PART I

I

THE FIRST ACT OF PROCEDURE

A suit for divorce or separation is begun, as everyone knows, by a petition to the presiding judge: the party seeking freedom or release from the conjugal tie briefly states his grievances, and requests the magistrate, according to law, to attempt a reconciliation, a useless proceeding in most cases, before the final break. In the provinces, the first step in the proceedings is generally heartily welcomed in the solicitors' offices. The clerks hastily leave their desks to get a look at the rough draft--which they will soon have to copy--with all the eagerness of youth to enjoy a scandal, the participants in which are known to them. It is a regular treat for them; but their unkindness is quite devoid of malice.

Thus, the Derize case at Grenoble brought into close conference in M. Tabourin's office, during the chief's absence, the four clerks--the learned Vitrolle, Dauras, Lestaque and the errand-boy Malaunay. They began the reading of a communication from the veteran barrister, M. Salvage with the formality commensurate with the importance of the persons concerned, and with a sense of the glory reflected upon the office by such a truly Parisian affair.

"Another victim of man's selfishness!" cried Vitrolle with an air of finality.

The head clerk was chivalrous, a feminist, and imbued with a local patriotism stimulated by the scholarly learning of an archivist. Had he not discovered from statistics--into what will statistics not inquire?--that "the number of deceived husbands is less in Dauphiné than anywhere else," this being an opinion which an old author named Chateaumières de Grenaille had formulated as early as the 16th century, stating that it was "almost a miracle to hear of a woman in Grenoble having a love-affair to the damage or prejudice of her reputation." Nothing less than this learned authority could have induced him to side against M. Derize, whose almost universal reputation as an historian would otherwise have had great weight with him.

"Pooh, let's wait for the answer," protested young Malaunay, who, at the age of seventeen or eighteen, after having gone through many offices, was profoundly skeptical in all matters of morals.

But his doubts were not shared by his three colleagues, for they had seen the pretty, quiet Madame Derize in the street, in the public garden, on the quays of the Isère, and they earnestly and unanimously vouched for the innocence of their new client.

"I hope you're right, I'm sure," said the office boy indifferently. "All the same I had anticipated this case."

He gave this retrospective prophecy with the air of one who knows life not merely from legal document, but from every angle of personal observation.

"What do you mean?" asked Dauras and Lestaque, who had but one thought in common.

"Well, one day at the museum--"

"What were you doing at the museum?"

"Copying a deed, perhaps--one day at the museum, M. Derize was showing his wife the pictures. I was behind them--they had stopped in front of the portrait of an old man, all wrinkled, who, at first glance, looked very ugly to me."

"Who was the artist?" asked Vitrolle, before risking an opinion.

"I don't know--it's all the same to me."

"You have no taste."

"He was saying, 'Look at that face; see how it sums up the whole of peasant life with its daily struggles, its sorrows, its parsimony indelibly written in the wrinkles, its dreams--and perhaps a little alcohol too--in the glassy eye.' He spoke excitedly, and said a lot of other things that I've forgotten. I profited by his lessons. But Madame Derize did not stir any more than a post. She certainly is beautiful, but I find her too impassive. Really, I thought the old man quite alive, instead of just a portrait in a frame hanging on the wall."

"What then?"

"Listen. To the right of the old man there was a picture of a lady in a low cut dress. A red dress with all kinds of dangles on the sleeves and bodice. Mme. Derize took in the costume at a glance, you understand; she said: 'Lace looks very well with velvet.' Her husband was furious and did not say another word while they were in the gallery."

"And after that?" said Vitrolle.

"After that? Nothing. Divorce, that's all."

His hearers burst into insolent laughter which vexed Malaunay, for he was proud of his keen insight and exceedingly sensitive. This discussion of art bored the scribblers who had expected a more risqué story. The entrance of the chief put an end to their conference.

Without being old, M. Tabourin appeared so, because he was untidy and looked as if he were covered with the dust of his folios. He had often envied the baldness of most of his colleagues, when hurriedly running a comb through his overabundant hair, for it remained rumpled like poor soil which closes up again after being plowed. He was absorbed in the duties of his office and gave no thought to the fit of his clothing, which hung loosely on his body and twisted itself into wrinkles with every movement. Business had such a fascination for him that he never confused it with the human tragedies hidden beneath it: he considered his cases as distinct persons in themselves, living and important, each one lodging in a folio, so that he did not need occupy himself with the repetition of decisions and of the procedure in compromised or ruined homes. Professionals are nearly all so constituted, and that is why their professions do not wear them out.

"Anything new?" he asked the head clerk. Vitrolle handed him the draft.

"The Derize Petition."

"Ah! Ah!"

This news brought out in M. Tabourin's dull face lines of cupidity, as the light shining in a badly aired room gathers together a group of atoms and invites them to dance. He drew nearer to the window to decipher Salvage's cramped writing. The clerks watched him curiously, with the exception of Malaunay, who was waiting for a good opportunity to leave. The lovely June sun was calling him to come out and walk.

M. Tabourin's law-office is situated in St. André's Square, on the first floor, opposite the court house. It is reached through a dark, dirty corridor at the end of which is an open staircase: for entrance-halls, which are the pride of Paris and frequently of foreign cities as well, are generally sacrificed in the provincial towns of France, so that even large, commodious, roomy apartments with high ceilings, have the most wretched approaches.

As Grenette Square was formerly the business center of Grenoble,--still is in fact,--so St. André's Square was the real heart of the town, since there the religious, the municipal and the judicial life met, and even now are represented by their monuments. The past of Dauphiné dwells there, but one has to search a while to find it, for in this capital of long ago, the old is everywhere hidden beneath the new. As you alight at the station, you see only newly-built districts, houses scarcely finished, and wide avenues, whose perspective terminates in the far-away mountains. An industrious and prosperous town, you conclude, born yesterday in noble surroundings and lacking historic coloring. Even the streets have been renamed; the old "Rue des Jésuites," where Stendhal was born, is now called "Jean Jacques Rousseau." A few fortified gates opened in the ramparts have been ruthlessly dismantled, but those still standing interest the pedestrian, who, little by little, by following the winding paths of L'Ile Verte, finds traces of the wall of enclosure, perceives the bastions against the sides of Mont Rachois, imagines from these evidences of defensive toil the battles of old, and is prepared to discover by chance somewhere in the bright city one or other of those expressions of the spirit of a race which has maintained its integrity with a tenacity that has resisted all the labors of architects and engineers. Saint André's Square should still be satisfying, but it is only half so. There at the western end is the tall tower of the town hall which was once the palace of the Constable de Lesdiguières, and there above the low houses which crowd about it and hide its door, is the church whose venerable octagonal stone steeple is wrought with double windows in a pointed arch. But the court house where the Parliament of Dauphiné sat, shows a façade half Gothic, half Renaissance, the materials of which have been scratched away here, replaced there, and still retain even in the sunlight that cold newness which only the touch of time melts. As to the statue of Bayard,--who is represented as dying against the trunk of a tree,--it only encumbers the narrow square without adorning it.

M. Tabourin had never noticed many monuments from his window. From the time of moving into these offices he had taken pleasure only in the nearness of the court house--which he particularly appreciated when troubled by rheumatism. The brief of a case requiring special knowledge; seizure, dispossession, "the whole gamut," as he said enthusiastically, and involving heavy charges, when handed to him in its light blue envelope was much more attractive than the past of the province with all its memories. So he read the lawyer's petition without sentimental curiosity, and remarked only that Mme. Derize intended to apply for a separation _de plano_, that is, without preliminary investigation, which would reduce the fee.

"Have you had the corroborative evidence?" he inquired.

"No, sir."

"Was there something about a letter?"

"That is probably being kept back until after the usual attempt at reconciliation."

"Good. You will have the papers drawn up, Vitrolle, at once."

He took it for granted that the existence of a case dates only from the issue of its papers. Then he went into his private office and arranged one by one on the table the documents which he thought he would need for the hearing of the court that opened at nine o'clock. During this mechanical work, his inner contentment made him smile. All Grenoble had been watching this Derize case for two months, since Mme. Derize (née Molay-Norrois), had left Paris and had come to live with her parents. For the first few weeks there had been a pretense of ignorance of the subject; then, some over-gossipy friends felt a desire to provide explanations: M. Derize was traveling to authenticate the sources of some historical work; he had been unable to take his wife and children with him, but was coming back to spend his holidays at Uriage as usual. Little by little another version was given out. Some well-informed persons predicted a divorce. "Would it be tried in Grenoble or in Paris?" the lawyers were asking one another. The question was now settled for M. Tabourin: he was to represent the more sympathetic side in a trial, from which he would derive small remuneration, no doubt, but the widest publicity because of the personality of Albert Derize, the well-known historian, and of the prominent position of the Molay-Norrois family. Thoroughly pleased, he opened the door leading to his private apartments to inform Mme. Tabourin, who was grateful for this fresh bit of news which would supply her with conversation for an entire day. And this act of consideration for his wife seemed to him definitely to establish the case, even before the proceedings were officially begun.

On his return, he found M. Lagier waiting for him in the office. Philippe Lagier, although still under forty, was considered, in civil proceedings, to be one of the most capable lawyers in Grenoble. Short, sickly, with a faded complexion, delicate features, his hair already growing gray, indolent in appearance, nevertheless at the bar he was the equal of the strongest. High-strung and tense, he was tireless in public, never telling of his lonely hours of depression. His colleagues recognized his capacity for work, the modern ideas by which he simplified old methods, suppressed flowery phrases, gestures and digressions, shortened, condensed and clarified the form of pleading until it seemed like pronouncing final sentence; but people in general disliked him for the impertinence of his conversation, which was emphasized by a monocle without a cord, screwed into his eye. They disliked him too for his exaggerated contempt for professional matters and his almost fanatical fondness for the plastic arts, to which he devoted all his spare time, and for the gratification of his interest in which he went to the museums of Italy and Flanders as soon as vacation began, to collect the pictures, drawings and engravings that filled his room. And all this, to the great astonishment of the specialists, did not lessen his clientèle. He was known to be the intimate friend and college chum of Albert Derize, who would no doubt place his interests in Lagier's hands.

M. Tabourin, bristling, with his heart in his mouth, rushed forward:

"Good morning, Chief."

He was willing to flatter those who could help him in his work. Philippe Lagier in accordance with his method, went straight to the point:

"I have just met my colleague, Salvage. He has sent you the Derize petition:--although the parties are really residents of Paris, we have agreed to ask for the recognition of the Grenoble court."

"Thank you," said the lawyer, as if they had taken this step for his especial benefit, rather than, as was the case, to avoid the publicity of the newspapers.

Lagier screwed the monocle into his eye to mark the importance of this reply. It was a joke which he would add to his court anecdotes.

"Will you show me the rough draft?"

"It is being copied."

"I have serious reasons for wishing to see it. It is not a matter of inquisitiveness, since it will be placed in my client's hands to-morrow--I have informed M. Salvage about it."

"Vitrolle, give me the petition."

A man of importance and of so much authority must be handled tactfully. The head clerk got up and brought the paper to M. Lagier, whom M. Tabourin had taken into his private room. The lawyer was immediately absorbed in the document, which read as follows:--

"To the President of the First County Court of Grenoble: Mme. Albert Derize, née Elizabeth Molay-Norrois, domiciled at No. 9 Rue Bara, Paris, the wife of M. Albert Derize with whom she resides in law, but is in reality living at the Quai de la République, Grenoble, at the home of her parents, M. and Mme. Molay-Norrois, has the honor to inform you:

"That she contracted a marriage on the 25th day of May, 1897, with M. Albert Derize, formerly an officer of the municipality of Grenoble;

"That two children were the issue of this marriage, Marie Louise, born on the 10th of June, 1898; and Philippe, on the 18th of January, 1901;

"That on the 6th of last April, the plaintiff, previously authorized by her husband to open in his absence all telegrams and telegraphed letters addressed to him, was thus compelled to take notice of a letter of this sort sent to M. Derize by Mlle. A. de S----; that this letter, as much by the words themselves, as by allusions to occurrences and a previous correspondence, contained the manifest proof of the existence of a liaison between the two correspondents;

"That M. Derize, upon being asked to give explanations, immediately confessed his guilty passion, and by his offensive attitude forced his wife to leave their home with her children and to go to her parents' home at Grenoble;

"That since that time, after a trip to Germany with his mistress, he has established himself in Paris in her neighborhood and continues to maintain his relations with her;

"That under these circumstances the plaintiff has determined to take steps to procure a separation from her husband:--with these grounds the plaintiff concludes, etc., etc."

The legal forms for the interview of reconciliation followed and the date June, 1905, with the day left blank.

Philippe Lagier did not see his cases in the same light as his host, M. Tabourin, who thought only of formulas and remuneration. Lagier, prompted by intellectual curiosity rather than by sympathy, was interested in knowing the underlying details; the human conflicts that they represented interested him, without changing his skepticism, which was the combined result of fundamental indifference, many dislikes, and the innate revolt of a disillusioned mind, cognizant of its own value, but unable to put it to its best use. He rose. Through the half-opened door, he saw the attorney assigning work to his assistants, and at intervals reassuring two embarrassed peasants, whom he was about to dispossess. Seated uncomfortably on a bench in the office, they seemed to be so impressed by his affable manners and his poor clothes that they hesitated to give full vent to their complaints and lamentations.

What was the good of disturbing him in his ant-like activity? Lagier went towards the window, resolved to await him patiently. At the approach of a group of litigants, who had reached the court house before the doors were opened, two pigeons who were pecking in the sunny square, flew away and perched on the trefoil of the pointed arches ornamenting the belfry of Saint André. The over-restored monument opposite him reminded Lagier of Albert Derize's vehement invectives against architects; and, reading between the lines of the technical, obsolete expressions of the petition, he recalled the three actors of the drama which was soon to reach its conclusion before the amused magistrates. By a singular coincidence, all three had been factors of varying influence in his life.

Albert Derize was a college friend whom Lagier had chosen with that unerring instinct of youth, which, in later years, gives way to self-consciousness and hesitation. How brilliant was his career at the early age of thirty-nine! After graduating from the Charter School, he had gone to the Arsenal for a short time as assistant librarian. Faithful to his province while away, he had published a history of Lesdiguières, king of the mountains, in which the hard and cunning rogue of the 16th century stood out like the hero of a novel, and also a History of the Assembly at Vizille in 1789, which set forth in brief the spiritual and material conditions in Dauphiné on the eve of the Revolution. From that time fortune smiled on him. Despite his youth, the Academy awarded him the Grand Prix Gobert. A publisher, impressed by his self-confidence and success placed him at the head of a publishing enterprise in which he had long been stimulating interest in the best literary circles:--a monthly collection of biographies of great men, short, clear, eloquent and accurate and very cheap; by means of which he hoped to rouse young men from their apathy and to incite them by example to a more profitable use of their time. With that versatility of mind which is attracted by every great realization of life, Derize reserved for himself the treatment of some of the more pathetic and inspiring life stories, such as Pascal, Lavoisier, Marceau and Beethoven. In spite of this work, he continued to labor from year to year with tireless activity, on his "History of the Workman in Modern Life," in six volumes, a splendid treatise on the development of unions, of machinery, of manual labor and of economic and moral conditions. He was also writing a "History of the Peasant in the 19th Century" in which he gave free rein to his love of the soil, of agricultural labor and of country life, inherited from a line of husbandmen ancestors, and in which he showed by the reconstruction of vanished communities, both French and foreign, and by comparison with new social units, the inspiriting force of inheritance and of family ties. This work was to consist of four volumes: the second had just appeared. Le Play, Fustel de Coulanges or Taine, would have welcomed with joy this disciple, who was already a master, because of his positive method, his erudition, his regard for facts, and Taine, the greatest artist of the three, would have rejoiced in the warmth of his style and the coloring of his pictures.

In reconsidering his friend's successful career, Philippe Lagier, with the usual outcome of such dreams, began to think of his own achievements and concluded:

"He had luck. After all I am as able as he."

His friendship, although deep and of long standing, was not quite free from envy. He had deplored his narrow horizon and limited environment too often not to be envious of the freer, broader existence that Albert Derize enjoyed. He was his friend's equal in intellectual penetration, and was much quicker to perceive the ironical side of situations and characters, and to accept them at once at their true valuation. Because of the unexpected scope Derize gave to all subjects and observations, the contagious love of life which he spread about him, the inner flame which at all times flashed from his eyes, how indisputably did he relegate Lagier to the second place! And when one expected his enthusiasm to lead him into an error, an exaggeration or a false statement, he would right himself again as a careening boat with its sails too taut, by a skillful turn of the rudder, swings into its right course. A well-balanced mind and a passionate heart, one had to recognize him as a rare force with the power to enliven the hours by his presence, as his books animated them for his readers.

Philippe Lagier was interrupted in his impartial comparison by the entrance of M. Tabourin.

"I will be with you immediately, Chief. These people who were dispossessed were trying to retain their land."

He was referring to the peasants in their blue blouses and he disappeared again to argue with them.

Philippe remembered his unpleasant surprise when he had heard of the engagement of Albert and Elizabeth Molay-Norrois. He himself, at that time, was hesitating about asking for the hand of the young girl of nineteen, whom he thought too young, too worldly, judging her by her clothes; too conventionally pretty with her pastel complexion, her wondering eyes and that well-rounded form giving promise of developing into too stout a woman. He counted upon time to dispel his indecision, and had then been suddenly obliged to quit the field--which is always difficult. He had, however, quickly dismissed this sentimental dream, and had even been able to propose a toast on the wedding day, when with the usual commonplaces, he made a speech to the young couple who were "made for each other." Was not that reality outdone? This young man, already famous, whom the Molay-Norrois had been proud to welcome, despite the inferiority of his family, took with him to Paris a wife who was worthy of him and would help him in his easy ascent to success.

Why had not Lagier come first? Richer, of better family, a resident of Grenoble, what advantages he had to offer! He was constantly invited to the house. And Albert had come one fine day quite by chance. Fate willed it that Albert should always outstrip him. The petition for separation which carried his thoughts back, had revived his forgotten ill-will. He was tempted to rejoice at this misfortune, evidence of which would be filed on the following day. But then, less indulgent toward his own faults, he soon began a self-analysis.

"Am I going to betray him instead of defending him? Now, just what has happened? In the first days of their married life, I realized that Albert was not perfectly happy. Young girls are all too silly then to make men happy. In spite of our intimacy he never made the least allusion to any unpleasantness, but I guessed it--without regret. Yes, without regret: a man is not perfect. Then their horizon cleared. Observing the somewhat impersonal but delicate protection with which he surrounded his young wife, I gave no more thought to their happiness, and consented to be god-father to their second child--"

Irritated by these memories he opened the door and witnessed the departure of the two peasants, who were bowing to M. Tabourin, crushing their hats in their hands and thanking him again and again. For what were they thanking him? For having put them out of their homes? This devil of a man, not content with dispossessing them, exacted their gratitude for doing so!

"They quite understood," said the lawyer, as he came back.

"Understood what?"

"That I have only their interests at heart."

Philippe Lagier thought this was intended for a cynical pun, but in his office M. Tabourin always spoke seriously.

"Evidently!" he replied. "Here is your petition."

"Thank you. The case will go through quickly. Are you going to defend it?"

"Wait. In the first place the specifications of residence must be modified. M. Salvage and I are willing to accept the recognition of the Grenoble Court in order to avoid any comments in Paris, but to make this change seem plausible, put M. Derize down as living at St. Martin d'Uriage, where he owns an estate which comes under this jurisdiction."

"Certainly, certainly," acquiesced the lawyer, reaching out his hand for the document.

"And then--"

But some new clients interrupted the conversation, and as they were of importance, M. Tabourin, hesitating, assumed a distressed expression. Philippe Lagier, generally so impatient, was sorry for him. He closed the door between the two rooms in order to enjoy undisturbed the tête-à-tête with the third person in the drama. Over the compromising initials in the petition, he wrote the whole name: "Anne de Sézery." And he brought before him in a vision the young girl with brown hair, the shade of chestnuts that fall before the harvest, a face one could never forget, partly because of the disillusioned expression about the mouth in direct contrast to the bloom of her clear cheeks, and especially attractive because of the long narrow eyes flashing golden sparks, whose warm desires seemed to contradict the premature languor of her bearing. Slender, well-formed and strong, she gave the impression of having been born tired, as if she thought it useless to pursue too great aims. She lived with her father in a family château at Saint Ismier, a village built on the slope overlooking the wide valley of Grésivaudan. Her independent manners, her self-possession on horseback, her conversation which betrayed a wide and catholic taste in reading, and an almost mystical enthusiasm for secular subjects, these with her fortune, not big, but apparently comfortable, gave her a motley following of young men--of whom he had been one. For a long time he had been desperately in love with her: she singled him out for the intellectual qualities which delighted in stripping the world of its false poetry--and sometimes of its true poetry as well--and still he could not believe himself the favored one. Who could dare to believe himself favored? He had loved her in his own fashion, which implied reserve and caution, but had it come to a question of marrying her, he would have raised a thousand objections. But at that time such an obscure person would not have contented her, and, later, would he still have cared?

Albert Derize, whom he sometimes took with him on his visits, had become absorbed in the study of some ancient title-deeds at the château, where he found documents for his reconstruction of old Dauphiné. When Albert took part in the conversation, he treated the girl's audacities and paradoxes with the candor and loyalty of a comrade to whom one does not feel bound to show any particular consideration. "He was already thinking of little Elizabeth Molay whom he had met in the street and did not know," thought Philippe. "It was he who mentioned her to me and called my attention to her."

On the death of her father, Anne de Sézery, entirely unprepared for it, found herself heiress of a ruined estate. The old man with senile cunning, had for a long time concealed the fact, presenting to the world a bold front, like a crumbling castle, with riddled walls and undermined foundations. The suitors gone, the château sold, the creditors almost entirely paid, she disappeared. In her pride she had told no one of her intention. It was rumored that she was earning her living in England by giving lessons in music and literature in an aristocratic boarding-school. Little by little she ceased to be mentioned. She had never returned to her native country. Ten years had passed. Was it really ten years? And if it were ten years, how could he recall so distinctly that disquieting face, at once so sad and so passionate? She must be thirty-two or thirty-three now. And here she was reëntering his life with all the serenity of the impressions of youth, sure of her power to enchant.

This strange phantom had chosen his best friend as a means to recall herself to his memory. How had Albert Derize found her again? By what sudden turn of things had he come at last to understand this strange combination of ardor and despondency? She had made herself remembered by the passion she inspired. Had not her golden eyes in those days demanded absolute love, love given without thought of sorrow, or of fear of risk? Among these green box-files, arranged methodically like the limited sentiments of civilized lives, Philippe Lagier, disgusted with his fate, longed for the inexorable happiness she offered.

He had the proof of this happiness with him. With a mechanical movement he took from his pocketbook the two letters and the telegram which he had received from his friend since the separation. They were two short notes, expressing no regret; but then, for regret Albert was too proud. In the first, Albert entrusted him with his defense, in case divorce proceedings were instituted; in the second, he begged him to keep Anne de Sézery's name out of the trial, and to offer in exchange a complete submission to all Mme. Derize's demands as to the custody of the children. By a strange contradiction he had subordinated all his family ties to this new passion, and wished to keep quiet the name of the girl whom he did not wish to compromise, because he had no intention of marrying her: it seemed as if he had decided henceforth to live without the pale of law and society. That very morning, informed of the difficulties which would attend his proposition, he had wired that he would arrive with the evening express, and gave his mother's address on the Boulevard des Adieux.

Such were the three actors. To reconstruct the drama, it would perhaps suffice to read the evidence alluded to in the petition. When M. Tabourin reappeared, Philippe, whose imagination was over-stimulated, demanded:

"What about the letter in question?"

"I have not received it. It will be sent to you at the proper time."

"Good. Now may I give you a message I have for you?"

"I am at your service."

"Do you want to add to the scandal?"

"What scandal?"

"There is a third person mixed up in this affair."

"Nobody knows her. I do not even know her name myself."

"You are wrong. To-morrow that name will be on everybody's lips."

"So much the worse."

"Could we not, as is often done, agree upon another reason for separation? We will accept it in advance. We shall not try to defend."

"You know very well that the judge does not admit such an obvious disguise of mutual consent, and besides M. Salvage would not be a party to any deception."

"Suppose I saw Mme. Derize?"

"Her lawyer tells me she does not wish to concern herself about it on any account."

"Nevertheless I shall see her before the trial begins. Wait until to-morrow to draw up your petition. Do you agree?"

Maître Tabourin made a weak gesture of protest:

"You are unreasonable. The case must be begun."

"Well, well," replied Philippe, "it won't run away from you. But now it is time for the opening of court. Come with me, I want to talk to you about one or two other cases."

And they set out together for the court house.

As soon as they were gone, the clerks began to deliberate again:

"Did you notice M. Lagier's anxious face?" questioned Vitrolle.

The romantic Malaunay hazarded:

"He is in love with Mme. Derize and can't make up his mind to plead against her."

The two others protested:

"What do you know about it?"

"One always loves the wife of one's best friend." The office boy's psychology was pessimistic.

"For the time being he has set aside the petition," Vitrolle concluded.

"It will not come up again," said the little man. "What do you bet?" cried Dauras and Lestaque in chorus.

And they made bets on the Derize separation, as if it were a horse race. Malaunay alone bet the husband would win.

So the inevitable chorus, with its laughter, accompanied the tragedy of three people, a tragedy which these men of law were about to record with the aid of a set formula and with the usual professional indifference.

II

THE FIRST JUDGES

The Molay-Norrois lived on the Quai de la République on the first floor of a spacious apartment, whose eight windows looked out on the Isère. Because of the rapidity of the current and the continual variation of volume, the water of this river, flowing from the glaciers of the great Aiguille Rousse, sometimes shallow and sometimes overflowing, is not clear, but is undoubtedly fresh and cold. Above the bridge is a narrow section of the right bank, backed by the ramps of Mont Rachais and dominated by the fortress and the Monastery of Sainte-Marie-d'En-Haut. The mountains of Vercors on the left and the Saint-Eynard on the right complete the outline of a fairly wide horizon. One feels surrounded by plenty of space and splendid air.

This apartment formed a part of the old house that Lesdiguières prepared for his mistress, Marie Vignon, who was the wife of a silk merchant: the husband, not taking kindly to this luxury, was assassinated, and his wife, who welcomed it gladly, was married somewhat later and installed in the Constable's house. But as is the custom in Grenoble, the past has left no trace, and one would take the old house for new. This historical relic had attracted Albert Derize in former times, and so led him to meet Elizabeth Molay when she was still a child.

Philippe Lagier, who had called in the afternoon to fulfill his delicate mission to Mme. Derize in accordance with his promise to the lawyer, met M. Molay-Norrois coming downstairs.

"What a pleasant surprise! The visit of an enemy!" said the latter.

M. Molay-Norrois at sixty was by no means an old man. His scanty hair and beard à la Henry IV framed his ruddy face in white. Eyes of faded blue suggested a certain melancholy which belied his smile and the natural sprightliness of his expression and movements. He was dressed with care, a gray overcoat, gray high hat, patent leather shoes half hidden by fawn-colored spats, and from military habit--he had been a cavalry officer--he held himself very upright and rather stiff. He was slender and aristocratic-looking, and easily maintained an air of youth, of which he availed himself in the presence of women.

"I have not come as an enemy," said Philippe. "I want to arrange with your daughter to avoid this unhappy trial. You could help us."

"My daughter has gone out. The ladies are both at Mme. Passerat's; it is her day at home."

Philippe Lagier, who was standing on a lower step, looked up at the speaker. The latter showed a gracious, pleasant face, as innocent as a child's. Had not his well-known liaison with the beautiful Mme. Passerat become respectable with time, and did he not know better than anyone what is correct in society and what is not?

"Perhaps the ladies would receive me some other day," began the lawyer--

"But if you will come with me," answered M. Molay-Norrois, "we will go together. It is only across the Isère."

"With pleasure--"

There was in fact only the Isère to cross. The Villa Passerat stands on the opposite bank, almost at the entrance to the stone bridge. It consists of a building with a wing at the right and a turret at the left. This little turret, seemingly so useless and of doubtful architecture, had nevertheless played its modest part as watch tower: they said that one of its windows, usually closed, stood ostentatiously open during the occasional absence of M. Passerat, who was president of a local Academy of Art and Letters and director of several industrial societies. From the Quai de la République there is a very good view of the Quai de France. The house, smart and new, though in an old neighborhood, has a certain picturesqueness, due to its situation, but could have been greatly improved by being treated with more simplicity. It is ensconced, so to speak, in the rock which shelters it from the wind, and it is reached by a grated gate on the street level leading to a passage connecting with the outer buildings and the garage. The walls are covered with a wild vine. The terrace, overlooking the quay, is laid out as a garden, and from the entire façade, but more particularly from the upper stories (for some acacias planted at the edge of the river partially obstruct the view), one sees the magnificent panorama of the Dauphiné Alps, all the group of Belledonne and the Sept-Laux, snow-covered even in summer and glistening under the rays of the sun. On clear winter evenings when that snow, warmed by the glow of the sunset, takes on the color of almond flowers, this view charms the eye with more delicate shades than even Spring can offer.

At the bridge M. Molay-Norrois, stopping to open his sunshade, observed:

"Formerly when you married off your daughter, all responsibility ceased. Nowadays the children are constantly bringing their troubles into court, and parents have no rest."

"Yes," agreed Philippe, "nothing is permanent."

"Indissoluble marriage was considered the safeguard of the family. Even if there were some obstacles, it was respected. But good breeding is out of date. Democracy has destroyed it."

"Perhaps it is because we have less time to devote to it."

"That time was not wasted, young man."

Flattered by this designation, the lawyer was tempted to agree, but the old beau went on:

"Discretion, tact, ingenuity in living are all lost qualities. People cry from the housetops what ought to be kept quiet. You will see the paper that has been drawn up by your colleague, the austere Salvage, an old friend of my family. Ah, those old friends of ours, the lawyers, barristers, doctors, what a nuisance they are, my dear fellow! You have to consult them in the name of the venerable usages which they keep up, and they take advantage of it to ruin you, to drag you into law-suits, to crush you--"

"I saw the petition."

"Well, what do you think of it? The truth--they are all for the truth. As if truth is necessary to civilization: as if a highly organized society, eager for enjoyment, could get on without hypocrisy! And you take the whole world into your confidence. Formerly silence was a rule of good taste."

"Let us reconcile them."

"It is impossible. I went to Paris to see my son-in-law; he was off to Germany with the young woman. My sons Oliver and Victor wished to challenge him. It was foolish of them, but generous. I had great difficulty in restraining them. Would you have believed it? A scholar, an ambitious man to compromise his career and lose all chance of election to the Academy! One does not wreck one's home for such follies. He used to love Elizabeth: perhaps he still loves her. Who has not loved two women at the same time? But there you are, he is proud. When he was caught in an awkward situation, instead of denying, he defended himself. I know him: he will not come back. They call that showing character, whereas life is made up of concessions."

"And Mme. Derize?"

"The ladies are greatly wrought up. They excite each other: they talk about it all the time. Their patience, which I have kept alive for two months, is at an end."

"Then this is final?"

"I am afraid so."

They had reached the Passerat villa. Philippe did not care to go in.

"Could you not tell your daughter that I should like to see her? It is four o'clock. I shall come at about six."

"No, no, come in;--you can make your arrangements with her."

He did the honors of the house, as if he were at home. Madame Tabourin had not lost any time! There were seldom so many people at Madame Passerat's in the month of June, for then the heat seems to concentrate in the valleys, and people begin to leave town for their country places near by,--shady Uriage, or stations farther on. M. Passerat, whose only passion was archæology, presented to society the frightened manner of a library rat, disturbed while gnawing old books: but on Thursday afternoons, he had less difficulty in appearing sociable, as a matter of gratitude to those guests who took only a glass of syrup or a cup of tea and a small cake, while at the evening functions, being very niggardly despite his wealth, he calculated the expense of the refreshments and grumbled about it. Not only was he not master in his own house, but, on the pretext that his ideas were old-fashioned, he was no longer consulted about anything; whereas M. Molay-Norrois, with his taste for traditions modified by an exact sense of modern requirements, enjoyed an influence which had given rise to the story of the unfastened turret window. Gossip about the two had been even more general since Mme. Passerat, surrounded by her enemies had to struggle at the same time against her years--forty-five in all--and a tendency to shrivel and grow thin, which, if it looked attractive with high-necked gowns, was most trying in evening dress. She was on a fattening diet, but missed the benefit of it because of her physical activity and her irritability of mind. She was a handsome brunette with a curved nose, a quick decisive manner and a loud voice. She loved to bestow pleasure after she had secured a goodly share for herself. Domineering and charitable, she treated life with an assumed frankness, which in reality she lacked, and her husband, naturally fussy, was carried away willy-nilly by these hussar tactics which paid no regard to his indecision.

The two new-comers found the room full. People had gathered around Mme. Derize, congratulating, kissing, flattering her, until she did not know to whom to listen, swamped by the chorus of "dear creature," "poor little thing"--"these monsters of men," to all of which she passively submitted. Neither her mother, who had scarcely left her since her trouble, nor she herself had any idea of their lawyer's breach of trust. The two women had come to call unsuspectingly.

"Society always considers the absent one to be in the wrong," Mme. Molay-Norrois had assured her daughter. "Preserve the dignity of your position, but be strong in your own right. Mme. Passerat is very influential and she is our friend."

Mme. Molay-Norrois, with charm, straightforwardness and a devotion to her daughter so complete as to be an annoyance, was withal not in any sense far-sighted. Quite well preserved for her fifty years, and very modest in appearance, except for too much powder on her face, she combined, as often happens, a great deal of physical energy with an undeveloped personality. She could read a book twice within a few weeks without recognizing it. Very docile and amenable to the influence of the moment, she readily confused values, and so a social call seemed to her as important as a decision affecting the future of her children. For the time being, she was entirely taken up with Elizabeth's law-suit, which she raised to the importance of a battle, implying a touching confidence in her daughter's victory.

Somewhat astonished by the present social success, she could at least assist her daughter's triumph, and being very deferential to public opinion, she congratulated herself on having brought about this social acclaim. There was still justice in the world to laud the innocent and to brand the guilty. Transformed into a heroine, Mme. Derize blushed like a young girl. But women soon grow accustomed to ceremonies: this new importance was perhaps in keeping with divorce, just as it is customary to hurry to the vestry after a marriage, and as one, with a sorrowful air, shakes hands with the relatives upon leaving the church after a funeral. She conformed to this unexpected situation as well as she could, and society approved of her quietness. The "dear child" did not complain, did not blame anyone. Her beauty spoke for her.

Rather tall, with a tendency to fullness of figure, which spoiled somewhat the graceful lines of her shoulder, of her bosom and of her hips, she was wearing a gown and a hat of dark violet, the fitness of the color being favorably commented upon as quite the proper thing for a woman, who, although not in mourning, has known care, sorrow and the cruelty of fate. Her small head was crowned with beautiful, silky blonde hair, naturally curly like a child's, but too tightly drawn back by the comb; her eyes were black, softened by the shade of her hair and contrasting with it, her nose well-shaped, somewhat thin and pointed, her complexion like that of an English woman, her features clear-cut, and with her appearance of good health, and passive virtue, she expressed nothing more than a contented, stunned youthfulness--contented with itself, and stunned by the unexpected complications of a life, which without doubt, she had expected to pass through peacefully, as over a flat road in a comfortable carriage. At twenty-seven, Mme. Derize looked only twenty and always gave the impression of just beginning life.

It would certainly require great kindness or a determining influence on the part of Mme. Passerat to protect this young woman, who possessed all the physical blessings which are the envy of age and which form such an attraction to a certain type of men.

When they saw the pitiless monocle of Philippe Lagier, both Mme. Molay-Norrois and Mme. Derize experienced the same feeling of constraint, and quietly withdrew from the circle of their many voluble admirers. He tried to talk to the younger woman alone and finally succeeded, after countless attempts, just as she was leaving.

"An interview?" she replied to his request, in her high-pitched voice which so soon became annoying and seemed unsuited to serious conversation. "But you are not on our side."

"I have a message which I must give you."

"From whom?"

"From Albert."

"I no longer know him."

This was said in a hard peremptory tone.

"It concerns your children--their custody. Have you lost your confidence in me?"

She could not mistrust his intentions. Either from curiosity or because the past still had a greater hold upon her than even she herself realized, she brusquely consented without further request on his part.

"Very well, in an hour you can find me at my mother's house, at my home--"

And her exit, with her mother as a diligent chaperon on one side, and on the other, her father, who had understood the necessity for giving her his public support, was an apotheosis befitting people of distinction.

This departure relieved the strain. Society, lavish with its compliments and flatteries, must occasionally forsake this state of exaggerated enthusiasm which is rather wearing to all concerned. But it is not for the purpose of regaining the truth. Society sees everything in a distorted fashion and manages so to confuse issues, that after completely justifying its victims to the world, it turns and rends them.

"Do they know her name?" inquired Mme. Bonnard-Basson timidly. She was a wealthy parvenu, whose money had been made in cement, and who was received in society for her wealth, her pleasant ways and her meekness.

"Whose name?"

"Why ... the corespondent's."

"Anne de Sézery": everybody knew it--above all things everybody wished to appear to know it, for it is humiliating to receive information rather than to give it. Somebody named her and everyone agreed with an understanding air. How should they judge her? The title of nobility made them hesitate for a second. Before anyone spoke, a mysterious thought-current, pointing in a definite direction was established. One or another of the women recalled the young girl, formerly proud and independent, who had considered herself beyond all conventions. She had not left a very sympathetic impression behind her. Penniless, reduced to the point of accepting a position as a teacher--yes, as a governess--almost a servant, there was no possible defense for her. She had lost her social position. They made her out to be an adventuress. Those who meet with great obstacles in life and must seek work and recommendations from others easily pass for such. They accused her of wild flirtations,--oh, of course, with the purpose of finding a husband. For she was furious at being an old maid; at thirty-four or thirty-five (they were generous with her) it becomes difficult to marry. This addition to the number of her years, hurled insultingly into the discussion by some unkind gossip, caught the attention of a large part of the company. But no one denied it.

"Thirty-one," corrected Philippe Lagier, simply. "That is adolescence nowadays."

He received several angry glances, and they continued with the story of an English lord, an old rheumatic millionaire with whom she had traveled, but the narrator confused places and dates at will, did not cite her authorities, and depended on a vague suspicion. And during all this gossip, Philippe saw even more distinctly than on the evening before, the beautiful disillusioned face and the sad eyes in which flashed golden lights.

They consulted him as to the future.

"Could she marry him?" inquired, in one breath, Mmes. de Vimelle and Bonnard-Basson, who had become bosom friends since the busy husband of the latter had provided the remunerative position of director for the useless husband of the former.

"Who?"

"M. Albert Derize, of course."

"Madame Derize is merely seeking a separation," someone explained.

"Ah, yes; that is customary--an absurd custom," interjected a young feminist--"One ought to be able to begin life again."

"Many times?"

"As often as necessary."

A former Court Counselor, M. Prémereux, a permanent fixture at Mme. Passerat's receptions, hastened to display his learning:

"Nowadays a separation becomes a divorce after a certain lapse of time."

"Ah, you see," someone exclaimed, "of course she knows all about that."

The Magistrate resumed his explanation:

"Article 298, relating to the statutory grounds for divorce, forbade the guilty party to marry the corespondent, but that has just been repealed."

"She knew it," said one of the women with conviction.

Philippe Lagier, without moving a muscle, added:

"Surely. Nowadays before falling in love, we consult a lawyer."

M. Prémereux, somewhat subdued by his thirty or forty years on the bench, envied him this insolence. The women, not appreciating the irony, attached no importance to this remark, and by a sudden turn of conversation, spoke of the case of Albert Derize. M. Lagier had just been talking in a low tone to the pretty Mme. Derize: was that not already a sort of infidelity? They hoped that he felt a secret passion for her. They foresaw it with that divination which is the attribute of certain hostesses, who are adepts in placing their guests at table, so as to arouse sympathies and provoke emotions, and thus succeed in giving an added brilliance to their receptions. So they spoke in favor of the wife before beginning the chapter concerning the husband. They praised her intelligence more than her beauty, and her resignation more than her youth.

"Now," said Mme. de Vimelle at last, taking the lead in the pursuit--"why, with so many fine qualities that we know of, should she have married a husband of such inferior origin?"

"That's what I say!" agreed Mme. Bonnard-Basson, who was descended from prosperous tradesmen--

Nevertheless they agreed upon some extenuating circumstances.

"He was well-known, a member of the Legion of Honor, almost famous." But an old lady asserted:

"For a writer the Academy is the only thing that counts."

They might have objected on the score of his age, but this was a subject which had already been too much discussed.

"These differences of position between husband and wife!" went on the angular Mme. de Vimelle. "There is nothing more dreadful. That an adventurer and an adventuress should meet and be mutually attracted. Nothing is more natural!"

And to outdo her friend of one season's standing, Mme. Bonnard-Basson, who was naturally servile and sought every opportunity to flatter her, took courage because of her hyphenated name, to add:

"Say what you will; only the old-established families know how to avoid scandals."

She was forgetting the rôle that the Sézery family had played in the history of Dauphiné, notably in the religious wars in which they had taken part with Lesdiguières. But logic is not a factor in social gossip.

Philippe Lagier had borne all these attacks with difficulty. To be silent was to approve of them, and how could he answer everyone at once? The women's principal argument he well knew concerned the humble birth of Albert Derize, but to him this seemed the most preposterous of all, for one had but to enter the house of the elder Mme. Derize to be surrounded at once by the atmosphere of order, work, honor and moral strength that had formed his past--but to realize this one must be worthy of appreciating distinction of mind and character.

"Have you read the second volume of the 'History of the Peasant?" he asked, in order to reënter the conversation. "One might apply to the author the epigram of Mme. de Staël concerning our compatriot Monnier, whom she found 'passionately sensible.'"

"Passionately," echoed one of the women insinuatingly.

"It is glowing and accurate. It has had great success and has been translated into every language, like his 'History of the Workman.'"

Mme. Passerat interrupted:

"We are not questioning his talent."

"The Duchess of Béard who is very clever, uses it as her prayer book. M. and Mme. Derize used to dine with her."

"He knows how to plead," thought Counselor Prémereux.

"The Béards are one of the great families of France and one of the oldest. But how do we distinguish the great families nowadays? Not always by titles; that would be a great mistake. They are known by their traditions of honor and of gentleness. And it is exactly that which one meets while in the home of the Derizes."

This daring was answered by a chorus of protest:

"You are M. Derize's friend!"

"His lawyer!"

"You are defending him!"

"That is your profession!"

Mme. de Vimelle, her nose as sharp as a razor blade, had given vent to this last answer.

"At your service," replied Philippe. "But who is there that does not need to be defended?"

And he took advantage of the movement toward the refreshments to take his leave. M. Prémereux rejoined him on the staircase.

"I fear you have made some enemies," suggested the prudent counselor.

The barrister, who had been amused by the fencing match smiled complacently:

"That is preferable to women's indifference." To prolong the conversation he added:

"I will go with you as far as the Place Grenette." And he immediately resumed:

"Why this haste in judging? They praise one, crush another without understanding even the underlying principles of debate."

"That all comes from Mme. Derize's call," explained M. Prémereux. "Nothing more is necessary to focus their criticism."

They reached the City Park, the shade of which, after the sunny roads, brought them a breath of cool air. It is a little park like those of England, where the trees, young elms and plane trees, mingle their branches above the damp green lawns. A black swan with a red beak was swimming on a little pond to reach the tiny island where his little house was built. Water could be heard trickling from a fountain. An avenue of lime trees in flower shed their intoxicating scent like a fine dust. At this warm hour of the day, the garden was a refuge of peace, softness and sweet reveries.

The counselor took off his hat to enjoy this pleasant sensation, but Philippe Lagier resisted these natural influences.

"No," said he, without removing his hat, "I will tell you what shocks society. It is when one presumes to ignore it."

"You are right," agreed the old judge. But Philippe did not hear him.

"Just think: to hold as worthless the prejudices of public opinion and the art of reconciling duty and pleasure. So the world detests every emotion that is sincere. What can they think of Mme. Passerat who finds a means of having two husbands--one for his money, and the other to be in the style."

"For heaven's sake, be quiet. I dine with her every Saturday and her cuisine is the very best in Grenoble."

"Or that stout Mme. Bonnard-Basson, who from sheer snobbishness is on the lookout for a titled lover."

"That is the way commerce renders homage to aristocracy."

"Or that crabbed Mme. de Vimelle who knows it, and makes use of her knowledge to further the good of her family."

"She is a good manager."

"That is, without taking into account all that we don't know."

With an indulgent, disillusioned air, the old man soothed his companion.

"You are irritable. The hardest thing in life is to accept one's fate. Everyone envies the lot of everyone else, and seeks to ameliorate his own by complicating it. This is a great source of error. What we need is a little philosophy and a few concessions; to offset our curiosity and greed by the cultivation of some of those harmless tastes which broaden our horizon without harming other people; that is to say: art, reading, travel, good food, conversation, even dissipation, or rather a little prodigality, a daily task, children to bring up! That will satisfy the most unreasonable or the most ambitious. As to passion, it is certainly detestable. It moves about in our civilized land like a blind man in a drawing-room full of knick-knacks, and it should be put out of the house. Added to that, it does not bring happiness even to the simpletons who hope to get it that way."

"It is not happiness they seek in passion."

"What then?"

"Intensity of living."

M. Prémereux looked at him as at a curiosity from a museum.

"You are young--"

"They told me that only to-day."

"Your eyes are not yet open."

"Mine?" said Philippe, surprised and piqued; he prided himself on never being deceived.

"Yes, yours. In order to judge, one must not be concerned in the trial, and you are constantly summoning yourself to appear when you make your own estimates. But never mind, the greater part of mankind open their eyes only once."

"Only once?"

"Yes--at death--and then they are quickly shut."

III

THE PLAINTIFF

An hour later, Philippe Lagier presented himself at Mme. Derize's house. Would he see her alone or in the company of Mme. Molay-Norrois? He knew it would be almost impossible to convince the latter by arguments predicated upon experience, obstinate as she was, with an unchanging, simple conviction, in an opinion which originated with the austere M. Salvage,--one of those provincial magistrates who have charge of the morals of the community. If she were present, the effect of his efforts would be nil. If she were not, his very cordial relations with the young couple who had often dined with him at Grenoble, and who had entertained him in Paris, made him feel that before the case was opened, he could take this unusual step which he was about to attempt, not as a lawyer--that would have been out of the question--but as a friend. He would make another effort to avert a break, to lay the foundations of reconciliation. Since their quarrel he had been out of touch with the people concerned. Most of his information had really come to him from the petition to the President of the Court: that contained dates and exact facts. But of what use have facts and dates ever been to explain emotions, and how much more truthfully can a facial expression, a word of rebellion, of hatred, or of sorrow, give a clew to these intimate dramas!

As Philippe was gazing from the window at the swift, muddy Isère, he was trying with the habit of mind of a man of business who prepares his plans and forestalls obstacles, to imagine Mme. Derize's attitude. And he realized that he did not know her at all. The proof of a developed personality is to be able to find immediate answer to the questions raised by circumstances. We easily divine frankness or deceit, tranquillity or anger, nobility or quickness of decision, except in those complex characters which are the result of too much reflection, and such is seldom the case with young people. So, in their many years' acquaintance, Albert's wife had told him nothing about herself, not because of excessive reserve, but because he could draw no inference from their conversations which were never deep nor remarkable for their spontaneity, but were, on the contrary, light and frivolous, enlivened by that charm and sprightly ease due to life in Paris. He had sought in vain for a clew to her moral make-up which defied his analysis and on pursuit disappeared as a cloud in the wind.

Mme. Derize came in. She was alone--but at once took shelter behind Mme. Molay-Norrois.

"My mother is coming in. I suppose she may hear our interview."

"Certainly," said Philippe, decided to take immediate advantage of the short tête-à-tête, which chance had given him.

There was no time to lose, and yet they began by exchanging commonplaces, which generally precede every argument: preliminaries which seem as indispensable as skirmishes before a battle. She quietly told him of her own and her children's health, announced her coming departure for Uriage, where she would spend the summer to avoid the heat of Grenoble. He stared at her somewhat rudely and with evident surprise. She was wearing the same appropriate dress of dark purple that he had heard praised at Mme. Passerat's, of the beauty of which he could now get a better idea. But it was the puzzle of her charming face that he was ardently studying: it revealed no traces of life nor of the sorrow of the past few months. As long as he could remember, he had always seen it as it was now, with high color, pure and glossy as a flower, without a shadow or a line. Even the contrast of her fair hair and her black eyes did not impress him as being unusual, and her mysterious charm for him was the result of expectation, not of the past.

Realizing that she was under observation, she blushed slightly. The blood mounted easily to her cheeks. He explained:

"Your extreme youthfulness surprises me every time I meet you. They surely must call you 'Mademoiselle' in the shops!"

This compliment amused her:

"It is true;" she said, "yet I have been married eight years and my children are growing up."

Philippe Lagier did not add that at every meeting she gave him an almost irritating impression, a complex of vexation, of persistent sympathy, of disdain and of a desire to provoke her: then all these contradictory feelings changed to an indulgence, a gallant instinct of protection which he felt for his friend's pretty wife.

After these banal remarks, in accordance with his usual way, he began brusquely:

"You have made up your mind?"

"To what?" she asked, although she had understood.

"To a separation from Albert."

She seemed to be thunderstruck.

"Oh! why not after all that has happened!"

The lawyer at once expressed his point of view:

"A man like him is not to be judged by one action, but by his entire life."

She noticed that he did not speak of pardon, but of justice, and she mechanically repeated in her surprise.

"His whole life?"

"Most assuredly. I knew him before you did. Did you ever know in what straitened circumstances your mother-in-law was left after the death of her husband? Did Albert ever tell you of her devotion, of the privations which that splendid woman went through to bring him up, and of his industrious youth, so full of effort and so productive at an age when the rest of us are wasting our days? Why did not you go to seek the advice of Mme. Derize?"

He became more animated than if he were at the bar. It was an indication that he was not unconcerned about her. And if he were interested in her, why this awkward intervention? Our feelings have a singular manner of expression. She lowered her tone of voice and said quite naturally:

"I have my own parents. And then, I have never been concerned in his family affairs."

She brought him back to the question. He looked at her, her flushed face, quiet and peaceful, her beautiful hair, too neatly arranged, her calm eyes, and the little narrow forehead shut like a forbidden door. And from that moment, irritated by that peremptory tone, and by his memories, he pleaded his friend's cause, not with his usual weapons; irony, wit and logic, but with sharpness and bitterness, almost with the eloquence which he detested:

"In marriage, he brought to you a name almost famous; it has since become so as a result of his work and his talent which are equivalent to a fortune. It is an unusual opportunity for a woman--for a rich young woman, to enter so broad and varied a life, constantly changing, in touch with all the great minds of the day, and with all the important contemporary events. It is something to excite curiosity and interest wherever one goes, merely to have to open one's eyes and ears to receive the best teaching: that which comes to us from contact with powerful minds--to be thus connected with all the general life of one's time. It seems to me there is no fate more to be envied. Most of your friends, I am sure, only vegetate in mediocrity."

"They have their husbands all to themselves."

That was quite a feminine answer. "Life in general," "the great contemporary events," were words devoid of meaning to her,--even rather ridiculous in comparison with happiness. Elizabeth had not married to help her husband exert an influence, to play a part in his life, but merely in order to find happiness. What did this lawyer mean to convey with all his exaggerated conceptions? And now he was continuing:

"The husband that a wife has all to herself, Madame, is a poor creature. A woman's life may be complete with love. Men must have other aims. There is none higher than Albert's."

"Yes, he is following a fine career."

Philippe Lagier, in order to hear her explanation, hazarded: "He was more in the public eye, more exposed than others. Perhaps your happiness needed some supervision."

She bluntly rejected this obtrusive attack.

"I do not accept police regulation of my personal affairs."

He made a slight movement of discouragement:

"That is not the point," he said.

She reminded Albert's friend of the unfair neglect she had suffered: of the position of her family--of her circle of friends, even of her fortune. She had not come to her marriage empty-handed. She was right. This was the consensus of opinion in Grenoble. Albert Derize, of lowly origin and with no money, had made a very good match, so everyone said, in marrying Mlle. Molay-Norrois. The Molay-Norrois have an excellent name and live in great style. It was true she had received as a dowry the sum of two hundred thousand francs, of which one quarter was still unpaid because of her two spendthrift brothers--one an officer, and the other an attaché of an embassy. The habits she had acquired at home permitted no economy either in her dress, in her house, nor in the number of her servants, so that her husband, with his thirty or forty thousand francs' yearly income, could scarcely keep up appearances in Paris. But it was known that the money for the upkeep of the house came or would come from her: that was an established fact, impossible to deny, and that no matter how many books he published, this would remain unchanged.

Philippe, unconvinced, shook his head. Albert's fame became a career, and his work an obligation. And he looked almost with irritation at this obstinate forehead, half hidden by that childlike hair, at those eyes, so soft and peaceful, reflecting an ineradicable conviction.

To convince him in her turn, she summed up as a formula a very simple argument.

"I have fulfilled my duties and he has been unfaithful to his."

Thus stated, the argument was simplifying itself. But the lawyer would not allow it to be so expressed:

"Listen, Madame, it is a friend and a very sincere friend who is speaking to you. I have defended many divorces and separations: and I have never known, never, you understand--that the faults were all on one side."

He did not add that his experience had proved to him for a long time that security, harmony and the union of a home depended more on the wife than on the husband; she makes or unmakes the family as she does the fortune.

"Faults? What are mine?" asked Mme. Derize, smiling. "I should like to know what they are."

"I do not know yet. But I am sure that they exist."

Offended by this insistence, she defied him.

"Really? Tell me what they are."

He answered her in his own bantering way.

"Perhaps I shall tell you some day."

He was the first one who did not treat her as a victim, who did not pity her as a brave little martyr, and although she felt this opposition to be friendly, it hurt her. To conclude the conversation, she declared:

"All is over between us.... I do not ..."

She stopped short, puzzled by the confidence which came to her lips. What was she going to add? To find out he repeated in an insinuating tone:

"You do not ...?"

"I no longer love him."

"Then you never loved him."

"What do you mean?"

"To love when someone loves you, when one spares you every struggle, every annoyance, smoothes your life for you like a wide road where nothing stumbles across your way, that is a simple matter! How does one prove one's love? To love when one is deserted, forgotten, left alone, struggling with every difficulty, or even when one's heart is trampled upon,--yes, that is indeed to love."

"That is to lower oneself. I have my pride, my dignity--everyone understands it for oneself in a different way."

And convinced of her own right, she asked:

"Is this the mission with which my husband has entrusted you?"

Almost roughly, as if he took an unconscious delight in ill-treating her, he answered:

"No, Madame. Albert gave me no mission of reconciliation."

"Ah!"

"I have another mission to fulfill," he added without noticing this exclamation which might indicate vexation.

"You are taking a great deal upon yourself."

As if to accentuate these words, Mme. Molay-Norrois entered the drawing-room. She still had her hat on and was carrying her parasol. Hearing of M. Lagier's visit, she came in without delay to bring help to her daughter, whom she still treated as a little girl, and all of whose problems she willingly took upon herself. From that time on, the interview was doubtful, but it had to be carried to a conclusion, once it was begun. Philippe, about to give an explanation of his friend's wishes, realized the audacity, almost the impropriety of broaching this subject directly. However, he decided he would do so. After all he was only an intermediary. Then the circumstances required this solution, which was, after all, the most reasonable. He explained to the two women that separation would necessarily raise the delicate question of the custody of the children.

"Albert shall not take them from me," said Elizabeth resolutely.

"He will certainly not take them from you. But he wants to have them for several months each year."

"Several months?"

"Yes. And look at the unfortunate position of those children, to be shared, and to be dragged about in two directions."

"No, no, I shall not share them. He has forgotten us. Henceforth he can leave us in peace."

She did not require her mother's help to defend her rights. Philippe Lagier thought this the psychological moment for presenting the proposition of his friend.

"Despite his sorrow, he will renounce these paternal rights; he will submit to all your demands, but only on one condition."

"And that is?" asked the women.

"You know that a divorce or a legal separation can easily be obtained without stating the actual reasons, but merely by presenting an insulting letter prepared to fit the case, or to bring about a departure from the conjugal home. It is sufficient that the two parties are agreed, both desirous of avoiding a scandal, and not wishing to furnish food for gossip."

"What condition?" repeated Elizabeth, who could not imagine.

He leisurely dilated upon the customary precautions.

"It is in a word, mutual consent, which is forbidden by law, but to which jurisprudence closes its eyes. And besides, how can the truth be disputed? In this way the procedure is curtailed and the public loses interest in a case which has become commonplace."

"Well?" asked the young wife who thought only of her own particular case.

"Well, Albert is willing to accept all the conditions that you think fit to impose upon him,--provided that no name be mentioned at the trial."

"Ah," said Elizabeth simply, and her eyes filled with tears. Two seconds later the tears were dried, and the charming face had regained its usual composure, so that Philippe had his doubts about the genuineness of an emotion of such short duration.

But Mme. Molay-Norrois let her indignation have full play.

"The miserable wretch! He is thinking of that creature's honor!"

And turning toward her daughter, she encouraged her in her refusal.

"You are not to have conditions imposed upon you, you are only to dictate them. The judges, when they hear of your husband's behavior ... will not fail to give over the children to you. How could they place them, if only for a few days, in the care of a man who has remorselessly abandoned them and at present thinks only of his mistress? A bad husband makes a bad father."

"The judges do not willingly deprive a father of the right to take care of his children."

"He himself has forfeited that right. Did he raise any objection when my daughter went away? And does he not declare his willingness to give them up forever--forever! if we will protect the honor of this compromised woman? Isn't that monstrous?"

"You are misconstruing Albert's feelings, Madame. There are self-imposed obligations which a gallant man cannot fail to meet without losing his self-respect."

"He has only the obligations of his home," said Mme. Molay-Norrois.

Philippe, addressing Mme. Derize, read a brief excerpt from one of Albert's two letters.

"And suppose it were from tender memory, from pious deference that he refused to dispute with their mother about the care of the children? Suppose he evidenced thereby hiss continued affection, his confidence? As to the allowance which he means to give them, he begs you to fix the amount."

As he concluded this sentence relating to the financial advantages, to which she had never as yet given a thought, the young woman gave expression to her revolt:

"It is not a question of that," she said decidedly.

Somewhat surprised at this disinterestedness, which was diametrically opposed to all her preceding answers, Philippe insisted upon another argument:

"Of what advantage would a scandal, at the hearing, be to you? What benefit could you gain by it? Are you not satisfied that the separation will be pronounced in your favor and that the arrangements are in your hands? Think it over, if you care to, for several days, before making a decision which may be so serious."

Elizabeth looked at her mother as if to beg for her advice. Her smooth forehead was lined with a little vertical wrinkle between the eyebrows. Her entire face, her body, was tense with an effort of abnormal will, entirely out of keeping with the pretty childishness of the face and the accustomed carelessness of her movements. She did not wait for Mme. Molay-Norrois to give her advice.

"It is quite decided," she said. "I refuse. I will not lie. I will tell the whole truth: so much the worse for those whom it strikes."

"Quite right!" agreed her mother, not without secret remorse, for she paid no heed to the remonstrances of M. Molay-Norrois, who, since his daughter's return, had tried to dissuade the two women from any public scandal. But she was one of those good, loving honorable women, who are controlled by the ardor of their feelings.

Philippe Lagier expected this reply. The turn of decision and frankness in the young woman did not displease him, but on the contrary, seemed to be a change worthy of attention. She rejected all compromise, not because of revenge and hatred, but because she judged the results of the separation to be less important than the separation itself. There is no safer code of morals than the truth; but how difficult to follow, and--still more--to accept! Being neither complex nor meditative, Elizabeth judged it simpler to abide by it: at least she chose it of her own accord, without submitting to any outside influence.

"Besides," added Mme. Molay-Norrois, "M. Salvage has promised us that the separation will be granted very quickly without investigation."

"That will depend," objected the lawyer, "upon the document in your hands of which I know nothing."

"The document?"

"Yes, the letter to which allusion is made."

Elizabeth blushed as if she had been discovered, and felt obliged to give an explanation:

"It is a telegraphed letter. During Albert's absence, at his request, I opened all telegrams to inform him of their contents, but never letters. He had asked me to do this for him ever since we were first married. It is true that for a time I had not done so. That day he was impatiently waiting for some proofs which did not come. He had gone out. I was to telephone to him if they came. I thought that the telegram referred to them--it was chance. That was how I came to know--"

She wished to convey the impression that she did not watch over her husband's correspondence and that all spying would have been unworthy of her. By the expression of her face, even more than by her words, one would know that she was incapable of such a rôle. As a result of this attitude of loyalty, her youth assumed a more direct charm.

"Will you show me that letter?" asked Philippe, who, prompted by curiosity or sympathy, was going somewhat beyond his mission.

"But ... why?"

"I shall read it sooner or later. If you will tell me what is in it, I shall be the only one to pay any attention to its contents before the case comes up. Otherwise, it will lie about in lawyers' offices. I have come here as a peace-maker, not as a lawyer. I remember our friendly relations. And if circumstances condemn Albert unreservedly, I shall request him to select other counsel."

"No," replied Elizabeth, touched. "You are his friend; it is right that you should defend him. You have already begun to do so. When you came in I was preparing to send you this letter. The lawyers have twice requested me to show it to them. Now I have no more secrets; my life is exposed to the public--it is all the same to me. I will go and get the letter for you."

But it was the life of another that she was exposing. During her absence, Mme. Molay-Norrois confided to Philippe that she wished to take her daughter away to Uriage as soon as possible, since the mere prospect of the trial depressed her, and the children needed to be in the country. When he asked for the little girl and for his godson, her unfriendly expression changed, and her face was lit up by one of those kind grand-motherly smiles, which, as a result of much association with children, restored a little of her confident simplicity.

"Here, read it quickly," said Elizabeth, handing him an envelope which her fingers scarcely held, as if they were in contact with a flaming torch.

"He was asking for the children," explained her mother kindly--"Where are they?"

"In my room. Will you go and get them, Mamma?"

Philippe understood that no one else was to be present while he was reading the letter, and he was glad of this tête-à-tête with his former sweetheart.

Anne de Sézery, Elizabeth Molay-Norrois, figures of his youth, which still continued to affect him through the life of Albert Derize! What had become of the young girl of Saint Ismier, so baffling in her strange changes of mood? As she had come in the morning, so now again she came to his memory--the narrow golden eyes, the mouth with its drooping corners, which wore an expression of expectancy and of weariness. But on this face time must have left its trace. He looked at the writing and recognized it, although it was stiffer, firmer, with sudden flourishes and unfinished letters. And without stopping, he read the eight pages of foreign paper which crackled under his fingers like dead leaves under the foot which crushes them.

"PARIS, this Friday.

"Was it yesterday evening that you left me, my friend, my lover? It seems to me so long ago, and you see I am coming to you first. I am so much in dread now of all the minutes which pass so quickly, adding to my years, and will so soon carry away my youth with them. When I was a young girl--very vain of having attention paid me--and you came to Saint Ismier, I sometimes tried to be a little coquettish just to please you. It is not natural to me, and I understand the art so little, that I did not make a success of it. At that time you did not guess my affection, did you? It outdistanced yours by ten years. From afar and when you knew nothing of it, it was with you. Ah! if love could but give us the power to do away with time! But when one is loved, does not that serve to make one forget unpleasant days? Since I said good-by to my old Sézery home, which was sold, to my lands, to my trees, I have hardly known any but unpleasant days. Standing on the bridge of the boat which took me to England, I leaned over to look at the water, and the water seemed to carry away all my dreams. I felt as though I were casting my heart to the depths. What pride was required to live my humble life! And how hard I worked (I am afraid now that it may have worn me out and turned you from me)--to acquire a proficiency in the subjects which gave me the opportunity to meet you again. How I love to recall that meeting! It was just a year ago. You had come to London for that History Congress. Do you remember our visit to the Tower? I can still see the block where the Queens Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard were beheaded. You were revivifying those poor dead creatures, and I too was coming out of my grave: I can confess it to you to-day. A man who is able to reanimate to so great a degree the past, stones and even hearts, must live very intensely.

"However, a month later, when I settled in Paris to receive the little legacy from my aunt which restored my independence, I made no effort to see you again. I was too much in fear of your indifference and my own recollections. Then Summer separated us, and I wished to free myself from the emotion which was constantly deepening and which threatened to absorb me. But you came back in the Autumn. It is a season so restless, so transitory, that each day seems to be filled with importance. It is then that one's soul is full of anguish, at the same time declining and expectant. One feels as if dying slowly, with the hope of being reborn. As for me, I have never been able to be happy in Autumn; now, especially, when I am beginning to understand the inevitable frailty, the precariousness of youth which is vanishing.

"How could I have refused when you offered to show me an unknown Paris, the historic Paris where phantoms still abide? When I was quite little, I loved the portraits of my ancestors at Sézery; and for the pleasure of knowing fear, I imagined that they were coming back at night. Oh, our wonderful walks along the quays, in the hot sunshine, or in those little streets which you know, where you called up for me ghosts of the past! And St. Germain and Malmaison, and Chantilly that we visited in late Autumn, when the forest has lost its foliage, and one sees so far into its depths and into one's heart as well. Each one of our walks meant another bond to draw us together. No doubt they gave added zest to our instincts for research, to our intellectual life. Often (do you remember?) we investigated one by one those marvelous hypotheses which give us our desire for eternity. But it was for love that we were both eager. And I, I continue to tremble. Your life, you told me last night, could no longer exist without mine. But mine belongs to you for as long as you will. May it glide softly into yours without ever harming it! Without taking it, let it be of service to you. If you knew! I have no more confidence: it has never been very powerful in me, and these last ten years have killed it. I no longer believe in the happiness I can give, and I would offer my life for yours. Direct my weakness, my love: I feel so old and so young at the same time, and I love you.

"ANNE."

A business man is always somewhat skeptical about the sentimentality of love letters. From the facts which are an integral part of almost every brief, he knows with what euphemisms or what lack of perspective they are worded. But Philippe had been too often to the Château in former days not to recognize the candor of the young girl in this tone of passionate exaltation and anticipated discouragement. He only divined in her a more intense melancholy, like a latent languor. Her eyes must be less golden, her mouth more drooping, her body more slender. In a word, she must have partially lost her physical charm, which explained her unanswerable fear of the future, and Philippe was sufficiently cruel to rejoice in all those pictures which made her less desirable.

Madame Derize reappeared first with her two children. The invisible comparison was greatly to her advantage. Thus framed, and with all the attraction of her youthfulness, he thought her singularly powerful.

"You have read it?" she asked when he had kissed Marie-Louise and his godson, little Philippe.

"Yes, Madame, but according to this letter she was not his mistress."

She was dumbfounded at this interpretation.

"Do not trifle with me: it is unkind."

Guided by his professional skill, he had discovered an argument which he explained, not without having protested against her intentions:

"Oh, Madame, I am trying--despite you, despite Albert--to find a way of avoiding this separation. It seems to me that had you wished to do so, you could easily have triumphed over your--your rival. This letter speaks only of an intellectual attraction. The scenes to which she alludes only pertain to impressions of historical places, and are the expressions of a certain mental exaltation."

Without any definite purpose, Mme. Molay-Norrois returned. Some people have this privilege. Elizabeth gently requested her to take the children away. Marie Louise, who resembled her father, with dark eyes like his, ever in a state of eager curiosity, her features rather pronounced, was looking at Philippe and listening to him attentively, while her mother feared the precocity of this little girl, who since their departure from Paris, had often asked rather embarrassing questions. As to the little boy, plump and fair, he was obstinately tugging at the tassel of a cushion which he hastened to pull off, so as to carry something away with him.

Once more alone with the lawyer, the young woman replaced the letter in its envelope.

"Now that you have read it, the solicitor will have no further use for it. Shall I refuse to show it again until the trial comes up?"

"That would be better."

So the elaborate plan arranged by the clerks in the office of M. Tabourin was frustrated. Without the knowledge of their chief they had demanded twice in an official capacity the letter mentioned in the petition, merely for the purpose of convincing themselves.

Then Elizabeth made a self-accusation of being only an ordinary woman, of not having "a soul at the same time declining and expectant, a soul of Autumn" and of being unable to understand psychological subtleties. Unaccustomed to irony, she did not hesitate to set it aside:

"Besides, Albert himself did not deny it."

"Ah, how did he defend himself?"

"He did not defend himself: he accused me."

"You?"

"Yes, he had that audacity. He complained of I do not know how many imaginary miseries which he tried in vain to enumerate. And when I asked him 'What was lacking' he answered: 'To you, nothing; to me, everything.' Those were his absurd words. And when I threatened to go away with my children he did not even try to keep me back. Do you understand now that everything is over between us? To-day he is living with that woman, whom you are asking me to spare. She is almost old, almost ugly: let him keep her. As for me--I want to hear nothing more about it. It is over forever, yes, forever. You must not speak of it again."

She shed a few sincere tears, enough to show herself to be in the right, but not enough to spoil her complexion. But this exact number was not calculated. Her self-love suffered as much as her love. He guessed this and looked with more interest at her little smooth, mysterious forehead, shaded by her well-dressed hair; at her beautiful eyes and all the lavish youth that even sorrow could not change. His consolation was expressed in the force of his final effort at persuasion; and when he had taken leave of Mme. Derize and Mme. Molay-Norrois, who had at once returned to her daughter like a faithful bodyguard, he did not compliment himself on the somewhat awkward manner in which he had fulfilled his mission. He could only await his friend's arrival to tell him of Elizabeth's attitude. Anne de Sézery was to be put upon the rack and exposed to the public. Elizabeth Derize would justly obtain her separation; that was already settled.

As he was going along, he met the little clerk Malaunay on the quay of the Isère and did not notice him. But the latter, who knew the house and willingly sauntered about, took advantage of this meeting to congratulate himself on his farsightedness: he raised his head with a triumphant air; inhaled the evening air which, at this hour, was growing cooler, and said to himself:

"It is quite evident: he is deceiving his client. Wasn't I right to bet on the husband?"

IV

THE DEFENDANT

For several minutes after opening it, Albert Derize's mother looked at the telegram, which announced the arrival of her son with the evening express. She was surprised and happy. Then her first thought was to go into the kitchen, for she gladly kept all extra work from her servant who was almost as old as she, and having had only the one situation, had served her for forty years.

"Fanchette, we shall not dine until half-past eight."

She who responded to this very youthful, high-sounding name, turned toward her mistress, a face lined with deep creases and drawn with amazement.

"At half-past eight, Madame!"

In the monotony of life, regulated as in a cloister, a delay like this was an event, almost a scandal; but when she heard that M. Albert was the cause of it, her mouth seemed to spread from ear to ear in a kind of smile, and beneath her two prominent eyebrows her little gray eyes twinkled as if under too bright a light. Although he had grown in every way, M. Albert still belonged to her, because she had held him when he was born. And she even continued to think of him as quite little, to overwhelm him with all kinds of little needless attentions, whenever he came, and to remind him of certain former unpleasant circumstances--such as burning the end of his back when he sat on a foot-warmer. Although she seldom went out of her kitchen, yet she had certainly noticed that Madame had been troubled for some time, and had she not heard from some gossipy neighbors, things which terrified her and pertained to one of those shameless women, at the mere sight of whom one must cross oneself? She thought at once of feeding the prodigal son with meats and pastries, and proposed having all the dishes which, from his earliest days, he had honored with his preference and which she could no more forget than a soldier his victories. This ardor had to be limited to a simple soup, a stew, some asparagus and pancakes with apricot jam.

"We will give him my room," added Mme. Derize. "I shall bring out the blankets and the sheets."

"And Madame?"

"I shall take the little room on the south side."

"The sun shines very brightly in there."

"Yes, but he will need rest after a day in the train."

And the two old women, equally devoted, made active preparations for receiving, as well as they could, the one who filled their motherly hearts. But while Fanchette, with her tongue out, was absorbed in watching her stew pan, Mme. Derize, opening her cupboard and rearranging her rooms, was somewhat uneasy. At first she had interpreted Albert's telegram favorably: this departure from Paris (which, although she had never been there, she feared as a bad town where ideas of truth and error underwent a change),--this return, must be the prelude to a reconciliation: everything contributed to her confusion. The thought of having her son to herself, all to herself, also helped to make her happy. He generally stopped with his wife and children at the Molay-Norrois apartment, which was more comfortable and roomy. This exception to an established rule, to which she submitted without any recriminations, was like a slight return for her self-sacrifice. How she would caress and pet him! Not too much, however: one must not make men effeminate; and, besides, he deserved to be scolded. For the first time since he was a child, he had caused her a real heartache. She did not recognize, did not understand his conduct. Marriage, in her eyes, was an indissoluble, sacred union, which only death could break asunder, which even death itself had not broken for her, although it had pitilessly shattered a happiness of too short duration. What would become of children if each of the parents had the right to begin life anew? They had not asked to be born, and was it not necessary, after bringing them to light, to transmit to them that other light which is the tradition of the family? Has anyone ever realized anything without a purposeful aim and a definite acceptance? She had written all that when she heard of Elizabeth's departure and the infidelity which was the cause of it. She had even wanted to go away, but Albert told her of his proposed departure for Paris. Five times, with her slow, yet still firm step, very much to her credit, braving the recriminations and the cool welcome of the Molay-Norrois, she had gone to her daughter-in-law to induce her to be patient and to forgive, trying especially to win the interest of the innocent little victims, Marie Louise and Philippe. But she had succeeded neither in moving nor convincing Elizabeth, and had met with a formal, obstinate decision. On the other hand, she knew the character of her son Albert, imperious, even proud, as is frequently the case with superior natures. She too, sanguine in her affection, her nobility of soul and her straightforwardness, had often suffered from it. The forbearance of a mother is not to be expected from others! Elizabeth, in going away after his breach of faith, had only acted within her rights. It remained with him to give up his passion, to link the broken ties. But she knew that he would not yield readily. And upon further reflection, the feeble hope which the telegram had raised, flew away as do birds which by chance have flown into a room and are eager to find their way into the open.

A little breeze was coming in through the open windows, after the day's intense heat. In the month of June, the light lingers late, and it was not yet evening, only that intermediate hour of twilight when the weary sun is slowly preparing to sink below the horizon. Madame Derize noticed a little regretfully this menace of a finality which was not immediate, but quite in keeping with her meditations. It was the hour she chose to visit the neighboring cemetery of Saint Roch. The dead can always wait. She contented herself with putting a little water in a vase on the bureau in his room, before a photograph, which, with time, had faded and could never have been very clear. And she even spread the flowers so that the picture was in evidence.

"There," she thought, "his father will speak to him. Ah, if only he might have brought him up."

She lived in the eastern section of the town which is almost part of the country. Parallel with the old ramparts runs the Boulevard des Adieux, with its tall trees and its little hills covered with grass. The gate which crosses it is called by the same melancholy name, and leads to the beautiful "L'Ile Verte" that must be traversed in order to reach the cemetery. All the funeral processions pass this way. The consciousness of death is ever present. For this reason, it is a section not very attractive to prospective tenants, despite the view of the foliage, the green slopes on the left between the branches of birches and lime trees, Mont-Rachais and Saint-Eynard, whose cliffs take on, under the setting sun, a brilliant color, alternately pink and violet.

This little flat of six rooms on the second floor at the corner of the Boulevard and the Rue Lesdiguières, had been occupied by Mme. Derize only since her son's marriage. She had then believed that her task was finished, and so retreated to the neighborhood of the tombs. Until then, on Albert's account, she had lived in the newer neighborhood near Saint-André Square: young men need scenes of activity and movement, and not quiet streets and reminders of death. When she saw him in a new home and realized that he was attracted to and even taken possession of by the Molay-Norrois set, who were proud of his growing fame, she returned quite naturally to the cemetery which contained her happiness and her youth. There rested her parents, to whom she owed this strength of resistance which results from a happy childhood, her husband whom she had lost after only four years of married life and whose memory still persisted after thirty-six years. It seemed to her as if she had not formerly had time to mourn him sufficiently, and that she was now paying a debt; as old age comes on, we have need of warmth and sunshine, and we recall both from the best days we have spent. He had been cut off at the height of his power by a crushing accidental illness, just as he was completing the building of one of those factories operated by the "white coal" which is making the fortune of Dauphiné to-day. Without a diploma he proved himself to be a pioneer. Albert's was the third attempt at prominence in the Derize family: the grandfather had already been stricken down before he found success. Thus families often present incomplete sketches of the descendant who will do them honor, or are impeded in their normal development by adverse fate, and do not succeed in flowering.

One knows what a critical period a new industry always goes through, when it is first exploited. If the leader fails, it is soon discredited. Rather than run a dangerous risk, Albert's mother, deprived of her entire fortune, had preferred to liquidate. This liquidation left to her child only an estate situated at Saint Martin d'Uriage, almost in the mountains, consisting of a house, farm, woods and meadows, which was not entirely unencumbered and the income of which was only a little more than two thousand francs. Alone, she would have gone there: the nearness of the church and the peace of the country were calling her. Albert was only three years old. From that time he was her aim in life. She hoped that he would realize the success lost by his father and his grandfather. To make some money and to give him a better education, she opened a kindergarten, and when he was older, asked for and obtained a modest situation in the post office at Grenoble, much better suited to her capacity for order, intelligence and good organization. In allowing him to find himself, to realize himself by first divining his worth, she gave him life a second time. He rewarded her by quick progress in his career, by his talent and later by his affection, a rather sheltering affection, somewhat changeable and very reserved in difficult periods, but which could be at times so confiding, so delicate, so deep, that the old woman, as she thought of it, felt her eyes fill with tears and her heart grow heavy. As soon as he began to earn money, he made her give up all work: Must he not be allowed to repay her? When he married, although their property of Saint-Martin, inherited from his father, and, besides, entirely freed by himself of all debt, was inscribed in his marriage-contract and even enabled him to treat on even terms with the Molay-Norrois, yet he still continued to pay her the income, to which he added a moderate allowance, for he did not intend that anyone, not even his wife, should realize that keen struggle with poverty which he and his mother had known, in order that no such imputation should be associated with the memory of his dead father.

Nothing binds strong natures like trials borne in common. Even the sharing of physical fatigue creates a feeling of comradeship and a community of interest. During these years of struggle, an exceptional intimacy had united Mme. Derize and her son. She had gone on with her studies in order to keep abreast with him. With what understanding and respect he had helped her when seeking her advice! And how she quieted his ambitious desires, taught him this virtue so difficult to acquire, especially by strong natures, and yet so indispensable, that no ardor, no rapidity of work can make supply: patience! As if she thought him her superior, she tried to turn him from scattering his forces, from splitting up his energies, from destroying himself by newspaper work, lecturing, and all those small accomplishments which a first success seems to require, and the habitual acceptance of which becomes the more dangerous because it satisfies a need for activity while permitting pleasant limitations. Instinctively and without knowing how to explain it--did she not smile in telling him what a superstitious respect she had for big books--she understood that concentration on a single object, strengthened by the habit of continuity, is the only way to give expression to lasting work. Thus she encouraged him to great efforts, and was doubtless of assistance in the planning of his "History of the Workman in Modern Society," so useful to-day, and of that "History of the Peasant in the Nineteenth Century," which was to be a résumé of rustic life, and to show its everlasting nobility.

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

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

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

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

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

"Albert, it is you?"

"Mamma."

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

"I recognize no wrong-doing."

"Ah!"

"You, you have been happy."

She answered sweetly:

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

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

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

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

"To accept does not mean to be resigned."

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

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

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

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

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

"Has Elizabeth come to see you?"

"Only once."

"And you?"

"I went there five times."

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

"I feel so uncomfortable in their house."

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

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

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

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

"And the children?"

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

"Do you see them?"

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

"You, you _may_ see them?"

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

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

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

But he added in spite of himself:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am leaving immediately."

"So soon?"

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

"You will tire yourself."

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

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

"It will be impossible."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, she refuses."

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

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

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

Philippe was amazed at this sudden anger:

"With what have you to reproach her?"

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

"Never!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very well."

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

"I have given you much sorrow, Mother."

"Yes, a great deal."

"You must not desert me."

"Oh, I ..."

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

"You know that quite well."

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

"May God watch over you!"

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

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

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

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