“A bank-note! It must be that moneybags of a M. le Hourteulx. Let me see the hand-writing.... Yes, that’s right; I was in service with him.... Oh, my fine fellow, if you think that, because you possess hundreds and thousands!... Not a word.... I know what’s what!”

Bouquetot said to his wife:

“I met Mme. Duval, the chair-attendant, in the town just now. She told me that M. Beaufrelant and M. le Hourteulx were standing by the holy-water basin in church this morning; and young Simare as well. And then the barber told me that young Simare followed madame and drove away the street-boys who ran after her.”

Gilberte thought for a moment and said:

“Go to Mme. de la Vaudraye, Adèle, tell her how this money and these flowers came into my hands and ask her to oblige me by returning them to the senders. But the poor must not be the losers; and here is another thousand-franc note which I beg that she will distribute as she thinks best.”

That afternoon, Gilberte remained pensive. Those two presents surprised her. Her ignorance of social usages did not allow her to see any indelicacy or indiscretion in the way in which they were offered; and yet she felt that there was something that should not have been done.

“What does it mean?” she wondered, with a vague anxiety. “What do they want with me?”

It was the outside world trying to insinuate itself into her peaceful home, into her independent life: the world with its sordid calculations, its intrigues, its vanities, its stealthy encroachments upon those who seek solitude, its instinctive jealousy of those who are able to do without it.

At nightfall, she walked to the ruined summer-house. The stranger was there, among the rocks opposite. She recovered all her serenity. And not for a second did the idea cross her mind that he might be one of the three who had forced their attentions upon her.

IV

AN EVENING AT MME. DE LA VAUDRAYE’S

It was a very modest house that was occupied by her who remained the first lady of Domfront despite her shattered fortunes. No show, no comfort, hardly room for the mother and son; but there was a salon, a sumptuous salon, a salon, to which everything had been sacrificed, a salon that enabled Mme. de la Vaudraye to declare, with pride:

“I have a salon.”

And the townspeople nodded their heads in chorus:

“Mme. de la Vaudraye has a salon.”

In so saying, they had in mind not only the costly furniture heaped up in that one room, but also the shining lights of the town who adorned it with their presence. You were really nobody at Domfront if you did not form part of the salon of Mme. de la Vaudraye.

In its essence and as Gilberte saw it, the salon consisted of an old-oak chest and an Empire sideboard, of the Bottentuit and Charmeron couples and their five young ladies, of M. and Mme. Lartiste and their son, of Mlle. du Bocage, of M. Beaufrelant, M. Hourteulx and Messrs. Simare, father and son, of a Louis XV clock, of a lacquered glass-case, and of a set of chairs and armchairs upholstered in crimson silk.

A great silence, composed of eager curiosity, admiration and envy, greeted Gilberte’s entrance. The hostess at once made the introductions, or rather chiselled them out in elaborate phrases. Gilberte bowed.

“And my son? Where is my dear Guillaume?”

He was extracted from a small side-room.

“Dear Mme. Armand, here is my Guillaume, who is so anxious to make your acquaintance.”

Guillaume de la Vaudraye was not at all bad-looking, with a very good figure; but he had a sullen expression and his manners seemed constrained. He gave a bow and vanished.

There was an attempt at general conversation, which fell very flat. People exchanged distressful looks and dared not raise their voices. Gilberte did not utter a word.

Then, to break the ice, a rush was made for the principal person present, the last resource of drawing-rooms. He always lords it in the place of honour, displaying the expansive smile of his large yellow teeth. He looks like a squatting Hindu idol; he is well-groomed, shiny and pretentious. He is the centre of social life, the ever-ready rescuer, the life and soul of the company, the master of ceremonies, the master of the revels, the vanisher of intolerable silence. And none can contest his supremacy, for he alone is capable of making so much noise without becoming exhausted and of making more noise by himself than all the rest put together. The specimen in Mme. de la Vaudraye’s drawing-room was signed, “Pleyel.”

It was as though the parts had been allotted beforehand. Two groups were formed: the audience and the performers. Gilberte found herself seated between Mme. Charmeron, who was famed for her persistent dumbness and distinction, and M. Simare junior, the best-dressed and most dissipated young man in the town. He went twice a year to Paris and was looked upon as a master of wit and satire. As a matter of fact, he started chaffing at once:

“Ah, the overture of The Bronze Horse by a Demoiselle Charmeron and a Demoiselle Bottentuit! That’s the invariable first piece here. Ten years ago, it seems, it was played by Mme. Bottentuit and her sister, Mme. Charmeron; to-day, their heiresses are following in their footsteps. Observe how beautifully the two young ladies hold themselves. Their ambition is to realize the back view of a pair of sticks. They practise it for four hours every morning....”

When the last chords had been banged out, he continued:

“Now, the little Charmeron girl will move off on the right, taking her stool with her, and the little Bottentuit girl will slide to the middle of the key-board. From the performer that she was she will become the accompanist of papa. There, what did I tell you? It’s all settled beforehand! Look out! Maître Bottentuit, the attorney, the drawing-room howler, is going off, going off, I say.... I defy you to make out a word he sings.... People have been trying for ten years; and no one has ever succeeded.... Excuse me ... got to stop ... can’t hear myself talk ... the wretch is bawling too loud....”

After Maître Bottentuit, Mlle. du Bocage—a little old maid whose mouth opened so wide that you could have dived down her throat—struck up the duet in Mireille, supported by M. Lartiste the elder, an old man, with a clean-shaven face, whose mouth, on the contrary, remained hermetically closed, with the results that both parts of the duet—not only the cooing roulades of the woman, but also the frenzied appeals of the man, his prayers, his promises, his metamorphoses into a bird and a butterfly—seemed to issue from the yawning throat of Mireille, that gulf where you saw a host of little pieces of mechanism madly at work. The loving couple had a great success.

“M. le Hourteulx next,” said young Simare. “Our millionaire is going to sing for you, madame, for, you know, he has been smitten with a passion since he saw you in church; a passion shared, of course, by his enemy Beaufrelant, for the two men always form the same wishes, so as to have the pleasure of thwarting each other. It’s a long-standing hatred: le Hourteulx was married once; and it seems that Beaufrelant....”

Simare bent over towards Gilberte and whispered a few words in her ear.

Young Lartiste, who owed his fame as a great actor to his name and to his name alone, was reserved for the end.

“No one recites like young Lartiste,” people said at Domfront.

And, from the first words that he spoke, everybody watched Gilberte, to enjoy her amazement. Unfortunately, Simare was continuing his more or less decorous reflexions; and Gilberte, although not always catching his exact meaning, felt so uncomfortable that she did not listen to young Lartiste at all and forgot to applaud at the striking passages, an omission that was put down to her bad taste.

“Mme. de la Vaudraye is furious,” said Simare. “Her son’s gone. And I expect she jolly well lectured him about making himself agreeable to you. By Jove, when you’re a mother, you have to think of your son’s future. But Guillaume making himself agreeable is a sight that was never yet seen! Besides, he looks down upon us too much to remain in the drawing-room. Just fancy, a writer like him!... Oh, I say, madame, look at the eyes Beaufrelant’s making at you! Beaufrelant is the Don Juan of Domfront. No one can resist him. They even say ... but I don’t know if I ought.... Pooh, you have a fan ... if you want to blush....”

And he again leant over towards Gilberte.

She rose from her seat at the first words. Mme. de la Vaudraye came running up to her:

“I am sure that that scapegrace of a Simare is saying all sorts of things that he shouldn’t.”

She drew her aside:

“Be careful with him, my child,” she said. “I can see through his designs: he is trying to compromise you. He is head over ears in debt and hunting for a fortune.... But haven’t you seen Guillaume? Wait for me here, I’ll bring him to you.”

Simare came up to Gilberte:

“I must apologize to you, madame; I shocked you just now.”

“No, no,” stammered Gilberte, driven to her wits’ end by this persistency, “only I thought I ought not to....”

He interrupted her:

“It was I who ought not. I couldn’t help it: I was talking, talking a little at random, lest I should say what I have no right to say, what lies deep down within myself, one of those involuntary sentiments....”

“I am so sorry, Mme. Armand,” cried the hostess, returning. “My son was a little tired and has gone up to his room.”

The musical and literary evening was over. But the resources of the la Vaudraye salon did not end there. Its frequenters prided themselves on knowing how to talk. And the conversation went by rule, of course, as everything went by rule in this society which, by the almost daily repetition of the same acts, had established habits as strong as immutable laws.

The licensed talkers were M. Beaufrelant, who, they said, cultivated the flowers of rhetoric with the same zeal and the same success as the flowers of the soil; Mme. de la Vaudraye, who specialized in literary discussions; M. Lartiste, who, as a printer, was naturally marked out for the loftiest philosophical speculations; M. Simare the elder, a remarkable spinner of anecdotes; and, lastly, M. Charmeron and his sister-in-law, Mme. Bottentuit, who found, in their morbid need for contradicting and disputing with each other, an inexhaustible source of opinions, witticisms and banter. Outside these privileged and, so to speak, official protagonists, it was very seldom that any one ventured to open his mouth.

Gilberte, who was beginning to feel terribly bored, listened without a word, which was taken for a sign of admiring deference. The truth is that this oratorical joust surprised her greatly. All these people, speaking turn and turn about, seemed to be pursuing so many different conversations, each of them thinking only of shining in the department that had devolved upon himself. M. Lartiste, who had talked his best on capital punishment, the subject in which he excelled, was answered by Mme. de la Vaudraye with a vigorous parallel between the respective merits of Victor Hugo and Lamartine, which parallel was duly refuted in a lyrical outburst from M. Beaufrelant on the bulbs of the double dahlia.

And the utmost seriousness presided over all this incoherence, each disputant confounding, with deadly earnestness, the interlocutor in whom he saw such another indomitable as himself. And the dumb circle of hearers listened with nods and grunts of approval, as though these strange discussions had excited them to the highest pitch.

“Well ... and you?” said Mme. de la Vaudraye to M. Simare the elder, at the exact moment when the ardour of the tourney seemed about to wane. “Are you not in form to-day?”

M. Simare, the anecdotist, smiled. His strong point lay in saying nothing until he was questioned; and his dry silence, rich in promise, lent enormous value to the one anecdote to which he treated you each evening, after carefully preparing, polishing, repolishing and chipping it like a precious stone. Everybody burst out laughing before he even opened his mouth: it was understood from his manner that the story would be a little ... naughty.

He said:

“I do not know if I can speak. There are young ears present.”

A movement on the part of the mothers, a glance; and the five young ladies disappeared “without seeming to.”

He insisted:

“All the same, I feel bound to warn you that it is a very risqué story. I shall call a spade a spade: local colour demands it.”

“Go on, M. Simare!” said somebody. “We are all married people here!”

Gilberte was sitting in the front row of chairs, understanding nothing of the departure of the young girls nor of all this preamble and in absolute ignorance of what was looming ahead.

M. Simare walked up to her, bowed to her gallantly, like a bull-fighter dedicating his next feat of prowess to the most prominent person present and sat down four feet in front of her. And he began:

“The setting first, madame. Picture the skirt of a wood: dramatis personæ, Fanchon and her friend Colin, who is whispering sweet nothings in her ear, very much in her ear, and ... but wait! At no great distance, in the middle of the wood, his reverence the rector is strolling, reading his breviary; and his walk takes him in the direction of our young rustics.... He comes.... He comes nearer and nearer.... Do you see the picture, madame?”

“Yes, yes,” said Gilberte, earnestly, like a child who is interested in a fairy-tale. “What next?”

“The sun darts his rays through the branches, from the patches of blue sky....”

He continued his description at length, talked of the rector and the birds and the flowers and the cool shade of the trees; and, strange to say, there was not another word about Fanchon and Colin.

“M. Simare is a little discursive this evening,” whispered somebody. “He is not coming to the point as quickly as usual.”

In fact, he was veering away from it, with his eyes fixed on Gilberte, who listened eagerly and who repeated, at intervals:

“And then? What next?”

Thereupon, he got more and more entangled in the poetic stroll of the rector, who kept on walking and never seemed to come as far as Fanchon and Colin. And it was Gilberte who, at last, exclaimed:

“But what became of Colin and Fanchon?”

Then the old boy made a decisive gesture:

“I can’t, I can’t tell you.... No, I won’t tell you....”

Everybody rose. Everybody protested.

M. Simare took refuge in laughter:

“Well, no, I won’t tell you.”

“But why not?”

“Why not? I don’t know! It’s her eyes.... There are words one can’t utter when one looks at her, there are things one can’t tell.”

He was no longer laughing. The others were silent. And he continued:

“Look at her eyes. They gaze at you so softly, so innocently.... All the time that I was talking my nonsense, I wanted to invent something for her, something about saints and angels and a good little girl who loves her mother and only thinks of pleasing her and is happy from morning till night....”

V

THE SUITORS

And her presence delighted all the frequenters of the salon, the most cross-grained ladies and the most indifferent men alike. It was a curious influence exercised by that mere child; and she owed it neither to her experience—for what did she know of life?—nor to her tact—for what aim had she in view?—but to an inexplicable charm which affected all who came near her and which, at the same time, protected her against them. Her innocence was a greater attraction than any subtlety or intellectual charm and defended her to better purpose than prudence would have done or cleverness.

Old Simare was mad about her. Mme. Bottentuit told her all the secrets of her home life. Mme. Charmeron confided to her that she was broken-hearted at having nothing but daughters, but that she had not given up hope yet. Mlle. du Bocage hid her head on Gilberte’s shoulder, wept and told her all her old-maidenly disappointments and regrets.

“You are the ornament of my salon, Gilberte,” said Mme. de la Vaudraye.

She was not jealous of her. Gilberte, with her exquisite compassion, had guessed that the former lady of the Logis must still suffer from the ruin of her fortunes, must still feel how stunted and narrow was her life; and she showed her more attention than she did to any other.

Out of kindness to the mother she even tried to win the son’s sympathies; but here she encountered a medley of such shyness and rudeness, so unlovable a nature and so marked a determination to repel her advances and treat her as he treated the other frequenters of the salon that Gilberte was quite discomfited.

“Do not be discouraged,” said the mother. “He is a little unsociable; but he is so full of good qualities.”

Nevertheless, Gilberte once heard her mutter between her teeth:

“What a bear that boy is!”

And she heard on all sides that mother and son did not agree.

The salon underwent a change. There were as many commonplaces uttered as ever; but those who spoke them did so with less smug importance than before. People were less sure of themselves. The talented amateurs in singing and piano-playing sought for shades of expression and feeling. Lastly, the order of the concert became “subject to alterations” and the performers no longer wore the air of automata obeying predestined laws. There were asides in the conversation; people talked among themselves, for the pleasure of talking and in accordance with their various sympathies.

One evening, Beaufrelant drew Gilberte into a corner and said:

“I am mad, madame, do you hear? I am mad. I care for nothing, I am indifferent to my flowers, it is you all the time. I am free: my name, my life are yours; give me some hope....”

The next day, le Hourteulx made his declaration:

“Life has become a burden to me. If you do not take pity on me, madame, I shall cease to exist.... But I can hardly believe that you will reject me.... Do you dislike me?... I am a widower and well-off, you know....”

That was the only dark spot that troubled Gilberte’s serenity: the more or less discreet attentions which all those men paid her. Simare the younger went far more cleverly to work and tried to inspire confidence with a pretence of delicacy by which Gilberte allowed herself to be taken in. But Beaufrelant and Le Hourteulx showed no pity: they pursued her relentlessly, speaking to her, not unnaturally, as to a woman who knows what life is and who could not well take offence at a declaration or even at the terms in which it was made.

Poor Gilberte did not take offence, but she was very much surprised; and the sighs and transports of those two men of forty bored her terribly. She avoided them and she also had to avoid young Lartiste, who tried the effect of poetry and fired the most passionate verses of Musset and Verlaine at her; the brother too of the Demoiselles Bottentuit, a schoolboy who was only let out on Thursdays and Sundays and who, the third time he saw her, threatened to kill himself at her feet; and lastly a cousin of Mlle. du Bocage, who was engaged to the elder Charmeron girl and who offered to break off the marriage and abandon a very good match if it caused her the faintest annoyance.

She no longer enjoyed at the Logis the atmosphere of peace and isolation so dear to her. Adèle had to defend the door, with the vigilance of a watch-dog, against the daring suitors who tried to obtain admission to her mistress upon some pretext:

“Madame is at home to nobody; I have positive instructions.”

The old servant saw through the disguise of M. le Hourteulx, who appeared dressed up as a beggar, and of Beaufrelant, who, in cap and blouse, came round with a green-grocer’s barrow.

Gilberte could not go for a stroll in her garden without seeing the figure of one or other of those importunate gentlemen on the right, in the next garden which ran from the castle down to the river. At nightfall, she was conscious of shadowy forms prowling round the manor-house. She felt herself spied upon on every side, stalked like a beast of the chase.

It was Easter Sunday. After dinner, Adèle and her husband went to the fair, just outside the town. Gilberte was left alone.

It had been raining; and the fresh smell of wet leaves and moist earth came through the open window of the boudoir which she had made into her study. The book which she was reading in an absent-minded way dropped to her lap and she sat dreaming, with her gaze lost in the blackness of the trees. And, quite without reason—for the least sound would have struck her ear—she was overcome with an indescribable sense of dread, which increased from moment to moment. The silence seemed to her unnatural and awful. The darkness was heavy with menace; and she could not take her eyes from it, sat spellbound by the unknown peril which she felt was there.

A recollection doubled her fears. On the evening before at Mme. de la Vaudraye’s, a turn in the conversation had led her to say that her servants were going to this fair. So they knew that she was all alone at the Logis.

Her one thought was to close the window, fasten down the shutters and place an obstacle between herself and the snares that were being laid for her in the threatening darkness; and yet she dared not stir, as though the least movement would have exposed her to immediate dangers.... But what dangers?

She made an effort and rose from her chair. At the same moment, a head appeared and a man strode across the balcony and sprang into the room. It was Simare.

The revulsion of feeling was such that she almost felt inclined to laugh. Wearily, she sat down and murmured:

“Oh, monsieur, you ought not to have done this!... I should never have thought it of you....”

He flung himself on his knees:

“Do not judge me unheard.... I am not master of myself.... I have to go away for a month ... and I wanted to see you ... to tell you what I feel, what I suffer.... Oh, you don’t know how your indifference has tortured me.... My sadness, my admiration, my hopes, my emotion, when in your presence: you have understood none of these ... but then you never do understand.... At this very moment, when I am here, at your knees, when I am imploring you, when I am proclaiming my sorrow and my obsession, I feel that my words do not reach you. And yet they must. You must, you shall know what I have to say to you.... Listen to me....”

But Gilberte would not listen. Although her extreme innocence had preserved her at first contact with the world, nevertheless she was beginning to see a glimmer of the meaning of many things; and she was frightened of the words that were coming. No, she would not hear them from the lips of this man, she would not allow this man to be the first to speak them in her ear. She had a sudden intuition of their importance and their sweetness and their magic; and she felt that it was almost a contamination to hear them.

She entreated him:

“Be quiet.... I shall be so grateful if you will....”

“No, no,” he cried, “I must speak. Ever since I have known you, the words I have to say have been on my lips, suffocating me.... Gilberte, Gilberte, I....”

She gave a desperate glance, the glance of a victim which does not know how to defend itself and awaits the blow that is about to fall. He stammered:

“Oh, your eyes ... your eyes ...!”

He remained on his knees, humble and undecided, and repeated, in a low voice:

“Your eyes ... yes ... my father told me ... child’s eyes that put one off....”

He rose and struck his fist upon the table:

“No, after all, I will not allow myself to be thwarted. I mean to speak and I shall speak.... If your eyes prevent me, well, I sha’n’t see your eyes!”

He went to the lamp and, with a sudden movement, put it out.

Gilberte gave a scream. She tried to run away, stumbled over a chair and fell. She tried to call out; and her voice died away in her throat.

Then, powerless, she stirred no more.

He seized her hand and raised it to his lips.

She made a weak attempt to release herself, but strength failed her.

She said, simply:

“Please, monsieur ... I have never done you any harm.... I have always been kind to you.... Please....”

His hand slacked its grasp. They remained opposite each other. What was he going to say to her? At her wits’ end, with her heart wildly beating, she tried, through the darkness, through the great, impenetrable silence that enshrouded the two of them, to see Simare’s face, to read his tumultuous thoughts, his will.... A few seconds passed....

Then he said:

“I beg your pardon.... I am a scoundrel.... I wanted to force you to take my name, to share my existence.... It was cowardly and base of me.... Still, there was more in me, believe me, than wicked designs.... Oh, I hear your heart beating ... do not tremble!... You will never be in danger from any one ... it is not only your eyes that protect you: there is the sound of your voice, there is your silence, there is the air you breathe, your mere presence.... Forgive me....”

He went away, She dimly saw him cross the window-rail and presently heard the sound of his steps as he walked down the gravel-path in the garden.

Gilberte rushed to the door. She could not have stayed for another instant in the solitude of that room.

It was an intolerable agony, of which she felt the grip even more now that Simare was no longer there. Where should she go? To Mme. de la Vaudraye’s? She remembered vaguely that it was not one of her “evenings,” because of the fair. No matter. She wanted people, lights, bustle, men and women in whose presence she could master her fears and pluck up courage.

She ran to her bedroom, put on her hat and cloak.... But no, she dared not go out....

A noise came from the square in front of the Logis, on the town side; the noise of an altercation, of a struggle. She drew back the curtains. Two men were fighting under her windows. In her fright, she flew to the bolt, locked herself in and crouched down in the furthest corner of her room. Her instinct, her weakness impelled her to hide herself, to know nothing of what was happening, to wait.... But the din increased. There were shouts and moans.

Then she was ashamed of her cowardice. It was impossible for her to continue in that nervous inactivity. She wanted to interfere, to help, if there were still time. Bravely, she opened the door, went down the stairs, walked out into the square and up to the combatants.

By the light of the lamp she recognized Beaufrelant and Le Hourteulx.

Rolling on the ground, covered with mud, hatless, their clothes all disarranged, they were fighting with a sort of mad rage, with the stubbornness of two mortal enemies rejoicing in an opportunity of vengeance long deferred. They struck at each other in turns, collared each other, bashed each other’s faces with their fists, wrestled violently. And this amid insults and exclamations of triumph:

“Here, you villain, take that!”

“One for you!”

“Ah, my fine fellow, you caught it this time! How did that strike you?”

And they called Gilberte to witness, like the queen of a tournament in whose honour two of her knights were breaking a lance:

“What do you think of that, madame?”

“Got in there with my left, madame!”

“Ah, he was looking out for you, the scoundrel!”

“Oh, you blackguard, you were prowling round her house!”

Abandoning all attempts at interference, she turned to move away. They rose with difficulty and followed her, each hustling his rival as he went on trying to get rid of him. But the heat of the struggle brought them to the ground again; and she ran away.

The first street to which her steps led her came out in front of the church. The La Vaudrayes’ house was close by; and she hastened to it.

No one answered when she rang the bell. Still, there was a light in the drawing-room. She tapped at one of the windows. Some one came to the door. It was Guillaume de la Vaudraye.

“You, madame!” he exclaimed.

“Where’s your mother? Where’s your mother?” she panted.

“My mother is at Caen, on business; I am alone in the house.”

She walked to the drawing-room unsteadily and sank into a chair.

“What is the matter? Why are you here?”

She whispered, in a broken voice:

“They came.... They are following me.... I am frightened of them....”

“Simare, was it?... And Le Hourteulx, I suppose ... and Beaufrelant....”

“Yes ... so I daren’t go back....”

“But Adèle ... and her husband?”

“Gone to the fair.”

He thought for a moment and said:

“I will go and fetch them. It’s some way off. Take a rest until we come: you need it.”

Gilberte, utterly exhausted, fell asleep.

Adèle woke her. There was a taxi waiting for her. Guillaume did not show himself again.

VI

A NEW FRIEND

“Well, you can say what you please, but it’s a great pity. M. le Hourteulx: such a fine voice! And M. Beaufrelant: such a brilliant talker! And have you heard the reason?”

“No, I can’t imagine.... If I hear the least thing, I’ll let you know.”

Gilberte was very much vexed when Adèle told her what had happened. She had no doubt that Guillaume de la Vaudraye had told his mother what he knew of the incident and she was distressed at being the cause of disagreement, complication and gossip.

“Perhaps,” she thought, “all this would not have come about if I had not been looked upon as married.”

And, as a matter of fact, she seemed, as a married woman, to be exposed to unpleasantness which she would have escaped in the position of a girl. Instead of the quiet which she had sought, she found, in the men’s behaviour, in their conversation, in their way of looking at her, in the persistency of their pursuit, a host of disturbing little annoyances which might well have troubled a mind less innocent than hers.

She went to Mme. de la Vaudraye, in the afternoon, and begged her to reconsider her decision.

“It is no use asking me,” cried Mme. de la Vaudraye. “I admit that, in writing to those two gentlemen, I did no more than my duty; but it was my son who pointed out to me how imperative that duty was.”

She was in a bad temper and, when all is said, with reason. No mistress of a house lightly gives up two individuals of the undoubted merit of M. Beaufrelant and M. le Hourteulx. She called out:

“Guillaume, Mme. Armand wants to talk to you!”

And, when her son entered the room, she went out.

Gilberte, who was always frightened by Guillaume’s obvious coldness and his excessive reserve, blushed as she made her request. Ought so much importance to be attached to an incident which the two gentlemen surely regretted and at which she could only laugh?

“My mother and I have no right to laugh at it,” he said. “We are responsible for all the people whom we introduce to you. If one of them treats you with disrespect, we must not expose you to meeting him here.”

“But how have they treated me with disrespect?... I assure you, I don’t see it....”

He looked at her, turned away his head and said, in a voice so abrupt that she could not make out whether his answer was full of contemptuous pity or affectionate admiration:

“It is the others, it is all of us who must see for you.... How can you be expected to see those things?”

He paused and continued:

“Are you very anxious to have those two boors back here?”

“For your mother’s sake, yes. I feel that the situation grieves her.”

“Why, of course,” he exclaimed, with cutting irony, “they are the two finest ornaments of her salon! How will the others do without them? How will they manage to rattle out the regulation tomfoolery? Will they ever be able to reach the required level of absurdity, affectation, stupidity and narrowness? Heavens, if we were a shade less dull and less inane, what a catastrophe!”

“It’s not right of you to talk like that, monsieur,” said Gilberte.

“What!” he said, taken aback.

“No, you ought not to laugh at what is a great pleasure to your mother. If some of her friends are a little eccentric, it is not for you to remark upon it.”

He rose, began to walk excitedly up and down the room and then, gradually mastering himself, came and sat opposite Gilberte again and said:

“You are right, madame. Besides, among all those people whom I cannot help criticizing, I have never heard you speak any but sensible, judicious, intelligent words, admirable for their kindness and wisdom. You always answer their most ridiculous questions as though they had asked you about the most interesting things in life. One word from you brings order and lucidity into the most absurd conversations.”

It was no longer the same voice. Usually so hard and dictatorial, it had become humble and grave. And his face, which was generally severe, bore an expression of infinite gentleness. One was no longer conscious of acrimony, constraint or distrust, but of the frank unreserve of a pent-up nature and of subdued melancholy.

Which of the two was the real Guillaume? Gilberte did not even ask herself the question, was only too happy to believe at once in the more attractive of the two images presented to her. And so she smiled upon this second Guillaume and said:

“Then ... those gentlemen ...?”

“Your two protégés shall resume the places which they fill so well. I insist, however, on a temporary exclusion as a punishment; for it is a punishment to Le Hourteulx and Beaufrelant. After that, if they are very good....”

“And you will be pleasant to them?”

“To them and to the others, at least as pleasant as I can.”

“Is it so very difficult?”

“Extremely! I can’t help it: I do not suffer fools gladly; they make me irritable and unjust. I have not your charity.”

“It only needs a little indulgence; think of your mother.”

“Oh, my mother, my mother!”

There was something sorrowful and harsh about this exclamation that struck Gilberte. She kept silence from a sense of delicacy. But Guillaume was passing through one of those periods when it is a relief to the over-burdened soul to confess its troubles:

“Have my mother and I ever understood each other? We have not an idea in common. Her wants are not mine, nor are mine hers. She offends all my tastes as I offend all hers. If I display so much bitterness against the merry-andrews who perform in her salon, it is because of her. I hate to see her countenancing their grimaces and posturings.”

She said nothing. He asked:

“You blame me for it, don’t you? Yes, yes, I feel it.... And how strange: in your presence, I too think that I am wrong and, while I was saying those things, I blushed as if I had uttered ugly thoughts!”

She laughed:

“They were not very pretty ones.”

“Never mind, I prefer you to know them. I do not wish to trick you into liking me. If I ever win your esteem, I want to do so without hypocrisy, without trying to hide my faults from you.”

No one had ever spoken to Gilberte with such seriousness and deference. She felt quite touched and, with a spontaneous movement, held out her hand to Guillaume:

“We shall be friends,” she said. “I am sure that we shall be friends.”

He was on the point of raising her small, gloved hand to his lips, but he restrained himself. And she went on:

“So this is the unsociable Guillaume de la Vaudraye! Will you believe that you quite frightened me with your surly ways? You did indeed!”

After this interview, Gilberte did two or three errands and returned to the Logis. It was drawing towards evening. She made for the summer-house and saw her dream-companion in the distance. She said to him, as though he could hear her and as though she felt bound to tell him the good news without delay:

“You know, I have a new friend!”

And Gilberte saw nothing extraordinary in this sudden friendship, based upon the exchange of a few sentences. Was she not one of those unsophisticated beings who always obey the unreflecting impulse of their hearts, who look you straight in the eyes and who do not think it out of place to tell people how they feel towards them?

And so, the next evening, she went to Mme. de la Vaudraye’s, quite happy at the thought of seeing her new friend again. A disappointment awaited her: Guillaume did not appear.

She went back next day. Guillaume came down to the drawing-room, bowed to her and seemed to take no further notice of her presence.

Thereupon, on the third day, while the others were listening to Mlle. du Bocage and M. Lartiste the elder in the duet from Mireille, Gilberte, finding that Guillaume was alone in the next room, went out to him. She at once saw that he tried to avoid her. Realizing this to be impossible, he gave a gesture of vexation and crossed his arms in an indifferent attitude.

“What about your promise?” she asked, playfully, but a little sadly. “You promised to make yourself pleasant to your enemies in the salon; and this is the best you can do! Am I not entitled to complain? Did we not shake hands as friends?”

He uncrossed his arms and his expression changed. Once again she felt the relaxation of a tense will, the immediate suppression of all resistance in this silent man whose square chin and inflexible eyes bore witness to his obstinacy.

“Good!” she said. “Capital! But you still look a little fierce.... That’s better!... And now, come along.”

He stopped her:

“Do not ask too much of me. You are so far above ordinary life, so inaccessible, that you can mix with those people and remain serene and untouched. I could only do so at the risk of deteriorating. One must make allowance for different temperaments. I shall be polite, that’s all.”

Then she stayed and they talked.

Often, after that, Gilberte had to go to him and open, as she said, the door of his prison-house, unbind his hands and deliver his captive soul. But she did it so easily that it amused them both.

“You have but to lift your little finger,” Guillaume would say, “to bring down the prison-walls.”

Under this uneven and rugged husk, Gilberte discovered the most exquisite and delicate of natures, a poet’s nature that was galled by all its surroundings, a child’s nature that his mother had kept in to the verge of pain. And it was often from the point of view of a child that Gilberte was glad to be with him. They would laugh at the least thing, with that childish laughter, which is so good just because it has no excuse except our need of laughter. They longed to run and skip and play.

“Oh dear, how young I am!” Guillaume would exclaim.

“I shall be two next year,” Gilberte declared.

They could be serious also. She asked him about his writing, wanted to read what he had printed. He refused, on the pretext that he was not satisfied. Nevertheless, he showed her a letter from the editor of an important review, a letter teeming with compliments.

He lent her his favorite books and she devoured them.

Mme. de la Vaudraye was in ecstasies. She was now certain that her dream would be realized. She was too clever to betray her delight and hid it under demonstrations of gratitude:

“How sweet of you, my dear Gilberte, to tame that wild savage! You will make quite a courtier of him.”

And she added, with a sigh:

“Oh, if you could only turn him into a more attentive son and make him more grateful to his mother for all the sacrifices she has made for him!”

The discord between Mme. de la Vaudraye and Guillaume was Gilberte’s greatest grief. Her love of harmony prompted her to make continual endeavours at reconciliation which were bound to fail as much because of the mother’s arid artificiality as of the son’s stubbornness and reserve.

She had to give up the attempt.

But she suffered another pain, arising from her extreme sensitiveness: at the close of day, she could no longer go to the ruined summer-house without a certain sense of discomfort. Her unknown friend was faithful to the daily tryst which they had made with their dreams; and, though Gilberte herself never failed to keep it, she felt as though she had done him some wrong. With her eyes fixed on the distant mountains melting into the deep blue of the heavens, she let herself drift into vague reveries, far, very far away from the homely valley where her first friend patiently waited for her thoughts to return to him. It was at such times, when the darkness overtook her amidst this delightful torpor, that she seemed to be coming back from a long journey. She was almost angry with herself. But why? She could not have said.

One day, at five o’clock, as she was going down to her garden, she received a note from Mme. de la Vaudraye.