Day after day went by, days like those which followed on her arrival at Domfront. Gilberte once more became the recluse to whom none had access save the poor and destitute of the countryside; and, though they still spoke of her as la Bonne Demoiselle of the Logis and blessed her for her charity, it might well be that they no longer took away with them that impression of comfort which they welcomed no less than the alms. How could she have consoled them, she who herself was yearning for consolation?

However, she did not give up all hope. Gilberte had one of those rather passive natures which, in happy hours, overflow with generous gladness, but which, at times of trial, fall back upon themselves and live in that kind of quiet contemplation which is as it were a patient expectation. Mastering her sorrow and checking any signs of rebellion or distress, she appeared less sensitive than others to the most cruel blows with which fate overwhelmed her and, through every obstacle and every vicissitude, she pursued her inward dream, sad or joyous, bright or gloomy, but always built up of love and kindness.

The most appalling time was the close of day. Night fell late at that time of the year; and it would have been sweet indeed to go down to the summer-house after dinner. She had not a doubt but that Guillaume was regular in his attendance at their former trysting-place. He must be stretching out his arms to her now, calling her, entreating her, reproaching her: oh, the torture of not being able to go to him!

She never ceased thinking of him. The memories of their common past formed the only charm of the present; and, by one of love’s illusions, she made her own memories begin on the very day on which Guillaume’s began. And so she remembered the minute when he had caught her raising her mourning-veil in the garden by the ruins. She remembered the moment when, hiding behind a curtain, he had come near to her for the first time. Had she not always loved him? Why had she, from the first and despite Guillaume’s deliberate rebuffs, sought to tame him, as Mme. de la Vaudraye called it, and to win his liking? Why also her impulse of friendship towards the mysterious unknown?

Gilberte took little or no heed of what the town said of all these happenings, having asked Adèle not to tell her: an order which the unfortunate servant found great difficulty in obeying! Domfront was bubbling and seething with comments! For, after all, there was this undeniable fact: in the sight of the whole world, as everybody could bear witness, a formal proposal had been made for Gilberte’s hand in marriage; and it resulted in a breach between the La Vaudrayes and Mme. Armand. A complete breach! For they no longer even saw one another. And the inexplicable thing was that, since that famous afternoon, Mme. Armand had not once left the Logis.

What was underneath it all? From which side did the breach come? A score of contradictory versions went the round of the town, but none of them bore the marks of indisputable authenticity upon which the ever-scrupulous world insists before accepting a piece of gossip as fact. As for Mme. Duval, she was in a desperate plight. Pressed with questions, she was reluctantly compelled to admit that she knew nothing.

After the first fortnight, Gilberte, who dared not walk in her garden, ventured to go out once or twice, but only at times and in directions where she ran no risk of meeting people. Generally in the early morning, she would slip out by a side-door and make her way down to the river by the most shady and roundabout paths of the wood skirting the Logis.

Her almost daily destination was the little chapel of Notre-Dame-sur-l’Eau. It was here that she had had her last interview with Guillaume. It was a peaceful spot, where she loved to dream. One day, when she was coming back by a rambling way, she passed the house which was once tenanted by those Despriols who had brought about M. and Mme. de la Vaudrayes’ ruin. The rusty bars of the gate seemed crumbling to pieces. A tangle of weeds and brambles overran the garden. The front of the house was cracking; the slates of the roof were green; the windows were full of swallows’ nests. Everything spoke of desertion and neglect. Nevertheless, Gilberte felt drawn to it.

The gate resisted her efforts and she walked round the garden-wall, feeling sure that she would find a door near a corner which she saw a little way off. She did find one; and it was open, as was the door at the top of the steps leading up to the house.

She had no sooner gone inside than the impression which the old house had made upon her became so distinct as to awaken recognition. It was that curious impression which we sometimes receive in the presence of scenes which we are sure that we have never looked upon and which nevertheless we seem to have always known. It is impossible that we should ever have visited a certain town; and yet the street in which we are is quite familiar to us: we have seen this shop before, that sign-board, this gable, that turning. Where and when? In what bygone existence? Or is it only an illusion awakened in our brain by a series of similar pictures?

“This is the drawing-room,” said Gilberte, before opening the door.

And she amused herself by likewise pointing out, with absolute conviction, the kitchen and the dining-room.

But her astonishment was great indeed when, on the first floor, she entered a large room hung with grey wall-paper, on which birds and butterflies flitted amongst blue flowers. Where had she seen those flowers, those butterflies, those birds before?

She gave a start: in a corner, on the dusty floor, lay a doll, the last stranded relic of all that had once filled the house. And Gilberte knew that doll, knew it beyond a doubt.

She picked it up and, at the first touch of it, was seized with an extraordinary emotion, as though it had been a doll of her childhood, a doll with which she had played at the age of three or four, one of those dolls which little girls treat as babies, lavishing on them all the devotion, the infinite care, the tenderness, the pride and the anxiety of the future mother. And she saw this one, this poor, wretched rag of a doll, with no clothes and only half a head, she saw it, or rather recalled it, clad in a dress of orange silk and a green shawl, with bronze shoes on its feet, a silver chain round its neck and the most wonderful mop of yellow hair upon its head.

She held it for a long time; and it seemed to her that her hands were used to that clumsy body and to the badly-jointed arms and legs. Nothing about the doll disgusted her. She felt as if she could kiss the little porcelain forehead, the prim, painted eyebrows, the chubby cheeks.

There was a faint sound behind her. She turned round and saw a dirty-looking woman with curiously staring eyes and great wisps of white hair all round her head. She was showing her teeth in a fixed and silent laugh. On the linen rag that did duty as a neckerchief hung a queer necklace made of chips of glass, pebbles, corks and twisted grass.

Suddenly the face became contracted with rage: its owner had caught sight of the doll. She ran up to Gilberte, snatched it from her hands and brandished it as though she would have struck the girl with it. But the doll fell to the ground, the threatening gesture ended in an attitude of hesitation and the old woman, with her body bent forward and her eyes staring, gazed at Gilberte.

Gilberte was frightened at first, but became gradually reassured under this steady gaze in which she seemed to feel an ardent and curious affection. She smiled at the old woman, who gave a silent laugh, picked up the doll and handed it to her humbly and gently. Gilberte refused to take it and the old woman grasped her hand and led her to the second floor, to a cupboard crammed with child’s shoes, rattles, broken toys, a little cradle, a chair on wheels and showed them to her with an air of saying:

“Pick where you like, take what you like; I give them to you.”

But none of these things tempted Gilberte. Then the old woman took her down to the garden, led her to an acacia-tree, to a wooden bench, to what remained of a dovecote and, at each halt, questioned her with her eager eyes.

At last, Gilberte felt weary; little by little, since the woman’s arrival, the deserted house had lost its mysterious charm for her; and she began to think of going. Thereupon the old crone, anticipating her wishes, took a key from her pocket and opened the rusty gate. She stooped, as Gilberte went out, and kissed the hem of her dress.

Turning round, a few minutes after, Gilberte saw her standing in the middle of the road, making signs to her.

When she returned to the Logis, she told her adventure to Adèle, who exclaimed:

“Why, it must have been Désirée, the Despriols’ old nurse! She is a poor old madwoman, but quite harmless, and lives near Notre-Dame-sur-l’Eau. She does nothing but wander round the house where she was a servant. She has been mad for quite two years, ever since the death of her husband and her three sons. It came upon her all of a sudden....”

“But had the Despriols a child?” asked Gilberte.

“I should think so! A little girl who might have been three or four years old at the time when they went away: a dear little duck; and her nurse adored her. It broke the poor thing’s heart to part with her. Since she went mad, she thinks oftener of the baby than of her own three sons. They did say that she heard about the child and that Mme. Despriol used to write to her.”

“Did you know this Mme. Despriol, Adèle?”

“That I did, at Mme. de la Vaudraye’s, when they lived here.... She was a very nice lady, so cheerful and pleasant; good-looking, too, but, worse luck, so weak with her husband that he did as he liked with her.”

“Mme. de la Vaudraye told me something about some jewels....”

“Oh, that was quite true! There’s no denying it: a thief she was ... and Mme. de la Vaudraye has good reason not to love her. And how she does detest her! And then she was jealous of M. de la Vaudraye, who ventured to flirt just the least bit with Mme. Despriol. You can imagine how mad Mme. de la Vaudraye was! She turns pale to this day, if you mention Henriette Despriol’s name....”

A few days later, Gilberte received another letter from Maître Dufornéril:

XI

GILBERTE’S NAME

She kept more and more indoors. What was the use of short, stealthy walks, when her imagination, which was now unfettered, took her across the immensity of the world, on Guillaume’s arm, under Guillaume’s eyes? She tried to read novels, to calm her excitement. But what are fictitious adventures worth at a time when our own destiny is on the point of fulfilment and when it is to be fulfilled in cloudless happiness? The one and only adventure was that which was leading her towards Guillaume. The story began and ended with Guillaume. Guillaume was its sole hero.

“It will come to-morrow,” she said, each day, with the fixed intention of sending the letter, the moment she received it, to Mme. de la Vaudraye.

The morning came and the afternoon and brought no letter. She felt not the least disappointment:

“It will come to-morrow,” she thought, all a-quiver with hope.

The postman became a person of importance in her eyes, a gentleman worth considering. She shot her prettiest smiles at him, as though she were trying to win his confidence and to persuade him that he must have a letter for her in his bag.

Adèle was enraptured:

“Oh, ma’am, you’re becoming as you used to be! And high time too! Yes, I was growing uneasy at seeing you always sad, taking no interest in things and looking so pale. But, there, you’re right: there’s as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it!”

Released from her silence, Adèle was at last able to repeat all that Domfront had said about the breach and all that was happening now. And Gilberte learnt that Mme. de la Vaudraye’s salon, after closing for three weeks, had reopened. M. Beaufrelant and M. le Hourteulx had been invited. Mme. Duval even predicted an approaching reconciliation with the younger Simare, whose father had never ceased pleading in his favour. At the last reception, the duet from Mireille, as sung by M. Lartiste the elder and Mle. du Bocage, both of whom were making great progress, had been vigorously applauded. But the chief thing was the transformation undergone by Guillaume, whom everybody considered changed for the better.

“They can’t get over it,” said Adèle. “I hear that he is the life and soul of the party and so amiable and so polite: just like a proper young man. He seems on the best of terms with his mother. The young ladies are all gone on him. Bless my soul, he’s a good-looking lad ... and it won’t take long before he’s turned all their heads....”

Gilberte reflected:

“He’s quite right to make himself amiable. It’s the only way to get round his mother.”

Nevertheless, she had to make a certain effort to look upon this as the only explanation of Guillaume’s conduct.

Two more days followed without a letter. Then, one morning, Adèle came back from her shopping:

“Here’s a bit of news!” she said. “There’s no harm in telling you, now that you’ve got over things. M. Guillaume is engaged to the eldest Charmeron girl.”

Gilberte burst out laughing:

“It’s one of Mme. Duval’s matches!”

“No, no, I hear it from others as well: the Bottentuits’ servant told me; so did M. Beaufrelant’s gardener. Mme. de la Vaudraye announced it last night when every one was there.”

Not for a moment did Gilberte admit the possibility of so great a perfidy. Nothing evil could ever come from within her: no suspicions, no doubts, no base thoughts; and whatever came from without broke against her love like impotent waves. How could she have pictured treachery, who did not know that treachery existed?

She was therefore very cheerful all day long. Nevertheless, at sunset, an irresistible force drew her to the ruined summer-house. Guillaume was not among the rocks in the valley.

Nor did she see him the next day. That night, she had a touch of fever and her mind wandered a little, mingling the picture of Guillaume with that of Mlle. Charmeron.

She laughed merrily at all this on waking. Nothing could touch her faith in her lover. She was as sure of him as of herself.

She rose in good spirits, resolved to be happy came what might. And she was happy: a plucky creature judging others by her own lofty standards, whose nerves and woman’s instinct may be alarmed for a moment, without allowing a breath to disturb the serenity of her soul.

She played and sang until lunch-time. After lunch, she strolled in her garden and picked some flowers. When she went in, she found Guillaume waiting for her in the drawing-room:

“You ... you ...!” she murmured, half-swooning with emotion.

She was obliged to sit down and they remained at some distance from each other, not daring to raise their eyes. It seemed to Gilberte as though her whole life would not be enough to take in all the joy that wrapped her round. How right had she been to be happy in spite of all things and to prepare herself for this greater happiness, which she could never have borne, had she been sad and suspicious.

Guillaume asked:

“Did you not meet my mother? She is looking for you in the garden.”

“Is your mother here?”

“Oh, Gilberte, would I have come without her, when I would not even go over there, among the rocks, for fear of displeasing you?”

She recalled her disappointment of the last evening and the evening before and was on the point of accusing herself ... but of what? Had she lent a willing ear to the calumnies of the town? She said, simply:

“I am glad of what you have done for Mme. de la Vaudraye.”

“What have I done?”

“Was it not a sacrifice to be at her parties?”

He went up to Gilberte:

“A sacrifice? Not at all.... Ah, that’s because you don’t know what has happened during the last few days!... Why, I am prepared to do all that she wishes and to take an interest in all that interests her and to like everything that she likes!... If you only knew, Gilberte.... Listen ... or rather, no, I prefer that she should tell you....”

“Oh,” cried Gilberte, “if they are hopeful words, precious words, why not say them yourself, Guillaume? Will they not be sweeter if I hear them from your lips? Speak, Guillaume ... I want them to be associated in my memory with the sound of your voice ... please, please....”

She besought him with her gentle, loving smile. He at once said:

“Very well, Gilberte, I will.”

He was interrupted by Adèle, bringing in a letter on a tray. Gilberte took the letter and, while the servant was leaving the room, mechanically cast her eyes upon the postmark. A cry escaped her:

“Guillaume!”

Her fingers trembled. She could only whisper:

“A letter from Dieppe ... from my solicitor.... Oh, I was waiting for it so anxiously!... Think, Guillaume: it brings me a name ... nothing can separate us now....”

The excitement was too much for her. She felt herself small and feeble in the grip of an over-great happiness. And, covering her face with her crossed hands, as was her wont at moments of perturbation, she wept tears of delight.

Some minutes passed in silence. She heard Guillaume open the garden-door. Steps approached, some one sat down beside her, a hand unlocked her fingers: it was Mme. de la Vaudraye.

She shrank back imperceptibly. But Mme. de la Vaudraye said:

“Gilberte, are you afraid of me?”

And the voice was so gentle that Gilberte was quite stirred. She looked at her through her tears and hardly recognized her. Her features had lost their customary hardness, her countenance the expression of implacable pride that deprived it of all its charm. And this charm now showed itself in the eyes, which had lost their severity, in the pathetic wrinkles of the forehead, in all that sad and withered face.

“Gilberte, you wished to be my daughter: do you wish it still?”

She had no time to reply. Guillaume had rushed up to both of them and was kissing them by turns. And he said, fervently:

“Let us love her, Gilberte. We owe her the greatest gratitude for what she is doing. It means the sacrifice of her most cherished ideas and she has consented to that sacrifice of her own accord.”

“Come, Guillaume, don’t make me out better than I am!” protested Mme. de la Vaudraye, in a playful tone. “Are you quite sure that I have not merely yielded to sordid motives? If Gilberte had been a poor girl, without any money....”

“Oh, madame,” said Gilberte, “that counts for so little!”

“Yes, with you and Guillaume, who are young and think only of your happiness, but not with me, who have suffered so much from the change in my fortunes. I can’t help it: one cannot alter at my age; I have a name of which I am very vain; and my dream has always been to restore it to all its brilliancy.”

She playfully stroked Gilberte’s hair:

“And think of all my blandishments, from the very beginning, Mme. Armand! You can’t say that I wasn’t clever in getting round you and making you do what I wanted! Well, then, one day, you tell me that you have bought up my family estates and you offer to reinstate me as mistress of the Logis. How could I have the courage to refuse?”

She displayed a sort of unspoken wish to make amends to Gilberte, a wish which her pride prevented her from revealing as openly as her heart would have prompted her, but which, nevertheless, appeared in her manner of confessing, as though in fun, the shabby side of her behaviour. Gilberte had too much delicacy of mind to take pleasure in this admission and replied:

“It’s your son’s happiness which you have not had the courage to reject. It is so easy to tell that all your ambitions and all your hopes are only for him.”

But Guillaume was less indulgent and exclaimed:

“Really, mother, one would think that you were trying to cheapen your consent! Come, tell her of our talks of the past fortnight, tell her that you know the whole story of our love and that you understand Gilberte, as she deserves, and that that is why you agree.”

Mme. de la Vaudraye made a last stand. It was the final effort of her vanity. She seemed undecided, bewildered, staggering, like one trying to keep her footing before falling; and then, suddenly vanquished, she took Gilberte in her arms:

“Yes, child, yes, it was you who conquered me ... I have come to you not because you are rich and generous, but because you are good and sincere and the noblest creature that ever lived.... Yes, I have thought of the future, from the start, and I think of it still; but, also from the start, your goodness has been working on me as on every one else. I loved you apart from any sort of calculation. And, after refusing my consent, it was no use my heaping up reasons to confirm me in my resolve: I could only remember your dear gentleness, your innocence, your childlike simplicity.”

“Oh,” whispered Gilberte, “how happy you make me!”

“You shall always be happy, child, where it depends on me: that I promise you.... As for Guillaume, oh, if you knew how he speaks of his sweetheart! I know you now as well as he does. But did I need his words in order to know you? What he feels in you, that delicate bloom and innocence, I have always felt. And I know all the power of your eyes: they bring purity and peace ... one is better for looking at them ... one sees more clearly....”

Gilberte, in her confusion, nestled her head against the friendly shoulder. She was delaying, as a joy in reserve, the news of her recovered name; and the thought of the pleasure which she held in store gave her tiny thrills of impatience. She said, in a whisper:

“Then ... my name ... my past....”

“Rubbish!” cried Mme. de la Vaudraye. “What did all that matter where you were concerned, my innocent Gilberte? Those prejudices fade away into nothing when we look at them with your eyes and judge them with your candour.”

“Do you mean that?” asked the girl, releasing herself and looking at her with a radiant air. “Have you no regrets?”

“None at all.”

“Then read this letter, which has just come: it will tell you the secret ... I too have a family.... Ah, madame, you will have no need to blush for me!”

Mme. de la Vaudraye did not at first understand; then, when Gilberte had told her of the search conducted by the solicitor, she could not conceal her satisfaction:

“So you have succeeded? Oh, I am glad!... Why should I deny it? I was bothered in advance about what other people would say: pardon my weakness, I can confess it now that I have accepted you as a daughter before knowing that your parents were worthy of you. The fear that they might not be was the only obstacle; and that was irrevocable. But I overcame that fear. Something to boast of, was it not? As though it were difficult to know them, when one knows you!”

She took the letter, felt it and said:

“We shall soon learn the name of two good people. Your father must have had your fascination, Gilberte; and your mother: I picture your mother as an exquisite, charming creature like yourself.... Did you love her very much?”

“More than my life, madame.”

“Here, Guillaume, read it out.”

Guillaume took and opened the envelope. As he was unfolding the letter which it contained, he had a momentary hesitation.

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Mme. de la Vaudraye.

“Nothing,” he said, presently.

And he unfolded the letter.

They were there, all three of them, affected in different ways, but anxious and even a little timorous, as we are at the approach of the solemn events of our lives, even when we expect nothing from them but pleasure and satisfaction.

“Well?” asked Gilberte, who was certainly the least excited of the three.

Guillaume made up his mind and read, aloud:

Guillaume stopped. He hesitated once more and the letter fell from his hands to his knees.

Mme. de la Vaudraye grew impatient:

“What are you thinking of, my boy?”

He replied, in a dreamy voice:

“I am thinking that we are about to violate the secret of two persons who must surely have had their reasons for keeping it so carefully. They may have been the offspring of two rival families, or a pair of lovers who were kept apart by convention, but whose hearts drew them together. Who can tell? In any case, don’t you think that their secret belongs to them and that there is no reason that authorizes us to violate it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, mother, tell me what reasons you can have, tell me before that angel who is listening to us! You treated them as rubbish just now: have they become graver reasons since? State them: express your fear of public opinion, your dread of evil tongues, your horror of comment; and, as you do so, look into that pair of child-eyes and ask yourself if they understand what you are saying.”

She protested feebly:

“What a strange wish, Guillaume! There is something which you are keeping back.”

“Yes,” he cried, rising from his chair, “there is something else which I do not see clearly.... It is my love that objects.... I don’t want to lift the veil that shrouds Gilberte.... I prefer her so.... She is more mine like this....”

He was walking up and down excitedly. Gilberte held out her arms to him. He flung himself on his knees before her:

“Gilberte, I beseech you, remain for me the dear unknown whom I loved from the first day that I saw her. I do not know what prompts me to beg this of you, but I want you to give me the intense joy of feeling that you exist only through me, that you are commencing your life with me, that you are heaping still more darkness upon your past so that your eyes may be obliged to turn still more towards the future. Be the unknown lady of the Logis. Be the unknown who mingled her dreams with mine, the dear unknown who came from I know not where, but who came to me, of that I am certain.”

She hung on his words. He stammered, incoherently:

“Oh, you will do it ... I feel it!... And yet, Gilberte, listen ... the secret is yours ... you yourself have the right to know....”

She answered, with a smile that lifted him into the seventh heaven:

“Guillaume, I do not want to know what you will not know.... Besides, it matters so little! I was only happy for your mother’s sake.”

He bent his head and kissed her hands. Presently, they heard Mme. de la Vaudraye tearing up the letter. She said, simply:

“It shall be as you wish, my dear children. But don’t you think, Guillaume, that there will be difficulties, that the law requires ...?

“Never mind the difficulties!” he cried. “We shall see to that later. Everything will be settled as we intend, I am sure of it.”

A long silence followed, full of grave sweetness. At the end of it, however, Guillaume, smitten with a vague remorse, murmured:

“And so, dearest, you will never know your name?”

She smiled:

“But I know my name: is it not Gilberte de la Vaudraye?”

“But your mother?”

“Oh, my mother!” she said, with shining eyes. “Mother’s name was mamma!”

THE END