that suppleness which she had acquired.

It was one of those incomparable days, of which one would like to take hold and press out the beauty, so fearful is one that they will never come again.

The road climbs across the meadows and orchards before reaching the woods.

"A golden tree," said Marie Louise, who was going on ahead as a guide.

Before them, outlined against the clear blue sky, was a pear tree, whose leaves were of a shade of yellow that was almost rose-colored, and so delicate that one might have thought they were flowers. Even in springtime, with the delicate whiteness on the branches, it could not look more beautiful.

After that came the forest, and the children were so impressed that they were silent. The slope was fairly steep, adorned with fir trees, of which some were particularly tall and stood out as individuals on this beautiful day. Among them were centenarians with gigantic tops, which, rising above the others, robbed them of their strength, air and light, and relegated them to the shade, in which they became half weakened, knotty and stunted. Between the trees, the travelers could see the sky and the Drac mountains, whose impenetrable summits it was difficult to distinguish, because of the bluish mists of the fine autumnal weather. They heard that silvery noise of rushing water, and sometimes one of the little springs crossed the narrow mule path, the stones of which, rubbed and polished by the trucks, loaded with timber, were as glossy as hatchets.

"Is nobody here?" asked Philippe, vaguely anxious, and taking shelter behind the donkey.

"There must be somebody back there," his father promised him.

And indeed, the trunks of the fir trees, stripped of their bark, some so long and white and still uncut, others ready for transportation, gave evidence of human effort. And the little procession passed a woodman seated on one of the most beautiful tree-trunks of the forest, which he had just cut down with its neighbors.

"Good day, Claude," said Albert, who was walking last, and recognized his neighbor, Terraz. "A pity to kill such a fine tree. It needs a hundred years to grow one like that."

"There is no lack of them in the Cross of Prémol," replied the peasant. "And this will help to nourish my brood."

"How many children have you?"

"Six, Monsieur Albert. And you have only these two?"

"Yes."

"Oh, but that won't be all. At your age! With such a beautiful lady!"

And he burst out laughing with that natural simplicity which is not offensive. Elizabeth's cheeks were crimson, but she could not help smiling.

At last, after a steep climb, they arrived at the Chartreuse. Its site had been chosen with that certainty of selection of the old monks, who knew how to combine the wild beauty of a place with its almost sacred charm, inspiring meditation and uplift of the soul. From three sides, the slopes of fir trees form a circle round the clearing in the open plain. From the fourth, there is a rise of ground, and then the entrance to the valley, scarcely visible and disdainfully rejected, like the vain attractions of the world. The old structure, built in the eleventh century, was demolished during the Revolution. At first one sees only a gate restored and fitted to the façade of the forest-house, which to-day takes the place of the convent; but the mutilated ruins which the blackberries, wild plants and even the forest have overgrown, lie here and there in the broad space, like the remains of a disfigured body.

Marie Louise and Philippe, who had visited the grande Chartreuse with the Passerats, were very much disappointed. Ruins do not interest children. They want well-built houses, and the newer they are, the more fascinating to them, because it is life that appeals to them. But they consoled themselves by setting out their meal on a stone supported by wooden props, a rustic table that they had discovered under the shelter of the branches, at the end of a lawn behind the keeper's house. The latter consented to prepare an omelette for them which completed their lunch, after which he took the children, including "Brains," to visit his poultry yard and his rabbit hutch, of which he was very proud.

"Will you follow me?" said Albert to Elizabeth.

He knew the place, as he had been there in his early youth. After a few steps in the direction of the mountain, which cut them off from all habitation, she uttered a cry of surprise. Before them an intact cloister arch reared its graceful curve under the entangled dome formed by the trees, enormous larches, evergreen and symbolizing protection, and white birches with silvery leaves. The old well, because of its covering of moss and wild flowers, could scarcely be distinguished from all this mass of verdure. And too, the bare roots of stunted fir trees, which had grown there, as in the midst of a forest, had clutched and loosened the stones. How did these stones still hold? By what miracle had time respected the purity of that arch which framed a whole portion of the forest and even a corner of sky, and stood there like a statue in a garden? The forest was already encroaching upon it and entwining it; wrapped in its embrace, it would soon disappear in the grass, and one would have to stoop to find any trace of it. Thus threatened, surrounded on all sides by a thick mass of branches and caressed by autumn in that wild landscape encircled by the mountains, it was only by its charm that it evoked the thought of man in the midst of Nature, and one knew that it was doomed.

Elizabeth looked at the arch, and Albert, a little behind, reserved all his emotion to observe her.

"I am afraid," he was thinking. "She is so delicate. She has been living for two years, almost three, with an attitude of uncertainty. How tired she must be! She needs peace. I shall know how to give it back to her. Now, yes, now, she is at one with me in my life, as we are both here...."

She had turned around to him, and in the big wide-open eyes which gazed upon him he no longer read that vaguely frightened expression which was habitual to her, but, instead, he saw fear, that fear which we experience from an immediate danger, or a vision fixed and near at hand. He quickly went to her:

"Elizabeth—what is the matter with you?"

"Nothing, nothing."

He wished to take her in his arms.

"Your eyes, your dear eyes, what did they see in the woods?"

She freed herself from his embrace, and as if she had an hallucination, held out her hand to indicate to him something or someone whom he did not see.

"There, there! She is there! Look! Between us!"

"Who?"

"She is always there—when you read to me in the evening, when you tell me that you love me, when you take me out walking. Just now you wanted to show me those ruins, to exchange our impressions. She does not wish it. She has come."

"But who?" he repeated, although he already knew.

"Anne de Sézery."

At the sound of her name which neither one nor the other had ever dared to utter, the distant girl with the golden eyes appeared actually to rise under the trees, there, near the cloister arch. Albert resolutely put away the phantom.

"Listen, Elizabeth," he said. "Nothing is between us, not even she. She has gone forever. Let us leave her. You are the wife of my youth. You have cared for our home alone so long. Do not destroy it, in your turn, for a shadow. I used to love your unawakened mind. When I believed it was so, I looked elsewhere for that happiness which we do not appreciate when it is within our grasp, and which requires such constant devotion, an almost daily watchfulness, to be realized and retained. Now I find it in you. I was not mistaken when I chose you. You are certainly the one who was to determine my life, my entire life. I love you and I beg you to forget."

She had listened to him, trembling, bending towards him, like those slender birches in the forest which rear themselves to reach the light. The last word aroused her again.

"But you, Albert, you. How could you forget her?"

"Near her, Elizabeth, I thought of you. Near you I do not think of her."

And with a curious persistence, she said:

"No, you cannot forget her. And I, I do not want to owe my happiness to her sacrifice. I have tried ever since your return. I cannot."

Surprised and dismayed by this mysterious allusion, he asked her:

"Her sacrifice? What sacrifice? I don't understand."

"That is quite right. You cannot understand."

And in the same frightened and compelling voice, she added this vague warning:

"You will understand to-night. You will choose to-night."

She would give him no other explanation. They had to go back to the forest house. They took the children and returned to Saint-Martin d'Uriage. The return was as dreary as the journey there had been gay. The children instinctively shared the sadness of their parents, who did not exchange a word. They guessed that they were again at variance. And Marie Louise, at a turn in the road, even went up to her father to ask him:

"Papa, you are not going away again?"

She received no answer. Deep in thought and absentminded, Albert did not lead the way. The day was fading. At this season, the days are so short. Below, the darkness which filled the depth of the valleys, was beginning to ascend the mountains, dispersing the rays of the sun. On coming out of the Prémol forest, the orchards and chestnut groves presented sheaf bouquets, made up of golden or copper leaves. The procession, which had gone along without a leader, came to a short cut, and found they were lost.

"Where are we?" asked Elizabeth.

She spoke to her husband with so much ease and security that he considered it a sign of confidence in the future. She showed herself so delicately to be a woman by putting herself under his protection, and yet how well she had directed his home during the time he had deserted her! He found out easily where they were. But they were obliged to climb the hill again. Night came on as they were still on the way. The donkey, laden with the two children, went on slowly, and Philippe, who hated the darkness, wanted someone else than "Brains" to lead him.

"You are not tired?" Albert often asked his wife.

"No, no."

But she slackened her pace. Knowing that she was tired, he pitied her still more, cherishing her with that tenderness which surrounds and refreshes its object, as the sea an island. At last the procession arrived at Saint Martin, accompanied by the flocks which were being led to the pond. It was a slow trail of oxen and sheep in the twilight. The shepherds called their separate flocks. They were gathered around the water which flowed through a tree trunk. But even this disorder was tranquil. The peace of evening was descending on the mountain-side.

Once again in the house, Albert asked Elizabeth:

"Now, will you explain to me? All along the way I have thought of nothing else."

"Presently," she said. "When the children are asleep."

After dinner, which was a cheerful meal, despite the general weariness, she took Marie Louise and Philippe and put them to bed herself. A moment later, she came back alone to the drawing-room, where her husband, standing motionless before the fire, was anxiously awaiting her return. She held out two letters to him. She had the same expression of fear which he had noticed at the Chartreuse de Prémol.

"Read," she murmured. "When they are asleep, I shall come back."

He read first the letter Elizabeth had received from Anne de Sézery, and that revelation of a voluntary renunciation aroused in him, as a storm stirs the calm waters of a lake, all the passionate recollections which he had buried in his heart. For a moment he was crushed, possessed, carried beyond himself. What had become of her, whom he had not suspected to be capable of such a sacrifice? The second letter, addressed to Philippe Lagier, informed him. In India, at the Epiphany School, she was filling the office of Sister of Mercy, and found there the occupation of her great soul. She would never write again. With a woman's intuition, she had understood in her far-away post, her lover's resistance to his own happiness, and was letting him know of the consolation she was finding in her new life, and of the vow she had taken to make sure that her renunciation had not been in vain.

"With you, uncertainty may last for a lifetime," she said to her rival, whom she overwhelmed somewhat with her magnanimity. Albert hated uncertainty and he would have to choose before Elizabeth's return. Circumstances would not allow him to hesitate when his surging thoughts were seeking direction. In refusing to owe her reconquered place to a person whose character was still to remain a mystery; in giving him the knowledge of Mlle. de Sézery's splendid courage, even divested of the exigencies which lessened its value, did not Elizabeth reveal a greatness of soul equivalent to Anne's? With what superiority both women gave proof of their love! Ah, man, whatever he may do, is always surpassed in this, and if he wishes to be favorably judged, he must invoke the continuance of his efforts to create a lasting work, an enduring structure: passion never fills his life completely, forever.

The minutes passed. How should he welcome Elizabeth? He could only take her in his arms and give back to her confidence and the peace of her heart. And he would even hide his wound from her. Anne, far away—Anne, lost to him—Anne idealized by her flight, would remain in his life like one of those mysterious divinities to whom one offers occult homage. Many men's hearts contain these idols, and no one divines it. It is the secret garden of each and every one. He would cultivate his secret garden as a thing apart, rather than have his wife henceforth know the least doubt, the slightest suffering.

He had arrived at this resolution when he saw Elizabeth before him. She had returned unheard. She stood waiting for the words he was going to say, her body bent by anxiety, as a stem by the weight of the flower it supports. Then he took the two letters and threw them into the flames. They watched them twist, blacken, dwindle away, and when it was all over, he drew her to him, trying to smile, so as not to alarm her.

"You see, the fire has devoured them. It is you I love."

In an indistinct voice she asked:

"And her?"

"I have so much pity for her."

"Only pity?"

"Yes."

This was the cruel grave which he gave Anne de Sézery.

But she fixed him with her questioning eyes, with her immense eyes, and this look disturbed him. He felt it pierce him like a sharp point. She had reflected too much, suffered too much, lived too much in these last years not to know his deepest thoughts. Conquered, subdued by this effort of which she bore the touching trace, the application with which by stone she had reconstructed their devastated hearth, he was afraid of lying to her, and gently taking her face between his hands to draw her to him, he said quite close to her:

"Elizabeth, do not look at me like that. Yes, this letter of Anne's has hurt me. But it is past now, I swear it. With her, whatever her love might be, we should walk towards death. With you, it is toward life."

"My Albert!"

"What a distance we have covered only to return to our starting point!"

"I am so weary!"

He rested the dear face against his shoulder.

"I am so happy here," she said with abandon.

Her sorrow, her deep sorrow had not been in vain. It had reestablished the unity of the family in her charge. How sadly she had learned that we are much more responsible for the little things than for the great ones in which circumstances play a large part, and that it is our duty, day by day, to strengthen the chain of our happiness, so easy to break. The future owed her compensations. She had been unable to retain the illusions of her youth. But she understood better, and he as well as she, the resisting force of human love when it is sustained by a sacred promise and the visible bond of children. With an energy which had been dormant she had accomplished the most difficult of all tasks: reconstruction. And in transforming her, that effort had made her more worthy of being loved, more developed in intelligence and charm. She had triumphed over her rival by her unswerving courage, as well as by her youth; and, freed at last, he recognized it.

"I have learned to love you," she said.

"My wife!"

This word would henceforth keep Albert's heart within bounds, and with his lips he closed the eyes that had opened little by little to an understanding of life.

THE END