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Cornell University Library 
 PQ 2199.D62 1904b 
 
 A divorce, 
 
 3 1924 005 465 517 
 
A DIVORCE 
 
A DIVORCE 
 
 BY 
 
 PAUL BOURGET 
 
 OF IHIi rSENOH AOASEUZ 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1909 
 
COPYRIGHT, igC4, BY 
 CHARLES SCKIBNEK's SONS 
 
 Published December, 1904 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAFTEB PXQB 
 
 I. An Inextricable Difficulty .... 3 
 
 II. A Steffathbb 40 
 
 III. Bbbtha Planat 84 
 
 IV. The Teuth Comes Out 124 
 
 V. Betrothal 150 
 
 VI. The Open Wound 181 
 
 VII. Silence 210 
 
 VIII. The Unforeseen 248 
 
 IX. A Fabb-well 282 
 
 X. The Prison 317 
 
 V 
 
A DIVOECE 
 
A DIVORCE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IAN inextkicabm: difpictjlty 
 
 When Madame Albert Darras had turned out of 
 the rue de Vaugirard to go into the rue Servandoni, 
 the sight of the narrow, gloomy street of old houses, 
 although so close to the rue du Luxembourg where she 
 lived, only served to increase her fears. She had been 
 there hundreds of times before, without ever having 
 noticed the dreary aspect of this comer of Paris, which 
 suddenly struck her in her present state of mind. She 
 stopped a moment to look at the dilapidated, crowded 
 frontages collapsing on their foundations, the deserted 
 pavement without pedestrians, almost without shops, the 
 high grey waU of Saint Sulpice at the end, and over this 
 dismal silence, the oppression of a cold March sky, black 
 and dense. Though on the point of taking a momentous 
 step, which threatened to upset her innermost existence, 
 the poor harassed woman again felt her resolution 
 weaken, a resolution which had been well pondered and 
 cherished for many days, with countless struggles! A 
 final expression of conflict passed over her face, still 
 
4 A DrVOECE 
 
 pretty after forty years, with its wellTpreserved, refined 
 features, an unimpaired delicacy of complexion, and an 
 indefinable agitation which betrayed a keenly acute 
 sensibility. In spite of her absorbing anxiety she did 
 not look her age. The slender figure, the elastic step, 
 the graceful poise of the head, harmonised with the idea 
 of youth which the silver threads mingling with the gold 
 of her hair, and the dark rings under her eyes, half dead 
 with exhaustion, hardly belied. Though sleepless nights 
 had encircled her large eyes with a scarcely perceptible 
 shade, their soft brUliancy, which added a further charm 
 to her blonde beauty, had not been dulled. The 
 elegance, unobstrusive and yet emphasised, of her dress, 
 testified to her consciousness and understanding of her 
 beauty. She had obviously wished for an artistically 
 harmonious effect of quiet and warm shades. A bunch 
 of Parma violets relieved her otter-skin toque, and her 
 coat of the same fur was worn over a violet cloth skirt. 
 Certain costumes, in Paris, by their minute finish and 
 faultless cut, class a woman as certainly as a uniform 
 and galloons denote the rank of an officer. Everything 
 to do with Gabrielle Darras, from the bracelets which 
 glittered on her wrists just outside her muff, to the 
 dainty shoes appearing beneath the long pleated skirt, 
 betokened a woman of the French upper middle class, a 
 satisfied and unobtrusive class, in which, notwithstand- 
 ing the encroachment of foreign ideas, the traditional 
 taste of our country is perpetuated. Alas! if the slightly 
 
AN nOLXTBIOABLE DIFFIOUIiTT 5 
 
 studied character of the costume revealed in the woman 
 who had conceived it, a desire to please and to keep her 
 rank, only too natural — as the continuation of this 
 story will show — in an anomalous position, both coquetry 
 and vanity belonged already to the past, with the years 
 of happiness which alone had kept fresh the flower of 
 youth in the dawning autumn of her age. The present 
 was the anxiety which brought her to a standstill on the 
 pavement of the old street, the final hesitation before a 
 visit which might destroy her peace of mind for ever, 
 the distress of a moral agony in an acute stage, which 
 resolves itself suddenly in a violent determination. 
 With a half-defined gesture of indignant impatience, 
 Madame Darras, as if to spur on her weakening energy, 
 said softly to herself: 
 
 "Nothing will have changed to-morrow, nothing, 
 nothing, nothing. . . . What is the use of wait- 
 ing?" 
 
 With a step, firm once more, she went on, her head 
 up, looking at the numbers one after the other; till she 
 came to the house she was seeking, the dilapidated ap- 
 pearance of which made her shudder again. The build- 
 ing, facing north and ominously damp, dated from a 
 period when the street, in which the gravedigger of 
 Saint Sidpice had long lived, was called the rue des 
 Possoyeurs. Nothing had changed for a hundred years 
 in this house, built at two separate periods, one part 
 under the Directory, the other under the Empire, on the 
 
b A DIVOECE 
 
 remains of some convent garden, by one of the cheap 
 contractors who abounded in those days. Owing to the 
 universal confusion caused by war, they had only poor 
 apprentices, without technical education, at their service. 
 Such buildings, therefore, as the restoration of modern 
 Paris has spared, are examples of bungled masonry and 
 ignorant architecture. The house in its entirety was 
 composed of a main-building, two storeys high, joined 
 by wings at the corners to a sort of frontal building, 
 evidently built first, and decorated with a pretentious 
 row of busts copied from the antique: an Antinous, an 
 Apollo, a Diana. Iron crosses were fixed all over the 
 cracked plaster of the walls, which no longer held to- 
 gether without the help of clamps. Built as it was, it 
 formed a little world of its own whose members had their 
 outlet by separate staircases leading to a paved court, 
 in the centre of which the porter had laid out a fantastic 
 little garden. Shrubs, planted in tubs, put forth a 
 scanty foliage in the sunless atmosphere. There were 
 metal cisterns, old petroleum tins, preserve boxes, filled 
 with soil. Out of these climbing plants were to grow 
 and twine themselves round a trellis of wood and wire, 
 erected in the form of a little bower. The ingenious 
 fellow was engaged in developing this rustic contrivance 
 still further, when Madame Darras, after having knocked 
 on the window-panes of the porter's lodge in vain, 
 pushed open the wicket gate which separated the 
 entrance hall from the court-yard. At the sound of the 
 
AN DTEXTKICABLE DIFFIOULTY 7 
 
 bell, the amateur gardener looked round, without how- 
 ever troubling to stop working, and in answer to his visi- 
 tor's question preferred in a half -muffled voice: — ^Is the 
 Abbe Euvrard at home? ... he replied almost rudely: 
 "I can't say. . . . You had better go up and see. 
 The staircase on the left, second floor, first door on the 
 right. He is a very learned man, so they say, and wise 
 men always live in the clouds. . . ." 
 
 The roughness of his speech only showed that he 
 served a house of poor and over-numerous tenants and 
 received very few gratuities. Madame Darras blushed 
 as if she had had a personal affront. Although this visit 
 of hers to the old priest, held in so little esteem by the 
 porter, was not in any way compromising, still she had 
 come unknown to her household, and above all, un- 
 known to her husband. In her remorse at her clandes- 
 tine action, it seemed to her that the insolent look of the 
 under-bred man interpreted her presence there in an in- 
 sulting way. Hurrying along, her head bowed, she went 
 through the door he pointed out to her, and up the 
 wooden, uncarpeted staircase, with its dirty and uneven 
 steps. Had she been capable of reflecting at that mo- 
 ment, she would have been struck by the contrast between 
 the miserable lodging in which the man she sought had 
 taken refuge, and the place where she had been to ask 
 for him some days before. In future we will give the 
 Keverend Father Euvrard the title to which he has the 
 right as an Oratorian. He appeared under this titie in 
 
8 A DIVOECE 
 
 the Annual of the Institute, as an independent member of 
 the Academy of Science, before the promulgation of the 
 abominable measures of 1903 against the religious orders. 
 His address then was No. 4, rue des Celestins, all that 
 remains of the magnificent Hotel Fieubet, built by 
 Mansart, and occupied by the Oratorians as the College 
 Massillon. It is indeed discreditable in the last degree 
 to a government and a country, that an illustrious mathe- 
 matician, approaching old age, should be compelled to 
 leave his community and quiet study, to take refuge in a 
 wretched lodging, and live parsimoniously on his pension 
 and occasional uncertain and ill-paid work. But even if 
 Madame Darras had been able to realise the true mean- 
 ing for the priest of this little drama, the upset of his 
 harmless ways, the necessity of providing for the wants 
 of material existence, above all the separation from his 
 brethren, such a trial might have appeared morally in- 
 significant to her, compared to the tragedy of family 
 life which she herself was about to precipitate, and of 
 which this visit to the rue Servandoni formed but an 
 episode. As yet the tragedy was latent, but already the 
 terr9r of future conflicts acted so strongly on her nerves 
 that when she had reached the second storey and rung the 
 bell of the door on the right, as the porter had directed, 
 she was obliged to lean for support on the banisters. 
 Steps were heard approaching. They echoed physically 
 in her heart. It was the priest who stopped short, after 
 opening the door, disconcerted for a moment, at the sight 
 
AN INEXTEIOABLE DIITICULTT 9 
 
 of his unexpected visitor. The ring at the door had found 
 him at work at the blackboard. He still held a piece 
 of white chalk in his hand. His shabby cassock and 
 unshaven chin, his uncut reddish hair, which even at 
 sixty showed little grey, betokened the negligence of the 
 scholar for whom the outer world and their personal 
 appearance hardly exist. He would have looked almost 
 comical with his short, narrow-chested figure and rosy, 
 florid face, had it not been for the noble cast of his lined 
 and furrowed brow: — ^a brow such as Lavater would have 
 called that of a "searcher after truth," — and the ex- 
 traordinary beauty of his blue eyes, which still sparkled 
 with the freshness and transparency of youth. His 
 frankly astonished expression at that moment, was the 
 half-waking bewilderment of a mathematician who has 
 been transported a hundred miles from the present, on 
 the powerful wings of some chimerical problem. As 
 Madame Darras did not speak, too much surprised for 
 a moment by the totally different appearance of the 
 celebrated Oratorian from anything she had imagined, 
 he broke the silence. 
 
 "You must have mistaken the door, Madame," said 
 he simply. 
 
 " No," said she, " you are M. Euvrard, the Eeverend 
 Father Euvrard?" and without allowing him time to an- 
 swer, otherwise than by a sign, " My Father," she urged, 
 " I implore yon to receive me. I come to you without 
 any introduction, because I have so often heard people 
 
10 A DIVOEOE 
 
 sound the praises of your noble character, and of your 
 large heart; and just now I have much need of sym- 
 pathy." 
 
 Thus speaking, she advanced into the narrow passage. 
 The priest, almost mechanically, yielded to the sugges- 
 tion of this movement. He led the unknown woman 
 into the poor room which served him as a library. His 
 face could not, however, conceal the vexation which he 
 felt, and which was not caused merely by the interrup- 
 tion of his meditations. This woman's dress, her beauty, 
 her troubled air, and her importunity, gave him the im- 
 pression that he had before him a woman of the world, 
 caught iu some adventure of passion. To a book-worm, 
 who had lived in his study, and who had scarcely ever 
 performed his functions as a priest, since he had taken 
 orders after leaving the Polytechnic School, the prospect 
 of playing the part of adviser in an affair so far removed 
 from the matters which usually occupied his thoughts, 
 already disconcerted him. However, as he was a priest, 
 and a good priest, this lack of sympathy made him feel 
 ashamed. In clearing away the papers from his only 
 arm-chair his impatience disclosed itself, and he justified 
 it as best he could, throwing the blame of his impolite 
 vexation upon the disorderly state of his room. His 
 removal dated two weeks back, and he had not yet ar- 
 ranged his books, which had been laid in heaps, between 
 bundles of notes and of portfolios, upon the deal shelves 
 lining the walls of his study. 
 
AN INEXTEIOABLE DrFPIOULTY 11 
 
 A second-hand carpet covered part of the rough, cheer- 
 less floor; four rush-bottomed chairs, a corner desk, and 
 a prie-Dieu completed the furniture of what was but a 
 cell. The room was lighted by two windows, to which 
 the scholar had nailed, with his own hands and all awry, 
 a pair of curtains, bought ready-made and too short. 
 There was no fire, and the marble chimney-piece sup- 
 ported, near a spirit lamp, a saucepan, an earthen filter, 
 and the remains of a breakfast — ^two boiled eggs and a 
 cup of coffee. The host of this mean lodging prepared 
 his own meals with much indifference, as one migh| 
 gather from the blackboard placed upon an easel 
 between flie windows, and covered with the cabalistic 
 scrawls which constituted his intellectual retreat from 
 the world. He pointed these out by a gesture as he 
 offered the chair to the lady, and he said: "I blush, 
 Madame, to receive you in such an untidy den. Since 
 you know my name you will know also that I am an out- 
 law. It seems that I have brought danger to the state 
 by tracing these formulas in a house where other Fathers 
 study history, archaeology, and Hebrew. Let us hope 
 that the poor state is safe now." 
 
 He laughed at this mild sarcasm, his only retaliation 
 against his persecutors. Then his own words having 
 led him back by a natural association to his first idea, 
 "Amongst these Fathers several used to give counsel, 
 and still do so. Perhaps it would be better if I were to 
 give you the address of one of these? If you need 
 
12 A DIVORCE 
 
 practical advice, a mathematician is but little qualified 
 to give it you. Our science " 
 
 "It is precisely your reputation for learning," 
 interrupted Madame Darras, "which influenced me in 
 undertaking this visit. 
 
 " As I told you, I have often heard of you, in the first 
 place from my husband. He is an old pupil of the 
 Polytechnic School, like yourself it seems, though cer- 
 tainly he is not suspected of any partiality towards the 
 cloth. Because of this I shall ask you not to mention 
 my name. He and his friends hold your works in great 
 estimation. And then, you had the son of one of my 
 friends as a pupil at Juilly. From my husband I heard 
 of your great learning; I became acquainted through my 
 friend with your great kindness, and when I sought a 
 priest to whom I could speak in a momentous hour of 
 my life, your name came to my mind for these two 
 reasons. My situation is so exceptional that I shrink 
 from consulting an ordinary ecclesiastic with his narrow 
 mind. There are so many who seem to make it their 
 sole ideal to estrange souls still further from God." 
 
 "I am at your service, Madame," replied the Ora- 
 torian. "It is unnecessary for you to tell me your 
 name; I prefer not to know it." The enigmatical last 
 phrase used by this singular visitor had confirmed his 
 suspicions. Persuaded that he was going to receive the 
 confession of a repentant sinner, the priest in the 
 mathematician began to be awakened. The profound 
 
AN INEXTRICABLE DIFFIOULTY 13 
 
 saying of the apostle: Omnibus omnia f actus svim, will 
 be always the emblem of a heart truly sacerdotal. 
 
 Madame Darras saw an expression of grave attention 
 replace upon his suddenly transformed face the rather 
 droll confusion which had disconcerted her. Those blue 
 eyes, veiled just before in a cloud of distraction, fixed 
 themselves upon her with singular directness and the 
 accents of the priest assumed an authority, at once in- 
 dulgent and imperious like that of the doctor at the bed- 
 side, as he added, " I repeat to you, however, that I am 
 less qualified than one of those ecclesiastics whom you 
 have miscalled ordinary, and who have had more ex- 
 perience in such matters than I have. But, since you 
 have asked for my feeble light, what is it you wish? " 
 
 " It is, my Father," — and in this woman's voice there 
 thrilled the touching sincerity of one who prepares her- 
 self to lay bare an internal wound which she has for a 
 long time hidden from the world, — "it is that I have 
 been tormented for weeks, for months, by a desire to be- 
 come reconciled to God, by a desire which has now be- 
 come so acute as to be insufferable. I was very devout 
 when I was young. Afterwards I ceased to be so. I 
 had doubts. It seemed to me that I could no longer 
 believe, and for twelve years I. have left off religious 
 exercises. I say that it seemed to me, because I have 
 never failed to recognise the beneficent influence of 
 religion. The proof of this is that, having a daughter, 
 I wished her to be baptised. This was not accomplished 
 
14 A DIVORCE 
 
 without a struggle. The child has grown; she is eleven 
 years of age. She is going to take her first Communion." 
 
 Madame Darras stopped as if, having now come to a 
 part of her story involving her more intimate thoughts 
 and feelings, she could no longer find appropriate words. 
 This embarrassment, the indirect and hesitating char- 
 acter of her opening statement, and, further, the coin- 
 cidence between the time at which her child had been 
 bom, and the date when the mother had withdrawn her- 
 self from the sacraments of the Church, all these indica- 
 tions harmonised only too well with the hypothesis 
 already formed in the mind of M. Buvrard. This 
 woman was married. She had said so herself. She had 
 committed a sin. Her child was not by her husband. 
 Her allusion to priests who alienate souls still further 
 from God had been inspired no doubt by her having 
 encountered an over-severe confessor. M. Euvrard 
 thought the best course would be to make the painful 
 confession more easy for her. " Your child will owe to 
 you the salvation of her soul," he said, "and to have 
 saved a soul blots out many sins, especially when these 
 faults may have had, if not as an excuse, at least as an 
 explanation, some overpowering impulse. Take cour- 
 age, Madame." 
 
 As he spoke a blush came to the cheeks of the un- 
 known lady. The poor Oratorian felt himself blush 
 too. The flash of pride kindled in the glance of his 
 visitor revealed to him his mistake concerning the 
 
AN INEXTRICABLE DIFFICULTY 15 
 
 nature of her appeal. No. This was no repentant 
 heroine of a vulgar story of adultery, and he listened 
 to her as she continued to reveal her confidences in a 
 voice now rendered firm by her resentment against his 
 suspicion. 
 
 "KTo, my Father, no; I have nothing with which to 
 reproach myself .of the kind you think. I am a virtuous 
 woman. If I have ceased to practise my religious 
 exercises, I have nothing for which to blush in the 
 motive. I have committed no sin. I have always been 
 loyal. I had no remorse in being out of the Church. I 
 was at peace with my conscience. I have told you I 
 had lost faith. That faith slumbered. It has been 
 awakened by the contemplation of my daughter's faith. 
 It is this which brings me here. How this work has 
 been accomplished I do not know myself. There has 
 been a train of very ordinary events. When Jeaime had 
 to go to her catechism class, I accompanied her to that 
 little imderground chapel of Saint Sulpice, at the end of 
 your street, where I went too when I was her age. All 
 my former emotions revived as I shared her feelings. I 
 saw her fervent as I had once been, her spirit open itself 
 to religious ideas as mine had opened, the love of God 
 take possession of her as of me in former times. Was 
 it my childhood which lived again in my heart? Was it 
 something else? I repeat to you I do not know. I 
 began to go to Mass again on account of Jeanne, and as a 
 matter of form, I began to pray again, impelled to do 
 
16 A DIVORCE 
 
 SO at first by a feeling of regret. I gave myself up to 
 that feeling for the past which makes us love to revisit 
 the places where we lived when we were young, to meet 
 again kindred who have been lost to sight for many 
 years, to see our old friends. A time came when I 
 realised that this past was once more the present. I 
 became conscious of God. I became conscious of my 
 soul. Yes, there is a God, and He listens to us. We 
 have a soul which comes from Him, which lives in Him. 
 These two obvious facts impressed themselves upon me, 
 ever more clearly, ever more powerfully, in no other way 
 than by supervising my daughter at her prayers; every 
 morning and every evening I listened to her saying the 
 words ' Our Father ' and saw clearly into the depths of 
 her being. I saw there absolute faith in the goodness 
 of this heavenly father. I said to myself, I was forced 
 to say to myself, if this heart, so pure, so tender, so sin- 
 cere, is deceived in that confidence, nothing in this world 
 can have meaning, sense, or import. Is it possible? 
 Life would be a horrible nightmare if transports like 
 those of that child towards her Creator were only an 
 illusion. The mother in me yielded itself to that idea. 
 But, oh, this point has not been reached without strug- 
 gles! The arguments which I had heard urged against 
 religion arose again, but none of them were of any avail 
 against the voice of the good God. Why attempt to 
 argue when one feels, when a reality is there before you, 
 actual as yourself, as the air which you breathe, as the 
 
AN" INEXTRICABLE DIFFICULTY 17 
 
 objects which you touch? I believed again. I no 
 longer strove against a feeling so much the stronger 
 because it brought me into closer intimacy with my child 
 and with all the emotions of her growing piety. The 
 more I partook of these emotions, the more I loved my 
 child, and also the more I believed in God. You cannot 
 imagine what ardour of love the prospect of her first 
 Communion stirs in her; how her tenderness and her 
 intelligence are exalted and illumined by that prospect; 
 what miracles of perfection I witness daily in that young 
 heart. It is God whom I see directing her and, through 
 her, directing me also. But it is not to tell you in detail 
 this transformation in my thoughts that I am here, my 
 Father. I have said enough to enable you to understand 
 through what experiences I have passed, and how I have 
 attained to this desire which includes all the rest: 
 Jeanne goes to her first Communion in three weeks; I 
 wish to go to Communion with her." 
 
 " You have not only saved your daughter's soul," re- 
 plied the priest; "you have saved your own, Madame. 
 Do not let your long estrangement from God trouble 
 you. You called Him the good God and you were right. 
 He asks only an opportunity to pardon you. Our Lord 
 is always with us. You are right in believing that He 
 directs you. He it is who has guided you hour by hour 
 to the present time; be sure of that. You wish to go to 
 Communion. How simple! I am ready to receive your 
 confession whenever you desire; here — at once." 
 
18 A DIVOEOE 
 
 The worthy man spoke in a tone softened by regret 
 for his first mistake. Her story awakened in him a 
 very singular feeling. If he had the failings 'to which 
 the abstract mind is subject, he had also its advantages, 
 amongst others that power of mystic absorption which 
 so often accompanies mathematical genius, as in the 
 case of Pascal, Leibnitz, Newton, or, in our own day, 
 Cauchy, Puiseux, and Hermitte. An effort was needed 
 when he expected the narration of a love story, but his 
 interest was at once excited to the highest point by this 
 avowal, marked though it was by little intellectual grasp 
 or logical cohesion. He saw in it, as did Jeanne's 
 mother, the mysterious communion of God and a soul. 
 Still, one of the elements of the problem seemed to re- 
 quire explanation. When she regained her faith why 
 had she not gone immediately to the sacraments? Why 
 this delay? Why this difficulty in returning? Her 
 vigorous insistence on her virtue put aside all suspicion 
 of a guilty secret. M. Euvrard had no idea that he, as a 
 priest and in virtue of his sacred office, was the im- 
 movable barrier which she foresaw between her and the 
 Church, and the next minute he was listening with won- 
 der mingled with dismay as she repeated one of his last 
 phrases. 
 
 " No, Father, it is not so simple. It is necessary that 
 you should know more, and that I should tell you who 
 I am and why you see me so agitated. I am married; I 
 have already told you that. I ought to add that this is 
 
AN INEXTKIOABLE DIFFICULTY 19 
 
 my second marriage and that my first husband is still 
 living." 
 
 "Then," asked the priest after a silence, "you are 
 divorced and remarried? " 
 
 " Yes," said she. 
 
 " And your daughter? " 
 
 " My daughter is born of my second marriage." 
 
 "You are divorced and remarried," repeated M. 
 Euvrard, and, as if speaking to himself, " Poor woman! 
 I understand everything." 
 
 Then turning to her: " 'No. It is not easy. You can- 
 not go to Communion, living in such a way. I must not 
 even receive your confession. I could not give you abso- 
 lution." 
 
 He pronounced these last words with none of the 
 timidity of the scholar disturbed in his studies. There 
 was no longer in his voice the pity of an old man touched 
 by a sad confession. The priest pronounced in the name 
 of his faith a sentence founded upon an immutable law 
 and from which there was no appeal. The anxious face 
 of Madame Darras became still more contracted on hear- 
 ing his sentence, though she betrayed no surprise. She 
 showed only deeper despondency as she replied, " I knew 
 your answer beforehand. Father; I have heard it already, 
 as you guessed, I dare say, from what I told you. I 
 have spoken to another priest, and he stopped me at once 
 just as you did. I know too the condition you are going 
 to impose upon me; to leave my husband. Let me re- 
 
20 A DIVOECE 
 
 peat to you what I said to the other priest. Thirteen 
 years ago I was twenty-nine years of age. I was the 
 most unhappy of women. The man to whom my family 
 married me, and from whom I was obliged to separate, 
 had applied to have our separation converted into a 
 divorce and had succeeded. He married again. I was 
 left alone in the world with a son nine years old, of 
 whom the Courts had given me the guardianship. How 
 was I to bring him up? How overcome all the diffi- 
 culties with which a divorced woman is beset even when 
 she has right on her side? It was then that another 
 man, whom I had known at home, but only slightly, of 
 whom I had quite lost sight after my marriage, came 
 back into ^ay life. I found he had loved me as a young 
 girl, but had never told his love. He was poor then, 
 and I was rich. He never married because of me. He 
 struggled to win me when I was free, and to forget me 
 when I was no longer free. After the divorce he re- 
 appeared. He was prosperous now, occupied a brilliant 
 position, and was thus able to marry whom he pleased. 
 Faithful to his first love he asked me to marry him. I 
 accepted this devotion and since that day his tenderness 
 has never failed. He has been the best of husbands, to 
 my son the best of fathers, and were it the price of my 
 eternal salvation I would never leave him, never." 
 
 "I cannot quite understand then why you come to 
 ine," replied M. Euvrard, "nor, to use your own ex- 
 pression, what sympathy you need. You know enough 
 
Alf IKEXTRICABLB DIFFIOULTT 21 
 
 about the laws of the Church to be aware that your 
 second marriage counts for nothing in her eyes and 
 never could. By acting as you have done you have 
 broken the laws of the Church. You persist in this 
 infraction, and at the same time you speak of resuming 
 a life of religion, and of participating again in the sacra- 
 ments of the Church! The contradiction is so obvious 
 that you have noticed it yourself. You wish to be both 
 inside the Church and outside. To such a problem 
 there is no solution." 
 
 " There is one," interrupted Madame Darras. Her 
 earnestness showed how much importance she attached 
 to this part of their interview. The colour returned to 
 her cheeks. Her eyes flashed, and she repeated, " Yes, 
 there is one solution, but it could only be accepted by a 
 priest who was broad-minded, very broad-minded. That 
 is why I came to submit my case to you. My second mar- 
 riage does not count in the eyes of the Church. You tell 
 me so and I know it. You add that it never can count. 
 That is true so long as the first marriage exists. But if 
 the first were broken? The Church does not recognise 
 divorce. Good. But it recognises the annulment of 
 a marriage. Thirteen years ago, when I entertained the 
 idea of this second marriage, I thought of applying to 
 Eome, but I did not. My future husband disliked the 
 idea, and I thought little of religious belief at the time. 
 Is it too late now? Since the Church compels me to sub- 
 mit to her laws she ought surely to give me the means of 
 
22 A DIVOKOE 
 
 doing so. The reasons I should have urged then, I will 
 urge now. They have not lost their force. I told you 
 my parents married me. If they did not use force in the 
 material sense of that word, it is not the less true that 
 they overruled my will. I was not a free agent, in any 
 case I certainly did not know to whom I was being 
 married. Had I known, I would have died rather than 
 consent to such a detestable union. It was no mere case 
 of incompatibility of temper. I put up with all his 
 faults — ^he was the father of my son. Nor was it 
 ordinary infidelity — he deceived me and I forgave him. 
 But I could neither bear nor forgive a vice which is the 
 most abject and the most degrading in the eyes of people 
 of our class. He drank, and drunkenness made him a 
 madman. During five years, I suffered for the sake of 
 my son horrible scenes in which threats and actual 
 brutality were not the most disgusting features. It was 
 only when my life and that of my child were in danger 
 that I found the courage to leave him. He had struck 
 me with such violence that I took weeks to recover, and 
 he was going to strike him, him! I ask you, Father, did 
 I consent to marry a madman, and a wicked madman? 
 Is there not in what I have told you sufficient cause for 
 the breaking of a marriage in which both I and my 
 parents were deceived? My Father, if I pledge myself 
 to demand that annulment which I cannot fail to obtain; 
 if I promise you that I will do everything to persuade 
 my second husband to support me in this application, if 
 
AN INEXTRICABLE DIFFICULTY 23 
 
 I promise that imtil then, though I live in the same 
 house as my husband, I will live with him as a sister lives 
 with her brother, will you not consider me as reconciled 
 to the Church? Could I not confess and go to Com- 
 munion with my daughter once at least— only this 
 time?" 
 
 "No," said the Oratorian, shaking his head with a 
 melancholy in which severity was again overborne by 
 pity, "you cannot. No priest could lend himself to a 
 compromise which rests on no solid basis. The reasons 
 you mention would not even justify a claim for the 
 annulment of your marriage. You appear to believe, 
 Madame, like many other worldly people, that Eome has 
 power to loose the marriage bond. She has not. Eome 
 recognises that there are marriages which are void, that 
 is to say where certain conditions necessary to the 
 validity of the marriage have not been complied with. 
 The Church has decided upon these, and has defined 
 them with a precision which leaves no chance for equivo- 
 cation. Consult any' work on theology and you will find 
 that your case is not one in which an annulment can be 
 granted. You acknowledge yourself that your marriage 
 was voluntary when you say that if you had known your 
 husband's dreadful vice you would not have married 
 him. It is obvious there was consent. It is true that 
 you were revolted by his vicious habit, and I admit that 
 it is detestable, that it is hideous. Still it was no decep- 
 tion committed against you, only a trial inflicted upon 
 
24 A DIVORCE 
 
 you. When the Church blessed your marriage she did 
 not promise to exempt you from trials. If they were 
 too hard to bear, you had the remedy in separation, which 
 the Church has always authorised. But she authorises 
 separation only. To go further is to disobey the precept 
 so clearly given in Scripture which forbids second mar- 
 riage during the life of the first husband or wife. An- 
 nulment, as you understand it, would only be a sham 
 divorce, and the Church has none of these accommoda- 
 tions. When she marries two people she binds them by 
 a contract which cannot be broken, because it is sancti- 
 fied by a sacrament. Do not hope to escape by that 
 door; it is closed." 
 
 " What must I do then? " exclaimed Madame Darras, 
 wringing her hands in distress. "Is it possible that 
 God " — she dwelt upon this word with infinite sadness — 
 "has ordained that I must abandon my home, must 
 break the heart of the man whom I love and who loves 
 me, must separate myself from my daughter, for my 
 husband will not give her to me and he would have the 
 law on his side, or else be denied religious life, be for- 
 bidden absolutely from kneeling side by side with my 
 dear child in the same religious service during a 
 momentous hour of her girlhood, and be cut off from 
 pardon too? Is it possible, I ask you again. Father, 
 that the law of man is more just, more charitable than 
 that of God? For after all, when I was so unhappy, so 
 indescribably unhappy, the one allowed me to renew my 
 
AN UTEXTRICABM! diffiotilty 25 
 
 life loyally, honestly. The other requires me to destroy 
 it again; it barely consents not to fetter me to a hateful 
 past, it forbids me from redeeming past mistakes. Ah, 
 M. Euvrard! how in the face of this difference between 
 Divine and human justice can you prevent the objections 
 I have so often heard against religion from overpower- 
 ing me again? My former faith, revived by contact 
 with my daughter's piety, is being weakened, destroyed. 
 I begin to doubt again. I suffered so much after my 
 visit to the other priest that I said to myself — ^the ad- 
 versaries of the Church are right: she is an instrument 
 of oppression and of death; progress is accomplished 
 without her, and in opposition to her, and in bemoaning 
 my separation from her with such a poignant homesick- 
 ness I am the dupe of a mirage, for the truth is not 
 there! " 
 
 " Do not talk in that way," said the Oratorian, speak- 
 ing with animation. Instinctively he placed his old 
 man's hand upon her arm to stop her in her blasphemy. 
 " Above all do not harbour such a thought. You must 
 not judge God. That would be to commit the only sin 
 against the Holy Spirit which is never forgiven. Do 
 you reproach the marriage laws of the Church for lacking 
 justice and charity? " he continued. " Let me give you 
 an illustration, commonplace it may be, but to the point. 
 A ship has arrived at a port where a passenger wishes to 
 land. It is of the highest importance for him; he wants, 
 for instance, to see a dying father or to take part in a 
 
26 A DIVOEOE 
 
 law-suit upon which depends the welfare of his family — 
 imagine anything you like. But a case of plague has 
 broken out upon the boat and the authorities have for- 
 bidden that any passengers come ashore for fear of 
 contagion. Would it be just, would it be kind to give 
 way to the entreaty of the one traveller at the risk of 
 spreading the plague in a city of a hundred thousand 
 inhabitants? Clearly not. Here then is a case in which 
 justice and charity demand the sacrifice of the individ- 
 ual interest for the general good. This principle 
 dominates all society. If we are called upon to decide 
 between two courses, the first clearly beneficial to the 
 whole community and painful to some individual, the 
 second agreeable to him but hurtful to the whole, both 
 justice and charity demand that we shall adopt the first 
 course. This is indeed the test which we must apply to 
 every institution, and applying it to indissoluble mar- 
 riage, what is the result? Society is composed of 
 families, and the better the families the better will 
 society be. Now think how much greater likelihood 
 there is of healthy families where a system of indissolu- 
 ble marriage prevails. If marriage is irrevocable it will 
 be entered upon only after the most serious reflection; 
 there will be greater closeness of bond between grand- 
 parents, parents, and children, since the family comprises 
 fewer alien elements; there will be the chance of greater 
 unity of spirit, of a common tradition. Marriage of this 
 kind is the strongest pledge for that social permanence 
 
AN nSTEXTBIOABLE DIFFICULTY 27 
 
 without which there is nothing but anarchy and perpet- 
 ual unrest. And here, history confirms reason. It 
 teaches that all superior civilisations have developed 
 towards monogamy. Now divorce is not monogamy; it 
 is successive polygamy. I will not give you a course of 
 sociology, but do you know what statistics show? Where 
 divorce exists, the number of criminals, lunatics, and 
 suicides is tenfold amongst divorced persons. Thus, for 
 one who, like yourself and a few others, retains in his 
 divorced condition the finer traits of heart and mind, the 
 majority lose or debase them. To base social order upon 
 the supposed needs of possible degenerates is to set up 
 the abnormally low as a standard. You may call that 
 progress, but science calls it retrogression. 
 
 " Note that we have been looking at the matter from 
 the point of view of pure observation. Purposely, as I 
 wished you to realise the identity there is between the 
 law of the Church and the law of Society, between the 
 teaching of experience and the teaching of Eevelation. 
 In its struggle for existence humanity has fallen back 
 upon the very same rule of which the Church has made a 
 dogma. Try to realise, in the light of these ideas, how 
 seriously you have erred in availing yourself of the 
 criminal law which the worst enemies of social well- 
 being, the would-be destroyers of the family, have intro- 
 duced into our Code. You yourself have assisted in this 
 task of destruction as far as lay in your power. You 
 sacrificed society to your own happiness. You and your 
 
28 A DIVORCE 
 
 second husband have set up in a small way a type of the 
 irregular home, one too all the more dangerous because 
 your virtues enable you to set an example of decency in 
 irregularity, and present an appearance of order in the 
 midst of disorder. It is that which renders so dangerous 
 the errors of the gifted; they retain their natural nobility 
 even when they sin, they fall without becoming de- 
 graded. They cloak the deformity of evU and spread 
 it all the more insidiously. You need not seek any 
 other explanation for the difficulty you meet in your 
 efforts to return to the Church. Eealise the extent of 
 your fault in the light of that difficulty, and thank God 
 that He has not afflicted you'and your family even more 
 than He has done. 
 
 " Though it is but twenty years since that detestable 
 law of divorce was passed, if you only knew how many 
 tragedies I have seen it produce already, I who hear so 
 few confessions; into what catastrophes households like 
 yours have been plunged through their failure to discern 
 the truth, which is yet stamped on every conscience, that 
 liberty contrary to the laws of nature engenders servi- 
 tude, neglected duty entails misfortune. I have seen 
 fratricidal hatreds between the children of the first and 
 second marriage, fathers and mothers judged and con- 
 demned by their sons and daughters; here, deadly antag- 
 onism between stepfather and stepson; there, between 
 second wife and the husband's daughter. Elsewhere, I 
 have seen jealousy of the past, of a past living because 
 
AN rNEXTRIOABLE DIFFIOULTT 29 
 
 the first husband lives, torture the second husband. 
 Again, hideous struggles between the first husband and 
 his former wife over their children's sick-bed, or, where 
 the children have grown up, over a young man's follies 
 or a daughter's marriage. Nor have I mentioned the 
 ever recurring bitterness against the ill-will, open or 
 dissembled, hypocritical or sincere, it does not matter 
 which, of a world which after all retains intact its 
 respect for Christian marriage. Ah! what misery have I 
 not seen! Your lot is not the worst, softened as it is 
 by the inestimable blessing of recovered faith. If you 
 should ever deny that blessing it is then you must needs 
 tremble. God's vengeance does not manifest itself in 
 extraordinary occurrences. The logical outcome of our 
 faults ensures our punishment. Part of this is necessary 
 and inevitable, part, secondary, may be spared us in the 
 mercy of Providence. That is why I spoke to you as I 
 did just now, that you may never again harbour such 
 thoughts. I was gravely alarmed for you." 
 
 Many and varying feelings agitated Madame Darras, 
 as she listened to this philippic every phrase of which 
 implied the shameful nature of a second marriage, con- 
 tracted after much hesitation it is true, but seriously, 
 and to which she clung with all the pride of her heart. 
 Each one too roused in her the apprehension of fresh 
 sorrows. What was a mere abstraction for the theolo- 
 gian was a living, bleeding reality for the divorced and 
 remarried Catholic woman. 
 
30 A DIVOEOE 
 
 The almost scientific precision of his language, 
 revealing involuntarily the professor and the apologist, 
 impressed her strangely because it reminded her of 
 innumerable conversations with her husband. She 
 recognised the kinship of the priest's arguments, em- 
 ployed though they were in the advocacy of opposite con- 
 victions, to those of her husband, due to the common 
 discipline of the same school. This reminder of the 
 man whose name she bore was an added suffering. He 
 would have been so cruelly surprised to have seen her 
 tete-d-tete with this priest, listening without protest to 
 his maxims and submitting to an influence so contrary 
 to the moral imity of their household. He himself had 
 vaunted the superiority of M. Euvrard's intellect without 
 suspecting that at a critical moment these eulogies would 
 contribute to enhance the mathematician's authority 
 with a woman who had never pleaded any save senti- 
 mental reasons for her religious needs. Now for the 
 first time a scholar, whose superiority she well knew, 
 gave her intellectual reasons for religious belief. At the 
 same time an expression which had escaped the priest 
 in his vehemence, "degenerates," hurt, almost angered 
 her. When at last the Oratorian concluded, one alone 
 of these many different emotions reigned in her mind. 
 Led thereto solely by the inflexible rigour of his doctrine, 
 he had uttered the warning best fitted to dismay an over- 
 wrought heart in which new-born piety had commenced 
 to awaken hidden and unconquerable remorse. She had 
 
AN UnSXTBIOABLE DIFFIOULTY 31 
 
 been long haunted and beset by the fear of some retribu- 
 tion suspended over the twelve years of a happiness 
 which she no longer dared believe legitimate. It was 
 the desire to escape from this constant apprehension 
 which caused her passionate longing to accompany her 
 daughter to Communion and be reconciled to the Church. 
 When the priest spoke of trials to which she and her 
 husband might be put, she had shuddered, and her fear 
 increased as the priest insisted upon this point. Chance 
 would have it that one of the catastrophes mentioned by 
 him was exactly the one she dreaded more than any 
 other and with greater reason — as will be made evident 
 in the recital of the tragedy to which this scene is but a 
 prologue. The agreement between her most secret 
 anxiety and some of the words used by M. Euvrard 
 impressed her so strongly with the idea that this 
 was a prophetic warning that she was unable to dis- 
 cuss the matter with him. Besides, what was the use, 
 seeing that upon the main question he gave her no 
 hope? 
 
 "I cannot argue with you, Father," she finished by 
 saying, " I am but an ignorant woman. I came to im- 
 plore assistance from you as a priest and you have re- 
 fused to give it. Your decision seems to me very hard, 
 but I accept it. You have founded it upon reasons 
 which seemed right as you gave them, though they have 
 harrowed my soul. Another time, if you will allow me 
 to come again, I may be able to formulate some objec- 
 
32 A DIVOECIE 
 
 tions which I cannot express now, though I feel them in 
 my heart. Before taking leave I should like to ask you 
 one more question. You told me that I was an excep- 
 tion compared with other divorced people. I do not 
 believe it. But if your judgment upon me is too lenient 
 it means one thing at least. It proves that you admit 
 degrees of guiltiness in the case of divorced women who 
 marry again. In your eyes they are not all equally re- 
 moved from what you consider the right way. Surely 
 then there must be degrees of sinfulness in the case of 
 separation from the Church. You tell me that the 
 absolute reconciliation I had dreamt of is impossible. 
 If I cannot have a complete religious life, am I con- 
 demned to have no religious life at all? Is there no 
 middle course between abandoning my home, which you 
 insist upon as a condition to admission to the sacra- 
 ments, and the complete unbelief in which I have lived 
 so long? You yourself say that my return to faith, a 
 return which has brought me to you, is a sign of divine 
 grace; can you not tell me some means of respond- 
 ing to it that is not beyond my strength? You see. 
 Father, I want our conversation to have some practical 
 result." 
 
 " I have not ordered you to abandon your home," said 
 M. Euvrard, correcting her; " at least not at present. If 
 you wished to do so, I would ask you to consider. Here 
 is a proof how hard it is to escape the consequences of 
 our actions. If you left your home your daughter's 
 
AN INEXTEICABLE DIFFICULTY 33 
 
 religious education would be compromised. Now which 
 is the most imperative obligation? That is a point I 
 should not care to settle. I have not settled it. I have 
 definitely expressed my conviction — over-severe as you 
 may think it — ^that you cannot partake of the sacraments 
 so long as you persist in your present manner of living. 
 At the same time your way of life, however wrong it may 
 be, has its own duties. To fulfil these is always in a 
 certain sense praiseworthy. You deserve commendation 
 for having remembered your duty to your son in your 
 second marriage. Your conduct will count to you for 
 righteousness if, whenever you are in suffering, you take 
 your trouble to God, above all if the suffering is con- 
 nected with your second marriage, as in the case of the 
 distress which will wring your heart when, upon the day 
 of your daughter's first Communion, you see other 
 mothers go to the altar whilst you must remain behind. 
 You will do well, in the same sense, to give alms, to 
 practise self-denial, to observe more rigorously certain 
 precepts of the Church, Lent and fasting for example. 
 I understand that your second husband is far removed 
 from faith in God; much further removed than you have 
 ever been. Your conduct will be praiseworthy above all, 
 if you succeed in leading him back." 
 
 " Do not ask that of me, Pather! " cried Madame 
 Darras, whose face suddenly became quite haggard. 
 She repeated, "Do not ask that of me. I will try to 
 deserve divine forgiveness by doing everything else you 
 
34 A DIVOEOE 
 
 have recommended, no matter at what cost, but I cannot 
 speak to my husband upon religious questions, and thus 
 lay bare what I really think upon the subject. KecoUect, 
 Father, he has not the least suspicion of my mental 
 anguish about my daughter's first Communion. I have 
 taken so much care to hide it from him. It would cause 
 him too much suffering." 
 
 " He consented, however, to his daughter's baptism? " 
 said M. Euvrard. 
 
 " I made it a condition of our marriage," responded 
 Madame Darras, " that our children should be Catholics. 
 He has kept his word — ^he is the most honourable of 
 men — but with what inner revolt against what he con- 
 siders to be a miserable superstition! Interested though 
 he is in the smallest details concerning the little girl, he 
 sees me take her to Mass or to catechism and never asks 
 the least question. That part of her life does not exist 
 for him. As for me, he is persuaded that in bringing up 
 the child in this way I am yielding to a sentimental 
 prejudice. He overlooks it as a feminine weakness. 
 He loves me and he believes that at the bottom of my 
 heart I am at one with him. He has always wished so 
 much that our ideas should be the same. For a long 
 time they were, and I should not have the heart to tell 
 him that they are so no longer." 
 
 "Then," asked the priest, vrith a little hesitation, 
 "you did not tell him that you were coming to 
 me?" 
 
AN DIEXTEIOABLE DIFFIOULTY 35 
 
 " To you? No," and her tone betrayed her terror at 
 the mere idea. 
 
 " And when you return you will not tell hiTp of this 
 visit?" 
 
 " No," she repeated. 
 
 "But you must speak to him about it," said the 
 Oratorian. He repeated: "Yes, you must. For your 
 own sake in the first place, for your own self-respect. 
 You could not take a step so serious and conceal it from 
 the man who is the father of your daughter, whose name 
 you bear, and under whose roof you live. It would be a 
 lie, if only a negative one, and would be in too flagrant 
 contradiction with the line of conduct which we agreed 
 you ought to follow. For my sake also you must do so. 
 You would not wish me to countenance a clandestine 
 visit. You have told me that my name is known to your 
 home circle, that I am spoken of sympathetically. Your 
 visit to me wiU cause the less surprise. And you could 
 take the opportunity to break a silence which, consider- 
 ing the faith you hold, is very culpable. The Apostle 
 has told us that we must believe in our heart and con- 
 fess with our mouth to obtain salvation." 
 
 "No," said Madame Darras for the third time, shaking . 
 her head dejectedly, "I cannot do that. My Father," 
 she continued in a voice of supplication, "you under- 
 stand, do you not, that I cannot leave my husband, if it 
 were only for my daughter's sake. To make known to 
 bim the crisis through which I am passing, would be to 
 
36 A DIVOEOE 
 
 run the risk of exasperating him so much! It might 
 make him hostile to our child's participation in worship 
 as soon as the first Communion was over. He did not 
 pledge himself to countenance any very absorbing devo- 
 tion to religion. I should dread too the effect upon my 
 own faith of the discussions which would arise. I could 
 have braved them if I had been supported by the sacra- 
 ments; I was ready to do so, to ask my husband if he 
 would agree to my taking steps at Rome, but without 
 the sacraments, with a maimed and feeble religious life, 
 I am not strong enough." 
 
 " Take the necessary time," replied M. Euvrard, " but 
 make up your mind to have an explanation which can 
 leave no doubt in your husband's mind concerning your 
 religious feelings. That is your bare duty as a matter of 
 ordinary right and wrong." 
 
 "You must allow me to think about all this, my 
 Father," she said, almost trembling, and rising to go. 
 "You will let me come back, won't you? Although 
 our conversation has not answered my hopes it has re- 
 lieved me of a heavy burden, of the silence which was 
 suffocating me! " 
 
 " I should be very happy to see you again," replied 
 the Oratorian, who was visibly troubled by this urgent 
 yet timid question, " but I have told you that I cannot 
 countenance clandestine visits. Come again when your 
 visit will be known at home." 
 
 " And in the meantime? " she asked. 
 
AN INEXTEIOABLE DIFFICULTY 37 
 
 " Meanwhile, I shall pray that you may have entered, 
 as far as prudence will allow, upon the duty of frank 
 explanation." 
 
 " Then adieu, my Father," she said. " I am grateful 
 to you all the same for having spared me one of your 
 precious hours." 
 
 She pronounced her thanks mechanically, in a muffled 
 voice, for had she not repressed her feelings she would 
 have burst into tears. Her emotion touched the priest. 
 He tried to soften what might have seemed hard in his 
 last words by saying, when they had walked together, to 
 the door: 
 
 "Adieu! No. Au revoir, my child, and I hope I 
 shall soon see you again." 
 
 " Adieu," repeated Madame Darras, and without look- 
 ing back she began to descend the narrow staircase of the 
 mean lodging. Father Euvrard stayed upon the land- 
 ing a moment as though he meditated recalling her. 
 Upon second thoughts, however, he repressed this feeling 
 and closed the door again to return alone into his study 
 where this unknown woman, without telling him her 
 name, had revealed a secret drama of such poignancy. 
 A radical difference between married people in matters 
 of conscience is always painful; infinitely painful, when 
 the difference touches those religious problems which 
 have ever been and will ever continue to be the deepest 
 concern of the soul; tragic, when the man and woman 
 have been married before and are divorced, when they 
 
38 A DIVOEOE 
 
 still love one another dearly, but when awakening faith 
 in the man or the woman brings daily remorse for their 
 love but yet cannot destroy it. What will the other 
 think? With what horror will he watch the slow deadly 
 poisoning of their mutual happiness! If again it is the 
 woman who longs for a return to the Church, whilst the 
 man looks upon religion not merely with the indifference 
 of the sceptic but with reasoned systematic hostility, 
 what possibilities of conflict! 
 
 Although Madame Darras had given the Oratorian an 
 abstract only of her sentimental life, she had said enough 
 to show how many possibilities of misfortune menaced 
 her home. She had long been gone and he still shuddered 
 at the recollection. In vain the blackboard, arranged 
 upon the easel, invited him to soar away again into the 
 serene atmosphere of mathematical speculation. The 
 scholar's mind was elsewhere, following the stranger on 
 her return home and to her husband to whom she was so 
 much attached, and yet of whom she had such dread. 
 Why? Without doubt her husband was possessed by that 
 hate against the Church, which, singular though it be in 
 an age of wide intellectual culture, is yet so frequent. 
 A victim himself of that hate, the Oratorian realised, as 
 with a flash, the deep-lying imity that links together the 
 destinies, diverse as they may be, of people of the same 
 country. The inevitable shock between the husband 
 and wife was but an episode, like his own exile from his 
 community, of the struggle which was going on through- 
 
AN INEXTRIOABLE DIFFIOULTT 39 
 
 out Prance between two schools of thought, between two 
 civilisations, two worlds. A mere incident of a civil 
 religious war! With such intensity did this thought 
 embody itself in the mind of the mathematician, ac- 
 customed as he was to express long series of conceptions 
 in the concision of a formula, that when he decided to 
 continue the interrupted work, the murmured word 
 which summed up his impression of the conversation 
 was not, as a moment ago, " Poor woman! " but " Poor 
 country," and for several seconds the chalk rested 
 between his fingers. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 A STEPFATHER 
 
 With how much more emotion would that aged and 
 venerable hand have trembled, even to rendering it 
 powerless to trace the characters of the formula, — ^now 
 a matter of indifference to him, — ^had he possessed in a 
 greater degree the scholar's and believer's power of un- 
 ravelling the secrets of the future and the unknown. His 
 compassion would have been even more deeply stirred, 
 as he realised that this difference of opinion between 
 husband and wife on religious matters, — a divergence 
 fraught with much cause of fear to the wife, — was only 
 one feature of the disaster which even now threatened 
 this home, founded on a false basis. His theory of life, 
 that an equitable scheme of retribution underlay the 
 apparent chance events of existence, would have been 
 immensely strengthened. 
 
 As a matter of fact, this family was about to pass 
 through a crisis, the causes of which will reveal them- 
 selves step by step. It may, however, be stated at once, 
 that these causes were either the direct result of the fatal 
 system of divorce, or that the system had led to their 
 multiplication. Madame Darras had a clear perception 
 
 40 
 
A STEPFATHER 41 
 
 of one only, that which influenced her love for her 
 daughter and her recovered faith. The close of the 
 afternoon was to find her in the presence of another 
 peril, the approach of which she had foreseen for many 
 months past. She had refused to give form in thought 
 or word to this apprehension on her part; it remained 
 obscure, vague, unspoken. How much truth and human 
 experience are embodied in the saying, " Troubles never 
 come singly"! But when it is a question of applying 
 it ia one's own case, by some strange self-deception we 
 reason quite otherwise. "Having had one great trouble, 
 surely we shall be spared others," say we, as if the hand 
 of Fate had only a fixed amount of trial to mete out to 
 each individual. 
 
 It is not so, however. Nature, a unity notwithstand- 
 ing her manifold phenomena, adopts the same methods 
 of procedure in both moral and physical development. 
 When sickness comes, not as the result of an accident, 
 but as the outcome of a general diathesis, the symptoms 
 manifest themselves not in any one part of the organism, 
 but in several. So it is with trouble, when it arises not 
 from this or that particular circumstance, but from a 
 condition of things. It taxes its ingenuity to attack us 
 at the most diverse poiats of our personality. Trouble 
 upon trouble crowds upon us; one vexation follows 
 another; nothing that we undertake succeeds; every un- 
 favourable hypothesis becomes a reality. Bad luck, fate! 
 we say to ourselves, but let us examine matters a little 
 
42 A BrVORCE 
 
 more closely and we must acknowledge that a lasting 
 effect requires a permanent cause: the continued neglect 
 of some great law. But what battles have to be fought 
 before learning this lesson! What efforts we have to 
 make to assure ourselves, even when the blow is ready to 
 fall, that we shall not be struck, that it is not our desert, 
 that we have paid our debt of sorrow and tears! 
 
 Thus had Madame Darras reasoned to herself for some 
 months past, and relying on presumptions gained from 
 such strange reasoning, she was able to contemplate 
 with comparative fearlessness the shadows which were 
 darkening the horizon of her destiny. From day to day 
 her forebodings had increased, and yet the more per- 
 sistently did she insist upon proving to herself, that 
 among all these presages of storm, — ^which to her inner 
 consciousness and unavowed faith were but the omens of 
 a necessary expiation — only those would be fulfilled 
 which affected her personally. 
 
 Ah! what a frail security was hers! Had she not 
 realised how frail, when her whole being recoiled with 
 terror as M. Euvrard, from his own knowledge, re- 
 counted the catastrophes that had overtaken women 
 divorced from their husbands. Then, too, was there not 
 the testimony of her own heart, as she reasoned with 
 herself, on leaving the priest's presence? Her thoughts 
 were less occupied with the painful disappointment of 
 the futile step she had taken, than with the fears which a 
 certain allusion of the priest had aroused, or rather re- 
 
A STBPFATHEE 43 
 
 awakened. He had probed her secret dread to its very 
 depth. 
 
 She walked on, no longer with the step of a hesitating 
 woman, and crossed the court-yard, where the gardener- 
 concierge was still busy setting up his picturesque grotto, 
 and, in so doing, she was scarcely conscious of the un- 
 easiness she had felt on her arrival here. Had he even 
 glanced at her? 
 
 In a few minutes, she found herself in the rue 
 Servandoni, the silence and loneliness of which were now 
 welcome to her. With a glance around, she assured her- 
 self that her departure from the old house had not been 
 watched. In five minutes she was in the rue Vaugirard; 
 crossing the Luxembourg Gardens, she reached the rue 
 Luxembourg — ^the one in which she lived. Having re- 
 covered from the effects of her imprudence, she lingered 
 in the shady walks. Her thoughts ran on the conversa- 
 tion she had just had, and mentally she renewed it, 
 searching into and debating the various points with M. 
 Euvrard, as if the austere form of the priest were in 
 reality walking by her side. 
 
 " Till we meet again! " he had said. 
 
 " Till we meet again," had she commenced to repeat 
 to herself as she passed through the gateway. 
 
 It will be remembered, that in his parting salutation 
 the priest had addressed her as "My child," a term 
 which had particularly affected her. He could not have 
 made use of any other, had she received from him per- 
 
44 A DIVOECE 
 
 mission to participate in the rites of the Church — a 
 permission which in her imagination she had hoped to 
 obtain, when wending her steps to the priest's house an 
 hour before. Again and again she had repeated to her- 
 self the words, " Until we meet again," interrogatively, 
 though there was really no doubt in her mind. Again 
 came the reply, which she had already given aloud, but 
 now in a low voice, " No, no, no. I shall not go and 
 see him again. I shall never mention this visit to 
 Albert, never! I could not bear to see the look in his 
 eyes, while I told him. We breakfasted together this 
 morning. He questioned me on my plans for the day, 
 with as much interest and gentleness as he always shows, 
 and yet I said not a word of the step I had decided to 
 take. I know him so well. Even if it were known to 
 him, no word of reproach would escape his lips. But 
 what shadows would cross his face! What sorrow in his 
 heart! ... No! if I had thought I was Justified in 
 revealing all to M. Euvrard, even he would have for- 
 bidden me to tell my husband. For what as a matter of 
 fact did he say? That I could deserve grace, even out- 
 side the pale of the Church, by fulfilling my duties. 
 What duties? Those of a mother first of all, and these 
 I owe to my son as well as to my daughter! Well then! 
 My duty to my son now calls me to avoid anything that 
 would lessen in any way my influence over my hus- 
 band. . . . M. Euvrard himself acknowledged that situa- 
 tions such as mine were productive of great difficulties. 
 
A STEPFATHEE 45 
 
 His allusion to disastrous strife between father and 
 stepson pained me. For a moment I almost thought 
 I saw Albert and Lucien face to face with one another, 
 hatred in their eyes. . . ." The image thus evoked of 
 these two beings in an attitude of strife, agreed with so 
 much that she as wife and mother had foreseen and ob- 
 served, that instinctively she quickened her step, as if 
 the impulse with which she put the picture away from 
 her mind, had given her new energy. 
 
 She closed her eyes and shook her head. Again she 
 said: "It cannot be, God cannot permit it. He has 
 already punished me severely in allowing me to go astray 
 from Him. The day of Jeanne's first Communion will be 
 a bitter one for me, when it might have been so sweet. 
 This punishment I will bear, it shall be an expiation, as 
 the priest has just ordained. I am the only one on 
 whom the blow shall fall; — ^not they! not they! That 
 would be too cruel! What have I not suffered at the 
 mere thought that these two loved each other less, and 
 how repeatedly has this thought occurred to me this 
 year! It was, of course, mere imagination. . . . Yet 
 how strangely is one tempted to make realities of the 
 things we dread. Those few words of M. Euvrard were 
 sufficient, in a second, to bring back all the agony of 
 these forebodings. If I had interrupted him at that 
 moment to reveal my fears to him, would he not have 
 counselled me to do everything in my power to make 
 their love for me a connecting link between them, should 
 
46 A DIVOEOE 
 
 a day come when they were seriously at variance with 
 one another? At variance! What a fancy! At vari- 
 ance in what? They are of one mind in religion, in 
 politics, in everything. I have allowed Albert almost too 
 much freedom to educate this child on his own lines. . . . 
 Could I have acted otherwise? Have I done wrong? 
 I thought as they did, or I thought I did. I was sincere, 
 God knows. He cannot punish me for that. My 
 trouble is surely already great enough. Wives whose 
 sins have been greater than mine have obtained what 
 has not been granted me. Those who have had lovers 
 go to Confession, and take the Communion, whilst I 
 cannot. Is this just? . . . But I will argue no longer. 
 I will obey M. Euvrard on this point; — ^be resigned, take 
 this trouble, and thank God for it, in the hope that other 
 worse ones will not overtake me. . . . Yet when I 
 think that there are families where only one faith exists; 
 — where mother, father, brother, and sister kneel to- 
 gether in evening prayer; go to church in company. . . . 
 And I, I must not speak to my husband of this harmless 
 visit, and if I now met my son, and he asked me where I 
 had been, and I told him, he would not even understand 
 me! When Jeanne sees the mothers of the other girls 
 communicating, and not her own, — the fathers at 
 church, but not hers, I must invent some falsehood so 
 that her poor little heart does not grieve! M. Euvrard is 
 only too right iu saying. What wretchedness! What 
 misery! " 
 
A STEPFATHER 47 
 
 These thoughts were the residue, so to speak, of the 
 impressions many and small which had filtered through 
 her mind. So insignificant were they, that Madame 
 Darras could scarcely specify when these doubts as to 
 the good understanding between her husband and son 
 took form. In fact, she almost felt they existed only in 
 her imagination. No more could she tell the exact point 
 of time when the religious belief of her youth had been 
 fanned again into fiame by the warmth of her ehUd's 
 faith. These thoughts summed up and gathered to- 
 gether numberless incidents of her own private life. So 
 absorbed did she become in them that she was quite 
 oblivious of her surroundings, and unconscious of her 
 actions. She had walked into the Gardens, unaware of 
 how she got there; she left them in the same unconscious 
 state of mind, and when she found herself at her door 
 in the rue du Luxembourg, she started as when one 
 wakes and is delivered from the oppression of a night- 
 mare. Was not this house the embodiment of long years 
 of happiness, which suddenly rose up before her? It 
 had been built by Albert Darras at the time of their 
 marriage, according to plans thought out together. He 
 passionately desired to wipe out his wife's past, and she 
 as ardently wished her second home to have a character 
 of its own, and therefore it was their mutual wish to 
 have a dwelling belonging only to themselves, and which 
 they would never quit until death called them away. 
 They had selected a neighbourhood far removed from 
 
48 A DIVOBOE 
 
 the Champs Elysdes, the quarter in which she had 
 formerly lived. Gabrielle had clearly realised that her 
 new life meant an entire break with her former sur- 
 roundings. She herself had longed for a life of quiet 
 retirement, but to this her husband had not consented. 
 The poor student of the ifecole Polytechnique who had 
 not dared to aspire to the hand of Mile. Nouet — Madame 
 Darras' maiden name — ^was now consulting engineer in 
 one of the most important Paris Banks, the Grand- 
 Comptoir, and enjoyed a yearly income of £800; his 
 share of the profits was worth another £1300; his wife 
 had in her own right some £1600; their income was thus 
 large enough to justify their taking a good position in 
 society, as Darras had wished. The elegant frontage of 
 the house, with its carriage entrance and the lofty win- 
 dows of the ground floor, revealed what plans of enter- 
 taining on a large scale the engineer had formed. 
 Strangely complex motives had prompted him to adopt 
 this course of life, so opposed as it seemed to his char- 
 acter and bringing up. He loved Gabrielle and was 
 proud of her beauty. That was one motive. Another 
 was to be found in the fervour of his political attach- 
 ments. His allegiance had been given to the party then 
 in power, and he was anxious that both he and his wife 
 should play their part among the more distinguished 
 members of the Eepubliean party. 
 
 It is a matter of knowledge, that in the course of the 
 last thirty years Society has thus been reformed from the 
 
A STEPFATHER 49 
 
 ranks of the well-to-do middle class and those holding 
 high official positions. They have often been reproached 
 with adopting the same frivolous habits of life as Society 
 under former governments; with manifesting the same 
 taste for pleasure, the same extravagance. As if this 
 display of luxury, this keeping up of " Salons " on the 
 part of the Jacobin "hostages," was not often a mere 
 matter of duty! We are speaking here of course of the 
 simple and honest-minded members of a party in itself 
 corrupt and degraded in the last degree. They thought 
 they could bestow on the new order of things the prestige 
 of an old-established system. Darras had shared this 
 opinion with the greater willingness, as in so doing, a 
 secret feud was established between the two sections of 
 society in which Gabrielle had passed her former life, 
 the one being that of the law and magistracy — M. Nouet 
 at the time of his death was one of the judges of the 
 Appeal Court — ^the other that of the County gentry, as 
 Madame Darras' first husband, of whose coarse brutality 
 she had spoken with so much repugnance to M. Buvrard, 
 belonged indubitably to a good, but impoverished, family 
 of Eouergue, that of the Comtes de Chambault. 
 
 On Darras, a son of the people, inheriting from them 
 his stem temperament and indomitable will, these 
 diverse influences manifested themselves in an untiring 
 effort to add to his fortune. It was all done to acquire 
 luxury and comfort for GabrieUe. His tireless devo- 
 tion, so prodigal in its little acts of attention and 
 
50 A DIVORCE 
 
 tenderest solicitude, stirred the heart of her, who had 
 ever been its most constant object, as she crossed the 
 threshold of her home. Her wifely feelings resumed the 
 first place in her heart. There was a recoil of her whole 
 being towards the close intercourse of home life, to 
 which in her visit to the priest and her own subsequent 
 musings she had been unfaithful. As she thought of 
 her regained happiness, she rebelled again, as she had 
 done before, at the inflexibility of the law of the Eoman 
 Catholic Church. 
 
 "No," she said, "it is not possible. It cannot be 
 true. God would not be God, if He condemns us, Albert 
 and myself, for having loved one another as we have 
 done. I have just passed through a nightmare. I will 
 not see this priest again. With his gentle manners, and 
 good-natured face, he is worse than the other. If the 
 Church is such as they make it, then it cannot be the 
 Church of the New Testament. No! I have not done 
 wrong. No! a love so faithful and constant is not 
 accursed. I will lose myself in it, — ^live in it entirely. 
 It shall be, as it has been so long, all I want. It 
 shall. . . ." 
 
 Scarcely had she uttered these decisive words,' than an 
 impression, produced by an insignificant circumstance, 
 showed her how incapable of firm resolution she was in 
 her overwrought state. She had barely opened the door 
 and entered the hall, when she caught sight of her hus- 
 band's coat, hat, and gloves carefully placed on the 
 
A STEPFATHEB 51 
 
 table, with the fastidiousness he displayed in all his 
 actions. He had left the house at one o'clock after 
 lunching with her, had gone to his office, which he never 
 left before five. Now it was only half-past three. In 
 the confusion of her thoughts, Gabrielle had not antici- 
 pated being brought face to face with Albert, her whole 
 being trembling with an emotion she must hide at aU 
 costs, and without having the time to recover herself. 
 It never occurred to her to ask the cause of this unex- 
 pected return. The thought that in a moment perhaps 
 she would meet her husband's gaze, that she would be 
 questioned as to how she had spent the early part of the 
 afternoon, so upset her, that there was a slight tremor 
 in her voice as she said to the man-servant: 
 
 " Has your master been in long? " 
 
 " Ten minutes, Madame," he replied. 
 
 " Supposing, after aU, he had seen me leave the rue 
 Servandoni? . . . Supposing he had overtaken and 
 questioned me, what could I have answered? What shall 
 I say to him, if he notices my disquietude? If he does 
 see, how shaU I explain it, without arousiag his distrust? 
 He win see by my eyes that I am not spealdng the 
 truth. . . ." 
 
 In this home, where for so many years the intimacy 
 between husband and wife had been so close, it was the 
 habit of whichever came iu last to seek the other at 
 once. 
 
 The first floor of the house, reserved for these two. 
 
52 A DIVOKCE 
 
 was so arranged that they could not help hearing one 
 another moving about. It consisted of five rooms; — a 
 spacious bedroom, with large dressing-room for Ga- 
 brielle; Albert's own dressing-room, arranged so that it 
 could be transformed into a sleeping apartment if neces- 
 sary; a small salon and next to it a library and smoking- 
 room combined. This was the room he used when he 
 was alone. 
 
 The main staircase, of wood, was carpeted, and 
 adorned with plants, and led up to a wide landing, ar- 
 ranged as an anteroom, on to which the various rooms 
 opened. Here it was, that Gabrielle stood, with beating 
 heart. . . . Albert was in there somewhere. Perhaps 
 he had already guessed she was in, by the ring of the 
 bell. He would come to greet her. . . . Then, as the 
 door did not open, she took advantage of this respite, to 
 regain possession of herself, before meeting her husband. 
 The thought struck her that she would first go to the 
 children's quarters on the second floor, and see her 
 daughter, who, no doubt, would be busy with her lessons 
 in the schoolroom. 
 
 Gabrielle had persuaded her husband to allow Jeanne 
 to be educated at home under the care of a governess, 
 rather than send her to a high school for girls, as had 
 been his wish. He had merely claimed that her course 
 of study should be that followed at the High School. A 
 professor of one of the large colleges situated on the left 
 bank of the Seine, gave her a lesson every week with the 
 
A STEPFATHER 53 
 
 class of her own standard. The interference of the 
 ardent freethinker in this question of education only 
 went so far, and did not touch essential points, which he 
 had promised to leave to his wife. He was seldom seen 
 in the schoolroom. Therefore when GabrieUe reached 
 the second floor she was greatly astonished at hearing her 
 husband's voice inside this room. He had been prompted 
 in the same way, on his return, to go up and see his 
 daughter. Instead of retarding the time of meeting, as 
 she thought, she had hastened it on. But to meet in the 
 presence of their child, gave her at once an opportunity 
 of general conversation, and thus her anxiety was re- 
 moved as to what her first words should be, and the 
 revelations that might ensue. Moreover, she had 
 another cause for disquietude, which at once laid the 
 other to rest. She remembered that on this day of the 
 week, Friday, it was Jeanne's task to write out an 
 analysis of the catechism lesson she had had the evening 
 before. What motive had led Albert to come to the 
 schoolroom especially to-day? 
 
 Without knocking, she opened the door and there saw 
 her husband, holding in his hands the sheet of paper, 
 upon which Jeanne had begun to write. The light, 
 coming through the bay window, fell on the faces of 
 father and child, one against the other. The mother 
 stopped, struck for the moment at the resemblance 
 between them, which was not always so striking. The 
 nervous temperament of the little girl betrayed itself in 
 
54 A DIVOEOE 
 
 the instinctive way in which her mobile features had 
 caught her father's expression, so strong was the emo- 
 tion his unexpected visit had called forth. 
 
 The engineer was a man of forty-seven. Although 
 his short-cut hair was quite white, his black moustache 
 testified to the dark complexion of his youthful days. 
 The modelling of his somewhat angular face indicated 
 a strongly developed bone-structure, a characteristic of 
 mountain races, while the subdued fire in his eyes, the 
 lean spareness of his form, and the uniformly even 
 colouring of his complexion, bespoke a Southern origin. 
 There was something of the Arab in the cast of the face, 
 in the supple form, and the small, weU-made hands and 
 feet. The Darras family originally came from Sisteron. 
 This old fortified town lies far distant from the sea, but 
 Provence, — as is proved by the name of one of her 
 mountain chains, Les Maures, — ^has been the scene of 
 so many Saracen incursions, that everywhere one meets 
 with types of face that only require the turban and the 
 cloak to bring out the Bedouin latent in the civilised 
 Frenchman. 
 
 This atavism was perhaps as much verified in Albert's 
 unbelief as in his features, his lack of faith being a 
 reversal of the religious fervour of the fanatic. Perhaps 
 also, he had inherited the fiery nature of an ancestor 
 who had taken part in the Wars of the League, which 
 were terrible in this out-of-the-way corner of Prance. 
 Such suppositions are so far-fetched, that one hardly 
 
A STEPPATHEE 55 
 
 likes to utter them. They, nevertheless, influence our 
 sub-conscious life, — ^that most mysterious and potent 
 part of our nature. Jeanne had the same passionate 
 eyes and blxiish-black hair. The northern blood of her 
 mother, — ^the Nouets were a middle-class family of 
 Perche, — ^glowed under her transparent skin, and when 
 excited by emotion, brought the crimson to her cheeks. 
 She was exerting all her strength to hide the confusion 
 betrayed by the fluttering of her long-lashed eyelids. 
 Her father, with the alert finger of the student, was 
 following, line by Une, the Kttle girl's task, and at the 
 same time uttering criticisms, the nature of which ought 
 tc have reassured GabrieUe, as they dealt only with 
 points of ordinary interest. 
 
 " You must be careful not to make your « like n, and 
 your n like u. Look here, for instance, in the words, 
 absolution and supernatural, it is difficult to distinguish 
 the two letters. Isn't it so, Fraulein? " 
 
 He handed the copy to a lady, who was standing 
 behind Jeanne. Her heavy, square-shaped head, her 
 fair hair, blue eyes, and nuld expression, bespoke 
 German origin. Mile. Mina Schultze, evidently as 
 nervous as her pupil, replied to this remark of the father, 
 with the well-known, indescribable accent: 
 
 "It is because Jeanne writes so much German, M. 
 Darras, and you know our u resembles our n. . . ." 
 
 The entrance of GabrieUe at once brought a bright 
 relief into the faces of the governess and the little girl. 
 
56 A DIVORCE 
 
 Her husband was unable to conceal a slight confusion. 
 It was repugnant to him, a man as loyal as he was rigid 
 in his unbelief, to appear as if he were enquiring into 
 the religious instruction with which he had promised not 
 to interfere. The words with which he greeted the new 
 arrival were chosen as if to ward off this suspicion. 
 
 "I came upstairs to enquire of Jeanne, if she knew 
 when you woiild be returning. . . ." 
 
 "And I told Papa," said the little girl, "that you 
 would not be very late, as you had allowed Mademoiselle 
 and me to use the carriage." She was precocious enough 
 to know that she must play her part in the explanation 
 her father had furnished for his unusual visit. Her 
 father patted her cheek, as if by so doing, he were thank- 
 ing her for her help. Prompted by a sentiment no less 
 natural, and to show that she had nothing to conceal 
 with regard to the instruction being given to her daugh- 
 ter, his wife replied: 
 
 " You have taken this opportunity of looking over her 
 work a little. I am very glad. You will no doubt see 
 that she has made progress in composition." 
 
 " Oh! yes," he replied drily. " Now that you have 
 returned, my dear, we will leave her to go on with her 
 work. I have already kept her more than a quarter of 
 an hour from it. It is too long. . . ." 
 
 "Oh! I have plenty of time! " exclaimed Jeanne. 
 " I know all my lessons. . . ." 
 
 "When it is a question of preparing her duty," 
 
A STEPFATHER 57 
 
 persisted the governess, " she hurries on with the others, 
 so as to give herself more time for this. It is the work 
 she likes best. . . ." 
 
 The tactless PrauIeiQ kissed the little girl, while thus 
 praising her. She did not notice that her remark with 
 regard to the religious tendency of her pupil's mind, 
 had brought a shadow to the father's face and a look of 
 anguish to the mother's. Neither of them replied, but 
 scarcely had they left the room, on their way down the 
 stairs that led to their apartments, than her husband 
 took advantage of this imprudent remark. The use of 
 the ecclesiastical term sometimes employed for catechism, 
 had irritated him again. He had experienced the feel- 
 ing, always full of sorrow to him, of the presence of 
 another world, far removed from his own, but in which 
 honour compelled him to allow his daughter to grow up. 
 
 "You noticed," he began, reverting again to the 
 justification he had previously put forth, "I made no 
 remark to Jeanne on the subject of her work. . . . 
 And yet! . . . But I have given you my promise, and 
 a promise once given cannot be broken — there's an end 
 of the matter — ^it must be kept. . . . But I still think 
 I was right in my objections when you sought my 
 promise, before our marriage. Eeligious observances 
 seem useful as a means of ensuring moral habits; one 
 accepts them as a matter of routine, because, by so 
 doing, one avoids difficulties which would arise when it 
 comes to marrying a girl brought up outside Church in- 
 
58 A DITOECE 
 
 fluence. At first, one does not realise the drawbacks 
 to such a compromise. . . . And then one finds one 
 has risked developing a tendency to mysticism in an 
 over-sensitive temperament. You heard what Mile. 
 Sehultze said. You see how the religious sensibilities 
 of the child are already gaining strength. ... I am 
 not reproaching you, but would like you to be watchful. 
 Do not let her go too far in this direction. Warn Mile. 
 Sehultze. In choosing a German governess for Jeanne, 
 it would have been wiser to have taken a Protestant. 
 There would have been a counterbalancing influ- 
 ence. . . . But, once more, do not think I am reproach- 
 ing you. Think only of the future, and the struggles we 
 should have to go through if, thinking as we ourselves 
 do now, Jeanne's religious sentiments carry her so far as 
 to bring her into opposition to us." 
 
 "Mile. Sehultze exaggerates . . ." replied Gabrielle. 
 Her heart beat, as Albert used the word " ourselves." 
 The ambiguity which had existed in their domestic rela- 
 tions for some time past, was summed up in that word. 
 How often lately had he spoken to her in this strain! 
 The fear of an immediate discussion had always 
 paralysed her, and she had no word to say in reply. 
 She remained silent, or turned the conversation into 
 other channels, as she now did once more. 
 
 "Jeanne doesn't take more pains with this lesson 
 than she does with others," she continued, "but it is 
 the only one she has in company with young girls she 
 
A STEPFATHER 59 
 
 knows. The feeling of emulation is roused. . . ." 
 Generally when Gabrielle employed such subterfuges in 
 order to escape a real discussion, she felt that mixture 
 of relief and shame so common to reserved and timid 
 natures. 'Now, however, her visit to Pere Euvrard was 
 too fresh in her memory, and the words of the Apostle 
 he had quoted, " Confess with thy mouth the faith that 
 is in thy heart" . . . suddenly flashed through her 
 mind. Eemorse seized her, to be quickly followed by a 
 start of terrified surprise, as she listened to Albert's 
 reply. 
 
 "You are right, you are able to follow Jeanne's 
 development more closely than I can. Moreover, 
 whether there is a foundation or not for my fears for 
 the future on this point, is beside the question. I have 
 to speak to you about very important matters which 
 concern the present. You must be as courageous as you 
 can, dear one. The reason of my unusually early return, 
 and of my desire to see you as soon as possible, is that a 
 very serious situation has arisen. Feeling it right that 
 you shoidd know of it as soon as possible, I came to tell 
 you of it myself. I have just had a violent interview 
 with Lucien at my office." 
 
 " With Lucien? " repeated the mother. They were 
 now in Albert's study. She dropped into an easy-chair, 
 trembling from head to foot. It was a mere chance 
 coincidence that this, the greatest of all difficulties, 
 should have presented itself just then, so soon after her 
 
60 A DIVORCE 
 
 interview in the rue Servandoni, and the reflections it 
 had called forth. But how could she fail to discern in it 
 the prelude to that expiation which she had so ardently 
 desired to avert? And if she were wrong in looking 
 upon this event as the special manifestation of an indi- 
 vidual vrill, whereas it was merely " the logic of life " 
 (to quote the formula of the priest-mathematician), had 
 she not reason to tremble at this sudden intervention of 
 the inevitable and mysterious power which produces 
 from every cause an effect, and whose punishment for 
 our every fault is the outcome of the fault itself? 
 
 "Yes, with Lucien," replied Albert. By nature, 
 habit, and discipline, he had complete mastery of his 
 feelings, but at this moment he found great difficulty 
 in overcoming his agitation. Instead of seating himself 
 by his wife's side, and trying to calm her agitated feel- 
 ings with helpful words, as he would have done under 
 other circumstances, he paced up and down the room, 
 without even giving her a look. He was completely lost 
 in his own thoughts. 
 
 The only two passions which this student of the 
 Polytechnique had ever known — ^his wife and his intel- 
 lectual aspirations, — ^were revealed in the decoration of 
 this room. The walls were covered with his books, and 
 the sole work of art that found a place here, was the 
 full-length portrait of his wife by Maxime Fauriel, the 
 insipid but elegant painter of Eepublican high -life, 
 whether Whig or Eadical. Order in the minutest details 
 
A STEPFATHER 61 
 
 reigned on shelves and writing table. The father's 
 accusation against the stepson wore a more authoritative 
 form in this familiar setting of objects, all of which bore 
 the stamp of an inflexibly rigid character, exact in the 
 smallest as well as in the greatest things. Even in this 
 acute crisis the need for precision was felt by Darras, 
 and he did his best to give bis explanation in a clear and 
 methodical manner. 
 
 "In order to thoroughly understand the situation," 
 he continued, " in all its bearings, I must acquaint you 
 with a fact, of which, I hoped I should never have to 
 speak to you- . . ." 
 
 Gabrielle started with surprise. 
 
 "You will soon understand why," he said. "When 
 you consented to marry me, I well knew how much you 
 had suffered. I vowed to myself that I would do all in 
 my power to make up for that, and you know my ruling 
 principle is, ' At aU costs to keep a promise once made.' 
 It is our religion, the religion of those who are supposed 
 to have none, the noblest, the truest of religions, that of 
 the conscience. You had a son. I made up my mind 
 to always act towards this boy as if he were my own. 
 This I have done. I can claim no special merit for it. 
 I should have loved this child for no other reason than 
 that he was yours. I have also loved him for himself. 
 If, as I profoundly believe, a man's convictions are in 
 reality the man himself, I can regard him as my own 
 son. It is I who have formed his opinions, fashioned 
 
62 A DIVORCE 
 
 his thought and belief, moulded his will. ... At any 
 rate, I thought I had . . ." he corrected himself with 
 studied bitterness. "I have said all this in order to 
 show you how it was, that, brought face to face with the 
 necessity of deciding a serious question then and there, 
 I said nothing to you about it. I asked myself how a 
 real father would have acted under the circumstances. 
 I recognised the fact that I had undertaken the respon- 
 sibilities, as well as the duties, of fatherhood. Knowing 
 your tenderness of heart, I wished to spare you the pain 
 of any part in a struggle, of which, I confess, I could 
 not foresee the result. Forgive me, my dear wife, for 
 having kept this from you. It is the first secret I have 
 not shared with you. I so feared that participation in 
 this trouble would recall many very sad memories! . . . 
 I have often said to you, and still think, that man is 
 what education makes him. The belief in an all-power- 
 ful heredity is but a remnant of that vast system of 
 organised injustice, the Church. . . . This belief is so 
 deeply rooted, that even the most reasonable minds are 
 contaminated by it. Thus I, too, have been troubled to 
 find certain moral resemblances in Lucien. I had seen 
 you terribly oppressed by this fear. I wished to save you 
 from a recurrence of such an experience. ... Do you 
 now understand my motive, and will you forgive 
 me? . . ." 
 
 " I see in it a proof of your love for me, and I quite 
 appreciate your kind thoughtfulness," replied Gabrielle. 
 
A STEPFATHEB 63 
 
 The reference to her first husband had made her shud- 
 der. Entreatingly she continued, "I dread what you 
 have to tell me. . . . What has happened? What has 
 Lucien done? Tell me quickly. . . ." 
 
 "You are very much upset, dearest Gabrielle," said 
 Albert. " It is just the result I feared. Try and take it 
 quietly. We have to face a serious difficulty, a very 
 serious one, — ^requiring careful consideration. Be calm 
 and look at the facts of the case. The cause of the 
 scene which has just taken place between Lucien and my- 
 self," he continued after an interval of silence, " dates 
 back to the summer of last year. It was then, you will 
 remember, Lucien was not so regular in returning home 
 to his meals. This troubled you. I tried to allay your 
 fears. I reminded you of his age, pointed out to you 
 that many of the young men he met at the Sciences 
 politiques and the feole de droit, were absolutely free 
 from all restraint. In comparing their independence 
 and his own dependence, softened by affection though 
 it might be, there was a risk of his being drawn away 
 from us. I quite believed all I told you, but I did not 
 teU you aU I thought. These absences, which became 
 more and more frequent, troubled me quite as much as 
 yourself, especially as they were accompanied by a 
 change in his manner. I noticed that he was no longer 
 interested in what concerned us, you or me, or his sister. 
 We certainly had his bodily presence, but his thoughts 
 were elsewhere. I had no doubt whatever as to the 
 
64 A DIVOEOE 
 
 cause of this. It is only a woman's influence that can 
 thus transform a young man, and so quickly." 
 
 " You think he is in love? " asked the mother. A look 
 of relief, unnoticed by Darras, overspread her anxious 
 face. That the misunderstanding between her husband 
 and son should have arisen on account of a lapse of this 
 kind on her son's part, was only a cause of annoyance. 
 The purest-minded women are secretly indulgent to 
 faults of this nature. What Gabrielle most dreaded 
 were the conflicts arising out of the relationship estab- 
 lished by her second marriage. She added: " I too drew 
 my own conclusions as to the meaning of these absences, 
 which did not pass unnoticed by me. . . ." Then with 
 some hesitancy, she said, " I dreaded another influence. 
 ... I feared that he was frequently seeing M. de 
 Chambault." 
 
 "He would not do that for your sake . . ." he re- 
 plied eagerly. " At any rate, I have no misgivings on 
 this point. I am now reaping the benefit of the open- 
 ness with which I put our position before him, when he 
 was sixteen years of age. He read the case and judg- 
 ment relating to the separation. He is armed against 
 that influence, in that he admits, what I scarcely think 
 is probable, that there is a possibility of its being ex- 
 ercised. But why should it be now? ... No! He is 
 in love, and with a woman whom we have every reason to 
 fear, do you follow me, every reason. . . . But I re- 
 sume my narrative of the facts. N"oticing the change in 
 
A STEPFATHER 65 
 
 him, and suspecting the cause, I tried to question him on 
 his frequent absences,— of course without any upbraid- 
 ing on my part — about the friends he visited, and the 
 way in which his evenings were spent. I found him 
 reserved, touchy; his heart closed to me. This recoil 
 from my affectionate interest left no doubt in my mind. 
 He knows what my principles are, and that I do not 
 admit the truth of the saying, ' A young man must sow 
 his wild oats.' This trifling with conscience is the 
 disgrace of Catholic countries, due to the easy accommo- 
 dation of the Confessional. But, if the human body is 
 looked upon as sacred, debauchery is regarded with 
 horror as selfish and degrading. It is two years since we 
 touched on this point, at the time when Lucien entered 
 upon his military service. I was delighted to find that 
 his opinions coincided with mine, and they underwent 
 no change while he was away. The horrible atmosphere 
 of barrack-life had not spoiled him. He was so frank 
 with me then, and revealed the secrets of his heart so 
 openly! From the day I lost his confidence I knew very 
 well that he was keeping back a secret of which he was 
 ashamed. I concluded, therefore, that he had given way 
 to temptation, as so many others have done. . . ." 
 
 "It was then that you should have told me," said 
 Grabrielle. The few words he had spoken against the 
 Confessional had brought a protest to her lips, and 
 the resentment she dared not utter found vent in 
 this reproach, as also the love she had for both 
 
66 A DIVOEOE 
 
 these men, whose antagonism was to cause her so much 
 suffering. 
 
 " A son," she continued, " will often tell his mother 
 what he withholds from his father. To me he would 
 have spoken. There would have been no shock between 
 your characters. Ah! Albert, you thought you were 
 sparing me anxiety and sorrow. There can be nothing 
 worse than to know that angry words have passed 
 between you and him." 
 
 "It would not have altered matters at all," replied 
 Darras, "and your suffering would only have come 
 sooner. . . . Besides, my suppositions were only 
 founded on reasonings unsupported by fact. You say, 
 Lucien would have told you. I do not think he would. 
 You would have found yourself confronted by a stubborn 
 resolution of which I had the explanation to-day., No, 
 this person has completely conquered him, and he would 
 have withheld his secret, even from you. It was quite 
 by chance that I got on the track. It is eight months 
 since I first suspected this intrigue, but I have only had 
 positive proofs for the last six weeks. It was during the 
 second fortnight in January, on the day I dined with 
 Huard. You will remember I started in good time, so 
 as to get a little walk. I took the longest way round, 
 passing by the Odeon to have a look at the new books. 
 I turned into the rue Eacine, and walked slowly in the 
 direction of the rue Thenard, where my friend lives. I 
 knew his work at the Polytechnique did not finish before 
 
A STEPFATHER 67 
 
 midday. I had therefore plenty of time. . . . All at 
 once, a young man, whom I recognised as Lucien, ap- 
 proached on the opposite side of the road, accompanied 
 by a young woman. He was so completely lost in his 
 conversation with her, that he did not notice me. They 
 both stopped before the door of a creamery, which 
 existed there even in my time. They seemed as if they 
 were about to separate. The woman opened the door, 
 and evidently invited him to come in too. Lucien 
 looked at his watch, then shrugging his shoulders, 
 entered. 
 
 " I was undecided whether to retrace my steps or not, 
 as I wished to avoid any appearance of having followed 
 him. After a little reflection I crossed the road, and 
 standing before the restaurant looked through the win- 
 dow. Lucien and his companion were seated side by 
 side at the comer of a table. They were unfolding their 
 napkins, talking at the same time. If I had had any 
 uncertainty in my mind as to the cause of the change in 
 him, there was no doubt about it now. His countenance 
 expressed only too well the intensity of his feelings 
 towards her. His eyes never left her face. I could only 
 see his profile, but had a fuU view of her. I could dis- 
 tinguish the smallest details of her features. I should 
 be unjust to her if I did not acknowledge that she had 
 the appearance of being a thoroughly virtuous girl. Her 
 dress of steel-grey cloth was simply made and scru- 
 pulously neat and dean. She had hung up her hat. 
 
68 A DrVOROE 
 
 Her chestnut hair was brushed up high above her fore- 
 head, and tied behind in a short, broad plait, such as is 
 worn by schoolgirls, although she must be twenty-five, 
 if not more. She is slight, rather short, and has finely 
 cut features, almost too small, with dark brown eyes, and 
 a pale complexion. She looked casually in my direction 
 for a moment. She saw that I was looking at her, but 
 was not in the least disconcerted. She looked at me 
 with complete indifference, although without a, vestige 
 of boldness in her look. Under her gaze, I dropped my 
 eyes, turned, and walked away. I dreaded lest she 
 should call Lucien's attention to me, and, although the 
 meeting was entirely accidental, I could not bear the idea 
 that he should find me acting what, to all appearances, 
 seemed the part of a spy." 
 
 "You a spy on him!" exclaimed GabrieUe, "have 
 you not all a father's authority? You acknowledged 
 this yourself a few minutes ago. When a father wishes 
 to find out what friendships his son has made, it is no 
 longer a, question of espionage, but supervision." 
 
 " I did say to you that I looked upon him as my son," 
 he said, correcting her. "But 'truth must be faced,' 
 says one of my favourite mottoes. He . . ." Then he 
 continued, with evident effort: " Alas! he does not look 
 upon me as a father. He was already a big boy when we 
 were married. His childish hostility made you forget 
 your own uneasiness. What tact it required on my part 
 to overcome his prejudices! I succeeded, but I could not 
 
A STEPFATHER 69 
 
 hide from myself the fact that the work accomplished 
 was superficial, and would have no lasting effect. To- 
 day's experience has shown me how correct I was in my 
 judgment." 
 
 " My dear one! " said Gabrielle, clasping her hands. 
 "How dearly we have already paid for our happi- 
 ness! . . ." 
 
 Her husband could not grasp the true meaning of this 
 gesture and exclamation — the instinctive expression of 
 prayer, outcome of the superstitious terror which had 
 been gaining strength since the conversation began. 
 His thoughts were still occupied with the details of his 
 story, which he.now continued. 
 
 "For this reason I made no attempt to break his 
 silence when I had nothing to go upon but mere suspi- 
 tion. Now, and after what I had seen, I felt more sure 
 of my ground. The sight of this young woman's face 
 had left me ill at ease. She was not the common 
 Quartier Latin girl whose presence might indicate only a 
 degrading, but passing adventure. ... In short, I de- 
 termined to make full enquiries, a duty which I con- 
 sidered I owed to you as your husband. Yes, as your 
 husband. You know very well I am one of those who 
 appreciate the seriousness of the form of Civil Marriage. 
 It has more solemnity for me than all the empty show of 
 the Church service. The husband should be his wife's 
 protector — ^physically and morally. It is my duty to 
 defend you against the moral danger which might 
 
70 A DrVORCB 
 
 threaten you in your son. Every duty presupposes the 
 right of carrying it out. I was therefore justified in 
 employing all honest means within my power to find out 
 the truth in the first place. Since Lucien showed him- 
 self openly with this woman, others, besides myself, 
 must have met them. His friendship for her must cer- 
 tainly be known by his fellow-students. I determined 
 to know exactly how matters stood, and without further 
 delay resolved to speak to Huard, whose son is also 
 studying law. Belying on a friendship of thirty years' 
 standing, formed even before college days, I felt sure he 
 would do for me what I would have done for him under 
 like circumstances. — ^When we were alone after dinner, 
 I told him my anxieties and asked him to question his 
 boy frankly on the matter. He promised to do so the 
 same day. What he was able to tell me was not very 
 exact, but such as it was, it is important. You may 
 judge for yourself. 
 
 "Ernest Huard was very reluctant to speak about 
 Lucien, which shows how serious the situation is, and — 
 you will be as much astonished as I was to hear it, — 
 excused his seeming ignorance of matters, by saying that 
 Lucien spent all his mornings at the hospitals, his after- 
 noons at the Medical School or at the Museum, and 
 scarcely ever came to the Law School. Meeting one 
 another one day, Ernest expressed his surprise, when 
 Lucien informed him of his intention of changing his 
 career, and becoming a doctor." 
 
A STEPFATHER 71 
 
 " A doctor? . . ." repeated the mother. " And he 
 never said a word to us about it! What folly! With 
 his fortune, and the support of friends, a fine career 
 awaits him without any difficulty at the Foreign Office. 
 Bouteiller is only waiting for Lucien to pass his exam- 
 ination to find him a place in his Embassy. Doctor! 
 That means beginning his studies all over again! Be- 
 sides I cannot understand what connection there is 
 between this madness and this woman who is causing 
 you such anxiety! . . ." 
 
 " I am coming to that point," replied Darras. " Like 
 you, I could not at first sight unravel the threads of 
 connection between this strange freak, and the passion 
 which I thought had gained the mastery over him. The 
 fact, however, of his having undertaken these medical 
 studies without giving us the least notion that he was 
 doing so, made me at once suspect that his companion 
 of the restaurant was no stranger to his movements. . . . 
 Before making further indirect enquiries, I resolved to 
 watch myself this creamery in the rue Eacine at the hour 
 when I had first seen them enter it. I found that when 
 Lucien absented himself from his lunch here every other 
 day, he was always to be found there with the stranger. 
 They occupied the same corner of the table, which was 
 evidently reserved for them. They lunched there, side 
 by side, as I had seen them doing the first time, or 
 rather, it was she who lunched. Prudence only allowed 
 hurried and superficial observation, but even so, I coidd 
 
72 A DrVOKCE 
 
 see that her presence was all he needed. His behaviour 
 was exactly the same as before. He scarcely touched the 
 dishes put before him. All he did was to gaze at her, 
 and how much was conveyed in that look! When I was 
 convinced that they were both habitues of the place, I 
 resolved to go in myself during their absence. I ques- 
 tioned the waiter who brought them their meals. He 
 had no objection whatever to replying. In this way, I 
 learned that the young girl was a medical student and 
 her name Mile. Planat. The mystery was solved. The 
 attendances at the hospital could be explained in two 
 ways. Either they furnished Lucien with a pretext for 
 constant intercourse with this girl, with whom he was 
 in love, or he seriously thinks of preparing himself for 
 the medical profession, a course which you have just 
 qualified as madness, or there may be something worse. 
 Lately there have been several cases of marriage between 
 men and women students, who, having passed their ex- 
 aminations, settle down and carry on their profession 
 together. . . ." 
 
 " This girl wants to be married? . . ." interrupted 
 Gabrielle, and she seized her husband's hand, as if seek- 
 ing for support. " Do not hide anything from me," she 
 said. "You spoke to Lucien about her? Did he say 
 that? . . ." 
 
 " As a matter of fact, I did speak to Lucien about this 
 girl," replied Darras, as he freed himself from her grasp. 
 He wished to retain his composure for what he still had 
 
A STEPFATHER 73 
 
 to say. " Now, be calm. If the idea of this marriage 
 ever occurred to him, it is no longer in his thoughts. I 
 had at once the same idea as yourself, and it was enough 
 to show me that I could not let matters rest. Mind you, 
 I should not have any rooted objection to Lucien's adopt- 
 ing another career than the one we had mapped out for 
 Mm, if I were sure that in so doing he were following 
 the dictates of his mind and inclination. Nor should I 
 have any objection to his marrying a young girl who had 
 taken her degrees in law or medicine, if she were a 
 virtuous girl, and I were certain she were such. Equal- 
 ity between the sexes seems to me right in principle. I 
 have no doubt in the future the number of women- 
 lawyers and women-doctors will increase largely. I am 
 informed on very good authority that this is already the 
 case. Mile. Planat might possibly belong to that section 
 of pure-minded, earnest women-students who are prepar- 
 ing to earn their own living, and who by their irreproach- 
 able behaviour have gained the respect of their fellow- 
 students. On the other hand, she might be a designing 
 woman. Lucien will be rich. He is unsuspecting and 
 generous. What a prey, ready to hand, for an adven- 
 turess! 
 
 " We have at the Grand-Comptoir two old confidential 
 enquiry agents, who are specially set apart for secret 
 investigation. Sometimes a suspected clerk has to be 
 watched, sometimes we must be assured of the probity 
 of a capitalist who wishes to open an account with us. 
 
74 A DIVORCE 
 
 sometimes . . . but there is no need to go into these 
 details. The chief point is that the information they 
 have procured has always proved thoroughly reliable. 
 After thinking a little, I decided to set one of them to 
 work. In a fortnight's time he had gained the follow- 
 ing information about Mile. Planat, or Bertha Planat, 
 to give her her full name. This girl is twenty-six years 
 of age, that is to say, three years older than Lucien. She 
 has neither father nor mother. Her father was a Cap- 
 tain in the Infantry. The Planats are a middle-class 
 family of Thiers in Puy-de-D6me. Bertha lost both her 
 parents when she was very young. She has been brought 
 up by an old uncle, late Registrar at Clermont-Ferrand. 
 She passed her examinations at the College in that town. 
 Immediately after this success she came to Paris, under 
 the pretext of studying there, not medicine, but law. As 
 a matter of fact she lived for several months, as wife, 
 with a young man whom she had known at Clermont, 
 named fitienne Mejan. This Mejan is an eccentric 
 individual, a product of the literary clubs of the 
 Quartier Latin. He scribbles, recites poetry, and lec- 
 tures. At that time he too was known to be studying 
 law. By this Mejan Bertha had a child, a boy, who, 
 after the separation, was left in her care, and put out 
 to nurse at Moret, near Fontainebleau. The approach 
 of the birth of her child had interrupted her studies, but 
 probably not before it was well known what was about 
 to happen to her. Moreover, she herself at this time 
 
A STEPFATHER 15 
 
 made no secret of their relationship. She went to lire 
 with Mejan again. Her lover's friends knew her. Was 
 it in order to change her milieu, or for mere fancy that, 
 after the birth of the child, she left the law. to study 
 medicine? She seems to have been successful in her new 
 studies. She passed several examinations creditably, 
 and her teachers thought well of her. Four years have 
 passed between this connection with Mejan and her first 
 meeting with Lucien. Has she had any similar adven- 
 tures? . . . Pretty as she is, independent, free from 
 scruples, and with a past like hers, it is very likely. At 
 the same time, my informant was not able to bring any- 
 thing to light on this point. Of Lucien's love for her, 
 on the other hand, there cannot be a shadow of doubt 
 in the minds of those who know them, slight as that 
 knowledge is, for the two lovers avoid their fellow- 
 students as much as they can. No day passes without 
 their seeing each other. She allows him to visit her at 
 her home in the rue EoUin, No. 24. They frequent the 
 same Lecture Hall. They take their walks together. 
 They have meals in common. If he had not us to con- 
 sider, I am sure he would live entirely with her, as the 
 other one did. . . ." 
 
 "Lucien, so proud, so refined! Is it really possi- 
 ble? . . ." groaned his mother. "And he is not 
 ashamed to come and kiss me, to kiss his sister, just after . 
 he has been to see this girl! Yet, you wish me not to 
 put any faith in heredity. . . . Trained as he has been. 
 
76 A DIVOECE 
 
 with your example and your sympathy, even the very 
 thought of this Mejan, ought to have made him shrink 
 with horror, if . . ." 
 
 "He knows nothing of this ..." interrupted Al- 
 bert. Once more the eagerness with which he replied was 
 an indication that in the midst of this grave discussion 
 his wife had unwittingly touched on a tender point. He 
 insisted; — " No, he knows nothing. Does not her very 
 hypocrisy condemn her? Though living in the Quartier 
 Latin, she has been able to gloss over the story of her 
 past. It is I, you see, it is I, who first brought to 
 Lucien's ears the name of Mejan and told of his liaison 
 with Mile. Planat, — the birth of the child, — ^in fact 
 everything. It was in the first misguided impulse of- his 
 indignation against this shame, so unexpectedly disclosed, 
 that he uttered words to me which I never dreamed of 
 hearing from his lips. However, I prefer it should be 
 so. Yes! I would rather he felt passionately than 
 basely. Never for a moment did I anticipate that he 
 would do otherwise. When I knew the truth about 
 Bertha Planat, I was sure that Lueien was in ignorance 
 of everything. The more reason therefore was there to 
 act quickly and free him as soon as possible from this 
 dangerous intimacy. One would have thought the mere 
 statement of the truth ought to have sufiiced for this. I 
 decided, therefore, to speak openly to Lueien and to have 
 a thorough understanding with him. I realised that if 
 he was actually ignorant of everything, I was, so to 
 
A STEPFATHER 77 
 
 speak, about to perform a surgical operation, and, by 
 inflicting pain, heal the afflicted one of his disease. 
 Wisdom and pity suggested a remedy close at hand. 
 There is only one for infatuations of this nature, — 
 absence. Lucien must leave Paris for a time. By a 
 lucky chance I heard lately that one of my colleagues will 
 shortly be going away for some time. He feels over- 
 done, and has asked leave of absence. The Board are 
 going to send him on a tour round the world, through 
 America, Japan, East India, and Egypt. He will take 
 the opportunity of inspecting our branches in those parts 
 of the world. He would like to have some one with him 
 to be a companion, rather than a secretary. This was 
 an exceptional chance. I spoke to Delaitre about Lucien. 
 He was delighted with my proposal. It only remained 
 to speak to Lucien himself. Before mentioning Mile. 
 Planaf s name, I thought it advisable to suggest that he 
 should avail himself of this opportunity. If, tempted 
 by this chance, he accepted my offer, I should conclude 
 he was not so deeply affected as I supposed. In this way, 
 his absence would be certain, and the work of disillusion- 
 ment would be accomplished without recourse to painful 
 means. If he refused, I should at once have a pretext 
 for enquiring into this refusal. I should then tell him 
 what I knew of his conduct and the rest. . . . Well, I 
 did do this. I purposely met him this morning as he was 
 preparing to go out. I asked him to come to my office 
 about half-past one to talk over a very important matter. 
 
78 A DIVOEOB 
 
 I saw that he was surprised at the place of meeting. I 
 explained that I should be fully occupied all the morn- 
 ing, and would only be at liberty for a quarter of an 
 hour, and I wished the talk to be entirely between our- 
 selves. My real reason was that my office was next-door 
 to Delaitre's. I wanted to take advantage of this fact, 
 so as to introduce them to one another, and that the 
 definite engagement could be made in each other's 
 presence. Lucien was not taken in by my reasons. By 
 his eyes, I saw he knew that his secret had been guessed. 
 Once more, he did not return to lunch. Prom that I 
 concluded he had gone to the rue Eacine to talk matters 
 over with his accomplice. . . . When I reached my 
 of&ee, I found that he had got there before me. The 
 tone of the conversation was that which we have adopted 
 towards each other for the last year, — deferential but 
 cautious on his part, affectionate but prudent on mine. 
 From the moment I used the word ' voyage,' I was con- 
 scious of a change in his demeanour. His voice became 
 sharp and his manner nervous. He flatly refused. His 
 refusal was abrupt, but still polite. ... I then told 
 him all it was my duty to tell him. He now knows as 
 much about Mile. Planat as you do. . . . Do not ask 
 how this misguided child received the revelation I had to 
 make, or in what way he replied to me. ITever before 
 in my existence have I passed through such cruel mo- 
 ments. But I am not angry with him, I am anxious to 
 tell you at once. ... I shall never bear him ill-will, 
 
A STEPFATHER 79 
 
 no matter what he does. He is your son. . . . Besides, 
 if he so far forgot himself as to be disrespectful to me, 
 your husband, to the one who has cared for his welfare, 
 and who loves him so much, it is because he was no 
 longer himself. For this one hour at least he was really 
 not responsible for his actions. He stood there before 
 me like a madman, contending against the facts I had 
 given him. He knows how incapable I am of lying to 
 him, of accusing any one without proof. Yes, he was 
 mad with vexation, astonishment, and anger. What an 
 actress this woman must be to have taken such advantage 
 of him! . . . How I pitied him! Upon my word of 
 honour, I assure you during the whole of the lamentable 
 scene, my heart was full of pity for him. And now, I 
 pity him more than ever. To think that he also has 
 gone to find proofs. Proofs of what? The innocence 
 of this poor unfortunate creature. Proofs? I men- 
 tioned Mejan. I told him where the child was. . . . 
 He will find only too many of these proofs, and instead 
 of his returning to extort a pardon from me, as he 
 threatened he would do, imder pain of our never seeing 
 him again, he will return to ask my forgiveness. But 
 what a state of mind he will be in, poor child! . . ." 
 
 " It is I, his mother, who must first ask you to forgive 
 her son . . ." exclaimed Madame Darras, passionately 
 embracing her husband. " He has insulted you! He has 
 threatened you, my dear one, my beloved! . . . You are 
 right. He is to be pitied. When he is convinced of the 
 
80 A DIVOEOE 
 
 truth of what you have told him, how terribly he will 
 suffer! Ah! how well you know him! Yes! he will 
 return. He will want to speak to you, but will not dare 
 to do so. You will let me see him first and tell him that 
 you still love him, even after his behaviour. '. . ." 
 
 She sobbed aloud, and drawing herself closer to her 
 husband, she murmured: " Oh! Do not be angry with 
 me. ... I ought to judge him very severely! . . . 
 but he is my son, my only son! . . ." 
 
 " My dearest! " said Darras, taking her in his arms. 
 " What I want to ask you is to give yourself up to him 
 entirely during the moral crisis through which he is 
 about to pass; to think only of your son. I led you to 
 understand just now that, in my conversation with 
 Lucien, I felt that I was lacking in the parental author- 
 ity which you possess. I am sure of your heart. You 
 have again shown how tender and deep is your love to 
 us both. You must never be driven to choose between 
 us. So now, give all your thoughts to him. In bring- 
 ing him again to your side, you bring him back to 
 me. . . . Perhaps the journey I have thought of will 
 not be very suitable just at present. Lucien still requires 
 more of your tender care. You shall go away some- 
 where with him, if necessary, to Italy for instance. The 
 all-important matter is to rescue him from this woman 
 who has been too adroit for her intentions not to be bad. 
 At any rate, she has been unmasked, that is the first and 
 perhaps the most important point. . . ." 
 
A STEPFATHER 81 
 
 " Supposing, however, that it is not so? . . ." said the 
 mother. " Yes," she persisted, in response to a gesture 
 of her husband's, "if she succeeds in persuading him 
 that it is a calumny? " 
 
 "She cannot do that," replied Darras. "Mejan 
 exists. I tell you again that I mentioned his name. 
 The child exists. Lucien knows where he is. How do 
 you suppose this girl can prevent him finding out for 
 himself the truth of what I have said? " 
 
 " If, however, she does prevent it? . . ." 
 
 " I shall then apply to the Ministere de I'Interieur," 
 replied Albert. " You know I have some good friends 
 there. I shall secure official papers, if necessary, and 
 nothing will avail before the evidence of these. . . ." 
 
 " And suppose, he loves her enough to stUl persist in 
 spite of this shame? . . ." 
 
 " He? Do not slander your son, Gabrielle. He has 
 been deceived, simply because he is so noble, so generous. 
 But he can never be corrupted, degraded, never! . . ," 
 
 " Ah! Albert, it is you who are so noble, so generous," 
 she said, this time taking his hand and kissing it, with 
 such a swift movement, that he had not time to evade 
 it. "You make excuses for him. Oh! accept my 
 gratitude! " 
 
 " I am neither noble nor generous," he replied. " It 
 is something much simpler than that. I love you. We 
 are one in heart and mind. Do you wish my feelings 
 towards your son to be different from yours? ... It 
 
82 A DIVOROE 
 
 ii because of the entire and absolute sympathy between 
 you and me, that I can forgive him. True, I have been 
 angry with him lately, but do you know why? Because 
 he was the cause of my making a secret of my suspicions. 
 Yes, it has cost me a great deal to be silent, to have 
 thoughts that I could not share with you. You know 
 all now, and it is a sweet relief after all." 
 
 He kissed her again, as he spoke these words, words 
 which carried so much pain to the wife, that she could 
 have cried out. She listened to them, and there she was 
 in the same attire she had worn but three hours ago on 
 her visit to Father Euvrard, at the very time when the 
 violent and calamitous interview between her husband 
 and son was taking place. On whose account had it 
 taken place, if not on hers? She was seized with terrible 
 remorse at the thought of the secret she was withholding 
 from this loyal-hearted man. The courage to speak 
 awoke in her. Her lips prepared to make the avowal. 
 She began: "Listen, Albert. . . ." Suddenly she 
 intuitively realised with awful clearness the consequences 
 of this avowal if she completed it. The dearest convic- 
 tions of her husband would be shattered at one stroke. 
 She realised his amazement and suffering, and the breach 
 which would be created just when there was so much 
 necessity for them to act in unison. The matter not 
 only affected themselves, it concerned Lucien also. She 
 felt herself bound by the sUenee which had so long 
 served as a shelter for her timidity, and when he en- 
 
A STEPFATHEE 83 
 
 quired: "What is the matter? What do you want to 
 say to me? " she nestled up to him with the enigmatic 
 phrase, " Promise me, dear one, that you will never love 
 me less, whatever happens. . . ." 
 
 " What can happen," he enquired again, " united as 
 we are? " 
 
 " I don't know . , ." she murmured. " You see how 
 trial arises without our ever expecting it. Could we 
 have dreamt a year ago that Lucien would cause us so 
 much grief? . . . What is he doing? Where is he? 
 Oh! I should like to have him here now." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 BEETHA PLANA! 
 
 What feelings and those the deepest were brought 
 to light, though not expressed in the half -hidden avowal 
 of this ambiguous speech; — ^the agony of her religious 
 scruples, revived by the startling suddenness of the test 
 to which they were to be put, — the apprehension of the 
 distressing struggles before her when she revealed to her 
 husband the doubts and fears of her renewed faith, — ^the 
 certainty that this revelation could not long be delayed, 
 however she might try to suppress it by silence, — ^the 
 remorse consequent on the knowledge of having brought 
 so much sorrow, in spite of herself, on a husband, so 
 generous, so upright, and so tender; and then, in addi- 
 tion to all this, the terror of what awaited her in this 
 passion of Lucien for a woman of whom much was to be 
 feared. Of all these feelings, the only one that occurred 
 to the mind of Darras was the last, and it was the only 
 one he shared. The bitterness of this was all the keener 
 to him, as Lucien's very words were still sounding in 
 his ears, and he could not forget the look and tone which 
 accompanied them. He had made up his mind to keep 
 his wife iu ignorance of the details of this terrible scene. 
 
 84 
 
BEETHA PIANAT 85 
 
 Their talk ended in a renewed effort on the part of 
 Darras to allay his wife's fears. Bnt he could not hide 
 from himseK the uneasiness he felt at the sudden dis- 
 covery of his stepson's feeling towards him, a state of 
 things which he had not suspected. This uneasiness in- 
 creased during the afternoon, spent by him wholly in 
 his study, imder the pretext of having a business matter 
 to think over, and by Gabrielle ia attention to small 
 household matters. In reality the thoughts of both were 
 full of the absent one. The least noise in the house 
 set their hearts beating. ... A vehicle wheeled along 
 the street. Was it going to stop? Was he in it? The 
 doorbeU rang. Was it he, or had he sent a message? 
 It was nothing! . . . The mother could bear it no 
 longer. She returned to Albert and for the tenth time, 
 but under another form, repeated the agonised enquiry, 
 " Where is he? " What could he reply, except to repeat 
 the same reassuring words! But in his heart, Darras 
 put the same question to himself, and the picture of 
 Lucien, still fresh in his memory, again presented itself 
 with painful distinctness, as he stood in the doorway of 
 his office at the Grand-Comptoir, hatred in his eyes, and 
 a threat on his lips. Was it possible that this child, his 
 adopted son,could have uttered such farewell words? . . . 
 "Where am I going? ... To prove that your spies 
 have lied, and when I have the proofs, you will have to 
 retract your calumnies. And you shall retract them, 
 or never shall I see you again in this life." 
 
86 A DIVOROE 
 
 " I shall have nothing to retract," the stepfather had 
 replied. This outrageous behaviour completely took 
 away his self-possession. " I know too well what proofs 
 you will find. It is you, understand me, who will return 
 and ask my pardon for having forgotten that I am the 
 husband of your mother." 
 
 "I have not forgotten that . . ." Lucien had said. 
 He had repeated it. " I have not forgotten that," and 
 again fiercely, " do not touch that wound also, unless you 
 wish words to pass between us that can never be for- 
 given. . . ." 
 
 Such had been the closing words of this tragic scene 
 in which for the first time since Lucien's mother had 
 changed the name of Chambault for that of Darras, the 
 son had taken it upon himself to deliver his judgment 
 on this second marriage and condemn it. To Darras 
 this had been a great shock, the effects of which were 
 still with him as he sat sorrowfully waiting in his study 
 this afternoon. He mentally repeated the words, full of 
 such potent meaning, and again he was overcome with a 
 sense of indignation. 
 
 "How could he do it?" . . . he asked himself. 
 "How? ... It is true, he was beside himself, but 
 it is precisely at such times that our real thoughts come 
 to light. What then must his be? . . ." 
 
 Darras lost himself in reflections in which he vainly 
 strove to apply his usual principle of disciplining his 
 feelings in conformity with his ideal — the abstract man 
 
BEETHA PLANAT 87 
 
 of conscience; — a process which he called in his mathe- 
 matician's language, "determining his moral limits." 
 As he had stated to his wife, he loved Lncien. For many 
 years he had looked upon him as a son whose mind had 
 been moulded by him. During the last few months, the 
 teacher had certainly allowed an atmosphere of reserve 
 to grow up between himself and his pupil, but never 
 for a moment had he imagined that the estrangement 
 he suspected was partly due to personal hatred towards 
 himself. The discovery brought sorrow, almost physical 
 pain to his heart, for the ill-will thus suddenly 
 manifested by his stepson for his home life wounded 
 him in the most vulnerable spot of his married life. Yet 
 his love for this heartless child was still so firm, that 
 in spite of what had passed, he pitied him with a pity 
 as heartfelt and disinterested as the mother's. The very 
 thought of what Lucien was passing through at this 
 moment was painful in the extreme. He had been 
 forced to perform the surgical operation — ^he himself 
 had spoken of his role of monitor in these terms. Had 
 the necessity arisen he would have begun again to de- 
 nounce the unworthiness of this Bertha Flanat, on which 
 subject it had been necessary to enlighten Lucien. He 
 had no doubt that he had saved him from a great danger, 
 but at the cost of what tears of anguish! In imagina- 
 tion he saw the tear-stained face of the young man. 
 He pictured Lucien's suffering, and the agonised ques- 
 tions of the mother found an echo in the innermost 
 
88 A DIVORCE 
 
 depths of his own being. He too asked himself, — ■ 
 "Where is he? "What is he doing?" And reason to 
 himself as he might, he was alarmed. 
 
 Darras and his wife ignored a fact essential to the 
 right understg,nding of the drama of which Lucien's 
 heart was the stage. The details supplied to the en- 
 gineer by his detective neither informed him concerning 
 the real nature of the relations between the young man 
 and Bertha Planat, nor gave her complete history. That 
 she was his stepson's mistress was a point on which the 
 father had no doubt. He had never even discussed the 
 probability of its being otherwise, and the mother had 
 accepted the supposition without hesitation. To put the 
 matter in its true light, we may say at once not only that 
 Lucien was not the young girl's lover, but that in spite 
 of his great love for her, and although leading the free 
 and easy student-life of the Quartier Latin and seeing 
 one another daily, Lucien had never told her of his love. 
 This anomaly, for such it is, even in these days when the 
 education of women tends in some quarters to largely 
 modify the relation between the sexes, — this anomaly 
 arose, as do so many other unusual friendships, from very 
 simple causes. These will reveal themselves as the two 
 characters develop. It was necessary to state the fact at 
 this point in order to understand the keenness of the sor- 
 row felt by Lucien after this conversation with his step- 
 father. His parting words were like the cry of an 
 animal under the butcher's knife, and he had bitten 
 
BEBTHA PLAKAT 89 
 
 ferociously as an animal might. Pierced to the quick, 
 a bnite-like impulse had brought to his lips just those 
 words which could most hurt his torturer, and no sooner 
 were they uttered than the same frenzied impulse drove 
 him from the room. He fled from the reply of Darras 
 and his own anger. Scarcely were the words uttered 
 when he realised with stupefaction what they meant to 
 the one who had been the friend of his childhood. They 
 represented so little the real state of his mind and heart. 
 He had always respected his stepfather. He had been 
 influenced entirely by him, had completely accepted his 
 ideas. But when a natural law has been violated in the 
 relationship existing between two beiags, no good inten- 
 tion, no virtue even, can hinder the sufEering which 
 sooner or later will be inflicted by the one on the other. 
 So it is when the husband of a divorced woman fills the 
 place of father to the child of the first marriage, — ^when 
 that father is still living. In vain does he display the 
 utmost delicacy of sentiment, the most scrupulous re- 
 gard for his stepson's feelings; between the two is an 
 abyss which cannot be bridged so as to produce that 
 instinctive mutual understanding necessary to complete 
 family life, which results from blood relationship alone. 
 The stepfather is always the new arrival in the home; 
 the stranger. It is just as futile for the mother to pour 
 upon the boy her wealth of affection. He knows that his 
 love has not sufficed her. The mere presence of the 
 stepfather is a daily proof of this. He grows up. He 
 
90 A DIVOEOE 
 
 has his friends. He hears from them details of their 
 home life. His self-respect sufEers in the first place, 
 when he realises that there is a difference between his 
 parents and theirs. Then there is less reverence for his 
 mother when he begins to understand everything. He 
 does not love her the less; he is still fond of his step- 
 father, — ^it is their union he dislikes. This feeling has 
 possibly never been put into words. It has gradually 
 been built up during childhood and youth by a hundred 
 and one trifling incidents not one of which has left a 
 distinct trace in the victim's memory, but all of which 
 are stamped on the obscure sub-consciousness of his soul. 
 A store of hidden bitterness is gradually accumulated, 
 to be one day suddenly brought to the surface by a 
 violent shock and to manifest itself in a rush of un- 
 suspected malice. Thus it came to pass with Lucien. 
 When he found himself alone on the staircase of the 
 Grand-Comptoir after his dispute vrith Darras, for a 
 second he was overcome with wonder at it all, even the 
 pain of the hideous denunciation was forgotten. But 
 the last words spoken to his stepfather were real. He 
 was not dreaming. Standing on one of the steps, in the 
 midst of the coming and going of the usual afternoon 
 crowd of customers, the contrast between the place and 
 his own stormy feelings seemed for some moments to 
 paralyse his innermost being, a state of mind often 
 caused by sudden catastrophes. Then all at once, the 
 truth of the situation repossessed him. Every detail of 
 
BEETHA PLANAT 91 
 
 the accusation brought againfit Bertha Planat, clear and 
 precise as it was, stood before him in sharp relief, as does 
 every image associated with the beloved one in the lover's 
 mind: — ^ihe departure from Clermont; the life in Paris 
 with Mejan; the rupture; the birth of the little boy, and 
 the putting out to nurse at Moret. A deadly pang tore 
 afresh the heart of the young man. A flood of hatred 
 against the denunciator surged up in his heart, and 
 then came the determination, — ^unreasoning, impetuous, 
 irrevocable as soon as formed, — ^to confound him. He 
 rushed down the steps, three at a time, ran across the 
 immense hall surrounded by desks, and found himself 
 in the Avenue de I'Opera, which leads to the colossal 
 building that aU Parisians know so weU, looking for an 
 empty cab. A few more minutes, and having found 
 what he wanted, Lucien was seated in a cab going full 
 speed to an out-of-the-way comer of the Montague 
 Sainte-Grenevi^ve, where Mile. Planat lived. 
 
 " 34 rue EoUin ..." he had shouted to the driver, 
 at the same time indicating the shortest route to take. 
 He little thought that while he was thus on his way to 
 this unknown side street, — all that is left of the ancient 
 rue Neuve-Saint-fltienne in which Pascal died, — ^his 
 mother was in a neighbouring one, equally ancient, 
 making her way to the house of the proscribed priest, 
 where was held the interview vrith which this narrative 
 commenced. The similarity of setting to these two 
 tragedies was in itself symbolic. Were not both the out- 
 
92 A DIVOEOE 
 
 come of a similar cause? Neither step would have been 
 taken if Gabrielle had not married a second time. But 
 even if Lucien had known this fact, his mind was so 
 imbued with his stepfather's doctrines that he would 
 have deemed it nothing more than a chance coincidence. 
 If he had all along and without recognising it suffered 
 from his mother's second marriage, the pain had been 
 unreasoning, almost physical. He had never questioned 
 the right or wrong of divorce. That his parents' dis- 
 regard for the greatest law of social life could entail 
 sorrow for themselves and their family was a thought 
 which never entered his mind. But indeed he never 
 even gave a thought to his mother in the fevered half- 
 hour's ride across Paris. His whole energy was con- 
 centrated on the one point, — ^how best to enter upon the 
 explanation he must have with her who had been so 
 grossly slandered. 
 
 " She must know these infamous reports, — she 
 must! . . ." he said to himself when the cab began to 
 move. "We will find out together the origin of these 
 abominable lies. She will help me to discover it, and I 
 will assist her by putting a speedy end to the matter at 
 once. . . ." The cab had scarcely turned the corner by 
 the Louvre when other words came to his lips. " How 
 terrible it will be to repeat this foul slander to her! If 
 only she understands that I have not the least doubt of 
 her, — ^that I have not come to ask her to justify herself 
 on my account. It is for her, for her future, that it is 
 
BERTHA PLANAT 93 
 
 necessary to confound these scoundrels who have put 
 such vile calumnies into circulation.- Who can it be? 
 Who on earth is it? . . ." The anguish called forth by 
 this question was all at once so great that a temptation 
 assailed him. He would order the driver to return to 
 the Grand-Comptoir; he would go up to his stepfather's 
 office and demand from him the name of the person or 
 persons who were responsible for these filthy tales. His 
 hand was raised to pull the bell, but fell before any 
 sound was made. " No, I wiU not see him again yet," 
 he said to himself; " after the way in which I left him, 
 I owe it to myself to bring him a proof to show that he 
 has been deceived, for that he certainly has. Eaiowing 
 him to be what he is, I feel sure that nothing would have 
 induced him to speak of any one as he did of Bertha, if 
 there had been the least shadow of a doubt in his mind. 
 He has been deceived. By whom? , . ." 
 
 The feelings of respect and contempt are the most 
 spontaneous of our nature. The partiality of a pas- 
 sionate love cannot destroy the one, nor the violence of 
 an unjust hatred do away with the other. Lucien's 
 estimate of his stepfather's honour was in no way im- 
 paired by his anger. This respect for the character of 
 Darras, although the young man did not acknowledge it, 
 gave peculiar weight to his stepfather's testimony. If 
 a man is scrupulous in one thing, he is so in others; if 
 incapable of lying, he will not repeat unverified asser- 
 tions. Lucien did not put this reasoning into so many 
 
94 A DIVOEOE 
 
 words, but the mere fact of recalling the fine features of 
 his stepfather's character was sufficient to give another 
 tone to his thoughts. Involuntarily he went over the 
 history of his friendship with Mile. Planat, prompted 
 by his passionate desire to find in each individual episode 
 new proofs that the slanderer, whoever he might be, had 
 not spoken the truth. 
 
 Although it was a favourite habit of his, since he 
 fell in love with her, to give way to these retrospective 
 musings, either on his way to meet Bertha, or after he 
 had left her, never had he repeated so often and so 
 ardently the half -whispered words: "My dear friend! 
 My best friend! . . ." Or again, he exclaimed aloud, 
 " No, it is impossible! . . ." Against what was he re- 
 belling with such violence? Was the cry elicited at the 
 thought of the dif&culty he would have in repeating the 
 slanderous statements to the young girl? Or was it a re- 
 ply to those very cahimnies, in the name of all the mem- 
 ories evoked by the streets he was passing through? 
 These exclamations became more and more frequent the 
 nearer the cab drew to the Quartier Latin, associated as 
 this place was with the incidents of their romance. This, 
 love story of the law student and Bertha Planat had in 
 the main been very simple. At no other moment, how- 
 ever, in the history of our social life could it have taken 
 place, before the revolutionary principle of equality had 
 sapped that most ancient of customs, the difference in 
 the education of the sexes, to which allusion has already 
 
BERTHA PLANAT 95 
 
 been made. Similarly, would the drama of religious 
 strife about to be enacted in the Darras family have 
 taken place twenty-five years earlier? Both facts, care- 
 fully analysed, enable the observer to measure the change 
 which is going on in our coimtry, under the influence of 
 laws of general application but which react upon private 
 thought and feeling. Such examples prove the truth of 
 the axiom laid down by the acutest student of social 
 phenomena in the nineteenth century, " The individual 
 is carried away by society." The future will decide 
 whether this current leads on to progress or to that 
 decadence, so rudely but forcibly defined by the same 
 philosopher as " disintegration." 
 
 It was ten months since Lucien de Chambault had 
 met Bertha Planat for the first time in a circulating 
 library at the corner of the rue Monsieur-le-Prince and 
 the rue Antoine. Well-known to many generations of 
 students, the library was famous for its scientific books 
 and drew its readers chiefiy from the habitues of the 
 ^cole pratique, which building was almost immediately 
 behind. Lucien had casually dropped in to consult a 
 work on medical law for a paper on the "Eight of 
 Punishment," which he was preparing for a small stu- 
 dents' club known as the Categorical Imperative, a 
 name highly indicative, revealing as it does the inmost 
 spirit of a period, and betraying the fact that Albert 
 Darras' stepson had not grown up without being 
 affected by the atmosphere of undefined religious philos- 
 
96 A DIVORCE 
 
 ophy characteristic of the leading intellects of the Third 
 Republic. In thought and sentiment, Lucien belonged 
 to the best minds of the generation born about the 
 year 1880, a generation which already exhibits the 
 results of a teaching ruiming counter to all our national 
 traditions. The major part of this generation are self- 
 ish and unscrupulous hustlers. The small minority, 
 the general staff of the army of "progress," are ill- 
 balanced minds, in whom the critical spirit, sharpened 
 to its keenest edge, coexists with a naive and immature 
 credulity. These young men are at once unsettled and 
 dogmatic, sceptics and fanatic sectaries. Their lack 
 of any grasp on the realities of life is as great as their 
 knowledge is extensive; they would destroy all existing 
 order, whilst dreaming of an impossible millennium. 
 Hypnotised by the latest phase of thought, stimulating 
 each other to unhealthy activity, they exhaust their 
 energies in elaborating programmes which they take as 
 seriously as if they represented something actually ac- 
 complished, — programmes which always involve the 
 entire reconstruction of something or another — the 
 nation, society, humanity. In their eagerness to re- 
 fashion the world, and by a strange irony of which their 
 subtlety has not forewarned them, they are the destined 
 prey of the stalest utopian ideals long since condemned 
 by history. One of the characteristics of this younger 
 generation is their constant appeal to the conscience. 
 But the execrable Kantian doctrine with which their 
 
BERTHA PLANAT 97 
 
 elders have indoctrinated them leads them to interpret 
 this principle of conscience in the narrowest and most 
 sterile spirit. Under the pretext of applying the 
 famous axiom: "Act always in snch a way that thy 
 actions may serve as a universal law," these young men 
 are absorbed in the complacent idolatry of their own 
 opinions. They clothe their individual point of view 
 with all the dignity of an ethical principle, and thus 
 arrive at an intolerant anarchism, so to speak, of which 
 the narrow egotism is in strange contrast with the wide 
 culture after which they strive. One virtue they do 
 possess, as it is only fair to point out. Their philosophic 
 principles, pedantically intolerant as they are, make 
 them not unfrequently very scrupulous in all that re- 
 gards the relation of the sexes. There is something of 
 the Puritan and Jansenist about them. This moral 
 disposition was already noticeable, — as will have been 
 seen in the conversation of Darras with his wife, — ^in 
 the preceding generation, with its doctrine of morality 
 divorced from religious sanctions. Kew terms, are re- 
 quired to define such complex and artificial conditions 
 of mind, in which the arrogant cult of intellect, the secret 
 hatred of instinct and its impulses, and a jealous rivalry 
 of dogmatic religion, may result in true asceticism. 
 
 Let us add that the fervour of these singular young 
 men finds a vent in other directions. Owing to their 
 imdivided interest in social questions, there is no leisure 
 for the play of romantic feeling (happy privilege of 
 
98 A DrVOEOB 
 
 their age) in brains bemused with abstractions. But 
 this self-imposed tension of mind is not unfrequently 
 accompanied by sudden changes and disconcerting sur- 
 prises. Nature held in and stultified is always ready 
 to revenge herself in the heart of the young. Let the 
 given woman appear at the given hour, and the lover 
 will be revealed behind the student, but a lover who 
 does not therefore throw ofiE his customary methods of 
 thought. What unexpected developments may not take 
 place when so singular a temperament is subjected to 
 the passion of love? 
 
 This sketch of the latest psychological type, already 
 represented so largely as to yield the dominant note in 
 the future of the French middle class, might be 
 elaborated, but it will suffice to indicate the particular 
 shade of feeling awakened in the heart of Lucien, as, 
 buried in the corner of the cab, he recalled the day when 
 first he met Bertha and loved her at first sight. The 
 spacious room of the Salon litUraire et scientifique, 
 with its walls hidden by bookcases, opened itself out 
 before his mind's eye. Eows and rows of books, in grey 
 or black cloth, staringly numbered, stood on the shelves. 
 On the ink-stained wooden tables were piled newspapers 
 and magazines. He pictured himself as he stood there, 
 waiting for the books he had asked for, and carelessly 
 glancing at the few readers scattered up and down the 
 room. It was then he noticed in the right-hand corner 
 by the end-window, a young girl, busy making notes 
 
BEETHA PLANAT 99 
 
 from a large volume in front of her. Her pale and 
 charming face, with its delicate features, expressed that 
 ahsorbed attention characteristic of the true student 
 lost for the time being to all else but the actual object 
 of study. During the whole hour Lucien remained in 
 the room under the pretext of reading, but really for 
 the purpose of looking more closely at her, so captivated 
 was he by the charm and fascination of this face, the 
 stranger's eyes were not once lifted from the work she 
 had undertaken. Her lowered eyelids were fringed with 
 long curling eyelashes, the dark shade of which har- 
 monised with the colour of her eyes, eyes that like those 
 on the faded surface of an old portrait, stood out as 
 brown patches against the whiteness of her skin. At 
 times when most absorbed in her work, and when, hav- 
 ing read an important passage, she prepared to sum- 
 marise it, she raised her eyelids, and her look revealed 
 her concentrated thought. She bit the end of her pen- 
 holder, her teeth showing white and even between lips 
 at the comers of which a hard line had formed. She 
 had taken off her hat, and the oval of her intelligent 
 head could be distinguished under her hair, parted in 
 the middle. The thick plait of bright brown hair 
 betokened abundant vitality, but vitality on which 
 weariness had left a mark only too evident in the thin 
 outline of her cheek, the slendemess of her neck, the 
 spare attenuation of her figure as she bent over the table. 
 The hands, beautiful in shape, had an almost manly 
 
100 A DIVOBOB 
 
 energy, a trait revealed again by the broad and powerful 
 forehead, behind which burned a virile intelligence. 
 Yet the general effect of her personality was essentially 
 feminine, as evinced in her slight and fragile form, the 
 measured grace of her movements, and an undeflnable 
 delicacy which seemed to call aloud for help and pro- 
 tection. She was simply, almost poorly dressed, but 
 her collar was spotlessly clean. The black alpaca over- 
 sleeves, carefully put on to protect dress and cuffs, re- 
 vealed a need for economy, and at the same time a wish 
 to be neatly dressed, shown also in every part of her 
 attire. She wore well-shaped, low-heeled shoes, fas- 
 tened up with dainty laces. The sight of a young and 
 beautiful girl in this students' resort, busily intent on 
 her literary work, could not but first surprise and then 
 arouse the interest of this young man of three-and- 
 twenty, himself cultured, industrious, and possessing 
 idealist convictions which until then had suppressed the 
 ardent impulses of heart and senses. He had found no 
 pleasure in the society of his mother's friends. They 
 were either too frivolous or too silly to please him. 
 Such of the unfortunate class as he had met in the 
 company of his comrades had disgusted him by their 
 coarseness. His only knowledge of the realities of love 
 had left a feeling of remorse consequent on actions 
 prompted by the curiosity of the moment and followed 
 by months of loathing. Was it surprising that the 
 ines^licable charm of the stranger, her delicately cut 
 
BEETHA PLANAT 101 
 
 profile refined by thought as she bent over her scientific 
 books, shovild have had a potent and immediate in- 
 fluence upon him? This apparition embodied all those 
 manifold graces of which for some time past he had 
 been unconsciously dreaming. Only when Bertha 
 Planat picked up her papers and prepared to leave, was 
 he aware of the sudden revolution that had taken place 
 in his feelings. The certainty that she was about to 
 pass out of his sight affected him so much that his whole 
 being was thrilled with emotion. For a moment he felt 
 tempted to leave the room before her, so that he could 
 wait for and follow her as she went on her way. An 
 unsurmountable feeling of shyness held him to his chair. 
 Meanwhile she removed her oversleeves, took her hat 
 from the peg on which it hung, arranged it on her head 
 with as much composure as if she had been the only 
 person present. She left the room after having returned 
 to the desk the two volumes she had been using. She 
 had evidently intimated to the old lady in charge, that 
 she wished them to be kept for her, for they were at 
 once put aside with a familiar sign of consent, which 
 would not have been given to a casual reader. Lucien 
 concluded that if he visited the place again, he would 
 be sure to find the young girl there too. This un- 
 mistakable indication that she was an habituee of the 
 reading room contributed to the apparent serenity Ox 
 his feelings as he watched her disappear behind the 
 glass-door and round the corner of the street. Should 
 
102 A DIVORCE 
 
 he question the house-porter or the old lady about her? 
 A feeling of delicacy hindered him. He could, however, 
 not resist the temptation five minutes later of going up 
 to the desk on which the two volumes were still lying, 
 under the pretext of requiring some information. While 
 the assistant librarian looked in the catalogue for the 
 book he had named haphazard, Lucien fearlessly took up 
 one of the two volumes that lay there, and looked at it 
 apparently quite casually. For the first time he was 
 brought into physical touch with the absent one, and the 
 mere fact of his turning over the leaves that had been 
 fingered by her, sent a thrill through his whole being. 
 He remarked, not without some surprise as weU as 
 gratification, — for the fact would certainly help him in 
 finding her again, — ^that the book was the first volume of 
 Trousseau's Clinique de I'Hotel-Dieu. She was evidently 
 a medical student. A piece of paper left between two 
 pages attracted the lover's attention. It was placed in 
 the middle of the celebrated lecture on " Scarlet Fever," 
 and on it were pencilled the words, — "p. 29 medical 
 duty, to summarise." It was the young girl who had 
 thus indicated that she had a note to make. Lucien 
 hurriedly glanced up and down the page, with strange 
 earnestness in his look. His eye fell upon the following 
 lines, and in reading them his heart beat with pleasure 
 as he associated the sentiment of professional dignity ex- 
 pressed in the words with the mysterious and beautiful 
 student: 
 
BEETHA PLANAT 103 
 
 "For some time past I have used affusions. I em- 
 ployed them in my private practice before administering 
 them at the hospital. I have never ventured to introduce 
 anything which I had not previously tested on my private 
 patients. In acting thus my reputation in society has 
 run great risks, and I have often been ill-repaid for the 
 good which I endeavoured, with earnest conviction, to 
 bring about. But I have never deviated from the path 
 duty pointed out to me. . . ." 
 
 Such was the atmosphere of lofty and stern thought 
 in which the young girl lived. Ten months had passed 
 since the day he had found the piece of paper left in the 
 book, and in finding it had learned the secret of the 
 student's trend of thought. Hardly a day of these ten 
 months had passed without his seeing her, and not once 
 on any one of them had she by action, word, or gesture 
 belied the judgment he had instinctively passed on her. 
 Picture after picture rose to his mind, and crowded one 
 on the other, especially of those days which had imme- 
 diately followed the first meeting and had preceded the 
 first words they interchanged with one another. On 
 the next day and every afternoon following, Lucien went 
 to the reading room. To make sure that he could pass 
 whole days there without in any way compromising the 
 young girl, he notified to the librarian that he was a law- 
 student, and his researches would be protracted, as he 
 was preparing a thesis. As an additional precaution. 
 
104 A DIVOECE 
 
 when he noticed that she regularly entered the room 
 about four o'clock, the hour she left the ^cole pratique, 
 he made a practice of coming at three. He placed 
 himself in such a position that he could see her as she 
 came down the street. She was always alone. She 
 entered the room, exchanged a few words with the old 
 lady at the desk, and sat down in the same comer, her 
 place being reserved by a chair leant against the table. 
 She removed her hat, slipped on her oversleeves, and 
 commenced to work. So completely did she put herself 
 apart from those about her, that not one of the habitues, 
 — amongst whom were quite young men like Lucien, — 
 seemed to take any notice of her. Was not this a proof 
 that her behaviour there had always been what it was 
 now? Eighteen days after having first seen her Lucien 
 did not even know her name. He never heard any of 
 the readers either speak to, or of her. It was about this 
 time that they became acquainted with one another, 
 under circumstances so accidental as to preclude the idea 
 of premeditation on his part, or of coquetry on hers. 
 How vividly the scene recalled itself to the young man's 
 imagination! . . . One afternoon about the beginning 
 of May, as he reached the rue Monsieur-le-Prince, his 
 whole being fevered by the emotions of love when it is 
 still in the stage of dream and expectation, he found the 
 reading room closed. The shutters were up, and on 
 one of the panels was fastened a square piece of paper 
 on which were written the words, " Closed on account of 
 
BEETHA PLANAT 105 
 
 death." Lucien learned from the concierge that the old 
 lady who had charge of the reading room had died sud- 
 denly during the night. To do Lucien justice, the idea 
 which now occurred to him, and upon which he at once 
 acted, to remain there and wait for his friend, as he now 
 in thought called her, was not suggested by the sole 
 desire to make the most of this unique opportunity. He 
 remembered that the young girl had always shown a 
 kindly feeling towards the old lady, and he thought per- 
 haps he could break the news of her death gently to 
 Bertha. When he saw her cross the rue de I'feole-de- 
 Medecine, and come in the direction of the reading room, 
 he walked towards her with the step of a man who had 
 Just receiTcd a blow from an unseen obstacle. 
 
 " The library is closed. Mademoiselle," he said to her, 
 and as the young girl, though taken aback by the news, 
 seemed to find nothing strange in the fact of one habitue 
 of the place notifying another of the circumstance, he 
 added: "An unfortunate event happened last night. 
 The person who had charge of the library . . ." 
 
 " Madame Barillon? . . ." interrupted the young girl. 
 "Is she dead?" Lucien made a sign of assent. The 
 girPs face, usually so meditative and calm, changed in a 
 minute. Her features revealed the emotional suscepti- 
 bility which she constantly practised to hide. Her eyes 
 fiUed with tears, although the old lady had only been a 
 chance acquaintance with whom she had occasionally 
 exchanged a few words. She subdued her feelings, how- 
 
106 A DIVORCE 
 
 ever, at once, and gave expression to a professional 
 opinion. 
 
 " I warned Tier some time ago. She suffered from 
 inflammation of the lungs, in its last stage." 
 
 " One would scarcely have thought it. She was always 
 so bright! . . ." remarked Lucien, to continue the con- 
 versation. 
 
 " She knew neither the nature nor the seriousness of 
 her complaint," replied the young girl. " The doctor 
 attending her, had led her to believe that it was a ques- 
 tion of intercostal neuralgia. I never ventured to un- 
 deceive her. He had the case in hand, and treated it as 
 he thought best. Madame Barillon, however, mistrusted 
 him. She consulted books, and from them was able to 
 identify some of the symptoms she felt." 
 
 " Don't you thiak that the patient has a right to know 
 the truth as soon as it is his wish to do so, and even 
 without that? " said the young man. 
 
 " That is open to question," she replied. 
 
 " 'Not for me," he continued eagerly. " I could never 
 respect a doctor who would lie to me. Without truth 
 there can be no moral sense, and when reasons are given 
 for not keeping to the truth on one point, there will soon 
 be a want of truth in everything." 
 
 He uttered his thoughts aloud with such an air of 
 conviction that the young girl was impressed. She 
 raised her eyes to him, and Lucien realised that it was 
 the first time she had really looked at him. He had been 
 
BERTHA PLANAT 107 
 
 nothing more to her than the other individuals in the 
 reading room. This admission, though painful at the 
 time, was gratifying to him now, as he recalled the 
 memories of those months, few but so precious to him, in 
 his search for weapons against the assailants of Bertha's 
 honour. He was glad that the first words exchanged 
 between them had been of such an impersonal and 
 technical character. He was glad also that he had first 
 attracted the young girl's notice by the avowal of a 
 belief which justified the straightforward talk he was 
 about to have with her. He was pleased above all that 
 the spirit of their first conversation had been that of 
 comradeship. True, this behaviour, so contrary to con- 
 ventional prejudices, was liable to be misinterpreted. 
 He knew from his own experience that familiarity is 
 most surely checked between man and woman when their 
 friendship is most like that of man for man. In this 
 way, difference of sex seems obliterated, whereas a bash- 
 ful reserve intensifies it. From the outset the young 
 man was sensible of an entire absence of coquetry in 
 Bertha's behaviour, this being the more marked as her 
 manner was so natural. Impelled by a desire to be still 
 with her, and also to know more about her, he continued: 
 "As you are studying medicine. Mademoiselle, per- 
 haps you can render me a little help. I am working up 
 the question of the right of punishment and criminal 
 responsibility, and in doing so, have been led to study 
 the subject of criminal lunacy as well. The reading 
 
108 A DIVOKOE 
 
 room is closed. Where do you think I could consult 
 books dealing with these subjects? Legrand du Saulle, 
 for example, whose work I was constantly consulting 
 here? ..." 
 
 " In the library of the ficole," she replied. " I am just 
 going there too. I do not like the place much, it is so 
 crowded, but at any rate one meets with civility there, 
 and the catalogue is comprehensive." 
 
 " But I am a law-student," he replied, and taking out 
 his pocket-book, handed her one of his cards, evidently 
 with the intention of no longer remaining a stranger to 
 her. She took it, and looking at it she said simply: 
 " I think this will be sufficient. But if you will come 
 with me, I can get you in without any difficulty." 
 
 He followed her with beating heart, a prey to an 
 emotion which unnerved him by its tenderness. To- 
 gether they crossed the rue ficole-de-Medecine, narrow 
 and uninteresting, with the ground-floors of its houses 
 given up to the medical bookseller and the surgical-in- 
 strument maker. Lucien's one thought was his com- 
 panion and her grace of carriage, a carriage which be- 
 trayed additional attractions, a round and well-propor- 
 tioned figure, long well-formed limbs, and a firm light 
 step. What must he talk to her about? how fearful he 
 was lest by a word he should disturb the charm of these 
 unhoped-for moments. They had already reached the 
 courtyard, were mounting the main staircase together. 
 They were in the library. There at last he learned the 
 
BERTHA PLANAT 109 
 
 name and address of the stranger. Bertha Flanat was 
 obliged to show her student's ticket, when she introduced 
 her companion. Once inside the room, she left him 
 and bowing her adieu she took her seat at one of the 
 tables, as she did in the other reading room, and became 
 absorbed in her work. Lucien dared not seat himself be- 
 side her. For form's sake, he had asked for a book, but 
 scarcely opened it. Then seeing her so engrossed, he left 
 the library. Impelled by an irresistible desire to see 
 what her home was like, and the surroundings of her 
 life, he turned his steps in the direction of the rue 
 Eollin, where he now knew she lived. It was early in 
 the month of May, and these slopes of the Montague 
 Sainte-GenevieTe seemed fanned by the breath of youth 
 and love. It was five o'clock. The dome of the Pan- 
 theon, with its grey colonnade, was enveloped in the soft 
 clear light of the azure sky. Green leaves fluttered on 
 the branches of the trees, whose scanty roots found 
 meagre nourishment in the barren soil. Yet earth's 
 imperishable vitality afforded life to these dry trunks. 
 It palpitated likewise in the stunted sensibilities of the 
 laughing students and girls seated outside the caf6s. 
 The joyous springtide of life vibrated in the air. With 
 the self-complacency of the pure-minded lover Lucien 
 felt it too. His was a sacred love, while many others 
 had debased their affections. Musing thus, he reached 
 the rue Vieille-Estrapade and the rue Contrescarpe. 
 Their graphic names and ancient aspect fascinated him. 
 
110 A DIVOEOE 
 
 Their remote and obscure history was a charming foil to 
 his newborn hopes. The poverty and silence of the rue 
 Eollin affected him. It is only used by foot-passengers, 
 leading as it does to a flight of steps which runs down 
 steeply to the rue Monge. The setting sun cast its 
 slanting rays on the side of the street in which stood 
 Bertha's house. It was one of those dwellings, formerly 
 occupied by wealthy families, which even in their ruin 
 bear signs and traces of their aristocratic occupants. 
 The foundations had sunk and the fagade had bulged 
 forward, but there was a handsome carriage entrance; 
 the court-yard was choked up with sheds and rubbish, 
 but its windows were lofty and well proportioned. The 
 lover seated himself on an upright stone placed against 
 the steps of the rue Monge, and there he stopped until 
 night began to fall, lost in thought, and intoxicated 
 with an almost superhuman joy. This storming of the 
 heart by the passion of love has its moments of inex- 
 pressible intensity, and contrasts strangely with the 
 insignificance of the causes which bring it about, or 
 rather with the pretexts of its existence. What had 
 happened to Lucien? He had learned the name of the 
 young girl whom he loved, her profession, her home, and 
 he had spoken to her. All this was a mere nothing, but 
 sufficient to make the poetic stream course through his 
 veins. Bertha was young, he was young, and it was 
 springtime. The mysterious affinity of spirit, the 
 similarity of thought which had been revealed to him. 
 
BERTHA PLAN AT 111 
 
 such grace wedded to such earnestness, the sharp con- 
 trast between her beauty and her work, the freshness 
 and delicacy of her features in association with the 
 sick and dying, hospital beds, operating tables, the 
 strangeness of their meeting and its entire lack of con- 
 ventionality, the anticipation and longing for their next 
 meeting, what elements these for the awakening of a pas- 
 sionate love in the heart of one of his age, and one who 
 had never loved! "With what intensity they had stirred 
 in his heart, what hours had he passed brooding over 
 them. In his memory they were flooded with the radi- 
 ance of daybreak. Had it not been the dawn of his 
 happiness? 
 
 Yes, he had been happy, indeed happy, as one can be 
 at three-and-twenty, with longings unimpaired, and with 
 faith in that gentle being, woman; when the heart ex- 
 pands under the loved one's presence and when her mere 
 presence brings content. Later, the knowledge gained 
 from experience of life, the claims of manly pride, the 
 bitter sense of days passing away, all are inimical to a 
 love unavowed and in which there is no sense of owner- 
 ship. But the timid heart of youth shrinks from 
 avowal, lest it should offend; the very thought that the 
 loved one will belong to him entirely is so overpowering, 
 that it is almost a relief to defer it. He knows that the 
 future is his. One year, two or ten, will make no difEer- 
 ence in the love he bears his loved one, or her love for 
 him. In the delicious thrill of uncertainty as he post- 
 
112 A DIVOEOB 
 
 pones the hour of decisive words, and dallies lingeringly 
 with the delights of dream and hope, he experiences 
 those sensations which are the peculiar charm of court- 
 ship days, and since that spring evening Lucien had 
 loved Bertha as one betrothed, with a silent adoration, 
 increasing each day in intensity of feeling. That even- 
 ing he had not attempted to learn more oi her, by ques- 
 tioning the concierge, for instance. Such enquiries 
 would have seemed a sacrilege to him. Would he have 
 had courage enough for them? To lovers of his tem- 
 perament, the mere utterance of their loved one's name 
 to a third party causes suffering. Their tongue refuses 
 to articulate the word. Moreover, what would have 
 been gained by it? What could he have learnt that he 
 did not already know? The severity of her life, her 
 close application to her work, the loftiness of her 
 thoughts; — all these could be conjectured from her 
 home, her behaviour in the reading room, and by the 
 character of the notes she had made from Trousseau. 
 From that first evening he divined in her, as if by intui- 
 tion, all those attributes of soul of which the following 
 six months' intimacy proved the existence, an intimacy 
 so entirely free from restraint as to preclude the idea 
 of any mystery. Was it not the most striking proof of 
 the moral worth of the young girl that their friendship 
 had remained so absolutely pure? The various events 
 which had led to the formation of this intimacy came 
 back to Lucien with marked distinctness. . . . After 
 
BERTHA PLANAT 113 
 
 their first conversation they had made a practice of 
 greeting one another as they entered and left the read- 
 ing room. Not one of the inclinations of that small in- 
 telligent head but had been interpreted by Lucien, now 
 with exquisite joy as an indication of her Mndly inter- 
 est, and then, with anguish, at the thought of her indif- 
 ference. Then followed their second conversation, not 
 many days after the first. In order to begin , this, 
 Lucien had devised a plan, which was significant of the 
 strange contradictions of this love, — a dreamlike flower 
 of the fancy which had sprung up at the contact of 
 these two intelligent natures. He asked the young girl, 
 just as she was rising to go, if she could help him by 
 giving him the true meaning of two technical words 
 which he could not understand, and he showed her, — 
 oh! the mockery of it! — a sentence he had met with in 
 Legrand du SauUe's enormous treatise on latent and 
 imitative diseases. By the time he had formulated his 
 request, they were in the street. Bertha walked on as she 
 replied to him, and he, quite naturally, accompanied her. 
 "Latent explains itself," she said. "A latent dis- 
 ease is a disease which has not yet manifested itself. 
 An imitative disease, on the contrary, has made itself 
 very palpable, but assumes the form of another. Thus, 
 gout which exhibits the symptoms of vertigo, is imita- 
 tive gout; it disguises itself, qvxie induit larvam. 
 Larva, you wiU remember, with the ancients signifies 
 the stage mask." 
 
114 A DrVOEOE 
 
 "I must confess, I had forgotten that . . ." he re- 
 plied, and almost indifferently, he added: "You know 
 Latin, Mademoiselle?" 
 
 "I have taken my degree," she replied. 
 
 "That was a senseless question of mine," he said. 
 "You could not have taken up medicine without this 
 diploma. But in Prance one is not accustomed to see 
 women mastering certain branches of knowledge." 
 
 "Things are gradually changing," she said, "hap- 
 pily so. Science is a great emancipator and woman is 
 in greater need of emancipation than man." 
 
 " That is just my opinion," said Lucien, " and I hope 
 that still further progress will be made in this direction. 
 I shall nevertheless not be surprised if lady medical 
 students remain in the minority." 
 
 " On account of the operating theatre and hospital, I 
 suppose you think?" she asked. 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "You have never dissected, Monsieur," she replied. 
 " Therefore you do not know that there is only a slight 
 sensation to overcome, and that purely physical. It is 
 not long before one regards the corpse as a means of 
 verifying an anatomy lesson. It is difficult to realise 
 that these remains have ever been a human being. The 
 post-mortem is more painful. You get interested in a 
 patient, and receive his confidences. Twenty-four hours 
 later you see him stretched on a table, lifeless, cold as 
 ice, — ^his brain here, his heart there, and his liver some- 
 
BERTH A PLANAT 115 
 
 where else. For me, this was, and is still the most hor- 
 rible sensation, but the only one, because, if at the hos- 
 pital you are obliged to be a spectator of sad sights, 
 there is always so much good to be done there by a word, 
 an action, or some kindly attention! . . ." 
 
 She recounted these details of her professional ex- 
 perience with remarkable simplicity. She had neither 
 in her look nor in her voice that arrogance which is so 
 repellent in the manner of the majority of strong- 
 minded women. She quietly related things as they were, 
 without a thought as to the effect the mention of these 
 repugnant necessities of her calling might have upon 
 the imagination of her questioner. Victim of an ever- 
 increasing curiosity, Lucien continued: 
 
 "At the practical school and the hospital there are 
 others besides patients and corpses. There are com- 
 panions. I do not know many medical students, but 
 it seems to me that the tone of the majority of these 
 should be distasteful to a young girl. . . ." 
 
 "You are somewhat mistaken in this," she replied. 
 "For my part, and, of course, one can only speak of 
 one's own experience, I have occasionally met with young 
 men, but only a few, whose language was coarse, and 
 when they were with others they were quickly silenced. 
 It often happens at the hospital, when we are asked to 
 examine a patient, we hear behind us remarks and 
 laughter that we should prefer not to hear. It is a form 
 of teasing. They wish to confuse us, so that they can 
 
116 A DIVORCE 
 
 make fun of our nervousness. ... A little gravity of 
 manner soon puts a stop to these childish practices. As 
 to those who have other thoughts and express them, if 
 one cuts them short at once they make no second at- 
 tempt. As far as I am concerned I profess to be the 
 best of comrades, but if ever a student tries to be too 
 familiar I warn him that the moment he talks to me 
 otherwise than he would to a man, I shall cease to recog- 
 nise him as an acquaintance. . . ." 
 
 With these words she left her companion at the 
 door of the same creamery in the rue Eacine in which, 
 later, Albert Darras was to find the young people side 
 by side. Lucien watched her as she entered the long 
 room, already full of diners. As in the reading room, 
 here too, she had a place reserved for her. The wooden 
 tables, devoid of cloths, the coarse crockery and thick 
 glass corresponded only too well with the inscription 
 on the front of the house. Dinner 1 fr. 10. Silent pity 
 filled the lover's heart at the poverty-stricken appearance 
 of the place, and at the same time the young girl's last 
 words overwhelmed him with pained surprise. He was 
 to know later the feelings that had prompted her to 
 utter them. There are certain intangible, but never- 
 theless manifest signs by which two kindred souls recog- 
 nise each other. The simple assertion made by Lucien 
 as to a patient's right to know the truth, had been one 
 of these signs for Bertha. Although she endeavoured, 
 as she said, to be on terms of comradeship with the other 
 
BEETHA PLANAT 117 
 
 students, she would never have allowed a stranger 
 whom she had met in a library to address her 
 and enter into conversation with her, if in so doing 
 she had not yielded to an impulse of her heart. 
 She had punished herself in uttering these parting 
 words. It was a barrier raised between herself and the 
 young man, should he have entertained any rash hope 
 with regard to their friendship. Supposing he did not 
 attempt to see her again, or even if she did see him once 
 more, this plain speaking admitted of no doubt; he 
 could not make love to her. How vivid these recollec- 
 tions still were in Lucien's mind. How distressed he 
 had been as he continued his way up the rue Eacine, 
 lest he had in any way acted indiscreetly or annoyed 
 her by his questions. What a night of anguish he had 
 passed, wondering if she would ever forgive him for 
 having questioned her! When he saw her again, what 
 a Joy to find that she did not seemed vexed with 
 him! . . . Then they had their third talk, followed by 
 their fourth, their fifth. 
 
 How these conversations and the numberless ones that 
 followed came to his mind one after the other as his 
 journey across Paris brought him closer to the Montagne 
 Sainte-Genevieve. In all, both during the early part 
 of their friendship with its restrained intercourse, and 
 later when the intercourse was more confidential, he had 
 faithfully kept to the programme of absolute silence on 
 tenderer subjects laid down by Mile. Planat. He 
 
118 A DIVOEOE 
 
 had treated her as if she had been a friend, studying 
 at the ;fccole de M^decine, with whom he exchanged 
 opinions and thoughts, and not as the adorable girl whose 
 presence was a disquieting element in his life, whose 
 simple grace and gentle smile kindled a passionate love 
 within his breast, and whose brave battle with life moved 
 his admiration. Not one of the paving stones, since the 
 cab had left the Pont Neuf, but reminded him of some- 
 thing Bertha had said, something she had done, of 
 some look. . . . Here, at the corner of Saint 
 Michel Square, he had met her one morning on 
 her way to the Hotel-Dieu, six weeks after the be- 
 ginning of their friendship. She had allowed him to 
 accompany her to the hospital and go in with her. It 
 was the first time he had seen her occupied in her call- 
 ing. They had followed the doctor in his rounds. 
 They had returned together and lunched in the rue 
 Eacine. . . . Here, under the trees of the boulevard 
 Saint-Germain, on the warm summer evenings, when 
 they had become closer friends, they had strolled, dis- 
 cussing with one another their favourite theories. His, 
 that of the individual conscience being the supreme 
 law; hers, the belief in a morality founded on facts 
 alone, and which was no other than applied biology. 
 These two tendencies, so different as to be exact opposites, 
 which divide the youth of to-day into two classes, and 
 which will one day come into open conflict, were per- 
 sonified in these two young people. These discussions 
 
BEETHA PLANAT 119 
 
 not only opened up a new world of thought to Lucien, 
 but to hear these modern theories of life expounded by 
 such lovely lips had a strangely alluring charm. . . . 
 Before the College de France and at the foot of Claude 
 Bernard's statue, about the beginning of autumn as he 
 remembered, she had related the growth of her ideas. 
 Three men, she told him, had exercised a decisive in- 
 fluence on her: Claude Bernard and his Medecine experi- 
 mentale, Flaubert, and Dostoiewsky. From the one 
 novelist she had learnt to look at life as it truly is, the 
 other had taught her his poignant sympathy with human 
 misery. What she admired in Bernard was his method 
 of thought. She had spoken too of her education, 
 firstly at Thiers, then at Clermont, where she lived with 
 her imcle, and was taught by a retired professor, M. 
 Andre, who had taken a great interest in her. Lucien 
 told her about his stepfather. . . . Again near the 
 Pantheon, when ceremonies in honour of the illustrious 
 dead were taking place, they had one day discussed re- 
 ligion and politics, and he had been astonished at the 
 calm fearlessness and intelligence of this woman, who 
 had outstripped him on these two topics, as she did in 
 moral philosophy. In her belief, that biology, now in 
 its beginnings, would eventually be instrumental in re- 
 newing the whole plan of human existence. Bertha 
 avowed a system of nihilism with respect to institutions 
 of the past and present, and included in the same con- 
 demnation, Catholicism and Kantism, traditional mon- 
 
120 A DIVOEOE 
 
 archy and the republic. The young man had felt the 
 fascination of these daring opinions, this logical exten- 
 sion of the principles which had been imparted to him. 
 In comparing himself mentally with his friend, he felt 
 he was only, as was his stepfather also, one of the mid- 
 dle class, and one imbued with the prejudices of that 
 class. He had admired the robust intelligence of the 
 girl-student, just as he admired the steadfastness of 
 mind with which she mapped out her life, — ^not a minute 
 lost, not a penny spent uselessly. She had inherited 
 a small sum of fifteen hundred pounds of which she 
 took out a hundred, leaving the remainder until she 
 started for herself, at the end of her studies. It was 
 quite recently she had told all this to Lucien. Her 
 meals at a shilling, brought the cost of her food to three 
 pounds a month. Dress and personal expenses took 
 another twenty-five pounds; books, eight pounds; ex- 
 amination fees, the same sum, — these were the other 
 chief items of her budget. She had chosen this room 
 in the rue EoUin for its low rent, in keeping with the 
 rest of her expenses. 
 
 The rue EoUin! It was close by now. For while 
 his memory had been undergoing this ordeal, the cab 
 had sped along, and the lover was nearly at his journey's 
 end. The reminiscences of the past suddenly gave place 
 to the bitter reality of the present as he passed the Lycee 
 Henri IV. The familiar aspect of this district, asso- 
 
BERTHA PLANAT 121 
 
 dated as it had been during these months with the 
 sweetest and most intense emotions of his youth, 
 lacerated his feelings. His stepfather's accusation again 
 formulated itself in his brain. How hideously it con- 
 trasted with the daydreams in which throughout the 
 past year he had iudulged at this very spot, — dreams 
 which he had just recalled with an energy bordering 
 on hallucination. Could this gracious being have lied 
 to him, was her reserve a sham, could this terrible secret 
 of guilty motherhood be hidden under such simple and 
 modest behaviour; in short, was it possible that she whom 
 he loved with so much reverence and tenderness and to 
 whom he had not told his love, had been another man's 
 mistress? Every vision which memory evoked of in- 
 cidents, simple in themselves but charged with so much 
 poetry for him, protested against the truth of the ac- 
 cusation, and yet, on the point of seeing his calumniated 
 friend, he was afraid. These fancies which had brought 
 her so near to him, could not speak with the authority 
 of the accuser. Now, as he neared the rue EoUin, 
 Lucien pictured to himself the details of the scene 
 through which he must pass. He would pass through 
 the doorway, go step by step up the staircase, and enter 
 the room. Then he would be obliged to disclose the 
 horrible story. The mere thought of the young girl 
 listening to such words, was intolerable to him. The 
 sentence which had been the guiding principle of their 
 friendship occurred to him at once, " I warn him that 
 
122 A DIVORCE 
 
 from. the day liis conversation is other than that he 
 would address to a man I shall cease to know him." 
 She who considered the least allusion to love, an insult, 
 — ^would she allow him to finish the outrageous story? 
 She would dismiss him at once. This rare and exquisite 
 intimacy, hiding so much passionate joy under the dis- 
 guise of an interchange of ideas, woidd be at an end. 
 The lover had often asked himself without ever being 
 able to answer the question: "What does she think of 
 me?" He would question no more. Bertha would 
 despise him. She would hate him. The anxiety called 
 forth by this prospect was so painful that Lucien would 
 willingly have delayed the moment in which he would 
 take a step that would probably be irrevocable. He was 
 now at the corner of the Contrescarpe Square whose old- 
 world name had pleased him so well. This reminis- 
 cence once more brought vividly to mind his first pil- 
 grimage to his friend's house. He got out of the cab 
 and walked to the rue EoUin. It was not quite three 
 o'clock — the hour when Bertha as a rule worked at the 
 tlcole pratique. But she had told him the evening 
 before, that, as she would be obliged to stay later at the 
 Hotel-Dieu and lunch there, she would feturn home. 
 (It will be seen that Albert Darras was wrong in sup- 
 posing that his stepson had gone to confer with his 
 accomplice before going to the Orand-Comptoir.) But 
 she might have changed her mind. The prospect of 
 an additional respite brought on another crisis of hesi- 
 
BEETHA PLANAT 123 
 
 tation. He passed backwards and forwards in front of 
 the house with a beating heart, and in a state of panic 
 indecision of which he was ashamed. But the power 
 of control to which he had been trained from his earliest 
 years by his stepfather reasserted its sway. His own 
 words came back to his mind: "Without truth there 
 can be no moral sense. . . ." He repeated the word 
 " truth/' again and again, he impressed it deeply on the 
 innermost recesses of his soul, and entered the house as 
 if he were advancing against a loaded pistol iu a duel. 
 He had made no enquiries at the hall porter's window, 
 but his mind was now so fully made up, that when he 
 reached the landing and saw the key in the door, he 
 uttered a sigh of relief. A knock with his knuckles 
 on the door, the two words " Come in/' pronounced by 
 the voice he had so trusted, — a turn of the key, and he 
 stood before her. 
 
CHAPTEE IV 
 
 THE TRUTH COMES OUT 
 
 She had recognised the young man's knock. Accord- 
 ingly she did not rise from the chair in which she was 
 sitting. On the desk in front of her lay an atlas open 
 at the page which contained a representation of the anat- 
 omy of the leg. The interlacing of the blood vessels, 
 nerves and muscles round the bone, was traced by a nimi- 
 ber of strips of paper cut up and coloured blue, black, 
 grey, and red, which were arranged above the printed 
 page. With the fingers of her left hand Bertha was care- 
 fully lifting one of these strips, while her right was busy 
 with a notebook already covered with pencil jottings. 
 Lucien recognised the memoranda which she used to 
 carry to the hospital for the morning visits. She wel- 
 comed his arrival with a polite inclination of her pretty 
 head which hardly turned, and without breaking off 
 from her work she said to him: 
 
 "I am just making a thorough study in advance of 
 an operation I shall be present at to-morrow. It is the 
 case of the man in No. 32, you remember, the man with 
 gangrene in his right foot. They have had a consulta- 
 
 124 
 
THE TRUTH COMES OUT 125 
 
 tion on his ease, and it does not admit of further delay. 
 You know how Professor Louvet is always in favour of 
 radical measures. He wants to amputate above the knee 
 to make sure that no symptoms shall recur. But Graux 
 the surgeon was brought in, and then it was another 
 story; Graux would not take off the whole of the foot 
 even. He thinks it would meet the case to cut away half 
 the foot. These gentlemen discussed the matter, each 
 supporting his own view with all the arguments sug- 
 gested by his prof oimd knowledge, and meanwhile be- 
 tween them there lay the patient on the bed, the cover- 
 let drawn back to expose his poor legs, the one distorted 
 and the other gangrenous. When at last they had done 
 theorising and were silent, ' What if we split the differ- 
 ence? ' suddenly said the sick man, pointing to a spot 
 below his knee. It was said so humourously that all the 
 students burst out laughing. Not so I. . . . I felt dis- 
 tressed. I shall never have enough strength of mind 
 to look on a human creature as a mere subject for 
 scientific experiments. Graux and Louvet thought no 
 more of the poor wretch than if he had been a lump 
 of clay instead of a living man. They were full of their 
 own ideas. That is the true scientist. But I cannot 
 bring myself to it. In the end they will adopt the 
 middle course as the patient suggested. The leg will 
 be cut off between the foot and the knee to-morrow. 
 When this was settled the owner of the leg made one 
 more remark. With less humour but more significance 
 
126 A DIVORCE 
 
 he said: 'I feel better. It is a comfort to know the 
 worst.' " 
 
 Engrossed in her recollection of this gruesome scene, 
 the strange girl had at first taken no notice of the ex- 
 pression of Lucien's face. She now shut the atlas with 
 scrupulous care. The whole of the room bore evidence 
 to the method and neatness that she had developed 
 within its narrow limits. A square room, very lofty, its 
 windows with their carved wainscots preserved the ele- 
 gance of days gone by. They looked on to a cluster of 
 trees, another relic of the olden time, when the present 
 dilapidated tenement was a baronial mansion like the 
 one at its side, where dwelt M. de Caumartin, Bishop 
 of Blois, the same who annoyed Louis XIV. by the 
 cruelly satirical speech in which he welcomed the Bishop 
 of N'oyon to the Academy. These trees which perhaps 
 belonged to him now serve as a hygienic advertisement 
 to a middle-class boarding house. On this particular 
 murky afternoon in March, their yet naked branches 
 stood out in gloomy distinctness against the cold back- 
 ground of the sky seen beyond the casement. The grey 
 light was in complete harmony with the tone of the 
 furniture which the young girl had brought with her 
 from her provincial home. The old, cumbersome wal- 
 nut chairs from Auvergne, rusty and grim, the brownish- 
 red paper, the huge curtains of assorted rep, imparted 
 an air almost of uncouthness to the general effect, which 
 was not relieved but rather intensified by the indications 
 
THE TETTTH OOMES OUT 127 
 
 scattered in all directions of the profession of the 
 Carveline, to use the medical schools' forbidding slang 
 for the female aspirant to a doctor's degree. In one 
 corner were surgical instruments set out to dry after 
 being cleaned; in another, a skull, and the various parts 
 of a disarticulated skeleton; ia the bookcase some medi- 
 cal works; elsewhere the model of an eye enlarged on 
 cardboard, intended to demonstrate the mechanism of 
 sight. The only objects of art were six large photo- 
 graphs of the prophets of the Sixtine Chapel. Their 
 athletic muscular development seemed to spread the 
 teaching of the dissecting room over the walls. Al- 
 though the girl student slept in this extraordinary room, 
 no bed was to be seen. Her extreme care for the pro- 
 prieties, as also the habit she always affected of a mas- 
 culine kind of sociability, had led her to make the apart- 
 ment in which she was at home look as much like a 
 consulting room as possible. She slept on a bench, hid- 
 den at present by a cover of cretonne. A little closet 
 adjoining sufficed for her toilette and the hanging of 
 her wardrobe. There were, however, certain little de- 
 tails that revealed the woman. On the chest of drawers, 
 for instance, rested a tiny cabinet with receptacles, on 
 which you read the words, Grloves, Ties, Handkerchiefs; 
 while floating in the air the fresh aroma of iris powder 
 mingled with the perfume of a bunch of mimosa bought 
 in the street. Nestling in a glass of water the golden 
 catkins and the delicate foliage of this nosegay from 
 
128 A DIVOROE 
 
 the sunny south were eloquent of light-hearted youth 
 and unfettered existence, of happy shores and distant 
 pilgrimages. What a contrast to the narrow cell in 
 which she lived, so symbolical of the peculiarities of 
 Bertha's destiny, of her middle-class provincial upbring- 
 ing, her manner independent but withal reserved, her 
 austere devotion to work, and the innate genius for the 
 elegant which enabled her to remain neat and attractive 
 under conditions in which nineteen out of twenty of 
 her companions lose all claim to gracefulness. Never 
 had Lucien been more sensible than at this moment of 
 the poetry hidden in this room to which he had often 
 found his way but never without a tremor. 
 
 A few minutes before, his stepfather had made out- 
 rageously insulting remarks about the occupant of this 
 room, and now Lucien saw her again, seated quietly at 
 her daily work, noticed how this tedious work was en- 
 nobled by her consistent effort after high and generous 
 thoughts, saw how frail and pretty she looked in her 
 total ignorance of the slander started about her. His 
 feelings were acutely stirred. Tears came to his eyes. 
 The reaction after the extraordinary strain of the past 
 hour was too much for his nerves. He collapsed in his 
 chair and had not strength enough to utter a word, while 
 the silent tears began to trickle over his face. 
 
 At last, surprised at his silence. Bertha turned round 
 to face him. She saw the stifled sobs, the convidsed 
 features, the look he bent on her. Not for a moment 
 
THE TRUTH COMES OUT 129 
 
 was she at a loss for the cause. The decisive hour had 
 come, the hour she had been expecting for days together. 
 The shock was so great that she too was not altogether 
 mistress of herself. She had to take up the atlas which 
 she was going to put away, and there was a catch in her 
 voice as she said: 
 
 " You are weeping, Lucien. What is it? What has 
 happened? " 
 
 "Presently," he replied, with a gesture of entreaty. 
 " I will teU you. Just now I cannot. Leave me alone." 
 
 She obeyed, and remained silently watching his still 
 flowing tears. Had he been able to conquer his emo- 
 tion and reflect a moment, the girl's evident distress 
 would have told him what a hold he had gained upon her 
 heart. She was in love with him as he with her. But 
 how desperate her plight! If Lucien's stepfather was 
 entirely at fault in his interpretation of the facts which 
 had been reported to him, just as he misconstrued the 
 relations existing between the two young people, yet 
 these facts were none the less literally true. Five years 
 previously Bertha Planat had been for several months 
 the mistress of that Mejan whose name Darras had 
 given to his stepson if he required corroborative 
 evidence. By him she had had a son, who was being 
 brought up at her expense at Moret, near Fon- 
 tainebleau. At the time of this connection she 
 was studying law, which she gave up when they 
 parted, in order to break forever with a circle of yoimg 
 
130 A DIVOKOE 
 
 people among whom her story was known. From 
 that day her slightest actions had been consistently 
 dictated by her antipathy to the past. It was for this 
 reason that she avoided the library of the medical school, 
 which was too crowded. For this reason she had her 
 meals at the poor restaurant in the rue Eacine and 
 lodged in a house remote from the centre of the Quartier 
 Latin. 
 
 From the day when she had got to know Lucien and 
 to love him, she had lived in a state of perpetual terror 
 at the thought that some chance might bring this past 
 of hers to his knowledge without her being able to ex- 
 plain to him at the same time how free in reality from 
 any low or vulgar associations was this dreadful episode 
 of her nineteenth year. It had been the deplorable bnt 
 generous fault of confidence foolishly misplaced and dis- 
 gracefully betrayed. How often in the course of those 
 conversations which had so delighted her with their 
 ever-growing intimacy, which yet never passed the limits 
 of the intellectual, how often had she been tempted to 
 tell her dear and gentle friend her sorrowful story be- 
 fore he heard it from other lips. But she had been held 
 back by a feeling of modesty too strong for all the rea- 
 soning by which she succeeded in proving to herself 
 that in giving herself to Mejan she had not done wrong. 
 
 Convincingly as we may argue against them, we can- 
 not really succeed in breaking down the evidence of 
 certain laws which nature has indelibly stamped on the 
 
THE TETTTH OOMES OUT 131 
 
 most secret recesses of our moral personality. A father 
 cannot abjure his family; his son will always he to him 
 like no other man. The citizen of the world cannot 
 deny his own country; no other landscape will ever 
 appeal to him like the scenes of his childhood. Simi- 
 larly, a girl may in the course of her education have 
 imbibed the most revolutionary ideas, as was the case 
 with Bertha Planat, may have felt the intoxication of 
 the most paradoxical heresies, may have pinned her faith 
 to the absolute equality of the sexes and professed scorn 
 for social conventions, that of marriage in particular, 
 may have claimed the right to enter into free union and 
 put her theories into practice imder circumstances which 
 almost excused her. All this she may have done. But 
 once let honest and sincere love awake in. her, and in- 
 stinctively she is possessed by unreasoned and invincible 
 shame at the thought of her previous capitulation with- 
 out the sanction of religion or law. Bertha had refused 
 to admit the existence of this feeling. Yet she had 
 never been free from it. Here was the source of that 
 everlasting temporising, that postponement from day to 
 day of the open confession which she daily yearned to 
 make. Her conscience, on principle, made truthfulness 
 an imperious duty, but conscience had been lulled to 
 sleep by the resolve to wait for the day when Lucien 
 would venture to declare his love. 
 
 Beneath all this shyness she was distinctly aware of 
 his real feelings, and when that day came she would 
 
132 A DTVOECE 
 
 speak. So long as he continued silent, and their rela- 
 tionsrested in that pleasant intellectual friendship which 
 was so charming that she was loath to give it up, why 
 should she drag into this dream life the cruel realities 
 which had given her such pain? 
 
 She did not say "why disenchant Lucien?" but in 
 spite of herself that was what was in her thoughts. She 
 thought in particular that he would suffer, and it was 
 pity for the grief that he would feel on her account even 
 more than fear of losing his esteem that had sealed her 
 lips. 
 
 Now he was there before her eyes, consumed and tor- 
 tured by this grief. Some one else had not shrunk from 
 revealing to the young man the secret which she had 
 not dared to confess, but which she had made up her 
 mind not to deny if Lucien really had any suspicion. 
 His tears were too conclusive. He did not suspect: he 
 knew but refused to believe. His first words, when at 
 length he recovered sufficient energy to articulate, 
 showed how indignant he was at the charge, but Bertha 
 did not for a moment entertain the idea of taking ad- 
 vantage of his indignation. Better than any long analy- 
 sis of motive this fact will go to establish the girl's 
 fundamental honesty. Victim as she was of the most 
 detestable of the sophistries that are current in the poi- 
 soned atmosphere of the new-born twentieth century, 
 the depravation of her intellect had not extended to hex 
 emotions. 
 
THE TKUTH COMES OUT 133 
 
 At last he said: " You will forgive me," and he wiped 
 his eyes and drew his hand across his forehead as if to 
 banish some nightmare. "It is unmanly. My nerves 
 have betrayed me — I am master of them again and can 
 answer you at last and explain the reason of my present 
 state. But first I must have your promise. Whatever 
 I may say, will you undertake to pardon me?" 
 
 "I know you too well, Lucien," she replied gently, 
 " to imagine you will ever say a word you ought not to 
 say or anything which I could resent." 
 
 The reply was evasive, and he hesitated. The enor- 
 mity of the accusation he was going to repeat struck him 
 as so monstrous that he persisted: " That is not enough 
 for me, I want a distinct promise or I shall not have the 
 strength. And yet you must know it. For my sake 
 and your own you must. Promise me you will forgive 
 me." 
 
 "Yes," said she, "I promise." 
 
 "Thank you," he replied, and abruptly asked, "Do 
 you know of any enemies you have. Bertha? " 
 
 " I? " said she, while a flush of colour mantled her 
 cheeks. Her thoughts flew to her one and only enemy, 
 that unclean parasite of the woman's-rights movement, 
 Mejan, who had seduced her in circumstances which con- 
 stituted a disgraceful abuse of confidence. He had 
 thrown her over directly she became enceinte. When- 
 ever she now met him in the street, she felt such a stab 
 at her heart that she thought she would faint. They 
 
134 A DIVOECE 
 
 did not acknowledge one another, but what a boastful 
 look he threw after her. Beyond a doubt it was Mejan. 
 He had either spoken to Lucien or contrived to let him 
 know. The idea was peculiarly painful to Bertha, and 
 yet like the hospital-patient whose remark she had ad- 
 mired, it did her good to know the worst. So she was 
 quite calm with stoic resignation as she went on: "I do 
 not know any one whom I can really call my enemy. Be- 
 sides, I should have more right to call myself his enemy 
 than him mine. But where you utterly despise there 
 is no room for hate. "Why do you ask?" 
 
 " Because I have just learnt that you are the object 
 of a foul slander," replied Lucien. "Probably it was 
 started by this person. I must know. It is a dishonour 
 which would afEect the whole of your future if we 
 were not to take immediate action." 
 
 "What can they do to me?" she replied, shrugging 
 her slender shoulders, and in her eyes began to sparkle 
 the glitter of pride developing into symptoms of in- 
 dignation. 
 
 " What the person in question can say or think about 
 me is quite indifferent to me. He or she will not pre- 
 vent me from passing my examinations and gaining my 
 livelihood by the care of patients when I have my doc- 
 tor's degree. I ask no more from society; my friends 
 may see how I live and judge me accordingly." 
 
 "It is just because they do judge you," cried the 
 young man, "and because they know what you are. 
 
THE TRUTH COMES OUT 135 
 
 that they Trill not and cannot pass over these scandalous 
 stories that you despise. You must help them to kill the 
 slander for their sakes if not for your own. Would you 
 allow any one to insinuate in your presence that I was 
 a thief? " 
 
 " What am I accused of," broke in Bertha, " that can 
 be compared to a theft? " She threw a touch of bitter- 
 ness into her voice as she put the question. In Lucien's 
 tone and in the still mysterious terms which he em- 
 ployed, but which had no mystery for her, she recognised 
 a line of thought against which her pride had been in 
 rebellion these four years past. In spite of their views 
 on the impostures of the Church and the iniquities of 
 the Code, that radical republican her uncle, and the 
 old socialist Professor her master, M. Andr6, had looked 
 on her as dishonoured because she had given way to pas- 
 sion without the sanction of the marriage ceremony, 
 because in fact she had deliberately ignored the Church, 
 the mother of lies, and the Code which encouraged 
 crime. They had condemned her, and why? Because 
 she had had the courage of their ideas; and she now 
 heard the same decree of ostracism pronounced with un- 
 conscious brutality by the man with whom she was so 
 much in love. 
 
 " Ah! " he groaned. " It is worse than that. You 
 are accused — ^but no, my lips refuse to frame the horrible 
 words." Then he continued savagely, and each word 
 tore his heart and made it bleed, though he found some 
 
136 A DIVORCE 
 
 comfort in the intensity of his pain which was evidence 
 of the strength of his love: " You are accused of having 
 left Clermont and gone away from your uncle's home 
 with a lover, and having lived with him and had a 
 child by him. He was a law-student, so they say, and 
 his name was Mejan. You were studying law your- 
 self in those days, it is said. They add that a quarrel 
 ensued, and you changed your profession in order not 
 to meet this man any more. I am telling you all: my 
 stepfather repeated all these slanders to me not two 
 hours ago. How did he learn that we saw a good deal 
 of each other? I do not know at all. I have never 
 spoken of you at home or elsewhere. But learn he did. 
 Our relations have made him uneasy. For that I can- 
 not blame him. What I shall never forgive him for, 
 as long as I live, is for giving your name to some inter- 
 fering agent who has retailed these foul stories to him. 
 What despicable inquiries have been made and from 
 whom I cannot say. But you suspect some one, so tell 
 me his name and we will go together or I alone as your 
 friend. If we discover nothing ia this direction, I will 
 know who this agent is. I will force him to confess 
 where he picked up all this mud to throw at you. Any 
 and every means will be justifiable. But I mean to have 
 justice done you, I mean to make my stepfather say: ' I 
 ask Mile. Planat's pardon for what I have repeated about 
 her.' Till then I will not see him again." 
 Bertha had kept her eyelids lowered so as not to see 
 
THE TRUTH COMES OUT 137 
 
 Lucien when he was talking in this strain. His words 
 went to her heart like a stab, she felt his distress and 
 was tortured herself by the memories he awakened which 
 touched the inmost fibres of her being. His exalted be- 
 lief in her moved the afEectionate side of her nature 
 strongly and at the same time drove her to despair. It 
 formed a convincing proof of a passion which suspicion 
 had not been able to nip in the bud. But she was also 
 swayed by another feeling. Emancipated herself, she 
 Was conscious of confirmed and growing resentment 
 against the social prejudice which had even crept into 
 the words in which this man, who loved her as much 
 as she loved him, declared his refusal to believe in her 
 guUt. ... So her first sentence, when Lucien stopped 
 in the middle of his threats against his stepfather, was 
 somewhat deprecatory, a rejection of assistance and an 
 acceptance of full personal responsibility. She would 
 have no mention of excuse or pardon. 
 
 " I thank you for the friendship which you show me," 
 said she, "but I cannot share your indignation with 
 your stepfather. He does not know me and he has had 
 facts brotight to his notice on which he had every right 
 to put the interpretation he has put. Your candour to- 
 wards me demands equal frankness on my part. One 
 of these facts is incorrect: M. M6jan was not my lover 
 when I left Clermont. On the other hand, it is perfectly 
 true that I lived vrith him in Paris during the first year 
 of my course, perfectly true that I had a child, per- 
 
138 A DIVOECE 
 
 f ectly true that I had begun the study of law and that 
 I decided to take up medicine chiefly in order to make a 
 fresh start in life. On these three points your step- 
 father has been correctly informed." 
 
 " You? You? " The simple monosyllable, uttered in 
 agonised tones, was the only reply that this confession, 
 terrible in its brevity, drew from the young man. His 
 look expressed stupefaction bordering on insanity. The 
 tears were dried in his eyes. He had drawn back as if 
 to escape a harrowing vision. Lower again came the 
 hoarse cry: "You did this? You! You!" 
 
 "Yes, I! " she replied, her brow erect, and her arms 
 crossed in an attitude of defiance. "And if there is 
 anything I reproach myself with, it is not that I acted as 
 I, did. I had the right so to act, and my conscience 
 tells me I failed in nothing that was due to myself. 
 But what I tell you to-day, I ought, it is true, to have 
 told you on the first day when our friendship began. I 
 shrank from it. Not because of what I had done. No, 
 not because of what I had done." 
 
 " Why did you not then still keep silence? " he cried 
 sorrowfully. " Ah! You should have had the charity 
 to continue the illusion when you had once created it. 
 So, all that I thought of you was a lie? All the admira- 
 tion, the respect, the worship I paid you, all was mad- 
 ness? You have had a lover? " He repeated the word 
 with more exasperation: " A lover! The thought makes 
 me sick, it makes me sick. Why did you not deny it 
 
THE TKUTH COMES OTIT 139 
 
 just now, in face of all the evidence? I should not have 
 doubted your word. As it is, to-morrow and the next 
 day and always I shall have to say that you were that 
 man's mistress. Whom shall I ever believe in now? 
 Whom indeed? I had such faith in you." 
 
 " Be silent, Lucien," she broke in, walking up to him 
 and seizing his arm, " I forbid you to speak to me so," 
 and there was such an expression of indignant resentment 
 in her eyes that he obeyed instinctively, and listened in 
 silence though jealousy was gnawing at his heart as she 
 went on: " You have no right to speak so, you who have 
 watched my life these many days, and known my 
 thoughts, my work, my feelings. JEave you ever known 
 me insincere? No. Have I said a word, have I made a 
 gesture not in keeping with our compact of friendship, 
 the companionship of one student with another, which 
 I sketched the second time we talked together? I re- 
 member that moment so well! I was so drawn to you and 
 so determined not to see you again, in case you should 
 try to woo me. Have I let you do so? And all these 
 proofs of my loyalty, all this evidence, which you cannot 
 however doubt, that I have character, intellect, con- 
 science, — ^aU. is to go for nothing. You do not even do 
 me the credit to say to yourself: this woman who speaks 
 to me and recognises her responsibility for certain acts, 
 is still the same woman whom a moment ago I esteemed 
 so highly as to refuse to believe her guilty of these acts 
 in spite of overwhelming evidence. It must be that 
 
140 A DIVORCE 
 
 these acts did not, do not, mean to her what I thought 
 they meant. Ah! well, yes, I did it all. I gave my- 
 self to a man. I became a mother though unmarried, 
 and I did not think I had failed in my duty. I do not 
 think so at the present moment even. Act as you think: 
 that is my one principle, and even in those days, nay, in 
 those days more than ever, I acted only as I thought." 
 
 " That is untrue," replied the young man sternly. 
 " You did not think it right for a young girl to be false 
 to her honour." 
 
 " I thought," returned she, with equal sternness, " and 
 I still think that a man and a woman to be engaged to 
 one another and to set up a home have no need of a 
 priest to give his blessing or of a magistrate to register 
 their engagement. 
 
 " I thought and I think still that true marriage con- 
 sists in the free union of two persons who join their 
 destinies by their individual choice, with no other wit- 
 ness of their promise than their own consciences. I still 
 think, as I thought then, that a woman no more loses her 
 honour by having contracted such a tie and having found 
 herself deceived, than if she had been married at church 
 and a registry office to some wretch who first betrayed 
 and then deserted her. That is why I could weep tears 
 of blood when I think of the man whom you mentioned 
 just now and who treated me so shamefully. They 
 would not be tears of remorse. I have no call to feel 
 remorse, and I feel none. None, I say. Let me con- 
 
THE TRUTH COMES OUT 141 
 
 tinue," she urged, as he made a protesting gesture. 
 " No doubt this is the last interview we shall have to- 
 gether; I want you at least to judge me on what hap- 
 pened and just as it happened. I first knew M. Mejan," 
 the bitter pang of hearing that name previously had 
 made her shut her eyes and she shut them once more to 
 pronounce it — " at Clermont, when he was reading for 
 his licentiate in philosophy. I met him at the house of 
 M. Andre. I do not seek to excuse myself. To be de- 
 ceived in some one's character is like a mistake in a diag- 
 nosis. You are not responsible for it. But I am en- 
 titled to say that if I was mistaken in the man, so was 
 M. Andre, and he was eighty years old and an old uni- 
 versity don who had had thousands of young men 
 through his hands. So too was my uncle, and he was a 
 seasoned legal official and was not suspected of optimis- 
 tic views of human nature. Now that my medical 
 studies have opened my eyes to things as they are, I 
 understand what I could not see then any more than my 
 uncle or M. Andre: the man's intelligence was merely of 
 the superficial order. His eloquence was not nourished 
 on thought and truth. Yet eloquence he had, and great 
 eloquence, and he put it at the service of beliefs which 
 were mine and those of my two instructors. He wrote, 
 and with ability. You have always lived in Paris; you 
 do not know how seldom in the provinces the oppor- 
 tunity occurs for real intellectual talk and how eagerly 
 it is embraced. You do not know either how strong 
 
142 A DIVOBOE 
 
 there, even at the present day, are the prajudices of the 
 old social order, and to what isolation people are con- 
 demned who, like my uncle, venture to profess Collectiv- 
 ism in its entirety, and to bring up a ward, as he brought 
 me up, without religious education. M. Andrd had not 
 gone beyond his Fourierism of the year 1847. For 
 myself I took a little from one, and a little from the 
 other. In our stranded and backward corner of the 
 world, we yet felt ourselves carried away by this vast 
 wave which is to sweep away the old abominable order 
 of things. Imagine what it meant to us all, the appear- 
 ance on the scene of this young man who seemed to 
 have such a glorious future before him, to whom his 
 masters pointed as their most brilliant pupil, and who 
 declaimed to us the most modern theories of the Eevolu- 
 tion with an enthusiasm which won our hearts. Before 
 obtaining his scholarship at the University of Clermont, 
 Mejan had been for a year a teacher at Brussels. There 
 he had visited Elisee Eeclus. The mention of this 
 name invested him with a prestige which was increased 
 by the warmth of the language in which he pictured for 
 us the society of to-morrow, composed of men and 
 women so fully penetrated with the principles of justice 
 that all legislation would be unnecessary. 
 
 " He showed us the mind emancipated by Science and 
 the destruction of Dogma, poverty cured by the abolition 
 of private property, the substitution of one solid federa- 
 tion of the world for the narrow egotism of the father- 
 
THE TETTTH COMES OUT 143 
 
 land, the vileness of matrimonial traffic succeeded by the 
 simplicity of free union. My misfortunes began in 
 those little lodgings in the rue de I'Eclache where I 
 grew up and where that hypocrite expatiated on these 
 ideas. I believed in him because I believed in liberal 
 ideas. Was I to blame? Tell me." But she did not 
 wait for the reply, so constraining was her need to carry 
 her confession to the end and be quit of it; instead she 
 continued, and once more her voice had a somewhat un- 
 natural ring: 
 
 " However, when I left Clermont, there was nothing 
 between that man and me but my admiration for him 
 and my belief in the insincere mummery of his profes- 
 sions. Those who said that I came to Paris to follow 
 TiiTin lied. I went there to study law, for I wanted to be- 
 come a barrister and then take to writing. There was 
 a further reason. I will tell you. I am open with you 
 as you were with me. My uncle had lived, during my 
 childhood, with a woman servant as his mistress. He 
 married her. This woman had not been fond of me 
 when I was quite small; now she hated me. Paris was 
 the final outcome of many extremely painful domestic 
 scenes. Besides, I was of age, I had my own little for- 
 tune, and a touching confidence in life. A legacy 
 chanced to come his way, and Mejan planted himself 
 in the Quartier Latin a few weeks after me, also with 
 the view of studying law and afterwards going in for 
 politics. We met again. He paid me great attention. 
 
144 A DrVOEOE 
 
 I was so lonely, such a stranger in this great city, so out 
 of my element among those students in spite of my cer- 
 tificates, and that man knew me so well. He per- 
 suaded me that he loved me. Was I to blame for that, 
 again? Was I to blame for thinking he was sincere when 
 he offered to unite his life with mine for once and for 
 all, so that we might work together for the same end, 
 practise the same revolutionary faith, set up a home as 
 we conceived it? When I went to live with him, I 
 mounted the staircase vrith all the sincerity of a Catho- 
 lic bride as she eross6s the threshold of the church, all 
 the seriousness of the tradesman's daughter as she enters 
 the registrar's office. It was marriage as I understood 
 it, marriage as Proudhon nobly described it, an act of 
 organised justice. We brought to it, I thought we 
 brought to it, that scoundrel and I, equal willingness 
 to love and be loved, equal conviction of the serious- 
 ness of our compact, equal respect the one for the other. 
 Five months later he had deserted me to live with some 
 girl in the Quartier and I was enceinte. Dare to tell 
 me again that it was I who was dishonourable! Dare 
 to tell me that I lied to you, that I do not deserve to be 
 trusted again, that you were mad to respect me. Say 
 so, if you dare! " 
 
 To certain confessions which go as far as any human 
 being can go in baring the inmost soul, there is im- 
 parted such a convincing air of reality as forbids fur- 
 ther discussion. While Bertha spoke Lucien came under 
 
THE TRUTH COMES OUT 145 
 
 this convincing power and he made no effort to resist. 
 There was no doubt in his mind that the girl had told 
 him her real feelings, that the miserable episode had 
 taken place exactly as she had stated, and that she had 
 passed through her gloomy experience as she had said in 
 all good faith despite her fall. In face of this evi- 
 dence his previous indignation sank into an overwhelm- 
 ing fit of sadness which increased with every detail fur- 
 nished by his fellow student. While she was speaking, 
 he could see her as she had been in her narrow provin- 
 cial circle, between her two teachers, intoxicating her- 
 self with theories too powerful for her, and, young as she 
 was, already possessed of her fine enthusiastic outlook 
 on the world without that background of melancholy 
 which he had always recognised and which was now ex- 
 plained. He saw her arrival in Paris and her first 
 troubles. Had he only met her then, instead of the 
 libertine whose detestable methods he knew too well. 
 He could see the infiuence he exerted over a defenceless 
 orphan girl by means of that exalted state of her mind 
 which should have made her sacred. How he would 
 himself have shielded, strengthened, and sustained her! 
 Light was thrown at last on all sorts of shades in her 
 character which he had been conscious of without under- 
 standing, the energy, for instance, with which she applied 
 herself to her medical studies in their dryest and most 
 diflBcult departments. It was her effort to escape from 
 her old predilections for eloquence and literature, and 
 
'146 A DIVORCE 
 
 their fatal fascinations which had proved so treacherous. 
 The whole story formed so sad an episode in a woman's 
 life, the contrast between her utopian dreams and the 
 misery of her actual experience was so cruel, that he 
 was cut to the heart. She had no need to defy him to 
 speak again in the tone he had used before. He was 
 too full of pity for her, and at her " Say so, if you 
 dare," repeated with passion verging on frenzy, he re- 
 plied submissively: 
 
 " No, I do not say so any more. I cannot judge you. 
 I believe you. All you tell me proves to me that I 
 was wrong to give way to my feelings just now, instead 
 of waitiag for your explanation. But the shock was 
 so severe. I do not accuse you any more. I do not 
 condemn you. I grieve to know what I do know now. 
 It is like a weight crushing me. If only you had spoken 
 to me the first day I knew you, you or some one else. 
 Ifo, you alone — ^I should not have believed any one but 
 you. I should still have been very unhappy, but not so 
 much as now. . . ." 
 
 " Ah," she groaned, " I should have lost you sooner. 
 That is what always stopped me. I was so fearful of 
 finding in you as I found in my uncle and M. Andre 
 that loss of esteem against which I rebelled. To what 
 end? I was a coward. But your friendship was so dear 
 to me. There were so many points in which we felt 
 and thought alike. Sometimes I said to myself: Some 
 day he will feel and think with me on this subject also. 
 
THE TRUTH COMES OtTT 147 
 
 And then . . ." She shook her head without complet- 
 ing this enigmatic sentence, as if to banish the vision of 
 happiaess which returned to tempt her. "At other 
 times," she went on, "I saw distinctly where we were 
 drifting. I saw the precipice. We have reached it. 
 But the road was too pleasant. It was an oasis in my 
 horrible desert, and now I must make up my mind to 
 go back. Good-bye, Lucien; I have told you all I had 
 to tell. The explanation has exhausted me. I do not 
 feel well. Leave me. Good-bye." 
 
 "Good-bye," replied the young man. He took his 
 hat and stepped to the door. With his hand on the 
 door-handle, he stood some seconds without moving. 
 Then he turned and came back to her: " I cannot," he 
 said, " leave you thus, I^cannot go after the words you 
 have just used which mean that you consider our in- 
 timacy at an end. No! I cannot." There was a mo- 
 mentary hesitation, and then he took her hand which 
 she had not strength to withdraw, and in a voice which 
 trembled with passion and sorrow he added: " I cannot 
 do it. Bertha, for I love you." She heard him, with 
 head cast down and eyes fixed on the ground. Sud- 
 denly her sight failed, deep pallor overspread her face,, 
 and her features were distorted. He felt the feverish 
 little hand in his own become icy cold. He had just 
 time to take her in his arms to sustain her. She fainted 
 away, and the sudden heart-failure betrayed more 
 clearly than any avowal the intensity of her feeling and 
 
148 A DIVOKOE 
 
 the secret of her love. The young man carried her to 
 the narrow cretonne-covered bench and kneeling by her 
 began to caU her by her name with a feeling of terror 
 which subsided into passionate tenderness when she 
 opened her eyes, and with a glance at him, instead of 
 withdrawing her head which rested on his arm, moved 
 closer to his shoulder as if to seek there support, refuge, 
 protection. 
 
 "Bertha," he ventured to entreat her, "this is a 
 solemn moment. If you love me too, tell me so. Do 
 you love me?" he repeated. "Do you love me?" 
 
 " Yes," she whispered in so feeble a voice that he read 
 the words on her trembling lips rather than heard them. 
 His own heart was beating so fast that he had no breath 
 to speak. Still on his knees, he gazed at that delicious 
 face to which his fancy had so often strayed; at the 
 thin cheeks whose too delicate outline had constantly 
 made him uneasy; at the brow which he had so often 
 watched bending over dry volumes, such as loaded the 
 table a few steps away, in which she found forgetfulness; 
 at those prettily cut lips, the lower one ever so little 
 swollen. Those lips, so frequently opened for remarks 
 of such sternness as to contrast oddly with their beauty, 
 now gave utterance first to the most poignant lamenta- 
 tion and then to the very softest sigh of self-abandon- 
 ment in which the soul of woman can give her secret 
 away. Suffering as he still was from the terrible min- 
 utes he had just passed through, the young man felt 
 
THE TKUTH COMES OUT 149 
 
 the ground giving way under him in an intoxicating 
 whirl in which all else was swept aside, and she was 
 alone with him and he with her, with this frail child 
 to whose laboured breath he listened, alone with the 
 ecstasy of passion which she called up, alone with her 
 eyes and his love. They were so beautiful, those eyes, 
 so tired, so wan, that without a thought he bent over to 
 close them with a kiss. He imprinted a kiss on their 
 palpitating lashes. But his excitement grew and his 
 lips sought the girl's. At the touch, though light as air, 
 she cried out. In a moment she raised herself, with 
 terror speaking in every feature. She had not to re- 
 pulse him. He too had risen, as pale as she. The 
 same thought had come to them both. For a moment 
 they looked at one another without a word, though they 
 knew too well, both he and she, what vision had come 
 to part them. At last she said: 
 
 " You see I was right and this interview must be our 
 last. Go, Lucien, for pity's sake go, if you would not 
 have me die of sorrow and shame before you." 
 
 And such distress was apparent in her whole person, 
 face, attitude, gestures, and voice, that this time the 
 young man obeyed and went from the room to fly from 
 her and from himself, and from the recollection of that 
 other whose image had so abruptly thrust itself be- 
 tween their first embrace of love and desire. 
 
CHAPTEK V 
 
 BBTEOTHAL 
 
 DtJEiNG the four years that had elapsed since she first 
 came to occupy that solitary room in the rue EoUin, 
 Bertha Planat had experienced many hours of bitter 
 self -communing, but none sadder than those which fol- 
 lowed that frenzied and feverish scene begun in such 
 sanguine trust on Lucien's part, continued by her in- 
 dignant protest, and suddenly ended by that outburst 
 of passionate tenderness in one of those abrupt, im- 
 reasoning changes of mood in which the uncontrollable 
 passion of love manifests itself. At first there was utter 
 prostration, lasting all the evening and throughout the 
 night, such as accompanies a sudden and appalling acci- 
 dent, sure prelude of others still more terrible. Long 
 after the young man had closed the door behind him she 
 was still there, seated on the very chair where she was 
 working with such an unfettered mind when he arrived. 
 Her head resting on her hands and her elbows on the 
 table, she had ceased to look at her hospital notebook, 
 the Atlas of Anatomy, the fragments of skeleton, tools 
 of her severe and arduous study. And yet she had 
 found in this work an anodyne to so many sorrows — 
 
 150 
 
BETROTHAL 151 
 
 but oh! not for this, not for this despair which kept on 
 increasing as the darkness crept into the room. The 
 darkness that overclouded her heart was more sinister 
 still. It was not so much having confessed the baneful 
 adventure of her youth, her liaison with M6jan, and 
 the rest, which broke her spirit. Although she had al- 
 ways trembled at the idea of such a confession she had 
 always foreseen it, but as an entirely voluntary act, at a 
 moment chosen by herself, with sufficient time for a 
 minutely detailed explanation of a position so excep- 
 tional in its character and so closely bound up with the 
 whole story of her life. Instead of that, taken by sur- 
 prise, upset, distracted, she could only stammer out an 
 incoherent tale, a lamentation rather than a confession. 
 What must Lucien have thought of it? Above all how 
 could he help despising her for that other confession, 
 the confession of her new love, which in the transport 
 of her emotion she had been unable to withhold? She 
 felt the stings of remorse for having had that moment 
 of weakness, for having uttered the irrevocable yes, laid 
 her head on the young man's shoulder, received the 
 kisses implanted on her eyes and lips. She had torn 
 herself away, but too late, and when that burning caress 
 had fired her blood with a passion that to her was un- 
 mistakable. She was at Lucien's mercy. In an hour 
 perhaps, on the morrow, he would return. She would 
 see him once more at her feet, mad with passion, com- 
 ing near her, enrapturing her vdth his look, his 
 
152 A DIVOBCE 
 
 breath, his touch. She would resist a second timie, a 
 third, but only yield at last. And then she would no 
 longer be the woman she had prided herself on being 
 since her rupture with Mejan, the woman who is en- 
 titled to regard an irregular union as a marriage because 
 it is monogamous. She would be the girl who had had 
 two lovers. Ancient moral truths are in such close 
 harmony with the iimer needs of our nature that honest 
 minds perforce bear witness to them even when they 
 deny them. To preserve her self-respect, this theorist 
 of free union had felt the necessity of practising that 
 fidelity, even when fully justified in living apart from 
 her lover, which the Church imposes on the Christian 
 wife. The anticipation of shortcoming in this respect 
 filled her with shame — a word which had sprung up, 
 for the first time, from the depths of a heart in revolt, 
 after that moment of weakness, passing though it was 
 and attended by no irretrievable consequences. What 
 would it have been if she had yielded utterly? This 
 feeling of shame redoubled by anticipation as she con- 
 jured up the sentiments which Lucien would feel in 
 her presence, nay, which he must already feel. In the 
 course of her medical studies she had made a point, as 
 if in spiteful revenge for the deception of her former 
 dreams, of reading all the books in which the effects of 
 love are treated from an exclusively pathological stand- 
 point. She knew that, by a dreadful law of masculine 
 sensuality, jealousy acts on certain men by producing 
 
BETKOTHAI, 153 
 
 impure and distracting images. She shuddered as she 
 wondered whether the sudden frenzy in Lucien's eyesj 
 until then filled with a timid, a devout adoration, had 
 not been caused by his discovery that she had already 
 belonged to another. Was it not also hatred, that 
 ignoble and inseparable companion of a degraded sensu- 
 ality, which was seen in his look and gestures when he 
 had fled without a word? If, at the outset and as soon 
 as he learned the facts, he had shown towards her, in- 
 stinctively, brutally, such contempt in the midst of his 
 desire, he would show it still more bitterly, with still 
 more venom and justly so, in actual possession. She 
 would deserve this because she had been a coward. She 
 repeated the word to herself; " a coward! a coward! " 
 She could no longer pride herself, as she had boldly 
 done that very day, on having lived a life outside the pale 
 of the law vrith equal if not greater self-respect than 
 if she had submitted to the most rigid conventions of 
 society. And then what future would be in store for 
 them? 
 
 She had not gone out to dine through fear of meeting 
 Lucien, so great was her dread of facing another ordeal 
 in which she might succumb. During that long night 
 she did not dare to light her lamp, lest he should come 
 up to her door at any time and, seeing a light, knock 
 and entreat her to open. Lying undressed in that dark, 
 cold room, on the little couch where her friend had laid 
 her when she fainted, she at length found a somewhat 
 
154 A DIVOECE 
 
 tardy and feverish sleep. When she awoke about six 
 o'clock, as she was accustomed to do in her uniformly 
 regulated existence, her anguish of the previous even- 
 ing was still the same, with this difference, however, that 
 a new plan was taking shape in her mind. New? TSo. 
 Often previously when meeting M^Jan too frequently 
 in the streets of the Latin Quarter and when the seducer 
 seemed as if he meant to speak, she had foreseen escap- 
 ing the nightmare of her past life by going away, by 
 leaving Paris, by changing her University. Her pride 
 had always prevented her. It was M^jan who should 
 have blushed in her presence and avoided her. But now 
 it was no mere question of her own pride and of defying 
 a scoundrel. Was the precious companionship of the 
 past year to find shipwreck in a liaison, which in her 
 own and in Lucien's eyes would be a fall with all its 
 consequent degradation? Or could she still retain in the 
 young man's memory tha,t place of esteem to which she 
 was entitled? To leave thus, after having maintained 
 their relations on that lofty plane throughout their 
 intercourse, what more indisputable proof could she give 
 of her sincerity? Lucien would be obliged to admit 
 that she was no woman of easy virtue who takes one 
 lover after another. He had seen that she loved him. 
 He would understand that she had wished not to be- 
 come his mistress, for the simple reason that she loved 
 him. As she outlined in her imagination this romance 
 of flight from the man she adored, her anguish of the 
 
BETROTHAL 155 
 
 previous evening was lost in the feeling of utter resigna- 
 tion which accompanies supreme sacriiices. Gradually, 
 the project took a more definite shape, names were men- 
 tioned in her unspoken monologue: Nancy, Montpellier. 
 The former of these Universities attracted her by the 
 novel character of its research-work in Psychology. 
 Among the professors in the other was the famous 
 house-physician of St. Elois, the author of the Limita- 
 tions of Biology, whose principles, so opposed to her 
 own, had always excited and fascinated her curiosity. She 
 pictured herself arriving in one or other of these two 
 towns, which she imagined, from recollections of Cler- 
 mont and her native place, would have deserted squares 
 and grass growing in the streets and alleys. To those 
 who knew her she would at first be an object of aston- 
 ishment as the only female student, then of malevo- 
 lence, when little Claude's existence was found out. We 
 can guess after what famous physiologist the child was 
 named. What were these paltry difficulties, however, 
 compared to the torture of seeing Lucien despise her 
 even in his arms. This picture brought her reflections 
 to a full stop, and she felt that her decision was made. 
 Yes, she would go away and without delay. If she 
 really wished to escape a fall of which she felt both the 
 horror and the fatal attraction, their conversation of 
 the previous night must, as she had said, be the last. 
 Why not disappear that very day, leaving some one to 
 look after the removal of her property, the porter's 
 
156 A BIVOEOE 
 
 wife for instance, who acted as her charwoman? She 
 would return in a month to take away her furniture 
 when Lucien would think she had gone away for 
 good. . . . Where? . . . She would manage in such 
 a way that he should not know. What would he do 
 then? Her whole will was brought into play to avoid 
 putting this question to herself. Her strength could 
 not have borne the strain. Having decided not to let 
 the day pass without adopting a definite plan, she had 
 energy enough to act at once. There was in the service 
 of Professor Louvet at the Hotel-Dieu a house-surgeon 
 who was a native of Montpellier. She reflected that he 
 would certainly be present at the operation which Graux, 
 the surgeon, was to attempt on patient No. 33, whose 
 stoical words she had repeated to Lucien. She little 
 thought they would so soon be applicable to herself. 
 And she prepared to go to the hospital as usual. Her 
 heart beat as if it would break, in spite of all her rea- 
 soning, when she passed in front of the porter's lodge. 
 Would she find in the pigeon-hole reserved for her an 
 envelope with Lucien's handwriting? Was he not wait- 
 ing in person at the top of the steps in the rue Monge, 
 which she always took to reach the Place Notre Dame 
 by way of the Place Maubert and the bridge? There 
 was no letter in the pigeon-hole. Lucien was not in the 
 street. She was safe for that morning. 
 
 This discovery after her recent reflections should have 
 calmed her anxiety somewhat. But it did not. By an 
 
BETEOTHAL 157 
 
 illogical but only too legitimate train of thought the 
 loving woman secretly expected and desired the danger- 
 ous presence, which the rational part of her nature 
 feared to the extent of suggesting the plan of perpetual 
 exile. After refusing to put to herself the question: 
 What would Lucien do? she suddenly wondered why 
 he had done nothing and why he had not come near 
 her after parting as they did. When once the idea 
 entered her mind it never ceased to lacerate like a dart 
 which at every movement buries itself deeper in the 
 wound. She took one by one, with that punctuality 
 which was a prominent feature of her character, the 
 several steps she had prescribed for herself, such as 
 going to Professor Louvefs lecture by the usual route, 
 at the exact time, speaking to the house-surgeon from 
 Montpellier, questioning him, as if on behalf of a friend, 
 about the way of living in his part of the country. 
 These acts were indeed external and prearranged. Her 
 thoughts were far away. A sinister supposition had just 
 crossed her mind amid many others. A man in love 
 driven to suicide through despair at a sudden discovery 
 is an everyday occurrence. What if, on leaving her, 
 overcome with grief at her confession, unable to bear 
 what he had learnt or the heaviness of his own heart, 
 Lucien had committed suicide! She imagined she saw 
 him covered with blood, lying in the middle of a room, 
 holding in his clenched hand the pistol he usually car- 
 ried for his return at night through the unfrequented 
 
158 A DIVORCE 
 
 neighbourhood of the Luxembourg. In vain did she 
 argue the impossibility of such a catastrophe: that 
 Lucien would certainly have written before he died, and 
 that no one commits suicide knowing that he is loved. 
 It was in profound anguish of mind, as in a waking 
 dream, that she followed the different stages of the 
 amputation of which she had so conscientiously studied 
 the anatomical details the previous evening. With the 
 same anguish of mind, at the conclusion of the lecture, 
 she turned her face towards the little restaurant in the 
 rue Eacine. In carrying out consistently the resolu- 
 tions she had made, she should have avoided it that 
 morning as well as the previous evening. On the con- 
 trary, she hurried thither in hope that Lucien had come 
 to resume the conversation which she now feared had 
 really been the last. Lucien had not come. And now 
 on returning home to the rue EoUin to see whether a 
 letter had not arrived in her absence, the hall-porter's 
 wife informed her that a visitor had called that morn- 
 ing to enquire whether M. de Chambault was not up- 
 stairs. 
 
 " A man of about fifty years of age, quite grey, of very 
 gentlemanly appearance, wearing a decoration." 
 
 Bertha concluded from the description that it was 
 the stepfather who had come to see Lucien there — 
 Lucien had not returned home then? As the thought 
 flashed through her mind, this absence from the mater- 
 nal roof seemed to the unhappy woman a proof of the 
 
BETROTHAL 159 
 
 worst. But still she hoped. Her power of recognising 
 facts, a power she gratefully attributed to her studies, 
 enabled her to reason thus: " Lucien's mother would cer- 
 tainly have received a letter from him. He has not 
 conunitted suicide. He is suffering. He has avoided 
 seeing his stepfather because he cannot defend me before 
 him. He has hidden himself somewhere to eat out his 
 heart. To-morrow or the day after he will come back. 
 I must be away." 
 
 That power of will which persisted, as if automati- 
 cally, amid all this cruel vexation of spirit, led her that 
 afternoon to take a very simple step. To her great sur- 
 prise she was to find in it an imperious reason for not 
 going away, and the striking proof that her morning 
 terror had been one of those semi-hallucinations familiar 
 in love affairs. Love borders on insanity when fear comes 
 in. Incapable of bearing the idea of the slightest dan- 
 ger threatening the loved one, it sees, creates, that 
 danger at the smallest sign, however vague and transient. 
 That step was a visit to Moret. If she left Paris next 
 day — ^it was no longer a question of leaving the same 
 day — she must have an understanding with the people 
 who had charge of her boy. Usually she paid this visit 
 every Sunday, and after making Lucien's acquaintance 
 each absence from Paris had been a torture. Their 
 existence being almost in common the young man might 
 well be astonished at seeing her disappear regularly 
 one afternoon each week, obliged as she was to take a 
 
160 A DIVOEOE 
 
 train at two o'clock to reach Moret by four and be back 
 at eight. 
 
 Motherhood associated with the remembrance of the 
 contemptible seducer by whom she had conceived was an 
 open wound in that proud heart. Eefined natures, such 
 as hers, are no more content with the purely instinctive 
 passion of motherhood than with the purely instinctive 
 passion of love. The primitive sensations must be en- 
 riched, embellished, dignified even, before they can sat- 
 isfy them, and this they can only find in family-life. 
 Outside the family a woman is not completely a mother, 
 and the family cannot exist outside certain conditions 
 which are part and parcel of nature herself. These de- 
 pend neither on written laws nor on the caprices of the 
 intellect. They exist outside us and if we miscon- 
 ceive them, are hostile to us. Bertha had misconceived 
 them. That is why she was unable to take pleasure 
 in a son whom nevertheless she loved and towards whom 
 she felt a great responsibility. He had not asked to 
 come into the world, and in a society founded on prin- 
 ciples which she thought harsh, he had only her to look 
 to. Such were the reflections generally associated with 
 the little grey town, standing peacefully on the banks 
 of its sluggish river, in the shadow of its ancient cathe- 
 dral, with its long central street closed at either end by 
 gateways of the time of Charles VII. This time, as 
 she left the traiu, her heart was too heavy to think of 
 anything but the sinister possibility of her friend's 
 
BETEOTHAL 161 
 
 suicide, or, if that affliction was spared her, of the 
 anguish that would follow her departure, and of which 
 she felt the first bitterness in this visit to Moret. It 
 was with feelings of tortured resignation that she entered 
 the little house standing picturesquely against a ruined 
 rampart with a kitchen garden opening onto a meadow, 
 where her son lived. The ovmers of this cottage, M. 
 and Mme. Bonnet, were retired servants who had taken 
 a liking to the child through seeing it with its wet- 
 nurse, their neighbour. This woman having been 
 obliged to leave Moret, the mother had asked them to 
 take charge of him. They had accepted without any 
 allusion being made on either side to the secret of the 
 little one's birth. They spoke and wrote to Bertha as 
 Madame from a feeling of middle-class respectability, 
 to which the advocate of free union had not ventured 
 to make any objection. What did they think of her his- 
 tory? She had often wondered when she met the dully 
 scrutinising gaze cast upon her by the quondam valet 
 and cook. But what did it matter? These people were 
 kind to the boy who was a distraction to them in their 
 lonely life, whilst the small sum paid for his board was 
 a welcome addition to their scanty budget. This after- 
 noon she found them busy, the husband among his 
 vegetables, the wife with her washing, whUe Claude was 
 playing on the path with an enormous house-dog which 
 put up good-naturedly with his teasing. The laughing 
 boy, his fair hair mingled with the dog's tawny coat, the 
 
162 A DITOEOE 
 
 docile suppleness of the animal and the nimbleness of his 
 playful tyrant made up a perfect little picture of home 
 life in strong contrast with the scene which the mother 
 had gone through the previous evening. As the child 
 sprang forward to meet her with joy in his blue eyes, so 
 cruelly like those of the wretched Mejan, his thought- 
 less peals of merriment brought on an overwhelming 
 feeling of melancholy which suddenly changed to in- 
 tense emotion when she heard Madame Bonnet say with 
 the expression in voice and face of a woman who can no 
 longer restrain her curiosity: 
 
 " Claude has been spoiled to-day, A friend of yoxirs 
 came to see him this morning." 
 
 " A friend? " she repeated. 
 
 "A M. de Chambault," added the husband. That 
 flood of red which rose to her cheeks fully persuaded 
 the ex-valet that he and his wife had guessed rightly. 
 The visitor was the boy's father. "He gave us his 
 name," he continued, "and told us he came from 
 Madame Planat. We did not think we could refuse to 
 let him kiss the chUd." 
 
 " And he did kiss him," added the wife with signifi- 
 cant emphasis. " Ah, he is certainly fond of him. There 
 were tears in his eyes." Lucien had wished to see the 
 child! He had spoken to him! He had kissed him! 
 Amazing and wholly imexpected fact! Bertha was too 
 weak to feel relief at the removal of her grievous anxiety, 
 so thunderstruck was she by the news. The way in 
 
BETROTHAL 163 
 
 which the BoDnets, both husband and wife, scanned her 
 face for the effect of their words gave her strength 
 enough to hide the violent agitation of her mind. The 
 idea that the most intimate secret of her life formed 
 the subject of their conversation was unbearable to her. 
 They were not persons to make capital out of this 
 knowledge, but there was always in their attitude, par- 
 ticularly so at that moment, that tone of semicomplicity 
 so common among the domestic classes accustomed to 
 screen the vices of their masters. Even at that moment 
 of intense emotion she was conscious of what had so 
 often made the necessity of bringing up her son in this 
 way painful to her. She had had no choice. 
 
 She had the courage to answer that M. de Chambault 
 was certainly one of her friends and that they were right 
 in having allowed him to see the child, and then began 
 to speak of her possible departure and in that case of 
 the date when she would take the child away. In speak- 
 ing thus after what she had just learnt, she well knew 
 that she, the dogmatic advocate of uncompromising 
 sincerity, was not candid. Her pride led her to persist 
 in the decision to break with Lucien finally and com- 
 pletely, but though she persisted she no longer believed 
 in her resolution. 
 
 An iimer voice which she made no attempt to silence 
 told her unmistakably that Lucien's opinion of her was 
 not what she had fancied. Now that she knew of his 
 visit, she could not leave him as she had intended, nor 
 
164 A DIVOEOE 
 
 would he allow her to go away without seeing her and 
 ■peaking to her again. What stronger witness^ could 
 there be to a change of heart which must even now be 
 leading him back to her, than this vision of his arrival 
 in the remote little town in search of the boy whose sud- 
 denly revealed existence had drawn from him a cry of 
 such poignant anguish, than the thought of their meet- 
 ing and tearful embrace. She was sure that on his 
 return to Paris he would try to see her, sure that he 
 had written to her. In her case, too, the news of that 
 visit had changed her feelings. She had only one 
 thought now, to return to the' rue RoUin to meet Lucien 
 and have an explanation. She was certain that a letter 
 awaited her. What liad become of her heroic determi- 
 nation to seek exile? But was she really inconsistent? 
 The man she had resolved to fly from was the lover, 
 burning with jealousy, excited by desire and rancour, 
 filled with hate even when overmastered by passion. It 
 was not the lover capable of the loving tender-heartedness 
 shown ia that kiss implanted on the brow of another's 
 son. But indeed it was little she thought of arguing 
 out the question. She was again the woman who had 
 seen the abyss yawning before her for six months, and 
 yet had been unable to leave the pleasant path which led 
 to it. When, on reaching home at eight o'clock fever- 
 ishly excited by fresh expectations, she saw in the pigeon- 
 hole the envelope she had vainly sought in the morning 
 and at midday, she felt it would be impossible to re- 
 
BETROTHAL 165 
 
 fuse to grant whatever request it might contain. It 
 was a note of but few words: — "Bertha, I must have a 
 word with you. On your way to the hospital, be at Les 
 Arenes at nine o'clock. I shall wait for you there. My 
 whole life depends on the request I have to make, and 
 I tremble at the thought. Your friend, L." 
 
 The little square known as Les Arenes which the lover 
 chose for the rendezvous, is at that early hour one of the 
 most solitary spots in Paris. It owes its name to a few 
 seats of a Eoman Arena laid bare by recent excavations 
 and thoroughly restored, around which turfed slopes 
 have been laid out and trees planted. The spot is 
 separated by an iron raUing from the rue de Navarre, 
 the name given to what was formerly a part of the rue 
 Eollin until the latter was cut in two by the broad 
 artery of the rue Monge. Bertha Planat had therefore 
 a very short distance to walk from her door to the 
 square. Yet the three minutes seemed long to her when, 
 after a night of struggle with contradictory emotions, 
 she made her way to the secluded corner where a fresh 
 and decisive scene was to be played in the drama of her 
 destiny. Until then, even in her compact with Mejan, 
 she had controlled that destiny by the exercise of her 
 will. Mistaken she might have been, terribly so, she 
 had not been led away. But at this moment she was 
 overmastered, tossed about, swept away by a great wave 
 of passion which prevented her from seeing anything 
 clearly. The woman in her had taken her revenge over 
 
166 A DTVOECE 
 
 the feminist, the young girl over the student, the impul- 
 sive, loving, incomplete, and undecided creature whose 
 weakness calls for virile support, over the haughty 
 woman, confident in her ovm reason, who had childishly 
 imagined she could defy the power of society by the 
 mere force of individual action. When, after crossing 
 the rue Monge, she saw Lucien pacing^ to and fro in 
 front of the garden railings, her legs began to give way, 
 and she thought she would be unable to cover the few 
 yards which separated them. But he also had seen her. 
 He came forward and spoke to her. At once, by his 
 way of saluting her, by his face, by his voice when he 
 spoke, by his look, she saw, with an emotion which in 
 itself was happiness, that he trembled not less than she 
 did. Above all, she felt that he had not changed. The 
 man before her was no longer the listener in revolt, or 
 despair, to her confession, no longer the man in a frenzy 
 on his knees by her couch whose almost brutal kiss had 
 frightened her. It was the friend of the last ten 
 months, whose restrained ardour, whose fervent respect, 
 she had loved so much. His face, usually so pensive, 
 bore the traces of the inward struggle of the last two 
 days. His pallor, the flash in his eyes, the dark lines 
 beneath his eyes, showed what hours of feverish sleep- 
 lessness he had gone through. The thought of putting 
 an end to it all forever, either by flight or by the tragic 
 method so dreaded by Bertha, had certainly flashed 
 through those dark eyes in whose depths one could now 
 
BETROTHAL 167 
 
 divine a strange serenity. Evidently he knew what he 
 wanted, and he wanted it after one of those self -exami- 
 nations in which the whole being puts forth all its 
 strength, never to go back again. What did he want? 
 The importance of the words about to be exchanged 
 was so great that, instinctively, they both kept silence 
 at first as if to collect their thoughts. They walked 
 side by side until they came to a seat placed in one of 
 the clumps of shrubs. The branches were just beginning 
 to show the first faint traces of buds; the sky was swept 
 clear of the clouds of the preceding days; Spring was 
 already smiling in the soft pale blue of heaven. The 
 sun shone on the glistening box trees, and the breeze 
 blew soft and warm among the pines whose evergreen 
 branches contrasted with the budding bareness of the 
 other trees. This feeling of revival enveloped these 
 two young people, took possession of them, soothed their 
 overwrought nerves. They had often come to that 
 same spot during the previous summer and autumn, 
 there they had talked and discussed, there in the inter- 
 change of abstruse philosophical opinions they had 
 fondly thought to deceive the irresistible and simple in- 
 stincts of their hearts. How far away was that recent 
 past, for Bertha especially, who was now nothing save a 
 lover hanging on the movements, the wishes, and the 
 will of the one she loved. For Lucien was still, as he 
 was about to prove even in that crisis of passion, the 
 man of trained intellect accustomed to think and to act 
 
168 A WVOBOE 
 
 systematically. Characters such as his, preserved from 
 impulse, are capable of the most extraordinary and most 
 romantic freaks when their theories happen to corre- 
 spond with the involuntary movements of their instinct, 
 and when they are able to discover transcendental rea- 
 sons for obeying their natural desires. 
 
 " You went to Moret yesterday, Lucien," said Bertha, 
 breaking a silence that was overcharged with thought. 
 " I found it out when I went there yesterday after you." 
 
 "I wanted to make the acquaintance of your child," 
 he answered: "it was a test I was anxious to impose 
 upon myself before seeing you again. . . . Yes," he 
 continued with some emphasis as she fixed an enquiring 
 look on him, "when one is preparing to make a com- 
 pact, one must be quite sure of one's ability to fulfil it, 
 and, for that purpose, quite sure of having the necessary 
 strength. I have certainly found out to my cost how 
 weak I could be." 
 
 He was observing the young girl in his turn. She 
 started. This enigmatical beginning had awakened in 
 her an idea which had hardly entered her mind since 
 their intercourse began. She passed over all in his 
 words save the allusion to the terrible scene of two days 
 before, so great was the pain this simple reminder 
 caused her. 
 
 "Do not reproach yourself in any way," she said. 
 " The fault was entirely mine. I shoidd have spoken 
 sooner." 
 
BETBOTHAI. 169 
 
 " Dear, dear friend," he said, taking her hand, " you 
 were afraid to give me pain. Listen to me," he went 
 on, "what I have to say is in the last degree serious 
 for me as well as for you, since you love me. For you 
 do love me. I know it, I believe it. And I, after 
 mature reflection, with complete control of my mind and 
 heart, I must repeat to you what I confessed the day be- 
 fore yesterday in a moment of real aberration. I, also, 
 love you. Bertha, passionately, solely. I love you. I 
 have known it for a long time. How much and how 
 deeply, I only knew the day before yesterday when you 
 were speaking to me and afterwards during those hours 
 I spent in going over your words one by one and in 
 wringing out their meaning. There is not one of them 
 that I have not weighed one by one, not one of your 
 sentiments, not one of your principles, not one of your 
 actions since I came to know you and before, that I have 
 not scrutinised as if they belonged to a stranger, in the 
 light that never deceives, the light of conscience. At 
 the close of that scrutiny I discovered that I had never 
 before loved and esteemed you so much. You were 
 right when you said I was not to judge you unheard. I 
 have heard you and I know that at no time have you 
 ceased to be the one whose nobility of mind and elevation 
 of ideas I admired so much from the very first. I know 
 you are worthy of aU the respect owed to a human being 
 who has always respected herself. If in a first moment 
 of aberration I spoke to you otherwise than I do now, 
 
170 A DIVOECE 
 
 I ask you to pardon me. I was mad. I did not see, 
 I see now. I did not understand, I understand now. 
 You led me to look squarely at the marriage question 
 of which I had never thought myself. Minds which 
 believe themselves the freest have grooves in which they 
 run without knowing it. I asked myself what was the 
 essential significance of marriage, and have found no an- 
 swer but yours: marriage is a contract between a man's 
 conscience and a woman's conscience. What does the 
 law add to this contract? Nothing, except guarantees. 
 These guarantees do not increase the validity of the con- 
 tract any more than a signature increases the validity of 
 a debt. I have come to the conclusion that in entering 
 upon the contract you made five years ago, without those 
 guarantees but in perfect good faith, you acted in con- 
 formity with the eternal laws of righteousness. Your 
 action was imprudent, dangerous for you. The result has 
 proved this. Morally, it was of such a kind as to con- 
 stitute an absolute rule, for free union as conceived by 
 you is the ideal marriage, based only on the most in- 
 timate and deep-seated workings of the individual con- 
 science. I wanted to tell you again and again that I 
 esteem you, that I respect you as much as I love you. 
 Do you believe me?" 
 
 "I think you have felt how sincere I was," she an- 
 swered, " and I think you are very kind. I had so com- 
 pletely given up the idea of ever being judged from my 
 point of view. I had become so accustomed to consider 
 
BETROTHAL 171 
 
 myself alone in the world, absolutely alone in heart and 
 mind. It is a somewhat too sudden change," she con- 
 tinued with a quivering smUe, which almost betokened 
 suffering. "It will be sweet for me to get accustomed 
 to it. r tried to live outside all conventions; my sin- 
 cerity only served to make me misjudged; it seemed a 
 great injustice to me and I was profoundly unhappy, 
 but now I am repaid and with interest." 
 
 " No," lie said quickly, " you have not been repaid, 
 yet you must," he repeated the words with great energy 
 — "you must be repaid. What I think, others shall 
 think, what I know they shall know. Listen, Bertha," he 
 spoke in a tone of supplication, " what I have to ask you 
 wiU seem strange after the declaration I have just made. 
 Thinking as I now do on the marriage question I should, 
 if strictly logical, come to you and say: — ' You are free, 
 I am free: will you try to live your life over again with 
 me? Will you. consent to that exchange of two prom- 
 ises in the name of two consciences, and found with me 
 a home as we both understand it? ' Yes, that is whai> 
 I ought to say to you and it is my most ardent wish, my 
 dearest dream, to be able to do so. But it is not my 
 whole desire, I want something besides. Even if you 
 lived with me in that way I should suffer, because I 
 had not publicly repaired the injustice of which you 
 complain. I should not have given you that visible 
 proof of esteem I wish you to have. That proof will be 
 given on the day we leave the registrar's ofQce arm in 
 
172 A DIVORCE 
 
 arm, you bearing my name, I having the right to protect 
 you. I said that the legal marriage adds nothing to 
 the real- marriage, the marriage of consciences, except 
 guarantees. Of these guarantees this is one: — In 
 society as now constituted, when a man legally marries 
 a woman, it is a public declaration that he has faith in 
 her and that he allows no one to doubt her. You will 
 not refuse me that satisfaction. Bertha. You will agree 
 to marry me legally, to bear my name, to be my wife. 
 It was to make this request that I begged you to come 
 here. The request is made. I await your answer." 
 
 She had listened to him in breathless agitation. As 
 he uttered his final words, he saw her turn so deadly 
 pale that he thought she was going to faint as before. 
 He attempted to give her support. She gently pushed 
 him away. 
 
 "Your wife?" she repeated. "You ask me to be 
 your wife? Oh, how you must love me! How pleasant 
 it is to feel it. What a salve on this aching wound. 
 Your wife! No, Lucien. I must not be your wife. I 
 must not marry you. It is impossible." 
 
 " I had foreseen your objection," he said. " You do 
 not wish to give the lie to your past by giving up your 
 principles regarding Free Union. You would be right 
 if it were a question of a religious marriage. That does 
 pervert the union of consciences as we understand it, 
 since it supposes a third element, God. Civil marriage 
 does not. It does nothing but register that union. 
 
BETEOTHAL 173 
 
 Civil marriage is only a free union attested by witnesses. 
 Is submitting to a purely outward formality a disavowal 
 of one's convictions? " 
 
 " I have got beyond that uncompromising attitude," 
 replied Bertha, shaking her head disconsolately. " My 
 stock of energy has been too much diminished. I am 
 no longer rebellious. I am resigned. I am ready to 
 submit to any social convention that does not interfere 
 with my liberty of conscience, and it is true that the 
 hackneyed ceremony prescribed by law and styled legal 
 marriage, does not affect it. The obstacle to our mar- 
 riage is not there. My child is the obstacle." 
 
 " There will be two to love him," he answered. " I 
 wished to know whether I should be able to do so. That 
 is why I went to Moret yesterday. Now I know I shall 
 be able. Your child is not an obstacle, but a reason 
 "why you should accept my offer. He must have a pro- 
 tector and guide," he added, and his countenance be- 
 trayed the emotion caused by his own words — " a father. 
 I shall be one to him." 
 
 " Oh," she sobbed, hiding her face in her hands. 
 " You tempt me too strongly. You offer me happiness. 
 But it is only a dream." And clasping her trembling 
 hands together, she went on: — " It is not on my account, 
 it is not on the child's account, that I must not marry 
 you, it is on your own account. The change in your 
 own conduct when you leamt my story is sufficient to 
 show how society judges an unmarried girl who becomes 
 
174 A DIVOEOE 
 
 a mother. Your love, your sense of justice, your great 
 intelligence have triumphed over that impression. The 
 world will not be so well-disposed towards me. It has 
 not been so. It has already condemned me through 
 my uncle, through M. Andre, and through your step- 
 father. Its condemnation would fall on you for having 
 given me your name. All the obstacles encountered by 
 the man who makes a fatal marriage would rise up 
 against you. One despises these troubles, one braves 
 them with a light heart for one's self. But one does not 
 forgive one's self for inflicting them on others. To see 
 you humiliated would be too hard for me to bear." 
 
 " Is it really you talking in this fashion? " he ex- 
 claimed. "You, that I have always known so brave, 
 so independent, so proud. The world may turn against 
 us and unite us in a common blame. Let it be so. We 
 shall lean on each other and be sufficient for each other. 
 For me at least you will be sufficient. Society humiliate 
 me! I defy it. With our joint incomes we shall be 
 independent. You know that during the last few 
 months I have been more and more attracted by medi- 
 cine. I shall devote myself entirely to that study. We 
 wUl work together at science. I repeat your own words 
 uttered the day before yesterday: — ^Who can prevent us 
 from attending our patients if we wish to practise or, 
 if we do not, from working in a laboratory? A man 
 who seeks neither fortune nor honours needs not trouble 
 about his career. Do not give that as a reason for 
 
BETROTHAL 175 
 
 hesitating, Bertha, it would pain me too much. Be- 
 sides" — ^he stopped a moment as if the words he was 
 about to utter touched in him a bleeding chord, a flash 
 of fiery suffering came into his eyes, and in an altered 
 tone he repeated, "besides, to refuse me is to decide 
 against our ever meeting again — ^Yes, either marry or 
 separate, either my wife or nothing. Oh, do you not 
 understand that if your life with me is to be possible 
 it must be a new life?" 
 
 He said no more. The spectre of Mejan had sud- 
 denly risen up between them. Bertha had immediately 
 interpreted that last obscure phrase ta its real sense. 
 It meant: — I cannot live with you as the other did. 
 This unexpected and sudden reminder of an odious past 
 at such a moment was so painful to both, that for some 
 minutes they remained without speaking, as on their 
 arrival: he greatly moved by the words he had just 
 spoken, she still more crushed at seeing him suffering 
 again and through her. Broken in spirit, she felt her 
 resistance yielding before the passionate devotion of her 
 friend. The morning March breezes continued to play 
 around them, the sun still shone on Les Arenes. The 
 ancient remnant of Eoman Lutetia made an almost 
 solemn setting to this strange contest between two chil- 
 dren of the twentieth century who failed to grasp the 
 silent lessons that were to be read in those last visible 
 relics of a buried town. That ancient town was the 
 foundation of the new town. Thus must ancestral cus- 
 
176 A DrVOECE 
 
 torn serve as a durable and solid substructure for our 
 transient destinies. The son of the divorced woman and 
 the anarchist student professed exactly opposite prin- 
 ciples. Yet reality, that great corrective of sophisms, 
 which does not shape her eternal laws according to our 
 reasoning, constrained these two revolutionary minds to 
 seek their point of support at a critical moment in a 
 fragment of traditional life, since it was marriage they 
 were discussing and not free union. Lucien wished for 
 marriage according to law — it was a last recess of his 
 mind which he dared not explore after the statements 
 he had made — to give a sanction to their love. For 
 this, although she did not admit it even to herself. 
 Bertha showed him a passionate gratitude which be- 
 trayed how much she still remained at heart a true 
 daughter of her moral, conservative class in spite of an 
 education which, totally opposed to all her hereditary 
 tendencies, had paralysed without destroying them. 
 When at length she turned to answer her tender-hearted, 
 generous friend, she had inwardly given way. Yet 
 a final scruple led her to say again: 
 
 " You speak as if there were only myself and society 
 to think of, Lucien. There are the members of your 
 family. I cannot separate you from them. How do 
 you expect them ever to accept me when you know what 
 your stepfather thinks of me? " 
 
 "My stepfather?" replied the young man — and his 
 irritated tone showed that the painful discussion in the 
 
BETROTHAX 177 
 
 Orand-Comptoir, two days before, still rankled in his 
 mind. "No, I don't think my stepfather will oppose 
 the marriage now. In the course of the scene we had 
 together you were not the only person spoken of. At 
 such moments, many things get said that one has long 
 had on one's mind. After what passed we can no 
 longer be the same to each other. His strongest wish 
 must be that I should live my own life apart from his. 
 True, if he still kept the same opinion of you that he 
 had after his agent's infamous report, he would con- 
 sider it his duty at any cost to prevent my marriage 
 with you. But I know him. When he learns what I 
 know, all that I know, he will judge you as I do. 
 Though I may often have been jealous of the position 
 he occupied in my mother's affections, I have always re- 
 spected in him a most upright character and one in- 
 capable of compromise. He belongs to that category 
 of highly cultured men who, seeing old beliefs crum- 
 bling to ruin, have dreamt of giving our democracy a 
 code of morals founded on reason. They begin by im- 
 posing this code of morals on themselves and by prac- 
 tising it. The principle which governs all the actions, 
 all the thoughts of M. Darras, is Justice, which, accord- 
 ing to him, consists essentially in the right of each one 
 to act according to his own conscience. No one more 
 than he professes hatred and contempt for worldly 
 hypocrisy. He is in favour of the equality of the sexes, 
 of women lawyers and women doctors. How often have 
 
178 A DIVORCE 
 
 I heard him say that, socially, we are still in a state of 
 barbarism, that family, property, country are all in a 
 state of evolution, and that the duty of the higher 
 classes is to hasten instead of delaying that evolution. I 
 mention all this to show you how liberal-minded he is. 
 What he hates is lying, and you have been shamefully 
 lied to, — ^injustice, and if any one has been a victim of 
 injustice you have. He admires those who have the 
 courage of their opinions — and who has this more than 
 you who seek and wish for truth and who live only for 
 it? No. I have no doubt of his answer, and his answer 
 is also my mother's. I do not speak of my real father. 
 If the law forces me to ask his consent, which — ^what 
 irony! — ^would be sufficient by itself, I attach no im- 
 portance to it. But the other, my mother's, does count. 
 Bertha, if I return after my interview with them, hav- 
 ing their approval, having made them understand who 
 you are and why I wish to give you my name, will you 
 still answer that it is impossible? Will you still refuse 
 to be my wife?" 
 
 " No," she said, " I will not refuse." 
 
 She looked at him with eyes which told him she had 
 given him her whole heart and soul. He drew her to 
 him, and for the second time their lips met in a kiss 
 which this time evoked no phantom of the old lover. 
 Had the new life of which the young man had spoken 
 really begun for the girl-mother? After so many years 
 of silent martyrdom and indomitable self-sacrifice she 
 
BETROTHAL 179 
 
 had a glimpse of a possible future exempt from the 
 nightmare against which she had struggled. When, a 
 few moments later, they left the little garden where that 
 chaste and loving kiss had sealed their promise, it was 
 with a passionate prayer for his success that she saw 
 him walk away in the direction of the Luxembourg. 
 She it was who tore herself away from her friend's em- 
 brace with these words: 
 
 " We must separate now. It is time for me to be at 
 the hospital. I want a little peace after so much emo- 
 tion. I have never found any except by sticking to 
 my work quietly and steadily. To keep my balance 
 I must always do the same thing. You shall see, I 
 shall be a very monotonous wife, but a very happy one," 
 she added with a smile such as he had never before seen 
 on her face. 
 
 "And I," he answered, "I am eager for the conver- 
 sation with my stepfather. The idea that he and my 
 mother should misjudge you is too painful to me 
 now. Every minute's delay seems a crime against 
 you." 
 
 " Provided they believe you," she could not help add- 
 ing timidly. 
 
 "They shall believe me," he asserted with the con- 
 viction of a love-devotee who feels himself strong 
 enough to overcome every doubt. "And I shall go 
 straight to the rue Eacine and, if you are not there, to 
 your rooms. Until then, have confidence." And he 
 
180 A DIVORCE 
 
 added, with the tenderness which filled him to over- 
 flowing at that moment, words simple in themselves, 
 but as spoken from him to her, a spiritual caress, words 
 gently uttered, as if he thought she could not bear 
 them: " Good-bye, my dear fiancee." 
 
CHAPTEE VI 
 
 THE OPEN WOUND 
 
 In the momentous interview which involved the whole 
 future of his love for Bertha, Lucien had not given 
 her a detailed account of the thirty-six feverish hours 
 spent in discussing with himself his projected offer 
 of marriage, nor revealed by what means, brutal in their 
 simplicity, he had for the time being cut short any 
 steps that might be taken by his stepfather or his 
 mother. Certain that the latter was cognisant of the 
 detective's report and of the painful scene at the Grand- 
 Comptoir, he had felt as averse to seeing her as to seeing 
 Darras himself. He had taken a room at one of the 
 Latin Quarter hotels, and had sent thence a note to the 
 rue du Luxembourg to the servant accustomed to wait 
 upon him, requesting him to hand the bearer a port- 
 manteau and a few things for a short journey. He 
 knew that his request would be communicated to his 
 parents and would prevent them from feeling anxious. 
 The selfishness of love made him oblivious to the moral 
 anxiety from which his mother must be suffering. 
 There was another reason for his neglect: that secret 
 estrangement of the heart between children of the first 
 
 181 
 
182 A DIVOECE 
 
 marriage and the remarried parent which is the natural 
 outcome of second marriage. Between Lucien and 
 Madame Darras there had never been that full and 
 thorough sympathy which makes two beings so continu- 
 ally present to each other that the feelings of the one 
 find an instinctive response in the other. Darras had 
 formed an ever-present barrier between them. Even 
 when Lucien thought he loved his stepfather most, the 
 latter's presence as a witness had sufficed to impart re- 
 serve to his intercourse with his mother. Gradually 
 mother and son had become enveloped in a mist of 
 silent misimderstanding, the harder to dissipate because 
 it had arisen unconsciously. Could the young man have 
 definitely put into words his impression of the maternal 
 home he would have said: " My mother's love for me is 
 not vital. I am not necessary to her! " He would 
 have been mistaken. It was painful to this sensitive 
 and passionate youth to share an affection which he 
 would have wished his exclusively. But shared though 
 it was, his mother's love for him was profound, and the 
 signs of his indifference had pained her deeply. His 
 silence at such a time was the worst of such signs. It 
 will be remembered that after hearing of the scene be- 
 tween the two men and of Lucien's rebellious conduct, 
 the wretched woman had spent the whole afternoon in 
 asking herself with ever increasing anguish — "Where 
 is he, where can he be?" About five o'clock, at the 
 moment she was imploring her husband to go that very 
 
THE OPEN WOUND 183 
 
 evening to the Central Police Office to ask that en- 
 quiries should be made, Lucien's note to the servant 
 arrived. 
 
 " I must go myself," she had said. " The messenger 
 ■wOl take me. I shall see my son, I shall speak to 
 him. I shall bring him back." 
 
 " You must not do that," Darras had answered. It 
 was the first time perhaps since their marriage that he 
 had assumed an imperious tone, as he added: " I forbid 
 you. Lucien has just shown you serious disrespect by 
 not writing to you, after having been still more dis- 
 respectful to me. It is his duty to return. Besides," 
 he continued in a more gentle tone, "reflect a little. 
 He may be with that girl. Is it your duty to seek him 
 there? Or perhaps, as I have anticipated, he is in- 
 vestigating the matter and this request for a port- 
 manteau points to a visit to Moret, perhaps to Cler- 
 mont. In that case he must act alone. Have courage 
 to wait, my dear wife. It does need courage, I eon- 
 
 Gabrielle obeyed. Her judgment yielded to this 
 argument: so long as her son was unenlightened, any 
 step she might take ran the risk of making his return 
 more difficult. She contented herself with choosing 
 the clothing for the portmanteau and packing it up with 
 her own hands. This humble occupation made her 
 forget for a moment her sorrow which had been aggra- 
 vated by the few words of her husband. He had been 
 
184 A DIVOROE 
 
 almost harsh, he who was as a rule so delicately affec- 
 tionate. She did not blame him for this. His irrita- 
 tion at Lucien's attitude was only too legitimate. It 
 was none the less true that he had never yet spoken 
 to her in that way, and with a sense of imminent mis- 
 fortune she went upstairs, as had recently become her 
 practice when she did not go out, to make her daughter 
 Bay her evening prayers. Here she hoped to find solace, 
 but on the contrary she was seized with a more violent 
 attack of the religious remorse which had led her a few 
 hours before to consult Father Euvrard. When little 
 Jeanne, in her long white night-dress, on her knees at 
 the foot of her bed, had pronounced the words of the 
 prayer: 
 
 "Visit, we beseech thee, Lord, this house: Visita, 
 qucesumus, Domine, habitationem nostram." 
 
 "He cannot visit it," the mother had murmured, 
 " since He is insulted here." 
 
 The harsh formula, which thus came back into her 
 mind, had been employed by the first priest to whom 
 she had applied and of whom she had spoken in such 
 strong protest to Father Euvrard. — "You are living," 
 he had said to her, " with a man who is not your hus- 
 band and whom you call your husband when you are 
 really married to another. It is a worse form of adul- 
 tery, because it is at the same time a public outrage on 
 God." — Yes, how indignantly she had protested against 
 that unjust anathema at the time and even now! That 
 
THE OPEN WOUND 185 
 
 she applied it to her own case and to herself alone, was 
 a proof that the great work begun in her conscience 
 during the preceding months had just received a fresh 
 and immense impetus during the last few hours of 
 maternal agony. The vague and confused apprehension 
 of a menace hanging over her guilty happiness was 
 changed into a vision, full of terrors and amounting al- 
 most to hallucination, of what even the indulgent 
 Oratoriaa had styled the avenging act of God. 
 
 "But God who punishes also pardons," she said to 
 herself the next morning, after a night spent in turn- 
 ing this terrible idea over and over again in her mind: 
 — " What infliction am I to suffer iu my son? Father 
 Euvrard said himself: God is only too ready to pardon. 
 He is the God of vengeance but also the God of pity. 
 I shall pray to Him so earnestly that He will spare me 
 and, if not me, those who are around me and who are 
 not responsible for my faults; Lucien in particular is 
 free from complicity." And in a sudden outburst of 
 expiatory devotion she had gone with her daughter to 
 hear Mass. Several times already, as the date of her 
 first Communion drew near, Jeanne had asked to be 
 taken to church in the morning to be present at some 
 service along with the members of the Confirmation 
 class. Hitherto Mile. Schultze had always taken her, 
 as Madame Darras was afraid her husband would make 
 some remark about her own absence; in fact when she 
 returned about nine o'clock from Saint Sulpice on this 
 
186 A DIVOECE 
 
 accasion, she found Darras waiting for her, dressed to 
 go out. 
 
 "Why did you not let me know?" he asked. "I 
 wanted to speak to you." 
 
 " I have taken Jeanne to Mass," she answered. 
 
 "To Mass?" the father repeated. "But it is not 
 Sunday." 
 
 " She often goes on week-days with the rest of the 
 Confirmation class," Gabrielle had said. 
 
 "Is it really necessary?" Darras continued. "I re- 
 peat my advice of yesterday. As the chUd is somewhat 
 inclined to mysticism do not allow such impressions to 
 be too numerous." 
 
 " Oh! let her have faith," she answered, " much faith! 
 She will only be the better armed against the trials of 
 life." 
 
 Darras looked at her in amazement, and she felt her- 
 self blushing. She expected a question that did not 
 come — unfortunately. In the frame of mind in which 
 she was, she would not have been able to lie, and the 
 disclosure of her religious troubles at that time would 
 not have been characterised by the tragic violence 
 which later on was to make the conflict between hus- 
 band and wife so irreconcilable. Albert Darras thought 
 that anxiety about the absent one was the sole cause 
 of this nervous attack. He therefore continued simply: 
 — " I wanted to tell you that I am going straight to the 
 rue EoUia. I am anxious to know whether Lueien has 
 
THE OPEN WOUND 187 
 
 gone to live with that girl. I don't believe it. But 
 he may be there and we ought to consider what is to 
 be done. If he has really gone away to investigate he 
 will be back within twenty-four hours." 
 
 Gabrielle Darras had so earnestly implored the pity 
 of Heaven during her visit to the church that she in- 
 terpreted her husband's silence after her imprudent 
 exclamation as evidence that her prayers were heard. 
 She thought she recognised further evidence in the 
 news brought by Darras later, that Lucien had not gone 
 to live with Mile. Planat. The second day thus passed 
 with less feverish excitement than the preceding one 
 owing to this slight revival of hope. It is one of the 
 commonest illusions of souls like hers, who have put 
 aside the practices of Christian discipline, to expect 
 their prayers to be answered immediately and arbi- 
 trarily. They do not understand, even in their sincerest 
 moments of repentance, that certain sufferings cannot 
 be averted by any prayer when they form an essential 
 element of the return to the right way, to that eternal, 
 universal, necessary order to which man must, if needs 
 be, be brought back by punishment. It is so rare for 
 him to return to it by repentance unaccompanied by 
 trials. Nevertheless Gabrielle continued to be so sorely 
 troubled that she did not leave the house all day in 
 order to be sure of being in when Lucien reappeared. 
 Inspired by her husband's assurances, she looked for the 
 decisive moment in the morning of the third day when 
 
188 A DIVORCE 
 
 the young man, at length enlightened by his visit to 
 Moret and perhaps to Clermont, came to throw him- 
 self on his mother's breast. One may imagine, then, 
 her emotion when about eleven o'clock her husband 
 hurried into the room to say to her: 
 
 " Lucien is here. I have just seen him through the 
 window alighting from a cab. He is returning home. 
 He knows the truth. Was I right? " 
 
 " He is coming back! " repeated the mother, clasping 
 her hands: — " Oh, thank God! and I thank you too^ 
 Albert." And she clasped him in her arms. The in- 
 congruity between her feelings as a Catholic whose re- 
 ligious faith had revived and her wifely love, was only 
 too clearly seen in these contradictory exclamations, 
 and she went on: — " He must see me first and shed his 
 tears in my arms. I will take him to you and you will 
 be kind to him, you will pardon him." 
 
 " I have nothing to pardon him," replied Darras. 
 " He is imhappy and he is your son. Let him come to 
 me when he likes. If his troubles are too great now, 
 keep him. I shall see him later. He need speak of 
 nothing. We shall embrace each other and that will be 
 the end of it. I have already forgotten everything." 
 
 " Oh! how I love you! " said Gabrielle. Then, with 
 a shudder and grasping his wrist tightly: — "Listen, 
 I hear his step. Let me go to meet him." She gently 
 pushed her husband into his study — ^this brief scene 
 had taken place in the morning-room — and opened the 
 
THE OPEN W0T7ND 189 
 
 door leading into the passage. It was there that Lucien 
 saw her leaning against the door as he came to the top 
 of the staircase. He had very much hoped to have 
 the explanation with his stepfather first. But to see 
 her there, hardly able to stand, her face streaming with 
 tears and pale from the anguish of those two days, made 
 him sick at heart. He ran towards her, and they kissed 
 each other with an affection that for the moment dis- 
 pelled all else. For the first time for years Lucien 
 discovered to what extent his place in his mother's 
 affection remained intact in spite of her second mar- 
 riage. On her part, he was once more the child she 
 had brought forth, flesh of her flesh, her only reason 
 for living when she was so wretched, and she kissed 
 bim amid her tears, showing her protecting care and 
 love by using the same endearing names as she had 
 done then: 
 
 "My darling. I have foimd you again. It is you. 
 Why did you not come to your mother at once when 
 you were in trouble? Why did you not write to me? 
 I was so anxious. But you are here. You will have 
 me to understand you fully, to pity you, to console you. 
 Don't talk to me now." She made bim sit down beside 
 her on the couch, and swaying to and fro she soothed 
 him gently. Lucien had been so much shaken by the 
 commotions of the preceding hours, he was still so 
 stricken, even in his hopes, that he yielded for a moment 
 to the happiness of enjoying the mother's love which 
 
190 A DIVOEOE 
 
 he had never known as an undivided possession. Was 
 not her passionate affection a sure sign that she 
 would not oppose a marriage which would make him 
 happy? 
 
 " "No, mother," he said at last, " do not pity me. It 
 is true I was very wretched the day before yesterday. 
 My father " — he had been taught to speak of Darras in 
 this way — " my father told you all, did he not? " 
 
 "Yes," she answered. The serious, almost solemn 
 tone of her son in no way resembled the convulsive 
 prickings of conscience which she expected. Yet he 
 had learned the truth. His return could not be ex- 
 plained otherwise. Whence then came that serenity 
 which, suddenly, almost frightened her? 
 
 " Then," he continued, " you probably know too that 
 I forgot myself and said things I do not really be- 
 lieve? I want to be sure that you do not think I be- 
 lieve them." 
 
 "Your father did not repeat your words. to me," re- 
 plied his mother. "It was his wish to forget every- 
 thing at once. Oh! love him well, Lucien, for he loves 
 you well. By enlightening you about that shameful 
 woman. . . ." 
 
 "Don't speak in that way, mother," the young man 
 interrupted with a vivacity which completely discon- 
 certed her. He got up suddenly under the lash of the 
 insult to her whom he loved. Then in a voice broken 
 with emotion: — "I was in the wrong," he continued. 
 
THE OPEN "WOtTND 191 
 
 "I should have written to my father, seen him first, 
 explained everything to him. Listen, mother," and he 
 held Madame Darras' hands tightly in his own, "you 
 know how I respect you, how I love you, how inca- 
 pable I am of lying to you. Well, I give you my word 
 of honour that my father was mistaken and that the 
 person in question is one of the highest and purest minds 
 in existence. But aU that, I wish him to tell you him- 
 self. It is he who made the accusation: it is he who 
 must withdraw it. He is in his study, the servant told 
 me; I am going there." 
 
 Before Madame Darras could utter even a word, he 
 had knocked at the door leading from the morning- 
 room into his stepfather's work-room. When the hang- 
 ings which served as a door-curtain fell behind him, his 
 mother was tempted for a moment to run and place 
 herself between the two men who met for the first time 
 since the terrible encounter two days before. The 
 words which Lucien had just addressed to her betrayed 
 an attitude of mind diametrically opposed to what she 
 and Albert had expected. An imprudent word uttered 
 by Darras, as she had done a moment ago, would be 
 sufficient to arouse Lucien to rebellion again, perhaps 
 irrevocably. She listened behind the door for the 
 sound of angry voices. She heard no noise. Her 
 womanly instinct told her that her presence might ex- 
 asperate her son's irritable pride, and might import an 
 element of passion into an interview supposed to be 
 
192 A DIVOEOB 
 
 restricted to matters of fact. Lucien would not have 
 expressed himself so energetically unless he had certain 
 evidence, or thought he had, in support of his opinion. 
 He would give it, and who knows? Perhaps he was 
 right. Perhaps Albert, so sincere, so scrupulously at- 
 tached to the truth, would be convinced. What would 
 happen then? The fear expressed by him that Lucien 
 might think of marrying Mile. Planat suddenly crossed 
 his mother's mind. In presence of this fresh menace 
 of the Fates, a few yards away from the room in which 
 her husband and her son were conferring together — 
 to what end? — she had a feeling, amounting to positive 
 horror, of a relentless fatality pursuing her. Her 
 household was cursed. Although her prayers, become 
 more frequent in the last few days, had not averted any 
 of the dangers hanging over her, yet she fell on her 
 knees and began once more to implore God with all 
 her heart. Again and again she stopped to listen when 
 it seemed to her that the voices in the next room were 
 becoming louder. She would say to herself: — "I was 
 mistaken," and resumed her prayer. 
 
 When Lucien went into Darras' study, the latter 
 was seated at his desk, apparently busy at a work 
 which he interrupted. If the young man had been self- 
 possessed he would have noticed that the paper in front 
 of the engineer was completely blank. His nervous 
 hand clasped a dry pen, taken up to give himself an un- 
 concerned air. The stepfather did not wish it to be 
 
THE OPEN "WOtrND 193 
 
 thought that he was spying on his stepson's movements. 
 Officially he was unaware, until the moment Lucien 
 entered the room, of his return to the house. The 
 itronger a character is, the more evenly balanced are 
 the parts of which it is composed, the more, that is to 
 say, it has the defects of its qualities. The strain in- 
 volved in the constant tension imposed upon him by 
 his theories of conscience, made Albert Darras incapable 
 of that charming spontaneity which weaker, more pliant 
 but also more human natures, call up to their service 
 in great and difficult crises. Emotion rendered him 
 stiff and awkward instead of frank and flexible. At 
 that moment his heart's instinct would have urged him 
 to take Lucien in his arms, repeating his mother's ap- 
 peal: — "You are suffering, my son; lean upon me." 
 But, as wiU be remembered, he had told Gabrielle that, 
 whilst loving Lucien as a son, he knew that the young 
 man did not regard him as a father. Their conflict 
 of two days before had intensified this feeling. Thus 
 it was that at this moment of solemn explanation, his 
 expressive features were drawn and hard. His look, 
 generally so straightforward, betrayed the embarrass- 
 ment which begets embarrassment in others. Lucien, 
 whose whole heart had just gone out to his mother in 
 fervent communion, at once felt the difference between 
 this welcome and the other. Once more, he had the 
 stranger before him. Yet Darras held out his hand to 
 him as he said: — " It is you, Lucien. I knew you would 
 
194 A DIVORCE 
 
 come back to us. How happy I feel that it is so soon! 
 You have seen your mother. I was anxious to leave 
 you alone with her at first. She has been ill from 
 anxiety. Your presence must have done her good, and 
 I am sure hers will have had a like efifect on you. As 
 to what took place between us the other day we shall say 
 no more about it, shall we? It is forgotten. You have 
 returned home. We have you again. That is the only 
 thing of importance." 
 
 " On the contrary, I want to talk about it," replied 
 his stepson. " That is why I have returned home, 
 father. As I said to my mother, I ought to have 
 written to you and seen you before her. It is, between 
 you and me that a certain question with which she is not 
 concerned has arisen. That question must be resumed 
 between you and me. But there is one point to be 
 settled before everjrthing else. We separated after very 
 harsh words. I wish first of all to express my regret 
 for what I said at the time. I was suffering very 
 much." 
 
 "They were only too natural," interrupted Darras. 
 "I set about the matter badly. I was bound to give 
 you the painful warning I did. But I might have 
 given it differently, prepared you for hearing certain 
 revelations, one by one, methodically. My excuse is 
 that I saw you were running into great danger. I 
 wanted to drag you out of it at once. But, once more, 
 I never doubted you would return. I know you, my 
 
THE OPEN WOUND 195 
 
 boy, because I can say that, morally, I have made you. 
 You are honour itself. Men such as you may be de- 
 ceived, led astray. They cannot be perverted." 
 
 Lucien's face had darkened on hearing this eulogium, 
 behind which he perceived the same severity of judg- 
 ment with regard to his friend that had aroused his 
 indignation forty-eight hours before. This time he 
 was able to master his feelings. What did he want? 
 That his stepfather should be compelled to do Bertha 
 justice in the name of his own principles. Darras' last 
 words gave the yoimg man an opportunity which he 
 eagerly seized: 
 
 " What I am, I owe to you," he replied, " it is true. 
 I have received from you all my convictions: absolute 
 trust in conscience first and in justice afterwards, the 
 one creating the other. What is justice but religious 
 respect for the individual conscience? And as a con- 
 dition of both, devotion, even to fanaticism, to truth 
 in all its forms. That is your doctrine, and I have 
 seen you live up to it. It is mine too, and I hope I 
 shall be able to live up to it till the last. When I left 
 you two days ago after the scene which you have just 
 recalled, it was your doctrine which gave me courage. 
 Imbued with it, and having it from you, I clearly saw 
 two points: firstly, you could neither have lied to me, 
 nor accused an iimocent person, especially a woman, 
 without due reason; secondly, that my duty was to in- 
 form Mile. Planat immediately. She was accused. 
 
196 A DIVORCE 
 
 She had the right to defend herself. On leaving the 
 Grand-Comptoir, I went directly to her." 
 
 "A preliminary and impersonal enquiry would have 
 shovm more cleverness," remarked Darras. " But I am 
 not the man ever to blame any one for not being clever. 
 Even without knowing Mile. Planat, I had for a moment 
 the idea of doing as you have done." He too was too 
 much astonished at the tone adopted by his stepson not 
 to have a presentiment of some fresh development in a 
 situation to which he had seen only two issues: either 
 Lucien would persevere in his illusion, in which case the 
 decisive proof obtained by the Home Office would over- 
 come this credulity; or else, there would be a desperate 
 but irrevoeab/e recognition of the truth and then the 
 rupture would be complete. Therefore it was with 
 amazement that he listened as the young man, his pupil, 
 the living embodiment of his own thought, continued: 
 
 "I told Mile. Planat what you had told me, all you 
 had told me and as you had told it me. You had been 
 quite correctly informed. Five years ago, Mile. Planat 
 did in fact live for a few months with M. Mejan. She 
 had a child who is being brought up at Moret by her 
 directions. I had no need to question her. It was she 
 in fact who anticipated all my questions. It was she 
 who, at the outset, declared it was true; she who gave 
 me the most exact details of that sad story. She might 
 have denied it. I should have believed her. Ifot for a 
 single moment did the idea enter her mind." 
 
THE OPEN WOUND 197 
 
 "It was difficult for her to dispute such precise in- 
 formation," replied Darras. "But you are grateful 
 to her for that frankness and rightly so. It is always 
 right to give a human being credit, and to interpret 
 his actions in the most favourable sense. By way of 
 reservation, I would only point out that this frank- 
 ness came somewhat late. She should have spoken 
 sooner." 
 
 "And why?" interposed Lucien. Beneath his step- 
 father's studied moderation he had felt the sting. 
 "Yes, why?" he repeated. "On what grounds? In 
 oui conversation two days ago you told me she was my 
 mistress, that you knew it. I answered that it was a 
 calumny which I did not even deign to discuss. To- 
 day I am unruffled. Well, I give you my word of 
 honour: the day before yesterday was the first time I 
 had a conversation with Mile. Planat other than what 
 one student may have with another. For ten months 
 we have seen each other almost every day, several times 
 a day, and I have never told her that I loved her. I 
 have never made the slightest attempt at courtship. 
 She warned me at the outset that at the least word in- 
 consistent with genuine and frank comradeship she 
 woidd break off the acquaintance. This compact, 
 agreed upon between us, we have kept. Consequently, 
 as a comrade she was not called upon to make any 
 womanly confessions to me that a comrade is not en- 
 titled to receive. The straightforwardness of her rela- 
 
198 A DIVOROE 
 
 tions with me has been beyond reproach. It was ab- 
 solutely necessary that this should be stated. If you be- 
 lieve that a person's reputation is to be regarded in a 
 favourable light until the contrary is proved, a fortiori, 
 you believe that a person must be credited with the 
 qualities really displayed. Is that equitable or not? 
 Answer me." 
 
 "That is quite evident," said Darras. His simple 
 and unsophisticated mind abhorred subtleties.. He did 
 not quite understand the purport of his stepson's words, 
 but it seemed to him he was not going straight to 
 the point, that he was fencing, and he added, mani- 
 festly irritated: — "What are you driving at?" 
 
 "What am I driving at?" answered Lucien. "At 
 this: that I was right in protesting strongly when you 
 informed me that Mile. Planat had done things totally 
 inconsistent with what I knew of her character. Con- 
 sequently, she has not done them. Let me explain," 
 he insisted almost violently, as his stepfather seemed 
 about to make a gesture of protest. "Just now you 
 gave expression to a very noble idea when you said that 
 we must always give credit to a human being. It is 
 our duty. But in reality so few people give that credit. 
 When a woman gives herself to a man otherwise than 
 by marriage, society has but one word to describe the 
 connection: she is that man's mistress, and but one 
 sentence: she is condemned and despised. Do you admit 
 there is a difference in the action according as the 
 
THE OPEN wouiro 199 
 
 woman hae given herself for money or for lore? And 
 a further difference if that love has been simply sensual, 
 or if it has been generous, noble, enthusiastic. You do, 
 don't you? Do you admit that there may be other 
 motives besides money, gallantry, passion even, in such 
 a liaison? A girl has been brought up by revolutionists 
 who have taught her to look upon the conventions of 
 modern society as the principle of all wretchedness and 
 all crime. She is persuaded that, among these con- 
 ventions, marriage is one of the worst. For her Free 
 Union is the true formula of conjugal life, the one 
 which will emancipate man and woman, not from 
 morality, but from lying. She believes that profoundly, 
 absolutely. She meets with a scoundrel who plays with 
 her the comedy of convictions like her own. He gains 
 her love and offers to \mite their destinies to found a 
 family such as she understands it, outside those con- 
 ventions which he pretends to hate as much as she 
 does. The villain intends to break his promise and 
 abandon her. He is a libertine, a seducer. She does 
 not know it. She accepts; will you say that she took a 
 lover? No. She married outside the law, contrary to 
 the law. But everything which constitutes the moral 
 value of marriage is in that imion. The story I have 
 just related is the story of Mile. Planat. Do not an- 
 swer that I only have her version. There are utter- 
 ances that do not deceive. I have seen her under the 
 accusation draw herself up with eyes and gestures that 
 
200 A DIVOEOE 
 
 betokened suffering. No. She did not lie to me. Do 
 not think me mad, father, I am not. I am a man 
 coming to entreat you to recognise an injustice you have 
 unwittingly done that woman by judging her as you 
 have, to recognise it and to repair it." 
 
 " If recognising it is sufficient reparation, I am pre- 
 pared to do so," replied Darras. "You have spoken 
 with Mile. Planat, you have heard her. You assert that 
 she was the victim of false ideas and that there was 
 nothing base in her fault. I have no difficulty in be- 
 lieving it. But where I cannot follow you is when 
 you place Free Union on the same footing as mar- 
 riage." 
 
 " And what is the difference? " asked Lucien. 
 
 "Simply, in obedience or disobedience to the law," 
 said the stepfather. He had just perceived clearly and 
 with dismay the plan, in his view a mad one, formed 
 by his stepson. This sudden flash of intuition had cut 
 short the verbal concession which to avoid a quarrel he 
 had begun to make. All the prejudice which he felt 
 against Bertha Planat from the first increased at once. 
 The girl was much more redoubtable than he had 
 thought. Yet he did not wish to discuss her personally, 
 feeling that he would have to face the distracted lover 
 of the previous interview. On the other hand, he was 
 preparing to take an absolutely uncompromising stand 
 on a principle which permeated every fibre of his nature. 
 He belonged to a generation which has lived on the 
 
THE OPEN WOUND 201 
 
 constant paradox of trying to conciliate all the virtues 
 of the traditional world with a system of ideas most 
 opposed to these virtues. In politics it has aimed at 
 order and national greatness; in morals it has dreamt, 
 and still dreams, of stoicism and integrity— holding at 
 the same time theories of which the immediate con- 
 sequence is anarchy. This explains how Darras could 
 marry a divorced woman while he was at the same time 
 a convinced defender of the family; how he professed 
 and had taught his stepson uncompromising devotion 
 to facts as they are, whUst possessing ia the highest de- 
 gree that solicitude for middle-class respectability 
 hereditary in all Frenchmen of his class. He was about 
 to eiperience the anger which the first generation of 
 reformers shows to the second, an anger as common 
 in the secret tragedies of private, as in the much talked 
 of dramas of public life. To protest against his step- 
 son's arguments, he had laid as much emphasis on that 
 fine word law as if he and the tyrannical party to which 
 he belonged had not already deprived the term of all 
 meaning. His disciple in revolution was soon to make 
 HiTB feel this. 
 
 " There is no law worthy of respect except that which 
 we recognise as just," he answered. " Otherwise what 
 becomes of the individual conscience? " 
 
 "It must give way to the interests of the State," said 
 Daras. 
 
 "Even when it sees the real interests of the State 
 
202 A DIVOEOE 
 
 in a law oppoBed to the eiistuag one? " the young man 
 insisted. "That is Mile. Planat's case, and I persist 
 in claiming that Free Union as understood and put in 
 practice by her is as worthy of respect as the most re- 
 spectable marriage." 
 
 "And 1, in a word, will at once prove to you the 
 contrary," replied his stepfather. And fixing his eyes 
 on the young man's eyes to know whether he had 
 guessed correctly: — "That proof is that you have not 
 yet dared to say to me: ' I wish to marry her.' " 
 
 "It is true," said Lueien. "I do wish to marry 
 her. I have come to ask my mother's consent, and as 
 she will not give it as long as she retains the same 
 opinion of Mile. Planat, I beg of you, in the name of 
 the principles you profess, to undo in her mind the work 
 of calumny of which you were the unconscious fork- 
 man. You see whether I have not dared? But there 
 is no merit in daring when one is defending trutli and 
 justice." 
 
 "Look here, Lueien," cried the stepfather. "It is 
 not you who talk in that way. It is impossible. You, 
 marry that woman, you! you! Why, she has made jou 
 forget what you are, what we are! Marry her! jbu! 
 Besides why, since you have just told me that you are 
 in favour of Free Union." I 
 
 " I did not say that," replied the young man, Wiose 
 tone became sharper and harsher in proportion af his 
 stepfather's became more imperious and irritated.; "I 
 
THE OPEN WOUND 203 
 
 said that tlie formality of marriage added nothing to 
 Free Union. It takes nothing away from it either. The 
 whole question is to know whether or not submission to 
 this formality is thought opportune. At present, and 
 in the case of MUe. Planat, I consider it opportune, just 
 because there are people who think as you do, many 
 people indeed, and because I wish to have the right to 
 defend her." 
 
 " And you do not think that your mother, on her part, 
 has the moral right not to have her as a daughter-in- 
 law? Your sister the moral right not to have her as a 
 sister-in-law? And that child ? You would bring us 
 that child? " 
 
 " My mother had me when you married her, and you 
 did not hesitate to oflEer to help her to make a fresh start 
 in life. I ask for nothing but to be allowed to do as 
 you have done." 
 
 " As we have done? Your mother? Your mother? 
 You compare your mother to . . ." And Darras, with 
 clenched fists raised, stepped towards his stepson, whUe 
 the latter with folded arms and without giving way, 
 repeated: 
 
 "Yes, I compare them and that is proof of the re- 
 spect I have for MUe. Planat, for my fiancee." 
 
 " I shall not strike you," said the stepfather, passing 
 his hands over his forehead as if to drive away the 
 disastrous temptation to violence. " I shall not do that 
 on account of that mother, to whom you have just 
 
204 A DIVOEOE 
 
 shown such shameful disrespect. But she is my wife 
 and we shall see if you will repeat the infamy in her 
 presence." 
 
 He had opened the door separating the two rooms, 
 and seizing Lucien by the arm he dragged him into the 
 morning-room. This movement had been too sudden, 
 too energetic also, for the young man to escape from it. 
 However upset they both were by the words they had 
 just exchanged, they stopped for a few seconds, motion- 
 less and dumfounded in presence of a woman on her 
 knees in prayer, with her face concealed by her hands. 
 Even in his anger Darras turned pale. For a long 
 time past, certain words of Gabrielle, certain fits of 
 melancholy, numerous insignificant and undefinable 
 signs had made him apprehend a subtle change in her 
 mind of which he had now clear evidence. Meanwhile, 
 recalled to self -consciousness by the sound of steps, she 
 had risen from her knees. Standing before her hus- 
 band and her son, the former still holding the other by 
 the arm, she cried out supplicatingly: 
 
 "Albert! Lucien! My dear, if you love me" — she 
 spoke to her husband and took him by the arm to free 
 her son's, "let him go. And you, Lucien, what have 
 you said to him this time? What have you said to each 
 other? You pain me too much." She had placed her 
 hands on her breast as if to still the violent beating of 
 her heart. Then, in a tone which thrilled them both — 
 " Speak to me, do speak to me! " 
 
THE OPEN WOUND 205 
 
 " It is his duty to speak to you," said the stepfather, 
 pointing to the son. " I have brought him to you for 
 that purpose that he may repeat what he has just said to 
 me. He is ashamed now," he continued, his indigna- 
 tion again aroused, and as the young man continued 
 to keep silence: " Do you know what he has come to 
 ask us? Permission to marry that girl." 
 
 " To marry that girl? " repeated his mother. 
 
 "Yes," Darras insisted, "to marry her. And do 
 you know besides to what he compared this disgraceful 
 marriage? The words burn my lips to repeat them. 
 But it will be his punishment that you should know 
 how he thought, felt, spoke. To ours, if you please, 
 to ours. That adventuress whom he picked up in the 
 streets of the Latin Quarter. . . ." 
 
 "Be silent." This cry from the young man, who 
 had rushed at his stepfather, was mingled with the cry 
 uttered by his mother. She separated them. But 
 Lucien went on, speaking to her: — " Tell him to be 
 silent or I shall compel him. I forbid him to slander 
 that woman, I forbid him." 
 
 "You forbid me?" repeated Darras. "You insult 
 me now, after insulting your mother! " 
 
 " I do not insult you," said Lucien, " and I have not 
 insulted my mother. I came here in deference to her 
 and to you when I was in no way obliged to come. For 
 after all, it is my real father who has the legal right to 
 permit or forbid my marriage. I wish to marry one I 
 
206 A DIVOKCE 
 
 lore and respect absolutely, conipletely. I had hoped to 
 find in you a support because I thought you a man of 
 convictions. You are not. Henceforth I shall apply 
 to my mother alone for her consent." 
 
 "While I live you shall never have it," replied his 
 stepfather: "You have heard what I say, never, never! 
 If you marry that creature your mother wiU be dead to 
 you." 
 
 " I shall wait to hear it from her own lips," replied 
 laicien. "She was my mother before she was your 
 wife. I shall see whether she is your wife more than 
 she is my mother." 
 
 "Wretch!" said Darras, beside himself, "do you 
 want to kill her?" And he pointed to Gabrielle, who 
 had let herself fall into her chair, with a fixed stare in 
 her eyes, her mouth open, her arms hanging by her 
 side as if the blow which her son had just dealt her 
 had really been the last, the one after which moral suf- 
 fering finds an issue in insanity. On seeing this, the 
 young man likewise uttered a cry of terror. Then, when 
 his stepfather said to him in the loud tones of a man in 
 a fury, about to lose all control of his feelings: — " Go 
 away, do go away, have pity on her and go! " he left 
 the room. Never did a son's pride make a greater 
 sacrifice in thus yielding. He had just understood that 
 so surely as that dispute was prolonged, his mother 
 would die of grief, there, before his eyes. Two min- 
 utes later the opening and closing of the front door 
 
THE OPEN WOtrNT> 207 
 
 annoimced that the child of the divorced woman had 
 Uft the maternal roof to return — ^when? The sound 
 eeemed to bring back Gabrielle to a consciousness of the 
 reality, although her husband vainly tried to make her 
 speak. He took her hand, kissed her, entreated her. 
 She seemed neither to see nor to hear him. The signal 
 of her son's departure roused her suddenly from her 
 alarming trance. 
 
 " He is gone? " she groaned. "Oh, do run to look 
 for him, my dear, bring him back." 
 
 "I cannot," replied Darras. "And if I could I 
 would not bring him back. You saw it yourself. At 
 the present moment he is mad." 
 
 "No," she said in a tone which made her husband 
 shudder, " he is not mad. It is he who is right." 
 
 "What do you mean?" he asked. 
 
 *'What I say," she repeated, "that he is right. I 
 am no better than that girl. Neither you nor I have 
 the right to condemn her. I love you, Albert," she 
 went on, looking at him with eyes in which at last one 
 could guess the agony caused by her scruples, " and be- 
 cause of that love, for weeks and months I have hidden 
 my tortures from you. I must tell you now. It is 
 necessary, so that you may pardon Lucien. He is but 
 the instrument of justice from above. My dear, you 
 have never believed. You do not know what it is to 
 have had God with you and to have Him no longer. 
 When I married you, I was so unhappy and you loved 
 
208 A DIVOKOE 
 
 me so mucn. I wanted to prove to myself that I had 
 the right to live my life over again with you. I 
 now know that I had not. No," she continued ecstati- 
 cally, "I had not. Before God I was the wife of 
 another." 
 
 "Before what God?" answered Darras. It was no 
 longer a question of his stepson's errors. He was so 
 thunderstruck by his wife's sudden wail of woe that his 
 anger at once disappeared, to give place to a feeling of 
 terrified wonder in presence of the wound laid bare in 
 the bosom of his family. "You do not believe that, 
 Gabrielle?" he entreated. "You cannot believe that 
 you have not done right in accepting to live your life 
 over again with me honestly, loyally, in conformity to a 
 law of wisdom and progress. It would be disowning 
 aU our past life: you cannot do that." 
 
 "I disown nothing," she said, "but I am full of 
 remorse. Before what God? you ask me. Why, the God 
 of my mother and my father, of your mother and your 
 father; the God to whom I learned to pray when I was 
 quite a child; the God to whom my daughter is learn- 
 ing to pray, the God of the Gospels and of the Church, 
 my Church. I had lost faith in Him, I have found 
 it again. The events of the last three days prove to 
 me that I was right; our house is cursed. We are 
 stricken because we are in revolt against Him, because 
 we insult Him, every day, because" — She hesitated an 
 instant; she thought of the words of Father Euvrard: 
 
THE OPEN WOUND 209 
 
 Confess with the mouth what the heart thinketh to ob- 
 tain salvation. " Oh! I must say all, you shall know aU 
 my heart, that heart which loves you so much, but the 
 voice of conscience is stronger— ^because we are not mar- 
 ried! " 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 SIM)NOB 
 
 In the Gospels may be found a very mysterious sen- 
 tence concerning the coming of the Saviour: " He shall 
 be for a stone of stumbling and a rock of ofEence." For 
 eighteen himdred years the history of humanity has 
 been one long accomplishment of this prophecy. It is 
 realised with equal exactness, and in a still more strik- 
 ing way perhaps, in connection with individual desti- 
 nies, even of the humblest kind, whenever, as in the 
 case of Gabrielle Darras, the religious problem with all 
 its deep-rooted implications is propounded. This prob- 
 lem is still present, acute, living, to such an extent that 
 the most incredulous never face it with that indiffer- 
 ence which complete negation would imply. It will 
 set vibrating in our moral nature secret chords of which 
 the existence is often unknown to ourselves, but which, 
 hidden in our innermost consciousness, are the heritage 
 of remote ancestry. At its call we hear awakening 
 within us the latent and unconscious appeal of atavism, 
 the irrepressible voice of "the dead who speak," as 
 a great writer has forcibly expressed it. Whether we 
 obey or whether we resist, it calls up within us a new 
 
 310 
 
SILENOE 211 
 
 being, sympathies, dislikes, desires, in which we no 
 longer recognise ourselves. Darras would certainly 
 have been greatly astonished if any one had foretold 
 that one day his gentle, timid Gabrielle, so submissive 
 in mind and heart, both by afEection and by natural 
 timidity, would rise up in revolt against him, sustained 
 by an unflinching energy. Still less would he have be- 
 lieved that he himself would experience such an access 
 of wounded pride and be tempted to act so despotically 
 toward the frail creature whom he had loved so deeply 
 as a young girl, pitied so much as the wife of another, 
 protected so well and so tenderly since their mar- 
 riage. 
 
 From the very beginning of their conversation, the 
 avowal of her reviving piety had disconcerted him. 
 True, he had sometimes feared it without admitting 
 it, and now he found that the inward storm had lasted 
 for months, and that his wife had been able to keep it 
 hidden from him! The discovery filled him with anger, 
 which turned to indignation when Gabrielle uttered the 
 terrible words — "We are not married." The insult 
 hurled thus, and from those lips, at their twelve years of 
 happy intimacy, at the honour of their household, at 
 the dignity of their home, had made his gorge rise. 
 His whole frame had quivered as if he had received a 
 blow in the face. He remained for a few seconds so 
 dumfounded that words at first failed him. He stood 
 in front of Gabrielle, frightened now at what she had 
 
212 A DIVOEOE 
 
 dared to say. Until that moment, the horrible thought 
 that her first marriage, the one blest by the Church, 
 was still valid and that the second, the one without 
 sacraments, was no marriage, had never taken such an 
 acute shape even in her mind. By uttering it, she had 
 given a precise and concrete form, so to speak, to a 
 vague feeling which haunted her and which she could 
 no longer shake off. It was the most intense moment 
 of emotion that husband and wife had experienced in 
 their intercourse since the day when Albert Darras had 
 come to ask Madame de Chambault to begin life afresh 
 with him. 
 
 "We are not married?" he repeated at last. And 
 then, imperiously, brutally: — "Who is the priest who 
 has put that criminal folly into your head? " 
 
 "None," she answered firmly. 
 
 "Who is the priest?" he insisted with an outburst 
 of rage in which the burning fanaticism of the partisan 
 showed itself. " There is one! I was determined to 
 keep the promise I gave when I married you. This is 
 how I am rewarded. You have gone to church with 
 your daughter. You have spoken to priests. They 
 have scented a prey and a rich one. One of them has 
 been entrusted with the task. The happiness of a 
 household not of their making, the harmony of a man 
 and woman who have done without their services, is 
 what they cannot bear. Man and woman must be both 
 made unhappy! The peaceful, respected, happy home 
 
SILENCE 213 
 
 must be shattered! What do these fanatics care! Oh, 
 how I hate them! " 
 
 "Do not accuse any one, Albert/' she entreated, 
 "you have no right to do so. On what do you wish 
 me to swear that no priest has influenced me? On our 
 child? You will believe me if I do. I swear it on 
 her head. I have found faith again by myself alone, 
 quite alone. . . . How and when, I do not know, I 
 saw Jeanne praying, I saw her believing. All the piety 
 of my childhood and youth has returned to me through 
 my daughter. And now I believe. I believe in God. 
 I believe in the Gospel. I believe in the Church. I 
 believe in the sacraments. I can no more pluck these 
 beliefs from my mind than I can pluck daylight from 
 my eyes. For me they are as true, as certain. A 
 priest? Why, if I were to lose faith again, it would be 
 the fault of these priests. Since this crisis began a 
 year ago, I have only seen two, half an hour each. They 
 were so hard, so uncompromising, even the best. The 
 result would have been to cast me back on your ideas if 
 that were possible. Yet one of them is a learned man 
 whom you admire: Father Euvrard." 
 
 " The member of the Institute? " asked Darras, and 
 exasperated by this fresh revelation he continued: 
 
 " Father Euvrard has lent himself to receiving clan- 
 destine visits from a wife without her husband's knowl- 
 edge? And I, who put him in a category quite apart 
 from the members of his species, I who woxild almost 
 
214 A DIVOBOE 
 
 have sympathised with him if he had come into the 
 clutches of the recent laws. How just, how wise those 
 laws are! Father Euvrard! Oh! how infamous! " 
 
 "I repeat I have only seen him once for half an 
 hour. He, too, was so conscious of the irregularity of 
 the step I had taken that he asked me to return only 
 after I had spoken to you of the visit." 
 
 "You told him then that you came without my 
 knowledge? You must have given a reason for doing 
 60 — You put him in possession of our family secrets? " 
 
 " My dear," she interrupted him sadly, " do not think 
 that! I did not mention your name, I should have 
 died rather." 
 
 "What does it matter to me whether he knows my 
 name? " exclaimed Darras. " What does matter is, that 
 you would speak to another man of things about which 
 you were silent to me, that you paid a visit which I did 
 not even suspect. . . . When did you pay it? An- 
 swer." 
 
 "The day before yesterday." 
 
 "Thus" — ^he groaned, "whilst I was devotedly oc- 
 cupied on your behalf with your son's affairs, whilst 
 I was reproaching myself for having to conceal my fears 
 about him from you in order not to cause you anxiety, 
 you were betraying me. Yes, because it is treachery 
 to a man, living as we do, to hide anything from him. 
 And you did not hear that cry of conscience you have 
 just spoken of? You had no remorse for that lie? " 
 
SILENCE 215 
 
 "I, too, did not wish to cause you amdety," she an- 
 swered. " I knew you would be so unhappy at my re- 
 turn to faith. And I felt so much the need to go to 
 Communion with my daughter. For this I wanted to 
 go to Confession." 
 
 " You have gone to Confession? " asked Darras. The 
 bitterness displayed in this question showed stUl greater 
 enmity, the bitterness of the husband for whom the 
 Confessor is no anonymous and impersonal representa- 
 tive of the invisible Judge, but a man who comes be- 
 tween husband and wife. 
 
 " Neither Father Euvrard nor the other priest would 
 receive my confession," replied Gabrielle, "when they 
 learned that I was divorced and had remarried." 
 
 " You admit it then! They told you that your mar- 
 riage was not a marriage," continued Darras. "And 
 you listened to them? You believed them? You do 
 believe them? " 
 
 " All that they told me about our marriage," she re- 
 plied, " I had already learnt from the catechism. For 
 pity's sake, Albert, wait until we have resumed this con- 
 versation before judging me. At the present moment 
 you are not answerable for what you say. Nor am I. 
 And I hear Jeanne coming down. Don't let her suspect 
 anything, I entreat you. She is so sharp. Never, never, 
 let her guess what you think. Don't interfere with her 
 faith, my dear, for the reason I have just mentioned. 
 Oh! promise me! " 
 
216 A DIVOBOE 
 
 " I am a man of my word," said Darras. " It is a 
 principle which will cost me dear. But I am not one 
 of those who allow their ideas to be governed by their 
 impressions. I have given my word. I shall continue 
 to act towards her as I have always done." 
 
 The hands of the small Louis XVI. clock marked 
 twelve o'clock, the hour for lunch. It was a beautiful 
 day in early spring, and the mild sunlight which had 
 shone that very morning on the betrothal of Lucien 
 and Bertha was pouring into the morning-room where 
 stood husband and wife once so united, now threatened 
 with the most cruel, the most pitiless of separations, 
 the separation of beliefs. It played on the window-cur- 
 tains of dark grey guipure; its rays darted along the 
 window-hangings of striped silk, over the polished fur- 
 niture with its delicate festooned designs, its exquisite 
 carving — all somewhat faded but still showing a grace- 
 ful and carefully studied elegance. The happiness 
 which had long found a congenial setting amid all these 
 charming things had now faded completely, and the 
 anxious expression on the faces of Gabrielle and Albert 
 was in striking contrast with the cheerfulness of the 
 room and of the hour. This antithesis was brought 
 home to them more forcibly by the entrance of Jeanne, 
 who came in with a smile on her lips and unconcern 
 in her eyes, followed by her quiet and ungainly gov- 
 erness. Mile. Schultze, whose heavy tread had warned 
 the mother of their approach. Darras was soon able to 
 
SILENOE 217 
 
 verify the correctness of Gabrielle's remark about their 
 child's sharpness. Determined, in accordance with his 
 promise, not to betray his emotion, he had opened a 
 newspaper and was pretending to be absorbed in it. 
 The mother, on the other hand, busied herself with ar- 
 ranging her work-basket. A mere glance enabled the 
 little girl to guess that her father and mother had just 
 assumed this attitude for her sake. She saw that they 
 were labouring under very great excitement. Her dark 
 eyes betrayed all at once an embarrassment. The en- 
 gaging prattle in which her childlike joy of life was 
 about to overflow, stopped abashed upon her lips, and 
 after kissing her parents, she too endeavoured to put 
 on an unconcerned look by turning over the leaves of a 
 picture-book on the table. The instinctive way in 
 which she raised her pretty head at Mile. Schultze's 
 naive question proved, to her mother at least, that her 
 precocious mind had only obtained a glimpse of one of 
 the two dramas which were being enacted under the 
 parental roof. 
 
 " Where can M. Lucien have gone? " the imprudent 
 Fraulein had enquired. " I thought I saw him coming 
 in just now." 
 
 "He was obliged to go away again immediately for 
 a short time," replied Darras. In spite of his horror 
 of opportunist lying, he was obliged to justify his step- 
 son's absence by the pretext of a journey. To begin 
 to lie was so painful to him that he uttered the phrase 
 
218 A DIVORCE 
 
 snappishly. The governess was quite taken aback. 
 Then, cutting short any further question, as they were 
 going into the dining-room, the father said: — "Will 
 Jeannette have a good place at school this week; what 
 was the subject of her essay? " 
 
 " Cosmography, Papa," replied the child. 
 
 "Her paper seemed to me very satisfactory," said 
 Mile. Schidtze. "And it was good for her because it 
 is a science of which she is not particularly fond." 
 
 " Yet it is a fine science, the finest of all perhaps," 
 resumed Darras. "Yes, it is indeed," he continued, 
 speaking to his daughter. "You have been taught 
 mythology, have you not? What a poor show is made 
 by Olympus, Jupiter, Apollo, Diana, compared with 
 the simple reality that is revealed by observation; the 
 earth hurled into space and describing round the sun 
 that path which we can measure to a mile; the other 
 planets also borne in the sun's orbit with a velocity 
 which we likewise measure: the sun in the centre of his 
 people of stars, he himself hanging suspended in space 
 amid the whole economy of his nebula: that nebula, dust 
 of suns all of which have their retinue of satellites, oc- 
 cupying its appointed place in its own system, side by 
 side with other systems extending indefinitely through- 
 out infinite space. What a grandiose and truly poetical 
 vision! And when we think that man, an insignificant 
 mite lost on an imperceptible fragment of the earth's 
 crust, has discovered the eternal laws which govern 
 
SILENCE 219 
 
 those lumraous globes — ^golden nails, as they must have 
 seemed to him, studding the impenetrable vault of 
 heaven — can we fail to admire him for such an achieve- 
 ment? For tools he had only his feeble eyes and his 
 intelligence, but they were sufficient." 
 
 "And how can we fail to admire the God of the 
 Christian's creed, the Creator of Heaven and Earth? " 
 said Madame Darras. She had detected in her hus- 
 band's words not indeed a breach of his promise but a 
 purpose which filled her with dismay. With what 
 astonishment had she not listened when, as will be re- 
 membered. Father Euvrard described Religion and 
 Science as two conterminous and parallel domains 
 which, differ from each other as they may, are yet, in 
 the main, identical? But for too many years she 
 had been too completely dominated by Darras' ideas 
 not to be persuaded of the contrary. And now, as she 
 listened to her husband, she had a dim premonition of 
 a hitherto unforeseen danger; from that day forward 
 he would use any and every opportunity to fill his 
 daughter's mind with the conceptions of Science. To 
 what purpose? if not in the hope that, later, when con- 
 fronted by the opposition between the denial of the 
 supernatural involved in these conceptions, and faith in 
 the supernatural derived from her education, she would 
 choose as he himself had done. The dread of such an 
 alarming possibility drew from the mother a cry of 
 protest to which the father was unable to reply; had he 
 
220 A DIVORCE 
 
 not, a quarter of an hour previously, renewed his under- 
 taking of neutrality? He showed how faithfully he held 
 to it by not carrying discussion any further, and the 
 remainder of lunch was passed in constrained silence. 
 But when he found himself again alone with his wife 
 he took her interruption as a text for continuing the 
 conversation from the point at which he had let it drop. 
 With glad relief, but also with some little fear, she 
 noticed that his tone was no longer harsh. Her con- 
 fession of faith had given her strength to withstand 
 violence, but would she not be powerless against an 
 affectionate and sorrowful complaint? Jeanne had left 
 after offering her forehead to be kissed in turn by her 
 mother and father. At once the latter began: 
 
 "Do you really hold the God of whom you spoke 
 just now, to whom you attribute the creation of heaven 
 and earth and of all the myriad hosts of stars, an al- 
 mighty, infinitely just and good God, capable of pur- 
 suing with his vengeance two creatures, guilty, of what? 
 — of union to found a home — and because the home has 
 been constituted without the aid of a few meaningless 
 ceremonies, that it is criminal, accursed? Note, that 
 I am arguing from your point of view; to my mind an 
 anthropomorphic God is merely the last of the idols 
 which man has fashioned, as has been said by a large- 
 minded priest who incurred thereby, of course, the 
 hatred of his fellow priests. No! law in the universe, 
 conscience in man, that is God. Ask your conscience. 
 
SILENCE 221 
 
 the true conscience, the one that has not been warped 
 by your early education; listen to the voice of your 
 heart, for instance when you have kissed your daugh- 
 ter; and acknowledge that denial of a marriage in which 
 you have given and received nothing but happiness can- 
 not be justified. It is a morbid tendency which you 
 must promise me to resist. To indulge it further would 
 be wrong." 
 
 " You talk as if I were ill," replied Gabrielle, shak- 
 ing her head. "I am not. Do you think that every 
 one of your arguments has not already occurred to me? 
 Do you think that whenever I have felt remorse my 
 whole heart did not protest as I recollected how kind 
 and devoted and considerate you have been, our trust 
 in each other, the loyal confidence that has always 
 reigned between us, and, above all, as I thought of our 
 little Jeanne. All these were joys, dear and sweet joys, 
 but joys that were forbidden us." 
 
 " By the law of the Catholic Church, true," an- 
 swered Darras with the tone of a man who, having 
 made up his miud not to give way to anger, discusses 
 an opinion on its merits and as if his own fate were not 
 at stake. "But let us argue the point. Who pro- 
 claimed the law? Certain men. Other men have pro- 
 claimed other laws, as divorce is permitted by our code 
 and by that of almost all eivUised peoples. And why 
 is the law which forbids more worthy of respect than 
 the one which allows? Answer me calmly. You see 
 
222 A DIVORCE 
 
 how calm I am, how ready to look at your ideas from 
 your standpoint, to try and understand them." 
 
 " Why is the law of the Church more worthy of re- 
 spect?" she said. "Just because it is not the work 
 of man. Whose then? That of God. Ah, forgive 
 me for recalling those words of the gospel which pain 
 me so intensely when I repeat them to myself — and I 
 have been repeating them every day, for months: 
 Whosoever shall put away his wife and marry another 
 committeth adultery against her; and if she herself shall 
 put away her husband and marry another, she com- 
 mitteth adultery. Prove that this is not written. You 
 cannot." 
 
 " No, but, to use your expression, written by whom? 
 The Gospels are not the work of God, as I have proved 
 and can prove to you, but of men. The Gospels tell 
 us about a man, a very great man, the greatest of men, 
 if you like, by his virtues, his purity of mind, his moral 
 loftiness, but still a man and, as such, liable to error. 
 Here, common sense tells us he was in error." 
 
 "You have proved and are proving to me that you 
 do not believe whilst I do believe" answered Gabrielle. 
 " I believe because, like the apostle, I have seen. Yes, 
 with my soul's eyes I have seen Him, who you say was 
 merely a man, working and living in Jeanne's heart. 
 I have seen that child grow in perfection under an in- 
 fluence that could come only from above, that pointed 
 to a spirit, enlightening, guiding, loving her spirit. I 
 
SILENOE 223 
 
 have told you, and I told Father Euvrard, the mother 
 in me was persuaded by that light. I understood that 
 if a piety like my child's was only a lie then everything 
 in the world was a lie, and everything does not, cannot 
 lie. My judgment refuses to admit it. That is the 
 judgment of an ignorant woman, but Father Euvrard 
 is not an ignorant person. He thinks as I do, and 
 not on this point only, on the other too." 
 
 "What other?" asked Darras almost in a tone of 
 distress. It was the anxiety of a man overcome by so 
 sudden a stroke that he is uncertain of the whole ex- 
 tent of his misfortxme. He trembles to think of what 
 remains to be discovered. Once the first shock was 
 over, the husband, so grievously offended in his pride 
 as a man, had made an effort to recover his equanimity. 
 We have seen that he was successful, and that after 
 lunch he had been able to speak quietly to Gabrielle. 
 He had come to the conclusion that he had to deal with 
 a purely sentimental crisis of nervous origin. Extreme 
 patience was the best remedy. Opponent of all preju- 
 dice as he fancied himself, he was prejudiced in this: 
 he went very near confounding religious emotion with 
 hysteria. His fresh conversation with his wife ap- 
 palled him by its revelation of a coherent system, posi- 
 tive conceptions, passionate but precise assertions, in a 
 mind so long modelled on his own. He scarcely rec- 
 ognised her. But did she recognise herself? The vio- 
 lent emotion she had just experienced, had, so to speak. 
 
224 A DIVOROE 
 
 opened a fissure m her conscience through which there 
 gushed out a flood of ideas that had been silently stored 
 up in the innermost recesses of her being. Stirred thus 
 and so deeply, to what length was she not capable of 
 going? It was this unknown element that terrified 
 Darras. What had been the advice given to her by 
 Father Buvrard, the remembrance of which haunted 
 her so persistently? To go away doubtless, to leave the 
 second husband who in the eyes of the bigoted priest 
 and now in her own, alas! was only a lover under a 
 legal name. How hard it would be to have even to 
 struggle against such a project. Consequently he felt 
 real relief when he heard Gabrielle answer: — " Our 
 troubles with Lucien were absolutely unknown to M. 
 Euvrard as they were to me; I learned them from you 
 after I left him and came here, and thus could not tell 
 him anything abo.ut them. As long as I live I shall 
 never forget his predicting them to me. When you told 
 me of the scene with that unfortunate boy I shuddered. 
 Father Euvrard had just foretold it. Do you think I 
 am dreaming? Fathers and mothers judged and con- 
 demned hy their son, — deadly conflicts between step- 
 father and stepson, horrible disputes between former 
 husband and wife concerning their son's marriage. 
 Those were his words. I remember them aU. He 
 enumerated all the catastrophes he had seen falling on 
 homes like ours. It was our story he was telling me. 
 Answer me. Just now, did not Lucien pass judgment 
 
SILENCE 225 
 
 on us? Did" he not condemn us? Did you not ex- 
 change words which were like stabs with a knife? 
 They entered my heart and tore it. Did Lucien not 
 tell yon that to get married, he only required one con- 
 sent legally, his father's. And if he went to ask it on 
 leaving us, what can I do, save begin the struggle with 
 M. de Chambault over again? What a struggle! How 
 cruel it will be for me. Ah, every one of the priest's 
 words, every threat of punishment will be realised." 
 
 " And you do not wish me to think you are ill? " said 
 Albert, taking her hand. He drew her to him with 
 a gesture that betokened support and protection, and 
 she did not resist. " Why, it is my duty to be strong 
 for you and to cure you. Once more I repeat, just 
 consider a little. I dispute neither the mathematical 
 attainments of Father Euvrard nor the sincerity of his 
 religious convictions. Yet if he had not displayed 
 more logical acumen in his works than in the so-caUed 
 predictions which you relate, he would not be a mem- 
 ber of the Institute. It only proves that, as Kenan 
 said of one of his masters at Saint Sulpice, he has 
 water-tight compartments in his brain. The geome- 
 trician is in one and the visionary in another. For in 
 fact, when Lucien dared to say to me that you were 
 his mother before being my wife, it was your second 
 marriage he reproached us with. If you had made 
 that second marriage as a widow instead of as a divorced 
 woman, the reproach would have been the same. If I 
 
226 A DIVOEOE 
 
 had married you as a widow the unfortunate boy's dis- 
 position would have clashed just as keenly with mine 
 over his absurd project. As to the project itself, con- 
 sider it again. Lucien has not gone to M. de Cham- 
 bault to ask the consent that you refuse him. He will 
 not go. It would be an insult to you of which I still 
 think him incapable even in his madness. If he did 
 go, you have the decree of the court giving you the 
 custody of the child. But sufficient for the day is the 
 evil thereof. My object has been to show you from the 
 facts, as far as we are now in possession of them, that 
 between your divorce and the troubles that have over- 
 taken you, there is no relationship of cause and effect. 
 The Church admits the second marriage of a widower 
 or widow. Though I make no pretence to erudition I 
 can even remember that the prescription of such mar- 
 riages was accounted a heresy by certain theologians. 
 If you had made a second marriage in such conditions, 
 once more I say, Father Euvrard woidd have no 
 right to reproach you and yet your trials would be the 
 same." 
 
 " No," answered Gabrielle, " not the same. I should 
 have Lucien's esteem. If I had been a widow we should 
 have been married by the Church, and then he would 
 not have had the right to compare our marriage to the 
 one which he proposes to make." 
 
 " And which he shall not make! " interrupted Darras 
 energetically. His wife's allusion to the different, and 
 
SILENCE 227 
 
 in her eyes evidently superior, character which would 
 have invested their marriage under other circumstances, 
 had, as before, kindled in his eyes a flash of indignant 
 fury. The energy with which he asserted the failure 
 of Lucien's schemes was the only indication of his emo- 
 tion. He mastered his feelings at once, thoroughly de- 
 termined not to depart again from the attitude of pro- 
 tecting indulgence which he had taken up instinctively 
 with all the spontaneity and rapidity of a physiological 
 reaction. When a man and woman have lived like 
 these two in absolute intimacy for several years, hiding 
 nothing from each other, disputing about nothing, mak- 
 ing only one, the sudden manifestation of a principle 
 of ineradicable divergency produces at first a harrow- 
 ing pain and then an immediate effort at reunion. Be- 
 fore admitting that they vrill never more beat as one, 
 these two hearts endeavour to seize each other fast 
 again, to unite with all the love that is still left in them, 
 as if they hoped to shatter, to crush, to annihilate, in 
 a supreme moral embrace the fatal germ which has riot 
 yet accomplished its work of separation. Both labour 
 at this task with their special faculties. In his mar- 
 ried life, Darras had become accustomed to treat 
 GabrieUe as a creature disarmed against fate and re- 
 quiring to be defended. By marrying her he had de- 
 fended her against her first husband, then against the 
 malevolence of the world towards divorced women, and 
 recently against her son. It was now necessary to de- 
 
228 A DIVOEOE 
 
 fend her against herself. How? One thing stood out 
 clearly amid the many confidences of which her troubled 
 soul had unburdened itself. It was Lucien's marriage 
 with an unworthy woman which had materialised the 
 vague scruples that haunted her imagination. In it she 
 had seen a palpable verification of the threats by which 
 a priest, an imprudent one to say the least, had, instead 
 of calming her ardent imagination, excited it still more. 
 Provided that this marriage did not take place, that 
 Lucien returned home, affectionate as of yore, that 
 their peaceful, regular, happy family life was re- 
 sumed, the effect would disappear with the cause. 
 The nightmare would vanish and with it that at- 
 tack of superstitious terror. It would be the hus- 
 band's duty to diminish the chances of a return 
 to religious mania; he would surround his wife with 
 a still more loving solicitude, he would conquer one 
 by one the false ideas which her return with her daugh- 
 ter into the fatal atmosphere of Catholic devotion had 
 revived in her. The task would be easy because 
 Jeanne's first Communion would be over in a few weeks. 
 Having kept his word, the father would be free in his 
 turn to take his daughter's education in hand. It 
 would be an episode as painful as unexpected, but an 
 episode only, out of which their household would come 
 unscathed, and so much the quicker the sooner this de- 
 plorable affair of Lucien was settled. All these 
 thoughts, some confused, the last very distinct, had 
 
SILENCE 229 
 
 risen in Darras' mind in the course of his conversation 
 with Gabrielle. They concentrated in the resolve to 
 prevent his stepson's marriage at any cost, a resolve 
 which he confirmed by repeating: 
 
 "No, this marriage of Lncien shall not take place. 
 I have a sure way of preventing it. You will then 
 understand, when you have your son back cured of his 
 folly, that Father Euvrard's words mean nothing, ab- 
 solutely nothing. For Lucien will return. I guar- 
 antee that., And' you will then no longer think your- 
 self punished for an imaginary fault. Once again we 
 shall live together on the same terms as formerly. I 
 guarantee that also. All I ask you is never to be ret- 
 icent again. Think aloud with me. I wish you to 
 be as happy as you have been, with the same complete 
 happiness, springing from the union of our two hearts 
 and minds. We have known that happiness, we shall 
 know it again." 
 
 There was so much conviction in the tone of his 
 assurances, his eyes betrayed such ardent devotion — 
 Gabrielle submitted once more for a moment to the spell 
 of a personality on which her own had leant so much. 
 The total absence of ill-feeling towards Lucien which she 
 noticed in Darras after such a violent dispute, in which 
 the young man had shown so much ingratitude, touched 
 her as wife and mother. To have spoken in this way, 
 to be free from the silence that had weighed upon her, 
 gave her even in her troubles a feeling of deliverance 
 
230 A DIVOECE 
 
 which was displayed in an outburst of affection. She 
 threw herself into her husband's arms as she said: 
 
 "I love you! I want to know nothing more! Let 
 my soul be lost, but let me never leave you, never! " 
 
 "It shall not be lost and you shall not leave me. 
 But" — he looked at his watch — "time presses. We 
 must act to-day." 
 
 "You will try to see Lucien again," she asked, 
 trembling. " In his excited state, I am afraid." 
 
 " I am not going to see him again," continued Darras. 
 " Only give me full liberty to act, and have confidence. 
 His marriage shall not take place. I give you my word 
 and you know that I keep my promises." 
 
 Had the husband that confidence which he tried in 
 this way to inspire, to impose almost on his wife? Did 
 he really possess the sure method of which he had pro- 
 claimed the infallible efiicacy? When he had left 
 Gabrielle somewhat calmed by his forcible assertions, 
 his countenance was far from showing the certainty of 
 success which he had simulated rather than felt. His 
 object was at any cost to cut short a fit of despair too 
 painful alike for her who was attacked and for him, 
 the powerless onlooker. 
 
 He had scarcely left the house when he took a cab 
 and drove to the Place Beauvau to the Home Office. 
 In the campaign upon which he had decided in order 
 to keep his promise and prevent a marriage, which 
 threatened to have such far-reaching effects on the 
 
SILENCE 231 
 
 mother, this was the first step to be taken. It was 
 necessary to find out, as he had said the evening be- 
 fore, whether official and consequently indisputable evi- 
 dence would not enable him to convict Mile. Planat of 
 lying. His opinion was unaltered; she had acted a 
 comedy for Lucien, who would only cease to be de- 
 ceived by it when it was proved that she had had more 
 than one lover, a fact of which Darras felt sure. Mejan 
 was not the only one who had crossed her path. All 
 that story of a " Free Union," contracted between two 
 consciences, through hatred of imjust laws and a bar- 
 barous society, seemed to him a fairy-tale carefully con- 
 structed for a simple-minded visionary of twenty-three. 
 Had he foreseen the full extent of her daring imposture, 
 he would certainly have provided himself at the outset 
 with more complete information about her. If he got 
 this, it would still be in time, as Lucien, in spite of all 
 his infatuation and of the heat engendered by his alter- 
 cation with his parents, had remained true to his ideals. 
 He had not said: "I love Mile. Planat and I will marry 
 her in spite of everything," but "I respect her and 
 therefore I will marry her." Destroy this absurd feel- 
 ing of respect and the whole dangerous project would 
 be destroyed. All the romantic dream of rehabilitating 
 a wrongly judged woman would fade away. And even 
 if, as was always possible, however unlikely, the new 
 enquiry were to fail, other steps could still be taken and 
 would certainly be successful. A bribe, if sufficiently 
 
232 A DIVOBOE 
 
 high, would always prevail upon the adventuress to 
 abandon her victim. Darras was both scrupulous and 
 refined; he recoiled from buying a conscience, even 
 though he despised its owner; the idea of mercenary bar- 
 gaining was in the last degree distasteful to him; the 
 mere fact of instructing the detective of the Grand- 
 Comptoir had been extremely painful to him. He 
 shrank far less from applying to the Home Ofi&ce; to a 
 man of his formalist and somewhat conventional views, 
 the use of the governmental machinery masked the real 
 nature of the work he wanted done. The high official 
 to whom he made his application promised that within 
 a fortnight all the information at his disposal should 
 be put together. Darras returned to his office, from 
 which he had never before absented himself without 
 giving formal notice. He now really hoped, whereas 
 in his interview with Gabrielle he had only affected to 
 hope, oblivious of the fact that his estimate of Mile. 
 Planat's character formed the sole basis of his hopes. 
 And yet, when he found himself alone again before his 
 work table, he fell into such deep melancholy as to be 
 incapable of any effort. Twice that day had he been 
 wounded, and each time in the tenderest, most sensitive 
 feelings of his heart. Lucien had shown at this second 
 interview that his sentiments of the previous day were 
 no mere hasty outbreak of anger. They betokened a 
 deep-seated resolution. At forty-eight hours' interval 
 his anger had manifested itself in the same way, with 
 
SILENCE 233 
 
 the same spontaneity, each time in accents of resentful 
 bitterness, intense hatred. And he himself, cabn as he 
 now was, noted with astonishment an answering bitter- 
 ness in his own heart which would not be appeased. 
 Husband of a divorced woman, he had been proud of 
 two things: he had flattered himself on having entirely 
 supplanted the real father in the stepson's heart, and 
 now his feeling towards that stepson was one of com- 
 monplace instinctive aversion. To evoke this feeling 
 a few words had sufficed: " She was my mother before 
 she was your wife." How proud, too, he had been of 
 the fact that his home-life, despite its compromising 
 origin, had been maintained at the level of the highest 
 religious ideal, in the moral and spiritual imity, the 
 lofty and delicate fidelity which subsisted between hus- 
 band and wife, and now she, his wife, was dissatisfied 
 with it, was faithless to it, say what she might. For 
 is there a worse form of faithlessness than remorse? 
 Darras was masterful; one after another he had realised 
 the most ambitious dreams of his youth, thanks to his 
 persistent and patient energy. But it was not alone the 
 double failure of his most dearly cherished aspirations 
 that tortured him. He still loved Gabrielle with the 
 exclusive passion of a yoimg lover, even if years and 
 habit had somewhat abated his ardour. The thought 
 that her woman's soid was no longer wholly his; that, 
 unperceived by him, sentiments and ideas of the most 
 intimate, the most deeply seated character, and alas! 
 
234 A DIVOEOE 
 
 hostile to his own, had sprung up and flourished there 
 — all this filled him with a shuddering sense of pain 
 and revolt. The spasm of jealousy was as acute, as 
 piercing as that which would have convulsed him had 
 the faithlessness been of another kind. There, before 
 his eyes, Gabrielle was kneeling as he had seen her when 
 he dragged Lucien into her room. The sight filled him 
 with inexpressible bitterness. The husband in him, but 
 not alone the husband, was wounded; still more in- 
 tensely was the fanatic affected, the uncompromising 
 sectary for whom Catholicism had always been the great 
 national sin, the ages-old poison to be eliminated at all 
 costs. How right he had been in hating religion as 
 one hates a living being, religion ever ready to intrigue, 
 to intermeddle with those who flattered themselves they 
 were wholly rid of it. But he would not let himself 
 be thrust out of his happiness, he would not, without a 
 struggle, give up to the Church, that incarnate lie, a 
 soul which was big, a treasure which he had won at 
 the cost of so many years! He would struggle and he 
 would overcome. A little while before and he had 
 feigned confidence for Gabrielle's sake, now he drilled 
 himself into it by the energy with which he repeated 
 " I shall conquer," and when his colleague, Delaitre, ' 
 who had offered to take Lucien with him on his trip 
 round the world, came into his room, it was in all 
 good faith he said: 
 
 " My stepson has not quite made up his mind, but in 
 
srLENOE 235 
 
 a week I hope to give you a definite answer and that he 
 will be able to go with you." 
 
 Whilst Darras, systematically optimistic as he was, 
 was thus discounting the result of his application to the 
 Home Office, his wife's mind was working in a similar 
 groove of hopes and fears with a result, however, the 
 very opposite of what he expected. For him the appli- 
 cation was a stage in the process of breaking off Lucien's 
 marriage; once this was accomplished he coidd easily 
 cure her of her religious anxieties. She had fully 
 understood when her husband left her in such a con- 
 fident mood that he meant to open a more searching en- 
 quiry into Mile. Planaf s past. Once alone, she gave her- 
 self up to long refiections on the whole situation and she 
 found in them new reasons for hope. Lucien's pro- 
 fession of esteem for Mile. Planat had struck her as it 
 had done her husband. Let her unworthiness be 
 proved and he would break with her. The proof must be 
 unanswerable, but in that case it would certainly suffice. 
 Yes, but would it? . . . Gabrielle answered this ques- 
 tion in the affirmative as her husband had done. Be- 
 sides, Albert had probably thought of some other plan. 
 Had she been accustomed to face the realities of life, 
 she would soon have run over in her mind all the few 
 possibilities of action which the situation allowed of. 
 But carefully preserved for years, as she had been, from 
 all contact with life, what sense of reality could she 
 have? The words "family-council," "legal sequestra- 
 
236 A DIVOEOE 
 
 tion," flitted vaguely through her mind, as offering a 
 possible means of success. What need had she to know 
 in all its details the nature of Albert's effort; she knew 
 he would act loyally, devotedly, efficaciously, for was 
 he not courageous and intelligent? No: her son should 
 not marry that girl. She, too, straiued her will to 
 force conviction upon herself. Grievously, however, 
 was Darras mistaken in his reckoning. The very 
 chance of success fed in her the flame of religious 
 ardour which he fondly hoped to extinguish. What 
 had happened? This. In the interval between the 
 first interview with Lucien and Darras' departure she 
 had taken a decisive step, she had spoken, and in so 
 doing had obeyed Father Euvrard. At once her horizon 
 had cleared even when it seemed darkest. She remem- 
 bered the priest's words, " You may be able to deserve 
 the favour of God." . . . True, the prudent Oratorian 
 had ended " in a certain measure," emphasising thereby 
 the difference which Catholic theology, humane in spite 
 of all its inflexibility, establishes between the state of 
 Grace with its incommensurable superiority, and that 
 of purely natural good will. She overlooked the dis- 
 tinction; had not the priest recalled the right possessed 
 by every pleading soul in virtue of the greal promise: 
 "Ask and it shall be given you"? Surely she had 
 deserved in the priest's sense by professing the faith 
 she had so long kept hidden. And what more manifest 
 sign of divine approval of her sacrifice than her hus- 
 
SILENOE 237 
 
 band's acquiescence after the firet chock of eurpriee and 
 anger? The day before, this morning even, she had 
 done nothing to deserve a favourable answer to her 
 prayers, but now . . . She had expiated her unspoken 
 falsehood, Albert knew all her thoughts, henceforth she 
 would be able to submit her life, irregular though it 
 was, to the chastening discipline which Father Buvrard 
 had indicated. True, there was no question of formal 
 re-entry into the Church, of the ardently longed for 
 participation in her sacraments, of the complete for- 
 giveness of the fault in which she had persisted so 
 blindly and so long before she recognised its nature and 
 extent. But nevertheless hers would be a Christian life, 
 maimed and imperfect it might be, but still such as to 
 merit the compassion of infinite Goodness, as to deserve 
 the cessation of her recent sufferings. Let Darras but 
 succeed, as he had promised, in preventing this mar- 
 riage with all its accompanying dishonour, let him re- 
 store her son, and these days of agony culminating in 
 the last agonising scene, might mark the dawn of her 
 soul's new-found salvation! 
 
 Thus the afternoon was comparatively calm, as was 
 also the evening, in spite of the strange and penetrating 
 sadness which affected her mind. She ought, one 
 would have thought, to have felt at ease concerning her 
 husband, after the frank unburdening of her heart and 
 his affectionately expressed desire for perfect confidence 
 in the future. She was soon to learn that households in 
 
238 A DIVOECE 
 
 which husband and wife know nothing of each other 
 are not those which truly suffer from the curse of 
 mutual reticence, but rather those where every secret 
 thought is known to both, but where neither dares give 
 them open expression for fear of wounding the other. 
 What a contrast was the present evening with the many 
 she had spent in the same room, Albert's study, she 
 working, he reading aloud, discussing the newspaper, 
 the politics of the day. At other times, what pleasant 
 interchanges of thought on some point that interested 
 both equally: Lucien's future, that of Jeanne. On such 
 occasions Darras would expound his social views, ac- 
 cepted then by her without cavil. How she had re- 
 joiced in presenting her mind to her husband as a mir- 
 ror which reflected only his thoughts, and which loved 
 him. And now . . . she sat in her usual arm-chair 
 at the fireside; within reach was a little table with her 
 basket of wools and silks for her embroidery; her needle 
 pricked the canvas mechanically, and she kept her eyes 
 lowered lest they met her husband's look. He, too, sat 
 at his desk, writing busily on the feigned pretext of 
 arrears of correspondence. When the pen ceased to 
 scratch the paper her heart contracted in a nervous 
 dread lest the afternoon's discussion should begin 
 again. No; the pen resumed writing. ... On the 
 other side of the fireplace was a low chair where Lucien 
 used to sit when, before leaving for his period of mili- 
 tary service he had spent his leisure-evenings with them. 
 
SILENCE 239 
 
 Gabrielle's eyes were fixed upon the reminiscences of 
 their past happiness with a passionate yearning that 
 filled them with tears. With her mind's eye she saw 
 her son in the company of the wretched creature who 
 had led him so profoundly astray, and who, to have 
 gained such a hold over him, must have acted, must 
 still be acting, an odious comedy of simulated modesty. 
 What a contrast in their respective positions. Whilst 
 the parents were suffering the grief of estrangement, 
 the son was enjoying with his paramour an intimacy all 
 the more hateful to the wife and mother because it 
 was a hypocritical parody of true home life! She had 
 the vision of Bertha absorbed in her work, of Lucien's 
 eyes fixed upon her with the passionate devotion which 
 had so impressed Darras when he first saw them to- 
 gether. The vision became an hallucination, and she 
 began to tremble for the success of her husband's efforts, 
 a success in which she had so ardently desired to believe. 
 She was tempted to question him, but she did not dare. 
 To tranquUlise her mind she forced herself to think of 
 her little girl to whose prayers she had just been listen- 
 ing. Surely God would be unable to refuse her credit 
 for the child's soul which she had defended against the 
 father's unbelief. Silently, she put up her supplica- 
 tions to the God whose succouriifg aid was more than 
 ever necessary to her harassed soul. Our Father which 
 art in Heaven . . . how these words, uttered in 
 Jeann&'s fervent tones, re-awoke in her the half -effaced 
 
240 A DIVOEOE 
 
 traces of her early piety! The hours slipped by to the 
 monotonous rhythm of the clock, the loud ticking of 
 which, mingled with the intermittent rumbling of the 
 traffic, alone broke the quiet of the spacious room, until, 
 midnight having struck, she rose, almost mechanically, 
 from her dreams and prepared to go to bed. She folded 
 her work and came to say good-night to her husband, as 
 her custom was when he had pressing business to finish 
 and stayed up late. On such occasions he slept in his 
 dressing-room in order not to disturb her. When she 
 rose, he seemed as if he were about to ask her a ques- 
 tion. But after a moment's hesitation he took leave of 
 her with a kiss and the words: 
 
 " Ah, if ever death separates us, how much you will 
 regret having spoilt our happiness for the sake of such 
 wild fancies." 
 
 As she remained silent, he let her go and sat down 
 again to his work. When she had left the room he 
 buried his face in his hands and wept silently and long. 
 He little thought that Gabrielle, kneeling at her bed- 
 side, was praying for strength to enable her to keep him 
 at a distance, and thus realise the sacrifice of which she 
 had spoken to Father Euvrard: "Until then, although 
 I share his home, I shall live with him as a sister with 
 her brother." 
 
 The feeling that when together each was most alone, 
 most separated from the other by an impassable barrier. 
 
STLSITOE 241 
 
 this feeling which was crushing her, was one that in- 
 creased instead of diminishing with the lapse of time. 
 When husband and wife have allowed a barrier of reti- 
 cence to grow up between them, every day makes it 
 harder to break it down. To meet again when one has 
 parted and left so much unsaid, exasperates the quiver- 
 ing sensitiveness which prefers silence, even, to the 
 agony of separation and misunderstanding. Thus, when 
 Gabrielle and Albert met on the morrow, they at once 
 and instinctively knew that the constraint of the previ- 
 ous evening still subsisted, that in each other's pres- 
 ence they were paralysed. In the depths of her look 
 was still manifest the apprehension of which he now 
 knew the cause only too weU, whilst his eyes, his fore- 
 head, his whole being wore an aspect of uncomplaining, 
 patient sadness, the mute reproach of which was more 
 bitter to her than any complaint. They followed their 
 customary practice of breakfasting in Madame Darras' 
 room. As usual she remained in bed, charming in her 
 dainty bed-jacket, her beautiful hair simply dressed. 
 Whilst they breakfasted at the little table by the bed- 
 side, it was her habit to talk over all her plans, great 
 and small, with her husband. To-day this reminder of 
 their long and tender intimacy hurt them both by the 
 contrast it evoked of what had been and what was. 
 Again, each had the clear perception of the other's 
 suffering. But how is it possible to speak aloud of 
 such emotions? Tacitly, they confined the conversa- 
 
242 A DIVOEOE 
 
 tion to the one point on which they were sure of agree- 
 ment. 
 
 "Lucien will probably sent for some more clothes," 
 said Darras. " I would advise you to see the messenger 
 yourself if I am not in." 
 
 " Why? " she asked. 
 
 "To ascertain his address. I know that he is too 
 proud to withhold it. We want to be able to send him 
 his monthly allowance if matters are not settled as 
 promptly as we hope. With twelve pounds a month 
 he will be able to live without getting into difficulties; 
 he wUl see, too, that our feelings are unchanged, that 
 his home is always open to him. I only advise this as 
 a measure of precaution, as I hope that everything will 
 be settled before the end of the month." 
 
 The emotion with which Gabrielle thanked him 
 seemed to close rather than to open his heart, and he 
 hurriedly left the room. Happily for her, pressing 
 household duties prevented her from dwelling too much 
 on the significance of her husband's new attitude to- 
 wards her son. Darras was about to show as much 
 zeal, as much delicacy of feeling in Lucien's cause as 
 heretofore. But he had not forgiven him; he did not 
 mean to forgive him. All the more was it necessary 
 to spare a man so cruelly wounded any fresh annoy- 
 ance. She knew what stress he laid upon her strict 
 accomplishment of all her social duties. It was Satur- 
 day, her at-home day. She paid more than usual at- 
 
SILENCE 243 
 
 tention. to details which as a rule were rather tedious to 
 her, decorating the drawing-room with flowers, ordering 
 the refreshments, and dressing. Thus the hours of that 
 day were spent and Gabrielle felt relieved at being able 
 to calm the fever of her mind by manual occupations 
 and afterwards by small talk with her visitors. They 
 were to dine out, which was still another relief, and 
 perhaps the soothing of her nerves by being compelled 
 to divert her mind would have resulted in an overflow 
 of affection which would have brought them together 
 again, if during the dinner given to a minister by a 
 senator of the Left, she had not heard across the table, 
 in spite of the hubbub of the waiting and conversation, 
 Darras dilating with a virulence which betrayed a bitter 
 personal feeling on the dangers of the education given 
 by the religious associations. He could not help look- 
 ing at her as he epoke. He knew that she had heard 
 him. The result was that their drive back was as silent 
 as the previous evening had been, still more so, since, 
 on saying good-night at the bedroom door before sepa- 
 rating, the husband did not utter the tender words of 
 reproach with which they had parted for the night 
 twenty-four hours before. The mists of silence had 
 become denser around them. 
 
 How long would such a position last, a position 
 cruelly painful to both, but creating at least no new 
 incidents? It is not by days, but by weeks and months 
 that such crises are measured, and particularly in house- 
 
244 A DTVOEOE 
 
 holds like this one, where neither side is really in the 
 wrong. On Gabrielle's part, the desire to mortify her 
 heart, to redeem, to atone for her years of forbidden 
 happiness — on Albert's part, the husband's wounded 
 pride and genuine hatred for his wife's religious ideas, 
 were in danger of prolonging indefinitely a state of 
 expectation agonising for both. Expectation? Neither 
 he nor she could have said of what. Sunday succeeded 
 Saturday without any other incident except Gabrielle's 
 departure for Mass with Jeanne. Looking back from 
 the street she could see Darras' figure outlined behind 
 a window of their house. He was watching their de- 
 parture for church — the hostile citadel which threatened 
 to swallow up his wife and daughter, his daughter and 
 wife, all he loved on earth — and honour forbade him to 
 put himself in opposition to practices which had dealt 
 a mortal blow at his family life. Gabrielle felt his look 
 fixed upon her and following her, even as she knelt be- 
 fore the altar. There, however, a coincidence in which 
 she all but saw an almost supernatural encouragement, 
 comforted her. She had the habit, usual with people 
 who have long been absent from the church-services, of 
 looking for the Epistles and Gospels in her prayer-book. 
 She would read first the lessons for the day, then those 
 of the day preceding and following. It was the fourth 
 Sunday in Lent and she read first the passage: — 
 " Brethren, it is written that Abraham had two sons; " 
 then, " After these things Jesus passed to the other side 
 
SILENOE 245 
 
 of the sea of Galilee," and turning over the next pages 
 her eyes alighted on the Gospel for the following 
 Thursday which tells of the raising of the son of the 
 widow of Nain. "And Jesus restored Mm to his 
 mother " seemed so exactly to suit her own position that 
 it impressed her as a promise. It enabled her to bear 
 the living reproach conveyed in her husband's appear- 
 ance behind the curtain; to meet him on her return 
 without an utter sinking of the heart within her; to bear 
 the weight of silence during all that Sunday and all the 
 following Monday; to accept without murmur an uncer- 
 tainty which in its torturing anxiety doubled at times 
 the sadness of her present relations with Darras. He 
 went out that Sunday afternoon alone. Had he taken 
 any steps? He did not teU her. On Monday he went 
 out in the morning and in the afternoon. Had he done 
 anything? Nothing as yet. How far had he got with 
 the plan announced so confidently? Was he still as 
 certain of preventing his stepson's marriage? What 
 was he doing and what were the people doing whom he 
 had set in motion? Gabrielle was eager to know. But 
 what was the use of putting these questions? She 
 would know the answer in time; and now she was sure 
 that it would be favourable. 
 
 Such was her frame of mind when on Tuesday morn- 
 ings that is to say exactly four days since the discussion 
 with Lucien, a most tinexpected incident suddenly re- 
 called her to the brutal reality of the situation so far 
 
246 A DIVORCE 
 
 as her son was concerned. By the nine-o'clock post 
 she received a letter in an unknown handwriting and 
 bearing a seal, the sight of which made her tremble 
 from head to foot. On it she read the name of one 
 of the largest firms of lawyers in Paris, at the head of 
 which was M. de Chambault's solicitor, M. Mounier, 
 Her emotion was so great that she could scarcely open 
 the envelope. The solicitor merely asked permission to 
 call that same Tuesday at half-past one to speak to 
 Madame Darras on a matter of pressing business. 
 GabrieUe had not the least doubt as to what was meant. 
 She ran to her husband with the letter in her hand. 
 Her deadly paleness frightened him, and forgetting his 
 grievances of the preceding days he took her in his arms 
 with an eagerness in which love alone was manifested. 
 
 " Here," she groaned, embracing him and giving him 
 the letter: "Look. It is about Lucien and that mar- 
 riage. You were mistaken and I guessed rightly. He 
 has gone to ask the consent of " 
 
 She stopped. M. de Chambault's name was too hard 
 for her to pronounce at that moment of supreme in- 
 dignation against the measure, so full of insult to- 
 wards her, which her son had dared to take. The flash 
 of mystic hope which had sustained her for two days 
 was changed to a terror equally mystic. Again she be- 
 held punishment from on high "proceeding," as the 
 Oratorian had said, "from the fault." Her first hus- 
 band was coming back into her life, striking at the very 
 
SILENCE 247 
 
 heart of her second home, and Darras could feel her lean- 
 ing on him, clutching him convulsively with her hand. 
 
 "Be calm, my love," he said as tenderly as if the 
 tragic misunderstanding of that week had never occurred. 
 " Rely upon me to guard and protect you." And read- 
 ing the letter, he said: — "I cannot think that Lucien 
 has acted as you think. But if he has, his rash act 
 wiU be of no use to him. I have promised you that this 
 marriage should not take place and it shall not. You 
 will receive the solicitor at half -past one as he requests, 
 and I shall be there. It is my duty to take your inter- 
 ests in hand and vindicate your rights. I am the head 
 of the family. Once more you will see that it is a 
 question of something else. I am morally sure of it. 
 What you dread is impossible." 
 
 His words were too clearly belied by his whole 
 attitude to calm in the poor woman an anxiety which 
 Jeanne herself noticed, for when they were alone dur- 
 ing the morning, she kissed her mother so passionately 
 that the latter was moved, and feeling that her child 
 guessed her sorrow and pitied her, she could not restrain 
 the imprudent exclamation: 
 
 " Oh! my darling. You love me! You will not leave 
 me! " 
 
 " Yes, I love you," replied the little girl, " I will not 
 leave you. Mamma. If you promise not to be sad any 
 more I shall make a vow on the day of my first Com- 
 munion never to mariy, so that I may never leave you." 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE UNPOBESBEN 
 
 Was this merely one of those lofty flights to which 
 youth in its generous ardour not unnaturally soars? 
 Or had some casual sentence set the child's mind to 
 work, warned as she had been already by her brother's 
 long and inexplicable absence? In any case the curious 
 correspondence between the naive proof of affection sug- 
 gested by the child's imagination and the cause of her 
 own disagreement with Lucien caused the poor mother 
 still further agitation. When at the time appointed 
 M. Mounier's card was handed to her she had worked 
 herself into such a state of nervous excitement as to have 
 actually lost her voice. Indeed so inaudible was the 
 tone of the first words in which she welcomed the notary 
 and presented him to her husband that the lawyer offered 
 to withdraw and return when she should have some- 
 what recovered. 
 
 " We prefer, Sir," said Darras, " to know the object 
 of your visit at once. You are acquainted with my 
 title. You will address yourself to me." 
 
 " That would not be altogether in order," said M, 
 Mounier, after a moment's hesitation, "if there were 
 
TBE UNFOBESEEN 249 
 
 any question of an official application. But my only 
 object in asking Madame Darras for this interview was 
 to be of service, and I see nothing but advantage in 
 explaining myself before you. Sir, although the matter 
 which I have to discuss with Madame is, from the point 
 of view of the Code, exclusively personal to her. You 
 know, I believe, that I am M. de Chambaulf s notary? " 
 
 He spoke with the elaborate courtesy peculiar to 
 members of his profession, behind whose politeness can 
 be readily distinguished that invincible weapon, the 
 Code, to which he had made direct allusion. In the 
 flash of a moment his naturally pleasant features had 
 darkened at the engineer's decided tone of voice. He 
 was a man of fifty-five, small and with delicate features 
 and a very sharp eye behind his tortoise-shell pince-nez, 
 a thorough man of the world, who had always been at 
 home in the club-world and in society as well as in his 
 own office. He changed colour slightly, but did not 
 abandon his conciliatory accent even when Darras re- 
 plied: 
 
 " I thought that the Code ruled that a married woman 
 had nothing exclusively personal to her. But let us 
 see. Sir, what the matter is." 
 
 "It is a proposal of marriage," said the notary, 
 "made by M. Lucien de Chambault, and for which he 
 must ask the consent of Madame Darras." 
 
 " He has asked for this consent," interrupted Darras, 
 "and we have refused to give it." 
 
250 A DIVOEOE 
 
 "Here, Sir," urged M. Mounier, "I find myself 
 obliged to recall my remarks of a minute ago. This 
 is one of the very rare cases in which your personality 
 cannot intervene in any manner, legally at least. You 
 will excuse my emphasising a point that is possibly pain- 
 ful. Madame Darras was a divorced woman when you 
 married her. Now the divorce has no retrospective effect. 
 The law may indeed declare the marriage dissolved, 
 but dissolution is not annulment. M. Lucien de Cham- 
 bault is the son of M. de Chambault and the lady who 
 was Madame de Chambault. For the time being she 
 becomes Madame de Chambault again. Being under 
 twenty-five years of age the young man caimot marry 
 without asking the consent of Ms parents, divorced or 
 not, in accordance with Article 148, and his mother has 
 no need of any authority to reply to his request." 
 
 " Well, Sir," corrected Darras, " Madame Darras has, 
 refused her consent." 
 
 "So I understood," returned the notary, "and that 
 is the reason of my visit. I must first remind you. Sir, 
 and Madame Darras herself that this refusal on her 
 part has no prohibitive character. Article 148 is very 
 clear: in case of disagreement between two parents, the 
 father's will prevails." 
 
 "Even if the divorce was granted against him?" in- 
 terrupted the second husband. "And if the custody 
 of the child has been withdrawn from him? Impos- 
 sible." 
 
THE UNFORESEEN 251 
 
 ) 
 
 ** Yes, even so," replied M. Mounier. " With or with- 
 out the custody of the child the power of the father re- 
 mains intact." 
 
 "But why?" cried Darras. "Do you mean to tell 
 me that when society by its courts of law has ruled that 
 a father is incapable of properly bringing up his daugh- 
 ter or his son, and the mother alone has devoted herself 
 to their education, that then, in so critical a question 
 as the choice of a husband or a wife, it is the will of the 
 unworthy father which is to decide? That is mon- 
 strous. . , ." 
 
 "lUogical," said the notary, "but not imreasonable. 
 It is a relic from the old law which ordained that once 
 a family always a family. Indeed the first family is 
 not entirely destroyed even by divorce, for the right of 
 inheritance remains. The power of the father corre- 
 sponds to this permanence of the right to inherit. It 
 is the principle of paternal authority as inalienable, ex- 
 cept in certain particular instances of forfeiture, which 
 the law has maintained in this form. There lies the 
 clearly marked distinction which I mentioned to you 
 previously, between dissolving and annulling. There is, 
 however, one qualification. The legislator foresaw the 
 possibility of your ' unworthy ' father refusing to con- 
 sent to a marriage desired by the mother, out of spite 
 at being deprived of the custody of the child. The 
 third Article of the law of the 30th June, 1896, pro- 
 vides: If the parents divorced or separated fail to agree, 
 
252 A DIVOEOE 
 
 the consent of that parent in whose favour the divorce 
 or separation was decreed shall be sufl&cient. So, if 
 Madam Darras consented to her son's marriage and M. 
 de Chambault objected, Madame Darras' view would 
 be decisive. But Madame Darras refuses, while the 
 father consents. Accordingly the father succeeds. You 
 may perhaps consider that there is a contradiction here 
 and that these different provisions of the law are some- 
 what hard to reconcile. You know the assemblies in 
 which these so-called reforms in the Code are drafted 
 are not recruited from specialists. . . ." 
 
 " The law is the law. Sir, and I am ready to obey it 
 whatever it says," drily replied Darras. He added, " I 
 suppose that this is preliminary to the announcement 
 that M. Lucien de Chambault has asked his father's 
 consent and has obtained it?" 
 
 " Exactly, Sir," replied the notary. " At the request 
 of my client, M. de Chambault pere, I visited his resi- 
 dence and drew up the authentic document which states 
 that he gives his consent to the marriage of his son 
 Lucien with Mile. Bertha Planat. One formality re- 
 mains to be completed. The Code requires that a sec- 
 ond authentic document shall be drawn up to embody, 
 Madame, your refusal. To be strictly regular I should 
 have attended here accompanied by one of my col- 
 leagues or two witnesses and provided with a deed of 
 application to serve upon you. Though there is ab- 
 solutely nothing objectionable in this method of pro- 
 
THE TTNFOEESEBN 253 
 
 cediire, it may seem an annoyance and is liable to be 
 resented. I thought it better to make this preliminary 
 application to you, and my client encouraged me. 
 Doubtless, Madame, you do not know that M. de Cham- 
 bault is ill, very ill. The doctors suspect pneumonia 
 following on an attack of liver. In my opinion, and I 
 think it my duty to speak quite frankly to you, the end 
 is near. It is only a question of weeks, perhaps of days. 
 He is in extremis. When Death is so close, many 
 things appear in a different light. His son's visit, the 
 way in which the young man spoke, the feelings he 
 showed have touched the father's heart. He said yes 
 to his request. But he is not at peace. He is anxious 
 that you should not consider his consent as a fresh 
 wrong to you. Past wrongs have been many and great 
 ... he admits it. I think, Madame, that if you with- 
 draw your practically useless veto on this consent of a 
 dying man, for I repeat he is doomed, it will be an act 
 of charity. I have no right to bring forward other 
 arguments. But your son has become my client by 
 the simple fact of his father's referring him to me, and 
 I feel myself justified, in the name of his future, in 
 expressing the hope that he may not enter on married 
 life with a slur that is very hard on a young couple 
 at the outset of their career. . . . That is my apology 
 for a step which M. Darras wiU I am sure excuse." 
 
 The mother had listened to what the notary said 
 without offering any remark. Her eyes, fixed on her 
 
254 A DIVOBOE 
 
 husband, had in turn expressed the varying feelings 
 which had risen in her mind — ^astonishment when M. 
 Mounier had declared she was independent of her pres- 
 ent husband to give or refuse consent; terror when she 
 learnt that actually, according to the Code, her own 
 wishes counted for nothing against the will of the real 
 father; all the sorrow of misunderstood affection when 
 she heard that Lucien, after all that he knew of their 
 divorce and its causes, had appealed to this father; 
 shock at the news of the serious illness of the wretch 
 who had victimised her in her youth; culminating in 
 genuine indignation at the idea of his daring to send 
 her a message, even from his deathbed. She had been 
 able to see from his gaze that similar emotions were 
 affecting Darras. The features of her second husband 
 had grown visibly darker when the notary spoke of the 
 indestructible character of the family in olden times, 
 and of the inconsequent manner in which laws are made 
 and unmade in our present-day anarchy. He spoke, 
 however, calmly, like a man who is anxious to reach a 
 definite conclusion: 
 
 " We have nothing. Sir, to excuse, we owe you thanks. 
 I am certain that I speak for Madame Darras when I 
 beg of you to repeat to the two persons from whom you 
 come that her refusal is absolute and will remain so," 
 — Gabrielle made a slight gesture of assent, — "because 
 it involves certain points of honour — I am sure, M. 
 Mounier, that you know nothing of these and that your 
 
THE UNFOKESEEN 255 
 
 principal client is equally in the dark. I wiU ask you, 
 since yon have constituted yourself his intermediary, 
 to be good enough to carry my words to him. If you 
 will allow me, I will give you chapter and verse in the 
 shape of precise information concerning this Mile. 
 Planat whom my stepson is bent on marrying. . . ." 
 
 " I cannot follow you over this ground," interrupted 
 the notary. "M. de Chambault did not communicate 
 to me the reasons he had for consenting to his son's 
 marriage and I do not msh to know Madame Darras' 
 possible motives in not consenting. The father is en- 
 titled up to the last day to revoke the authority he has 
 given, and in that event M. Lucien, being only twenty- 
 three, will not be able to marry for two years. Please 
 entrust to others any communication you may have for 
 M. de Chambault. If your resolve, Madame, is not to 
 be shaken, I shall have the honour to wait on you again 
 under the conditions which I mentioned before. In 
 order to leave you all reasonable time for reflection, 
 this will not be for eight days." 
 
 "Everything has been considered," said Gabrielle in 
 her turn. An idea had flashed across her brain and 
 gave her the energy to speak. " In eight days M. Dar- 
 ras and I shall think exactly as we think to-day." 
 
 No sooner had the notary left the room than, quite 
 pale but with her mind made up, she said to her hus- 
 band, " ask if the carriage is there. Time presses and 
 there is not a minute to lose. I must go to M. de 
 
256 A DtVOBOE 
 
 Chambault, I must see him and explain. Lueien has 
 deceived him. No father, not even he, could desire 
 Buch a marriage for his eon. He does not know the 
 truth. . . ." 
 
 "No," replied Darras, "he does not. I am equally 
 sure of that. But I must go to him, not you. . . ." 
 
 " You? " cried she in amazement. 
 
 "Yes, I," he replied. "I cannot bear to think of 
 your seeing again this man who caused you so much 
 suffering. I forbid you." She detected in his tone that 
 touch of command and asperity which she had noticed 
 of late. "My twelve years," he continued, "of devo- 
 tion to Lueien have given me the right to go, to protect 
 his future against any and every one. If his illness 
 has really aroused in M. de Chambault such feelings as 
 we have just been assured, my action will make clear to 
 him how serious the situation is. That is the proper 
 way to nip this marriage in the bud. In an hour's 
 time he will have revoked his consent. Good-bye, dear- 
 est; say nothing. Wait for my return and do not be 
 anxious and restless. The danger will be averted for 
 two years, as the notary told you. And I do not want 
 two years for the project I have talked to you about; two 
 or three weeks at most will be enough. If there is any 
 fatality about the matter it is now in our favour, as 
 chance has chosen to warn us in time. Had not this 
 notary been as scrupulous as he evidently is, we should 
 not have known at all how to parry this blow. Do not 
 
THE UNFORESEEN 257 
 
 doubt it. He suspected the truth and he came to point 
 out to us, as far as he could, how to act. . . ." 
 
 "Perhaps you are right," said she. And then in 
 tender accents in which he recognised her just as he 
 had long known her, so loving, so yielding, so entirely 
 his own: " Ah, Albert, my dearest, hasten to end it all, 
 hasten to rescue him, and as for me," she added in a 
 low voice, " forgive me." 
 
 A strong flood of passionate feeling surged in the 
 heart of Darras at Gabrielle's farewell words. He took 
 them to show that she had come back to him, and the 
 satisfaction this thought gave rise to sustained him dur- 
 ing aU the time he was crossing from the rue du Luxem- 
 bourg to the Place Frangois ler where Chambault lived. 
 The bitterness of this visit had suddenly passed from his 
 sight, it had even been turned to sweetness by the cry 
 of love coming after those four days, those four horrible 
 silent days. Only one thing could he grasp: his wife, 
 his dear wife, was his, entirely his, once again. Her 
 entreaty for forgiveness was her renunciation of the 
 madness of the past few days, and the token that she 
 would again enter, nay, had already entered, into the 
 true meaning of their relations. Let him succeed in 
 his present mission and the crisis would be averted. 
 Instead of seeing in the sequence of these recent events 
 the action of a correcting Providence directed against 
 their home, she would discern, as he had told her, the 
 play of chance veering finally in their favour. Once 
 
258 A DIVORCE 
 
 he had recovered her, it would be his aim never more to 
 let the fatal poison overpower her tortured sensitiveness. 
 The intoxication of hope was gone in a moment when 
 he found himself in front of the first husband's house. 
 He knew it only too well. From the day when he mar- 
 ried the divorced wife of Edgar de Chambault, Darras 
 had never been entirely indifferent to that man. Dur- 
 ing the first years the necessity of sending Lucien to 
 him on certain days had kept up some compulsory con- 
 nection. Later, Chambault's carelessness had allowed 
 even these last ties with his old life to drop. It will 
 be remembered — and Madame Darras had made use of 
 the fact to justify herself vdth Father Euvrard — ^that 
 the divorce proceedings had originated with the hus- 
 band, and that he had remarried long before she did. 
 His second wife had died, and after this bereavement 
 he had become more and more degraded in his tastes. 
 His debaucheries had become matters of common knowl- 
 edge and satisfied the mother that she had a right to put 
 a stop to her son's visits: the boy had on several occa- 
 sions found his father half drunk and in very bad com- 
 pany. Chambault had not protested. From that time 
 the Darras had had no news of him except at second 
 hand. Sometimes it was a passing remark from one 
 of his cousins, the old General de Jardes who had 
 openly taken Gabrielle's side and continued to visit her, 
 even after her remarriage. Sometimes they came 
 across a simple reference in a newspaper to some stay 
 
THE imFOEESEEN 259 
 
 at Nice or at Aix-les-Bains. Chambault had come into 
 a second fortune from an uncle, after having almost 
 completely squandered the first, and at nearly sixty 
 years of age he still kept his place among the habitvss 
 of Parisian gay life. Lucien used to pay him a visit 
 every New Year's day. He was received or not as it 
 happened to turn out. But whether he saw or did not 
 see his miserable relative, he always returned with exact 
 particulars as to his residence for the time being, 
 whether he was in Paris or away, and often with tales 
 of his temper, which had come to be more uncertain and 
 savage with advancing years. Not one of these little 
 details but had touched the husband's successor in that 
 dark and secret corner of the heart where we keep the 
 living image of our real enemies, not those against whom 
 we merely have to struggle, who seek to do us harm and 
 whom we repay in kind, but those whose very existence 
 causes us almost unbearable pangs from the fact that 
 they are alive, quite apart from any personal contact. 
 How often, for instance, when Chambault was living 
 in the Place Frangois ler, had Darras ordered his 
 coachman to choose another road, when a chance drive 
 took him in that direction and it would have been the 
 natural road to take. At other times, angry with him- 
 self at the unworthy weakness of this recoil from a pain- 
 ful impression, he would even go out of his way to cross 
 the little square and have a look at the house, a three- 
 storied building vdth a little railed-in garden. The 
 
260 A DIVOEOE 
 
 entrance to the house faced the rue Jean-Goujon. Dar- 
 ras knew that Chambault lived on the entresol. It was 
 poignant torture to him to reflect on the thoughts of 
 this man to whom his wife had oome as a maiden, on 
 the images he kept in his memory, the blood-rights 
 which in spite of everything he still possessed over 
 Lucien. He tried to picture him, having seen him only 
 in portraits. The sight of a passer-by making for the 
 door made hia heart jump. He shrugged his shoulders 
 in scorn of this unwholesome curiosity, as in self-con- 
 demnation he called it. The hidden wound bled none 
 the less. How deep it lay and how little time had done 
 to heal it! He could answer for that, for he felt the 
 smart again, as he stepped from his carriage under the 
 windows behind which, if the notary spoke the truth, 
 the former tormentor of Gabrielle's youth was per- 
 haps in his last agony. But he had been her first hus- 
 band, and could his death do away with that? How- 
 ever, though his incurable jealousy of the past from 
 which he had suffered so much made Darras feel some- 
 what ill, yet at the moment and in spite of his pressing 
 preoccupations it did not prevent him from walking 
 unhesitatingly to the lodge. In a steady voice he asked: 
 "Is M. de Chambault in?" as if he knew nothing of 
 the illness, whose serious symptoms were however forced 
 on his notice by the ominous sign of the straw that had 
 been strewn on the ground in front of the house to 
 deaden the noise of the street. 
 
THE triTFOEESEEN 261 
 
 " The Count is in/' replied the doorkeeper, " but he 
 will certainly not be able to see you. Sir. He was 
 in great pain yesterday, and to-day his condition is 
 worse." 
 
 " Well, I will go up to his rooms," said Darras, " and 
 see his servant." 
 
 The fact that no instructions had been given to the 
 doorkeeper was a further indication of the state of 
 things; it pointed to the disorganisation which accom- 
 panies the unexpected supervening of dangerous com- 
 plications in the course of an illness considered at first 
 to be rather slight. Though M. Mounier's words had 
 prepared the visitor to find the patient suffering from 
 a very bad attack, he concluded that the situation had 
 evidently developed to an alarming degree. 
 
 Was there still time to see Chambault, and would the 
 invalid be able to bear an interview which demanded 
 considerable clearness of mind and some exertion? 
 Darras could not help asking himself this question, at 
 the seared looks of the footman who came to the door 
 to answer his ring. The more reason to persist and if 
 possible extract a written disavowal of the consent that 
 tad been given. Admitting, what he had neglected to 
 verify, that Lucien had already given the first public 
 notice of his intended marriage at the town hall, the 
 marriage could not yet take place for eleven or twelve 
 days. In the meantime the father might become worse. 
 Darras overcame the servant's scruples by saying that 
 
262 A DIVOROE 
 
 he had been sent by the notary M. Monnier on a matter 
 of great urgency, and he prevailed on the man to take 
 in his card. The five minutes he passed alone in the 
 hall waiting for the reply were agony to him. Scat- 
 tered everywhere were too many indications of the 
 character and habits of the man on whom perhaps de- 
 pended the future of his own home, the man who had 
 been so distressingly involved in his past life. Yet it 
 was only the ordinary anteroom to the flat of a rich 
 bachelor, displaying the somewhat ostentatious luxury 
 of a modern man of the world. But these vel-y tokens 
 of a life of pleasure awakened almost physical repug- 
 nance in such a Puritan as Darras stUl remained. Two 
 pictures of vaguely suggestive nakedness were hung one 
 on each side of the door. Opposite to them were two long 
 panels of old plate glass which reflected the rosy tints 
 of the painted flesh on the canvas. On the walls were 
 also numerous programmes of sporting and other enter- 
 tainments, carefully framed, as if the comic figures 
 sketched and coloured with which the list of promised 
 amusements was illustrated, represented cherished 
 recollections. English engravings of steeplechases al- 
 ternated with large photographs, one of them signed, 
 of ladies in loud costumes, whose profession it was im- 
 possible to doubt. A gun case was evidence of the 
 tastes of a sportsman, while another rack, filled with 
 canes, pointed to the pretensions of an old beau! There 
 was a heap of visiting cards in a cup. Absently Dar- 
 
THE UNFOEESEEN 263 
 
 ras took up four or five. As it happened, his hand fell 
 on a courtesan's card. He read, scribbled in pencil: 
 "Dinner, this evening." He well knew this was how 
 Chambault lived. Yet for some reason this suggestion 
 of somewhat unrefined but after all quite inoffensive 
 habits filled him with melancholy, but he had no time 
 to give way to it, for the footman returned with a reply 
 in the negative: 
 
 "The Count would have been glad to see you, Sir, 
 but he is worse at the moment, and the person who was 
 sent by the doctor absolutely forbids it." 
 
 " Cannot I see M. de ChambaultJs son? " said Darras, 
 who wanted to know whether Lucien had anything to 
 do with this refusal. 
 
 "He went out an hour ago to see a great doctor 
 whom they wish to have in consultation. He will be 
 back soon." 
 
 "And the person whom you mentioned, who is in 
 attendance on the invalid?" questioned Dari-as. " Give 
 my card and ask if she will see me for a minute." A 
 suspicion had crossed his mind. The phrase used by 
 the footman enabled him to guess that a woman was 
 referred to. Why had he not said simply: the nurse? 
 Darras at once thought of one of the creatures whose 
 visiting cards on the tray and whose portraits on the 
 walls in the anteroom attested their intimacy with the 
 owner of the flat. No, Lucien would not have put up 
 with such characters. He had passed the night there. 
 
264 A DIVOEOE 
 
 He had gone to seek a celebrated consulting doctor. 
 Evidently, as was otherwise natural, he had as the son 
 of the house taken in hand the direction of affairs 
 inside. What if this person installed at the dying 
 man's bedside, by the doctor's and the son's authority, 
 were Bertha Planat in her capacity of medical student? 
 Why not? The idea, thus abruptly Suggested to him, 
 had at once resulted in his very strange request. "I 
 am mad," said the enquirer to himself when the ser- 
 vant had departed towards the bedroom with the sec- 
 ond message: "if it is she, she will not see me; and if 
 it is some one else, what is the use?" His impulsive 
 action was so foreign to his character and so little in 
 keeping with his plans that he stood astonished at him- 
 self. In reality he had obeyed a nervous impulse such 
 as an accumulation of obstacles speedily causes in men 
 of his type, accustomed to go straight to their object. 
 He had thought it so easy to break off the connection be- 
 tween Lucien and this girl. But when it came to the 
 point he had been confronted by the unexpected. The 
 presence of Bertha here, if here she really was, had sud- 
 denly suggested to him the opportunity for a decisive 
 interview, and he had seized it instinctively, almost 
 madly. Was this the place or time to enter on the bar- 
 gain with her which he had conceived as one of the 
 possible means to a final settlement? And where was 
 the sense in his request for an interview, if not to ar- 
 rive at this disgusting but necessary bargain? The 
 
THE UNFOEESEEN 265 
 
 sense? It was simply a chance to find himself at last 
 face to face with his enemy. He would know exactly 
 what she wanted and to what extent she wanted it. 
 And then, unconsciously, Darras came under the influ- 
 ence of the feelings his stepson expressed towards this 
 lady. At their first battle Lucien had not been able alto- 
 gether to scout his opinion, and Darras for his part was 
 no more capable of entirely disregarding the view of 
 the younger man. They were too accustomed to esteem 
 one another. The stepfather was fully persuaded that 
 Bertha was an adventuress. And yet, at bottom, his 
 stepson's belief in her did not leave him so calm and 
 so assured in his conviction as the implacable energy 
 which he showed in the matter would seem to suggest. 
 There was only a very slight suspicion of doubt, im- 
 perceptible to himself. But this- was enough to afEect 
 his conscience, characterised as it was by a passion for 
 truth, with a boding sense of uneasiness, which changed 
 to irritation closely akin to anger, when, the footman 
 having returned and having ushered him into the draw- 
 ing-room to wait for the person whom he had asked for 
 and who was coming, he saw appear Mile. Planat. 
 
 She indeed it was, with that delicate profile and 
 those distinctive features which had struck him so 
 greatly when he had seen her sitting with Lucien at 
 the creamery in the rue Eaciue. The nurse's pinafore 
 which she had put on over her dress, in order to attend 
 to her business, accentuated the excessive gravity of her 
 
266 A DIVORCE 
 
 pretty face, pale from study and framed as before in 
 masses of auburn hair, smoothly parted and gathered 
 behind into a thick plait. Her brown eyes had the 
 same look in them, direct and cold in its polite intent- 
 ness, before which at their first meeting Darras' gaze 
 had been compelled to drop. It was the true surgeon's 
 look, steady and penetrating, telling that the mind is 
 summoning all its powers to see clearly and adapt its 
 activities to the facts with no thought of anything else. 
 Yet Bertha was much affected at the moment. The 
 bringing of Darras' card to the sick man had at once 
 thrown him into a state of excitement which had dis- 
 mayed her more than the threatening riddle of this 
 visit. When the footman had returned bringing back 
 this same card and asking for her, her instinctive im- 
 pulse had been to refuse. Then she had risen to follow 
 the servant. She had not wished Lucien's stepfather 
 to imagine that she was afraid of this interview. Why 
 avoid it? Her conscience did not reproach her with 
 anything as regards this man, of whom on the contrary 
 she had much to complain. If her heart beat very fast 
 as she came into the room, her brow and mouth and 
 eyes displayed the proud air with which so often in 
 these last five years she had met the slights of those 
 -who knew her history and ignored her. She was the 
 first to speak: " You asked to see me. Sir — I will merely 
 beg you to state as briefly as possible the object of 
 your visit. M. de Chambault is too ill for me to be 
 
THE trNFOEESEEN 267 
 
 able to leave him for long. Until his son returns he 
 has no one with him but me." 
 
 " I know. Mademoiselle," replied Darras aggressively, 
 "the servant came to tell me also that M. de Cham- 
 bault had been willing to see me and you had taken 
 upon yourself to forbid it." 
 
 "I took nothing upon myself. Sir," replied Bertha 
 with gentle firmness. " My will does not count, does not 
 exist. — The doctor who is treating the invalid strongly 
 recommended that all excitement should be avoided. 
 As it was, he suffered a violent shock merely from read- 
 ing your name on the card. — ^In these circumstances it 
 became my strictest professional duty to forbid your 
 visit. Some weeks ago M. de Chambault was attacked 
 by alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver. On Saturday he 
 caught a chill and pneumonia supervened. To-day is 
 the third and most critical day. It causes him horrible 
 pain to speak. He has already been unconscious several 
 times and is threatened with delirium which would not 
 improbably carry him off. In his state any upset to the 
 nervous system is extremely serious. Consider yourself, 
 I repeat, if from the professional point of view, I could 
 allow this interview." 
 
 She had spoken in a clear voice, affecting to employ 
 extremely precise technical terms, as if, instead of 
 addressing her lover's unfriendly stepfather, an oppo-- 
 nent who had intervened in so threatening a manner in 
 her life drama, she had been detailing a diagnosis in 
 
268 A DIVOEOE 
 
 front of one of the beds at the public hospital, to a 
 crowd of attentive students in attendance on Professor 
 Louvet. The immediate result of her self-control had 
 been to intensify Darras' already profound aversion to 
 her. It was impossible for him to find anything to 
 criticise in the young lady's attitude, which was at 
 once dignified and polite, distant and yet courteous. 
 But was it not precisely this command of hypocrisy 
 that was the cause of the unhappy Lucien's ruin? 
 Thus, it was in accents of irony, almost of spite, that 
 he replied: "It is very unfortunate, Mademoiselle, for 
 both of us that these professional considerations coin- 
 cide so astonishingly with motives of personal interest." 
 "I do not understand you, Sir," said Bertha. The 
 blood mounted to her cheeks, but her look remained so 
 steady that her interrogator felt the kind of revulsion 
 that we experience when confronted by the brazen im- 
 pertinence of too incautious denials. He wanted to 
 confound the schemer with the unquestionable evidence 
 of facts and he retorted rudely: "You understand me 
 perfectly and you know very well why I am here. But 
 to put a stop to all misunderstanding I will be precise 
 in my turn: my stepson Lucien de Chambault wishes to 
 marry you. He asked my wife's consent and she has 
 refused; now, taking advantage of a badly drafted 
 statute, he reckons to go on as if nothing had happened, 
 armed with his father's acquiescence. I came to en- 
 quire whether the father has really been informed of 
 
THE UNFOEESEEN 269 
 
 the reasons which dictated Madame Darras' refusal, as 
 I had every ground for doubt; I am now quite sure that 
 he has not. Your preventing me from going near him 
 is the clearest of proofs. I shall be able to find means 
 of acquainting him, in spite of you." 
 
 " In spite of me? " she repeated. " You charge me 
 with such baseness as that? By what right? All the 
 things you said to Lucien, you might have believed 
 that I deserved them! But this? — ^Remain, Sir, I wish 
 it; remain until the doctor comes. You shall ask bim 
 if you may see the invalid. He may give you permis- 
 sion on his own responsibility; I cannot. However 
 cruelly you insulted me my professional conscientious- 
 ness would force me to answer, ' No, you shall not see 
 M. de Chambaidt at present.' But it is terrible to be 
 so misjudged when you are doing no more than your 
 duty." 
 
 " How else would you have me judge you? " cried 
 Darras. The young girl's tone betrayed such intense 
 pain, and such wounded sincerity, that his heart mis- 
 gave him. But he only resumed more harshly: "You 
 talk of professional conscientiousness. If you are not 
 conscientious in ordinary life, you are no better in your 
 profession. Yes or no, has Lucien done what I said? 
 Yes or no, has he done it with your consent? possibly 
 by your advice? Yes or no, are you preparing to force 
 your way into a family which does not want you and 
 has too convincing reasons for not wanttag you? I 
 
270 A DIVOKOE 
 
 have not sought this meeting; but since chance has 
 brought us face to face I will at least take the oppor- 
 tunity to tell you what Lucien has no doubt hidden 
 from you, my wife's and my own definite and irrevocable 
 resolve. You will succeed perhaps in marrying Lucien, 
 though I have made up my mind to use every means to 
 prevent it — ^yes; every means. But neither my wife 
 nor I will ever see you. You will never be one of our 
 family; never, you understand — never. You will have 
 made Lucien an outcast from his home, you will not 
 have entered it yourself." 
 
 "Lucien has hidden nothing from me, Sir," she re- 
 plied more sadly still. "I knew your opinion of me 
 and Madame Darras'; I shall not try to change it. I 
 know too from Lucien that justice is your creed, 
 your religion. You are, however, unjust at present, 
 very unjust; but it is out of the question for me to 
 prove it to you. I will not try," she persisted, shaking 
 her head with an air of resignation. " But there is 
 one of your assertions which I must protest against. 
 The idea of this marriage did not come from me. No, 
 I had no thought of entering your family; so much 
 you might have ascertained by questioning Lucien. 
 But of course you would not believe even him; you 
 would imagine that I had played a part with him. 
 How can I prove that I speak the truth?" 
 
 "By giving up this marriage unconditionally," said 
 Darras. More and more as this strange interview pro- 
 
THE trNFORESEEN 271 
 
 ceeded he began to be impressed with the honesty of 
 his antagonist. Strictly, in accordance with his prin- 
 ciples, such a conviction should have disarmed the 
 vigour of his antagonism. But, with all his theorising, 
 he remained a thorough middle-class Frenchman, and 
 on the contrary the possible good faith of his stepson's 
 sweetheart merely suggested a means to him of parting 
 the two young people: " Yes," he persisted, " if you are 
 speaking the truth, act accordingly; if the idea of 
 marriage did not originate with you, it ought, as things 
 stand, to make you shudder. You do not banish a 
 son from his mother, and for life; that would be too 
 wicked." 
 
 "I have not separated them/' said Bertha quickly, 
 " It is not I," she repeated. " No more have I sought 
 this meeting, which is more painful to me than to you. 
 Sir. Perhaps, however, it is better after all that it 
 should have taken place and that you have spoken to 
 me in such a way as to justify me in keeping nothing 
 back. Examine yourself and ask yourself whether, if 
 I passed out of his life, Lucien would return to you, to 
 you and his mother; whether he would really be one at 
 heart with you? M. Darras, you know too well he 
 would not. You know what I say is true, you know it 
 is true. I have pondered much during these last few 
 days, I assure you; I have thought of Lucien carefully. 
 I love him deeply, passionately. But if I believed that 
 his happiness was to be served by the sacrifice of my 
 
2^2 A DIVOECE 
 
 love, I should have the strength to do it and to leave 
 him for his own sake. I wanted to do so and then I 
 felt that I must not because he has no one but me. 
 Where is Lucien's family that you talk about? At your 
 house? Why, then, does he rush to Paris, mad with 
 anxiety because of the man who lies at the point of 
 death in his room? Three days ago he thought that 
 this man was nothing to him. He was his father, with 
 all a father's rights in law as you have yourself ad- 
 mitted, and in nature as his son's distress proves. If 
 you have two families, you have none; and he has none. 
 You know that this is. the truth and it is not I who am 
 to blame. Were I to disappear he would only have 
 further cause of resentment against you for having 
 robbed him of the one heart which is all his own. For 
 his it is entirely, with none to share. I shall be his 
 family and he mine. We shall be enough for one an- 
 other; those were his words to me when he came back to 
 me after having learnt through you all that I had 
 wanted to hide from him. It was for his sake that I 
 would have kept it all back, for his sake entirely — ^I was 
 wrong — ^I did not know how much he loved me until 
 that moment. Let him live his own life, M. Dar- 
 ras. ... I will go further: you must let him — Are you 
 sure you have not lived your own at his expense? " 
 
 Hardly had she finished her closing sentence, which 
 hit her listener hard, when an incident which neither 
 of them had been expecting occurred to give singular 
 
THE UNFORESEEN 273 
 
 point to her very apposite conclusion. Every sentence 
 had touched Darras to the quick, but at every sentence 
 a voice within him had replied "It is true," to the 
 words in which the accused girl had demolished the 
 indictment and suddenly taken her stand as prosecutor. 
 He was, however, on the point of replying and with as 
 much violence as he had shown to his stepson on a 
 previous occasion when the latter had, on other lines, 
 equally questioned his position as the husband of a 
 divorced woman. The words were stopped on his lips 
 by a ring at the bell, which by its force and abruptness 
 betrayed the nervous impatience of the new arrival. 
 
 " It is Lucien," said Bertha, clasping her hands with 
 an expression of distress which formed a contrast to 
 her previous firmness, as if she had lost her energy as 
 soon as she was no longer alone on the boards. 
 
 "Do not show yourself. Sir, I beg of you. Think 
 where you are." 
 
 "It is for him to think where he is," replied the 
 stepfather. " There is no cause for concealment in this 
 visit; as he behaves, so shall I." 
 
 The nurse's intuition had not played her false. 
 Lucien's voice was heard in the anteroom; he was ques- 
 tioning the servant who opened the drawing-room door 
 for him. He saw the man whom he had for so long 
 called his father, and the girl whom he called his be- 
 trothed, facing one another, their eyes still sparkling 
 and their features disordered from the hurried and 
 
274 A DIVOKCE 
 
 tragic dialogue which had just passed. He made a 
 slight gesture of surprise which, after the discussion 
 which had ended in his departure from his mother's 
 house, might easily have turned to active passion. He 
 hardly gave a look to his sweetheart's traducer who had 
 ventured to pursue her and him even here. His de- 
 vouring anxiety was stronger than the reminder of his 
 grudge. He walked straight to Bertha, and, as if he 
 had not noticed Darras, said: 
 
 "Well! how has the hour passed? Has he had an- 
 other crisis?" 
 
 "'No" replied she. "The oppression is very great, 
 but he is fully conscious." 
 
 "Louvet is following me," rejoined the young man, 
 " I found him in his consulting room. His hours were 
 nearly over. I have warned the other doctor. They 
 will be here in twenty minutes. Have you injected 
 morphia? " 
 
 "Yes," replied Bertha, "and I have done the cup- 
 ping. What does Louvet think? Did you explain the 
 case to him as I told you? " 
 
 "Word for word. He thinks that to-night will be 
 very critical, but naturally he cannot give an opinion 
 without having seen. I am going to the sick-room; is 
 he alone?" 
 
 "He has been for the last ten minutes. ... I am 
 coming back too." 
 
 Lucien left the room as he had entered it without a 
 
THE UNFORESEEN 275 
 
 word to Darras, without even looking at him. Bertha 
 followed him, first saying almost in a whisper, " Oh! 
 Sir, please go!" Her voice still trembled from the 
 effect of the fright that had come over her at the sud- 
 den encounter between the two men. However, no 
 scene had come of it. And why? Because Lucien for 
 the time being, as she had put it, was mad with anxiety. 
 His real father was all in all to him. The man who 
 had brought him up and whose name his mother bore 
 did not count, once the son had been brought to real- 
 ise the mortal danger of his real father, and the voice 
 of consanguinity made itself heard within him, a single, 
 sovereign, all-powerful appeal. Both law and nature, 
 to quote Bertha's phrase again, had brought him back 
 to Chambault. The feeling that his own marriage had 
 been a failure which had come with such bitterness on 
 Darras at the time of his wife's religious remorse, be- 
 came so oppressive to him in this, the first husband's 
 room, that he could not bear to remain there any longer. 
 Had the sick man asked to speak with him now, he 
 would have refused to enter the chamber of death, 
 shrinking from seeing his stepson there lavishing affec- 
 tion on the dying man. He had no right to condemn 
 that affection, for the most criminal of fathers is a 
 father still. He could not wonder at it, for the ap- 
 proach of death brings very close together the spirits 
 of the dying and those who watch. Supposing that a 
 wave of pity had arisen in Lucien, sweeping away and 
 
276 A DIVOEOE 
 
 burying everything, all the causes for legitimate resent- 
 ment, all the stern judgments which the past had de- 
 served, could he fail to honour him for it? Apart 
 from the narrowness of certain of his views, Darras was 
 too magnanimous not to bow before this overwhelming 
 renewal of filial piety. Yet of all the various feelings 
 which he had detected in the young man during this 
 melancholy visit, this tendency had been most peculiarly 
 and completely repulsive to him. The trouble was 
 not diminished by his growing doubts as to the equity 
 of the methods he had employed vdth regard to Bertha 
 Planat. He had not hesitated to deal any blow at her, 
 so convinced was he that she was a dangerous schemer. 
 Was she really so? The conversation she had had with 
 him pursued him with an increasing remorse the fur- 
 ther he went from the scene of their encounter. He saw 
 her again, and her straight and piercing look. He heard 
 her, and her frank and open voice. What if, after all, 
 he had been mistaken in her and Lucien were right? 
 His loyalty would never have pardoned him for hid- 
 ing from Gabrielle that his conviction had suffered a 
 shock which had partly destroyed it; and he came to 
 the point at once when, having returned to the house 
 in the rue du Luxembourg, he found her waiting for 
 him in a fever of anticipation. She had been watching 
 for him at the window and burst upon him halfway 
 up the stairs: 
 *'You have seen him?" she asked. "What did he 
 
THE UNFORESEEN 277 
 
 reply? Does he withdraw his consent? Tell me, tell 
 me quickly." 
 
 " I did not see him," he replied, " his condition was 
 too grave. But I saw Lucien." 
 
 "No! Did you? And what was said?" 
 
 " Nothing. He made as if he did not recognise me. 
 I saw Mile. Planat too." 
 
 "Bertha Planat? Lucien dared to install Bertha 
 Planat by his father's bedside?" 
 
 " I must do her the justice to say that she seems to 
 be tending Tn'm with much intelligence and devotion. 
 I had a talk with her," he resumed after a moment's 
 silence. " My poor darling, suppose I had been unjust 
 in the past! " 
 
 " What do you mean? " asked Gabrielle. 
 
 " That I found her very different from what I ex- 
 pected. She displayed in those few minutes intelli- 
 gence, firmness, and clearness. Now, we must wait for 
 the result of the enquiries that I am having made at 
 the office." 
 
 " You, too," groaned the mother, " are you going to 
 take her side, and turn and desert me? Is it possible? 
 Do not teU me, Albert, that you will ever consent to 
 this marriage. It is not true. If that is so, what a 
 trial it wiU be for me. How humiliating! " 
 
 "It wiQ not be so at present, at any rate," inter- 
 rupted Darras. "My visit has given me the impres- 
 sion that the sick man has very few days to live, possibly 
 
278 A DIVOECE 
 
 only a few hours. If he dies this week his consent 
 becomes invalid. Everything then will depend on 
 you." 
 
 "A few hours," repeated Gabrielle. "Is it pos- 
 sible? " 
 
 There was such sad earnestness in her exclamation, 
 and her eyes expressed such sorrowful dismay, that 
 Darras allowed the conversation to drop. He thought 
 he had detected fresh evidence of the inefficacy of the 
 second marriage to combat the indestructible influence 
 of the first. As soon as the wretched Chambault was 
 in danger his son had resumed all the warmth and 
 tenderness which his distant childhood had displayed 
 towards his decadent parent. Was it the same with 
 Gabrielle? Did the idea of the possible death of this 
 man with whom she had lived for years, five whole years, 
 almost half the time her present establishment had 
 lasted, did it awake recollections in her memory which 
 made him living to her again? Darras shuddered at 
 the thought, and had no suspicion that far otherwise 
 were the emotions which were racking his wife, hence- 
 forth a prey to incurable longings for the comforts of 
 religion. Had he known her feeliags, his disgust would 
 have been no less. 
 
 At the news that this existence which had been 
 dragged so low and squandered so riotously was near- 
 ing the end, the thought of the other life had suddenly 
 flashed on Gabrielle. This fallen soul was going to 
 
THE UNFORESEEN 279 
 
 meet that judgment beyond the tomb which she had 
 feared so much for herself since she had returned to 
 belief, and in what circumstances? She had distinctly 
 seen the chamber of death, the victim struggling in the 
 embrace of his malady, by his side his son. Bertha 
 Planat, a doctor . . . but no sign of a priest! Who 
 would think of simimoning the priest? Not Lucien, 
 who was an unbeliever; not the nurse, whose character 
 was sufficient index to her infidelity. Not the doctor, 
 their choice of a doctor would have fallen on one of 
 like mind with them. Not the sick man, the little re- 
 ligion he could have had had certainly been exhausted 
 in his life. He had now no near relation to do him the 
 last service of securing for him the pardon which the 
 goodness of God reserves for the penitent at the last 
 minute even. No near relation? What of herself? 
 The phrase she had used to Darras when her secret had 
 at last escaped her was not the surprised cry of a pass- 
 ing moment of exaltation. In the sight of the God 
 whose dreadful sentence on the dying man would be 
 irrevocable, she was still the imhappy man's wife. If 
 it was any one's duty to see that he had the benefit of 
 the last sacraments, it was hers. Yes, but she bore 
 the name of another man. She was living with another 
 man. Legally she was another man's wife. And she 
 loved another man. She had glanced at him, this other 
 man, with a prayer on the tip of her lips that he would 
 let her go to the place from which he had come. And 
 
280 A DIVOEOE 
 
 she had felt incapable of framing the request, and of 
 admitting the motive in particular. She had kept 
 silence. The hours passed one by one. Evening fol- 
 lowed on afternoon, night on evening. Albert and she 
 were again alone in the study, where they had spent 
 such long and silent evenings in the past week. This 
 evening slipped away like the rest, without his raising 
 his eyes from a work in which he seemed absorbed. 
 She kept adding stitch on stitch to the needlework she 
 had begun. Was there still time to speak? A few 
 hours? Darras had said " a few hours," and how many 
 were already gone! Midnight was just striHng. . . . 
 It was useless to do anything to-night. But the first 
 thing to-morrow morning she would speak, and if she 
 had not strength for that, would go without saying 
 anything. She would go and find Father Euvrard. She 
 would take him to the Place Frangois ler. 
 
 On this resolve and hope she slept, to be awakened 
 the next morning by the following note from her 
 son: 
 
 "Mother, my father died to-night. I must see you 
 and speak to you. He asked me to do so. In accord- 
 ance with his wish, he will be buried in the family vault 
 at Villefranche d'Aveyron. On my return from the 
 funeral I will ask you to see me. I am very unhappy 
 and I love you. Eemember that I have no one now but 
 you." He had signed it as he used to do when a child, 
 "Your little one." 
 
THE UNrOEESEEN 281 
 
 "Ah!" she groaned, "had I but spoken yesterday, 
 had I only gone! And it is too late. I might have 
 saved him — I did not. Now I am lost myself. He was 
 my husband and I was his wife. I was his wife still. 
 My sin is too great!" 
 
 -^J 
 
CHAPTEE IX 
 
 A PABEWELL 
 
 At least the pangs of remorse might have been 
 spared this gentle soul, tortured by so many trials, each 
 in turn appearing to be a direct consequence of the 
 great mistake of her life, and strengthening her faith in 
 proportion. Instinctively she had practised the advice 
 given by a Father of the Church, of which Joseph de 
 Maistre wrote that it was one of the most beautiful 
 utterances ever delivered by the mouth of man: "Vis 
 fugere a Deo? Fuge ad Deum: Wouldst thou flee 
 God? Take refuge in His arms." 
 
 The thought that for want of a little courage she 
 had connived at the everlasting damnation of one to 
 whom she had formerly been bound by the most solemn 
 of oaths, was a trial that would doubtless have been too 
 much for her strength. The poor woman felt this her- 
 self, and looked immediately round for the means to dis- 
 cover whether she really would henceforth have to bear 
 this weight on her conscience. But what means? Her 
 son was about to start for VUlefranche, if he had not 
 already started. Besides, could she go and find him, 
 like Darras on the previous evening, in the rooms where 
 
A S'ABEWELL 283 
 
 Chambault had died, and run the risk of meeting with 
 a certain Mile. Planat? Should she wait to be quite 
 sure that the body had been removed, and then make 
 her way to the house when she would not then run up 
 against Lucien or the girl, and question the household 
 servants? Should she write to the notary, that M. 
 Mounier who had been the first to inform her of thia 
 illness whose shocking termination marked such an 
 epoch in her life? All these plans crossed her mind, 
 as she read the note of her " little one," who, at this mo- 
 ment and all unwittingly, had once again stabbed her 
 to the heart. She ended by adopting a roundabout 
 method, which would, however, procure her with cer- 
 tainty the information she desired, and this was a mat- 
 ter of tragic moment to her. She wrote to that cousin 
 of the dead man who has been already mentioned, the 
 old General de Jardes, with whom she kept up her ac- 
 quaintance. When the reply arrived, brought by a ser- 
 vant, it was the dinner hour. GabrieUe was at the 
 table, and had not succeeded in hiding the anxiety whose 
 real motive Darras hardly suspected. How could he 
 fail to attribute it to the news received that morning, 
 and, thus interpreting it, be otherwise than distressed 
 himself? It was one blow the more to him, following 
 on many others, to see GabrieUe shudder when the 
 footman gave her the missive with the name of the 
 sender, while in her excitement the colour rushed to 
 her face, and her hands trembled slightly. She opened 
 
284 A DIVOECE 
 
 the letter, and when she had glanced at its contents, her 
 features again assumed a startled air. 
 
 The envelope contained a card from M. de Jardes 
 with a word or two and the notification of Chambault's 
 death in which occurred the words: Provided with the 
 sacraments of the Church. A like return to the family- 
 feeling had made the dying man desirous of being 
 buried in the tomb of the ancestors whose name he had 
 borne with so little credit, and to end as he had seen 
 his father and mother end, though his life had been 
 in contradiction to all the principles they had held dear. 
 It constantly happens, particularly in the case of men 
 of this kind, degenerate scions of a long line of be- 
 lievers, that at the last moment the Christian awakes 
 in them, a phenomenon in which we may discover one 
 proof, among a thousand others, of the great law of 
 heredity. Every family is one and distinct. This 
 unity is clearly attested by the graces that in moments 
 such as these may distinguish even the disreputable de- 
 scendant of a pious race, no less than by the misfortunes 
 inflicted on the virtuous heirs of corrupted blood. The 
 evidence, such as it is, is confusing and not very in- 
 telligible, but without it the hidden windings of the life 
 of man would pass all understanding. 
 
 The cynical free-liver whose brutal passions had 
 rendered their union insufferable to the most devoted 
 and most refined of wives, and who had remarried under 
 such dishonourable circumstances in defiance of his own 
 
A FAEEWELL 285 
 
 social cirde, the tinprineipled father who had not hid- 
 den from his son any of the scandals which attended 
 his irregular life, the hopeless debauchee carried off be- 
 fore his time by a disease sown by habits of disgraceful 
 intemperance, had on his deathbed recalled the teach- 
 ings of his far-off childhood. Enlightened as to the 
 serious condition in which he was, by the consultation 
 which had followed on the visit of Darras, and perhaps 
 even by the extraordinary incident of this very visit, 
 he had asked for a priest. The priest had come and 
 oflBciated. The brief terms of this farewell letter re- 
 counted the fact of this final recantation, and the other 
 sentence: " The burial wiU take place in the family 
 vault at Villefranche d'Aveyron," invested the end of a 
 degraded man with a dignity which his habits had too 
 little manifested. Gabrielle found relief in it from the 
 terrible fear that had haunted her. But in spite of 
 all, many a recollection was awakened in her by this 
 funeral announcement containing her son's name but 
 not her own. She was affected, and the more profoundly 
 as she felt Albert's questioning look resting on her. 
 She placed the letter on the table, instead of handing it 
 to him, and dinner ended without her having made the 
 least allusion to its contents. The sender's name, the 
 style of paper, the mourning border, left no room for 
 doubt. Darras watched the broad black border out- 
 lined against the white tablecloth. There was some- 
 thing intolerable to him in this simple sheet of paper. 
 
286 A DIVOBOE 
 
 visible reminder of the first husband whom he had so 
 despised, so hated even. He looked at it, the dead 
 man's letter, communicating its pollution to his family 
 board, within reach of Jeanne, the child of the second 
 marriage, and he thought: "It is the advice of that 
 scoundrel's death, I cannot doubt it. Why does Jardes, 
 who has always been so correct with me, send it to 
 Gabrielle? Why is she so upset?" 
 
 He was not to get the reply to his question till din- 
 ner was over, and his heart had grown sore at the bitter 
 reminder of that other establishment, still real, still 
 present to the mind. Yet galling as was the interpreta- 
 tion of Gabrielle's worry as due to the recollection of a 
 hateful past, would he not have preferred it to the 
 truth? As they were going down to his study from their 
 daughter's room, his wife said to him: "I did not say 
 anything to you at dinner about M. de Jardes' letter 
 because of Jeanne. I am always so afraid she may guess, 
 what we have kept from her, that Lucien's father was 
 alive when I married you." 
 
 " Your correspondence is your own and yours alone, 
 as you know," replied Darras frankly. 
 
 " I want you to read this letter," she persisted: " I do 
 not mean to take any steps again without your knowl- 
 edge. I have seen you suffer too much from my silenca 
 I gathered from your expression during dinner and 
 after, that you had guessed what this communica- 
 tion was. M. de Jardes sent it to me because I had 
 
A FAKEWBLL 287 
 
 written to tiim in my anxiety on a matter in which I 
 could believe my responsibility was involved. But 
 read." 
 
 The general's card contained only a few words to the 
 effect that Madame Darras would find the information 
 ehe desired in the funeral announcement. And on this 
 announcement the sentence relating to the sacraments 
 had been underlined in pencil. 
 
 "Yes," resumed Gabrielle, "you told me yesterday 
 that there was danger. I had too good reason to think 
 that no one in the poor man's circle would call in a 
 priest. It struck me to ask you to let me take this step 
 myself. But I did not dare to ask. When I learnt 
 of the death this morning, I trembled." 
 
 She did not finish. Darras had looked at the note 
 of M. de Jardes, and then at the ofiBicial notification of 
 death. He now regarded his wife with an expression 
 of infinite distress, and said imploringly: 
 
 " You do not seriously think that? Tell me that you 
 do not think so! " 
 
 "What?" exclaimed she. 
 
 "That the presence of a priest at the bedside of a 
 dying man affects the fate, whatever it be, that awaits 
 him in the next world if there is one?" 
 
 "But, my dear, there is one," said she, "you know 
 well there is." 
 
 "I know nothing," replied Darras, "but what has 
 been established by science. But let us grant for a 
 
288 A DIVOEOE 
 
 moment that this other world does exist. Let us grant 
 a judgment after death, though the idea of putting a 
 premium on virtue is subversive of the higher moralily. 
 This judgment, if it is to be equitable, must take into ac- 
 count the life as a whole. How can it be influenced 
 by the gestures and the words of a surpliced man at the 
 side of a semi-defunct body hardly retaining enough con- 
 sciousness to think or enough breath to speak? " 
 
 " It is enough that he can repent," replied Gabrielle, 
 " and tinite in the sacrifice to the merits of the Saviour. 
 That is the whole Christian faith, that redemption of 
 such poor sinners as we are by the sufferings which 
 Jesus Christ underwent for us. The priest's gestures 
 and words are only the means of the sacrament. Oh! " 
 she continued, in an inspired tone, "how is it you do 
 not admire that conception, even though you may not 
 believe in it, you, who are so fond of lofty ideals? That 
 goodness from on high ever ready to forgive us, what- 
 ever we have done, if we will but pray for pardon in the 
 name of the Eighteous One who was willing to die that 
 we may live, and we live only in Him." 
 
 "We live only in our conscience," corrected Darras. 
 " You ask me why I fail to admire that conception, even 
 without believing in it? Because it is the negation of 
 conscience, that is why. This Saviour, as you admit, 
 is a substituted victim, that is to say the embodiment 
 of injustice, if ever there was one." 
 
 " No," broke in Gabrielle more passionately than be- 
 
A FAREWELL 289 
 
 fore, " not that, but the embodiment of love, of infinite 
 love." 
 
 "Do not let ns discuss it, my dear," said Albert, 
 then, after a moment's silence, he took her hand and 
 added in a tone of tender and indulgent reproach, 
 " How happy we were when we thought alike! You look 
 back regretfully, don't you, to those long evenings when 
 neither of us spoke a word but had its echo in the mind 
 and heart of the other, when we were so devoted?" 
 
 "We shall think alike once again some day on all 
 points," said she in a rapt manner, "I am sure of it, 
 quite sure. And this time we shall have foimd the 
 truth. As for devotion, I have proved too well how far 
 I loved, and yet I shall love you one day soon more 
 than ever before, because then I shall have the right to 
 love you." 
 
 What was the exact meaning of these dark sayings? 
 Darras feared to comprehend them. He did not pro- 
 voke any further remarks, and Gabrielle vouchsafed 
 none. The impulse which had brought him back to 
 his wife had spent its force. He dropped those feverish 
 little hands which were squeezing his in a grip in which 
 he read not the passion of love but the effort of a will 
 determined on the mastery. Suddenly there revived in 
 his heart the implacable aversion he professed for the 
 beliefs represented by the Church. It had just been 
 brought home to him that he had been mistaken in the 
 gravity of the religious crisis through which his wife 
 
290 A BIVOROE 
 
 had passed. It was no mere question of superstitious 
 terror awakened by the events of the last few days, the 
 quarrel between stepfather and stepson and the latter's 
 determined recalcitrance. It was Faith that he had to 
 face, a moral phenomenon more disconcerting and an- 
 noying than any other to minds built like his own. 
 The struggle between the species, that inflexible law 
 of the animal world, has its exact analogy in the world 
 of ideas. Certain bents of mind constitute genuine in- 
 tellectual species which cannot exist together side by 
 side. An encounter means strife and a duel to the 
 death. Convictions, seemingly the most abstract, are 
 living principles quite ready to display destructive 
 energy against principles opposed to them. The fight- 
 ing instinct soon succeeds in involving the whole per- 
 sonality. Indeed, diametrically opposite lines of 
 thought on certain essential points must always result 
 in mutual hatred, though the parties in other respects 
 may be as devoted to each other as were Gabrielle and 
 Albert. The latter was conscious of a rising spirit of 
 antagonism bordering on the savage, such as he had 
 felt the previous week on the occasion of his wife's first 
 confession. He had then had the strength to keep him- 
 self under control. Would he be so successful in the 
 next struggle, when she would formulate in positive 
 phraseology the demands at present concealed in the 
 vagueness of her " because I shall then have the right "? 
 He was afraid that henceforth she would not let herself 
 
A FAREWELL 291 
 
 be carried away. To avoid such a discussion at a mo- 
 ment when he was hardly master of himself, he made 
 a hurried pretence, entirely unconvincing at that time 
 of night, of a matter of business which he had for- 
 gotten, and he left the room, and a minute or two later 
 the house, without his wife's having offered to detain 
 him. WMle he walked on and on, straight ahead 
 through the streets, in the darkness, trying to over- 
 come by a forced march the violent excitement into 
 which the brief conversation had thrown him, she sat 
 motionless under the lamp, with her hands crossed on 
 her untouched task, and kept asking herself when she 
 would have the courage to speak out. The words had 
 been on her lips, and her free-thinking husband had 
 read them there so distinctly as to gather with a sense 
 of apprehension the unspoken menace they conveyed. 
 Death had freed the divorced woman from her old ties. 
 She could become Albert's wife in the sight of God and 
 go through the religious marriage. The insurmountable 
 obstacle had disappeared. Was it possible that Jeanne's 
 father, who allowed the daughter to be brought up in 
 the Catholic faith, would refuse to the mother this 
 solemnisation of her marriage at church, the final conse- 
 cration of their union? She replied " No," and yet the 
 fear wrung her heart. If after all he refused, what then? 
 The feeling of which they were both conscious, that 
 the first husband's unexpected death had affected one 
 of the essential facts of their life, had the ^ffect of post- 
 
292 A DIVORCE 
 
 poning for a few days the discussion which each knew 
 to be inevitable on this question of a religidus marriage. 
 In their shrinking from the interview which would have 
 far-reaching results on their future relations, husband 
 and wife were actuated by different motives. How 
 could Albert have challenged a conversation which im- 
 plied that this event had altered his relations with his 
 wife, when his pride refused to allow him to admit the 
 fact? From his point of view Gabrielle had been his 
 wife while Chambault was living. Chambault being 
 dead she- was his wife still, and in circumstances which 
 he chose to consider identical. Divorce, not widowhood, 
 had emancipated her. Gabrielle, on the contrary, 
 looked on herself as a new-made widow who had thus 
 gained her freedom. She was quit of the stigma of 
 the divorce from which she had suffered so greatly dur- 
 ing the last few months. Quit? Not altogether, for 
 the tie which bound her to Albert was as yet only that 
 civil ceremony which in her present state of mind did 
 not count. The idea of being married at last to this 
 man whom she loved so dearly, by the only form of 
 marriage in which she now believed, soothed her with 
 hopes so sweet as to make her afraid of them. So 
 keenly anxious was she to get his consent to this that 
 she shrank from making her request. She did not shut 
 her eyes to facts; the present state of things could not 
 last. There must be an explanation. She would not 
 doubt the success of her pl^n and yet she kept putting 
 
A FAREWELL 293 
 
 if off. Till whan? For what reason? Every day men 
 who are unbelievers agree to marry under the forms of 
 Christianity the girls whom they love and who would 
 not consent to be their wife without the solemn cere- 
 mony. They do not regard themselves as dishonoured. 
 She clung to this reasoning, arguing to herself that it 
 would be the same with Darras. Then the knowledge 
 she had of his character constrained her to admit the 
 uncertainty of the analogy when he was in question. 
 The prospect of what she must make up her mind to, 
 supposing he refused to make their relations regular, 
 overwhelmed her before the time. She tried to force 
 herself not to think of it. Every morning in the week 
 that elapsed between her son's departure and return 
 she put the decisive battle off till the evening, and every 
 evening till the next morning. She found an excuse for 
 her weakness in the fact that, apart from her other trou- 
 bles, she was still greatly worried about the issue of the 
 difficulties with her son, which were merely suspended 
 during his absence for the funeral at Villefranche. He 
 had given her notice of a visit on his return. She ex- 
 pected that he would choose this occasion to renew his 
 request for authorisation which now depended on her 
 alone. All these years she had become so accustomed 
 to rely on Albert in all matters of importance that she 
 was dismayed at the outset by the prospect of em- 
 barking on this struggle without being in full accord 
 with him. It would have been better if this matter of 
 
294 A DIVOEOE 
 
 her legal opposition to Lucien's marriage had been 
 settled first. She felt, besides, considerable uneasiness 
 at the growing distinctness of Darras' change of views 
 on a subject on which she had found him so decided 
 and impassioned previous to his visit to the Place 
 Frangois ler and his meeting with Mile. Planat. A 
 struggle was going on in his mind. On the day after 
 that evening when the notice of M. de Chambault's 
 death had given rise to the conversation, in itself the 
 inevitable prelude to another and a more serious dis- 
 cussion, she came upon a further indication of this. 
 She had asked him whether it would not be as well to 
 suimnon their notary to decide on the necessary steps to 
 take, the father's death having cancelled the previous 
 authorisation. 
 
 " Why annoy Lucien? " Darras had replied. " Well, 
 yes. Wait for his visit. You will act accordingly. 
 He can do nothing without you. Let him come. It is 
 better for you to avoid any fresh complication. We 
 have two full years now in front of us before he can 
 start any legal action against you." 
 
 " Two years? " repeated the mother. " But how will 
 these two years pass? He is well enough off already. 
 This girl will not release her victim." 
 
 " I should have thought as you do before seeing Mile. 
 Planat. My sense of Justice forbids me to believe, with- 
 out more tangible proof, that she is false and interested- 
 I told you just now. Her look, her voice, her attitude, 
 
A FAREWELL 295 
 
 her wori3s, everything about her surprised me. We 
 must have the courage to revise our judgments when 
 we are mistaken, at the risk of self-humiliation. Hon- 
 esty demands it. Is it time? We shall soon have an 
 opportunity of learning very precisely what view to 
 adopt. She has influence over Lucien, that is certain, 
 tremendous influence. We shall see how she will use 
 it. I have talked with her. If by chance Lucien had 
 formerly misled her as to our intentions, she is fully 
 informed now. I told her what you thought and what 
 I thought. If she has the least spark of proper feel- 
 ing, she will make it a point of honour to put an end 
 to the misunderstanding which drove Lucien away. 
 His private means of which jou spoke have this advan- 
 tage, they furnish a ready excuse for his setting up for 
 himself, so that his separate establishment may not con- 
 stitute a rupture with us." 
 
 "You have no hope then that he will come back?" 
 she asked. "You seemed so convinced of it? You 
 promised me so decidedly?" 
 
 "I was sure of it then. Now I am less so, for a 
 reason which ought rather to pacify your anxiety. I 
 believed he would return, just in proportion as I was 
 persuaded of the girl's unworthiness. But supposing 
 the enquiry with regard to her comes to nothing. Sup- 
 posing there is nothing at all in her past life! I assure 
 you i am beginning to believe that there is nothing." 
 
 And some days later he remarked: 
 
296 A DIVOEOB 
 
 "I have news from the Place Beauvau. The reply 
 has come from Clermont. The evidence they have got 
 together is unanimous. Mile. Planat's work and con- 
 duct throughout her training was exemplary. Her life 
 at Paris was unscrupulously misrepresented by the Con- 
 servative professors and students in the University, for 
 the very reason that she had been so irreproachable in 
 preparing for her examinations. She had passed with 
 .very brilliant honours, and every one knew her ideas 
 and those of an uncle who had brought her up and was 
 one of the leaders of the Socialists in the town. It re- 
 mains to collect information about her life in the Quar- 
 tier Latin. That will be a longer business. If noth- 
 ing more is discovered in that direction, beyond the in- 
 timacy which she admits, my conscience will compel me 
 to confess myself in the wrong with regard to Lucien." 
 
 " But you will not advise me to consent to his mar- 
 riage?" said the mother. 
 
 " I shall advise you to speak to your son in all earnest- 
 ness, as we did on the first occasion. I myself shall tell 
 him my present doubts, and how they have come, and 
 the reasons why I thought first one way and then the 
 other. We shall then have a right to ask him to be 
 patient for the two years, and we shall be certain of 
 not having committed any injustice. Since my con- 
 versation with the girl, that fear haunts me, and the 
 feeling is too painful." 
 
 So Gabrielle ran the risk of having to combat Albert 
 
A FAEEWELL 297 
 
 as well as Lucien in the matter of this creature. The 
 mother's aversion to the siren continued the more im- 
 placable as the wife found her own position less regular. 
 At a given moment, carried away by the intensity of 
 her remorse, she had gone so far as to compare her own 
 condition, as a divorced woman who had gone through 
 the civil ceremony of remarriage, to the irregular status 
 of such as her son's unfortunate betrothed. In reality 
 her inmost being revolted at the thought that such a 
 comparison should be possible even. How she longed to 
 make it an impossibility. 
 
 Twenty times during this week of torturing in- 
 decision had she been tempted to return to Father 
 Euvrard, in the certainty that the old priest would order 
 her at once to put to her husband, as the Code provided, 
 the question which must determine him to make her 
 his wife according to the requirements of the Church. 
 Twenty times she rejected the idea of a visit which she 
 must either keep from Darras, and for that she would 
 not forgive herself, or tell him of it, when he would 
 not pardon her for having again brought a third per- 
 son between them. So she waited, and waiting, became 
 the more anxious at the total absence of news from her 
 son since the note, tender though that was, announcing 
 his father's death. That he might have to prolong his 
 stay at Aveyron, where he had henceforth some large 
 interests, she understood. What was happening that, 
 in this forced separation, he ceased to feel the need of 
 
298 A DIVOKOE 
 
 reconciliation with her? From the post in the morning 
 to that at night she looked for a letter promising a 
 speedy return or at least explaining his absence. The 
 postman brought her nothing, and she lost herself in 
 conjectures, sometimes foolish: a sudden illness which 
 was being kept from her; the marriage with Mile. 
 Planat had taken place out there, through the ignorance 
 or the complicity of some country Mayor. How did she 
 know? New terrors assailed her at the prospect of yet 
 more dreadful punishment for the scandal of her home 
 life, of her long intimacy with a man whom the world 
 and she called her husband, but who was not! She 
 trembled and fervently resolved, come what would, to 
 speak to Albert the very day Lucien returned. She 
 ended by making her resolve a vow and going to Saint 
 Sulpice to promise God she would have the courage to 
 carry it out. So sincere was she in this that at the 
 moment when she at last received the wished-f or letter 
 from the young man in which he announced his return 
 to Paris and fixed his visit for the next day, she thought 
 she would have fainted. The date had arrived and she 
 did not entertain for a moment any idea of failure. 
 Ifo sooner should her son have left her than the inter- 
 view with her husband should take place. The latter 
 was by at the time and felt somewhat uneasy when he 
 saw her sudden paleness; then, after he had been made 
 acquainted with the note which had caused the shock, 
 he said gently: 
 
A FAEEWELL 299 
 
 "You must have more control of yourself," and he 
 added with some hesitation, " the more so as this inter- 
 view will, I fear, be painful. Yes," he continiied, 
 " when I confronted Lucien at the Place Frangois ler, 
 I got the impression that he was a changed man. I did 
 not say anything to you at the time, but it is better for 
 you to be forewarned. I am afraid that the feelings 
 which he already entertained towards our household 
 have become very accentuated." 
 
 "But you told me that nothing passed between you 
 at that time? " replied the mother. 
 
 " There is no need of words between people who know 
 one another as we do," returned Darras; "looks are 
 enough. I would rather have seen him as we did here, 
 violent, unjust, enraged. But he still looked on me as 
 a friend. AU his anger was merely exasperated afEec- 
 tion." 
 
 " And the other day? Go on " 
 
 " The other day I became aware that I was nothing 
 to binn henceforth. I have since then thought deeply 
 of the determination to know me no longer which I 
 distinctly read in his eyes. I wiU not trouble you with 
 the conclusions I have come to. You can guess them, 
 I may have been deceived. But if I saw correctly, this 
 first conversation between you and him, considering 
 where he comes from, might have some surprises in store 
 for you. So try to be well prepared for it, and be 
 calm, above all things cabn. The circumstances are 
 
300 A DIVOEOB 
 
 no longer such that you need fear any desperate act 
 on the spur of the moment. The law is on our side. 
 Only try to keep Lucien from once more leaving this 
 house never to return." 
 
 He said no more. Evidently the impressions which 
 he summed up in these ambiguous sentences had been 
 80 bitter that it was painful to him to particularise fur- 
 ther. This information corresponded too nearly with 
 certain ideas suggested to Gabrielle by her son's silence 
 during the last eight days. She did not try to elicit 
 from her husband explanations which would have cost 
 him a pang and have told her nothing. 
 
 Twenty-four hours later Lucien entered the little 
 drawing-room where, the week before, such terrible 
 words had passed between the three of them, and then 
 she understood, at the first glance, that her husband 
 had made no mistake. She was face to face with some 
 one whom she did not altogether recognise. Present 
 through his father's last days, he had then gone straight 
 to the remote country district which was the cradle of 
 his family, and had lived for a whole week with the 
 relatives and amid recollections of the dead man. The 
 result was that the young man had begun to entertain 
 very different thoughts and feelings from those he had 
 cherished previously, from those even which had filled 
 this very apartment with their noisy explosion. Ga- 
 brielle was coming to the severest trial that can fall on 
 ft woman who has been divorced ai^d has remarried: her 
 
A FAEEWELL 301 
 
 son had ceased to side with her completely and unques- 
 tioningly. The instinctive attraction which he still felt 
 at the time of writing the letter to tell her of the catas- 
 trophe, the loving movement towards her in time of 
 trouhle, all were things of the past. He was her " little 
 one" no longer. In spite of himself perhaps, he was 
 now her judge. She had read it before he spoke, in his 
 emaciated features, his burning eyes, his trembling 
 mouth, and at once the question of the marriage with 
 Bertha Planat which had caused her so much uneasi- 
 ness, was relegated to a secondary place among her pre- 
 occupations. 
 
 One little fact, slight but full of significance, marked 
 the difference between their last interview when tender- 
 ness mingled with their sorrow, and the meeting of to- 
 day: neither of them rushed to meet the other as before. 
 She hardly so much as rose from the chair in which 
 she was working, to fold him in a long and silent em- 
 brace. She would not have had the strength to go to 
 him, so apprehensive was she of this change of feel- 
 ing in the young man described by Darras. At once, 
 another little detail possessing still more significance, 
 obtruded itself to increase her embarrassment, in the 
 contrast between the full mourning worn by Lucien 
 and her own costume. She had indeed chosen some- 
 thing almost dark, for her delicate feminine sensitive- 
 ness had foreseen the contrast. But fearing to offend 
 Albert, she had not ventured to dress entirely in black. 
 
302 A DIVOROE 
 
 Lucien also started at this visible symbol of the divorce 
 which continued to keep his father and mother apart' 
 by a severance more complete than death itself, and 
 when she asked him affectionately: "You have had a 
 bad shock, my poor boy, a bad blow? " it was in a tone 
 of sadness that he replied: 
 "Yes, mother, greater than I can tell you." 
 " Oh, but you can," she insisted; " I can listen to it 
 all. Death, you know, obliterates many things, and 
 directly. you have anything to cause you grief, and now 
 more than ever, be certain I share it with you." 
 
 " I know that," said he, " but to talk of all that even 
 to you would make me ill. He was my father, and, 
 whatever wrongs he was guilty of to you and to me also, 
 when I saw him dying, I felt that at the bottom of my 
 heart I cherished a fondness for him of which I had no 
 suspicion. He died very peacefully. There had been 
 some very painful periods of delirium, but the delirium 
 had passed away. He asked for a priest. I thought 
 I must accede to his wish. After the priest had gone, 
 he had still half an hour of consciousness, in which he 
 spoke to me. Then he sank into a kind of torpor and 
 he expired with no sign of suffering. Ether was in- 
 jected, but he did not feel it. It was during this last 
 conversation that he entrusted me with a message for 
 you as my letter told you. He wished me, in his name, 
 to ask your forgiveness for not having been all that he 
 ought to you. He may have been guilty of many faults. 
 
A FAEEWELL 303 
 
 mother. I swear to you, he was not a bad man. Do 
 you pardon him? Tell me that you do — I want you to 
 tell me so." 
 
 "I pardon him/' replied Gabrielle simply, when her 
 son at once interrupted her, as if he feared to hear any 
 more. 
 
 " Thank you," he returned, " in his name and mine." 
 He signed to his mother not to continue and put his 
 hand for a minute over his eyes, making as if to stifle 
 some overpowering emotion. When he recovered him- 
 self, he went on: 
 
 " You have done me ever so much good, mother, and 
 I wish we could rest here, and not spoil the sweetness 
 of the impression. But there is one other question that 
 must be opened. It would be chUdish to put it off. 
 Besides it is only the continuation of our conversation 
 the other day when we were not over self-possessed, you 
 
 or I, or " He did not name his stepfather, and 
 
 ended almost roughly: " In fact, you have guessed that 
 it is the question of my marriage." 
 
 " Is it absolutely necessary that we should speak of it 
 now?" said his mother. "I have just seen you so 
 affected. I have been so affected myself. We were 
 at one in our thoughts on this tender subject. Do not 
 let us introduce to-day the questions which sunder us." 
 
 "But we must have this matter settled to-day," re- 
 plied the young man conclusively. " Besides, the words 
 you have just employed are sufficient to enlighten me 
 
304 A DrVOECE 
 
 on your intentions. Allow me to prevail on you to state 
 them distinctly. It will not take very long, and you 
 can vouch that I am not now in a state of excitement. 
 Answer me then frankly and without reserve. I know 
 from my notary, M. Mounier, that you are acquainted 
 with the step I took with regard to my father. I did it 
 and I conceived I had the right to do it because the op- 
 position to my marriage did not really come from you. 
 Had it come from you, I mean from you alone, I should 
 have hesitated before making use of the means the law 
 gave me. It was not against you that I acted. I want 
 to assure you of that. In any case, right or wrong, I 
 did act. You have heard the result from M. Mounier: 
 I obtained my father's consent. Please notice that he 
 gave it with a full knowledge of the facts of the case. 
 I had not hidden from him any of the circumstances in 
 which Mile. Planat is placed, and I say it with em- 
 phasis. He was ill, it is true, and felt he was going, 
 but he was in full possession of his faculties. He 
 wished to show his love for me by placing no obstacle 
 in the way of a union which he understood to be my 
 most passionate desire, and likely to secure my per- 
 manent happiness. Had he lived two weeks longer, 
 this marriage would have taken place. His decease 
 renders his consent invalid under the Code. It depends 
 now on you alone to authorise this marriage. Will you 
 endorse or not the last wish my father expressed with 
 respect to my interests?" 
 
A FAEEWELL 305 
 
 "I cannot allow the question between us to be put 
 in such terms as these," said his mother quickly. Her 
 heart was in her mouth as she spoke, for her son's last 
 question had touched a smarting wound. " When you 
 spoke just now of pardon, I think I answered you as I 
 ought and in all sincerity. Do not ask me to go fur- 
 ther and take account of a wish which I have never 
 recognised as legitimate. You see I was right when I 
 begged you not to open this subject. You force me to 
 say what I would rather have left unsaid. You do not 
 know how unhappy that act you referred to made me, 
 and what tears I shed! You maintain it was not aimed 
 at me. Nor can I allow you to dissociate me from Albert, 
 my husband, the best of men, whom you have called by 
 the name of father so long. He deserved it for his devo- 
 tion to you, yes, and he deserves it still. In our con- 
 cern for you we are one. Only yesterday when your 
 letter came what was his first thought, do you think? 
 Only that there might be an end of this cruel misunder- 
 standing between us. 'Only try to prevent Lucien 
 from leaving this house never to return.' Those were 
 his own words. And if you knew too how he seized the 
 opportunity to plead for you? I may be wrong, but I 
 will tell you all. He saw this person whom you wish 
 to marry: in what circumstances I need hardly remind 
 you. He had gone to the Place Frangois ler, because 
 he thought at the time you were the victim of a design- 
 ing woman. He wanted to speak, you can guess to 
 
306 A DIVOEOE ' 
 
 whom, and you understand why. Ought not his mere 
 presence in that room and with that object be sufficient 
 to convince you how much you are to him? He never 
 made a greater sacrifice for you. He was anxious to 
 save you at all costs. Chance willed that this young 
 lady and he had an explanation. She produced a very 
 different impression on him from what he had expected. 
 It would be untrue to say that he has entirely changed 
 his opinion of her. He says, however, that we have 
 perhaps judged her a little hastily. You must admit 
 that we had very natural reasons for dreading her. As 
 a matter of fact, if it were shown to us that she is really 
 such as you conceive her, if we had the assurance that 
 she would be a good wife to you, I too might be able, 
 one day, to think more kindly towards her. But that 
 can only be the work of time. So I ask you for time 
 to give a definite reply, and it is only fair to grant me 
 this." 
 
 As she spoke these words in which her passionate 
 desire to defend her second husband against the dead 
 man's son was so ingenuously displayed, she had been 
 searching Lucien's eyes for a glimmer of indecision, 
 but she sought in vara. On the contrary, the young 
 man's face had grown darker and even hard. He made 
 no reply immediately. He had risen and began to walk 
 up and down the room. Suddenly he stopped in front 
 of her, and jerking out his words hurriedly, with a curl 
 of the lip he said to her; 
 
A FAKEWIXL 3U7 
 
 "Time? What is the use? There are some things 
 that time cannot change. Time will not alter the fact 
 that M. Darras insulted my betrothed, and me with her, 
 in this very room in a manner which he cannot now 
 make amends for. Time will make no difference; it will 
 stni be true that he claimed rights over you at my ex- 
 pense and that I had to go, and you let me, your son, 
 go because this house is not your home but the home of 
 the pair of you. Yes, I must speak out; that is the view 
 I take. Where shall I spend this time you require? 
 Where will my home be, where am I to spend my private 
 life? With you? Now? Never, I could not." 
 
 "Lucien," she cried, rising in her turn and taking 
 his hands, "you are not saying what you think. It is 
 not possible that you feel so. It is not true." 
 
 " It is only too true," he replied. 
 
 "Why too true?" she repeated. "No, oh no! Ee- 
 sentment is carrying you away and making you too 
 bard, too ungrateful. Forget these two horrible weeks. 
 Eemember the past. You cannot live with us any 
 longer? Oh! you are too ungrateful. Then you have 
 not been happy here? " 
 
 "Yes, I have been happy," replied he. 
 
 "You have not been loved? Dare to say so!" 
 
 "I have been loved." 
 
 "Has not my husband been your best friend for 
 years? " 
 
 "He has." 
 
308 A DIVOBOE 
 
 " Then, how can you give utterance to these mon- 
 strous words?" 
 
 " They are not monstrous, mother; once more they are 
 the truth. There is no question of the past, it is the 
 present and the future we have to deal with. The 
 idea that I was in the way here began to grow on me 
 quite a long time ago. At first it was only jealousy. 
 How I endeavoured to hide it from you! I did not 
 think the better of myself for it. It was not your fault 
 if I suffered because I had no longer the larger part 
 of your affectioUi There were trifles. Take an in- 
 stance. You never received a letter from me without 
 showing it to him. When I was with the regiriient I 
 tore up ever so many letters, because this annoyed me. 
 Then many little things followed to offend me. It was 
 not his fault either. I called your husband my father. 
 He treated me as a son, exerting an authority which ex- 
 tended to the smallest details of life. How I chafed 
 against this! And then there came his glaring injus- 
 tice to my betrothed, and I saw his character as it was. 
 It was a bitter blow to me that you should side with 
 him against me in a matter in which I thought he was 
 wrong. Finally, and more than all besides, there came 
 the few days spent with my real father, at the time 
 when I went to see him although almost ashamed to go. 
 The feelings I saw he bore me conquered my heart. I 
 quite understood that he repented. Seated by his bed 
 and chatting with him I listened to his rambling recol- 
 
A FABEWELL 309 
 
 lections of his wasted life. All went to show me that 
 he had been worthy of better things. He was full of 
 regretful recollections of you, the days of your engage- 
 ment, of my birth. It was foUy, no doubt, but as I 
 listened I could not help dreaming. In thought I 
 lived through the life I should have had with you two 
 if things had been so arranged that you could have 
 stayed with him. Who can tell? The good side of his 
 nature might perhaps have developed. There was so 
 much of it. I gathered this still more completely from 
 what I was told of him by his companions in childhood 
 and youth at ViUefranche. I am not accusing you, 
 mother. You had not the strength to put up with his 
 shortcomings beyond a certain point, even for my sake. 
 For you had to take account of me. I bear you no iU- 
 wHl; but aU that has been has become too painful to 
 me in comparison with what might have been. It is 
 not just, perhaps; but I repeat I do not judge you. In 
 your presence I express my feelings aloud. I am going 
 to leave you. I am going to live a life foreign to your 
 ideas and your wishes. I wanted to put all the reasons 
 before you. I am not a bad son. But come back here, 
 and resume my place in your household, as things are, 
 I should not have the strength for it. I should be too 
 wretched." 
 
 While Lucien was speaking, Madame Darras had been 
 looking at him without a tear or sob, her eyes fixed on 
 Mm, in that state of sudden prostration which may be 
 
310 A DIVOEOE 
 
 noticed in the presence of certain catastrophes when ex- 
 cessive grief paralyses all feeling of reaction. She had 
 suffered much in these two weeks; with ever increasing 
 remorse she had been constantly brought in contact with 
 the ever recurring consequences of that second marriage 
 of hers, to which she had only agreed originally after a 
 great struggle with her conscience. But her sufferings 
 had been nothing to this. She was no longer con- 
 fronted by the consequences of the act. It was the act 
 itself, and her son's smothered complaint made it a 
 present and concrete fact. 
 
 With lightning-like rapidity her imagination busied 
 itself with the past and she retraced all the stages 
 which had led her to the climax. First had come the 
 departure from Chambault House. She had thought 
 herself justified at the time. Suppose, however, that she 
 had been still more patient; suppose she had not listened 
 to the lawyer's advice and made that demand for a 
 separation which had increased the resentment of 
 Lucien's father! While the action was going on he had 
 asked her to come back, and yet once again she had re- 
 fused. Later on, when he had vrished to alter the sepa- 
 ration to a divorce, she had, still on the same advice, 
 affected to offer no opposition. It was true, though, 
 that she had her share of the responsibility for this 
 divorce; further it was true that in remarrying while 
 her son lived, she had saddled herself with the inability 
 to make any reply if he ever taxed her with sacrificing 
 
A FAREWELL 311 
 
 him, a terrible charge for a son to make and a mother 
 to hear. To acquit her in her own eyes, her son must 
 never protest against the intrusion of the stranger. He 
 was doing worse than protest. He was leaving her. 
 The family-tragedy which is involved in virtually every 
 divorce was reaching its supreme and logical climax. 
 The second marriage was showing its radical incom- 
 patibility with what survived of the first. Was that 
 what the mother had desired? Alas! She had brought • 
 it about, and she groaned: 
 
 " You repeat that you do not judge me, but to teU 
 me in my own house that you are not at home, that you 
 are wretched near me within these walls, what more 
 cruel judgment can you imagine? But I will not have 
 it. It is a horrible nightmare. I have not heard you, 
 you my Lucien, speak in this way to me. No, I will 
 not beKeve it. You are too sensitive, and so is Albert. 
 You are both of you proud and shy. I know you so 
 well! You have let a frightful misunderstanding come 
 between you. You must have an explanation. He never 
 knew what you were thinking, I swear it. You will 
 tell him as you have told me, and there will be nothing 
 of it left, nothing." 
 
 "Poor mother," replied the young man. "Why 
 should "we lie one to the other? Why draw back before 
 the strong and indisputable evidence we have all three 
 had in this very place? My stepfather does not know 
 what I think? Oh yes, mother, he does, and you know 
 
312 A DIVORCE 
 
 yoTireelf that he does. Why, at this minute and while 
 we are talking, he is over there in his study behind 
 that door and he, does not come in here! For what 
 reason, unless because there is not room now for both 
 of us in your circle? And you are so fuUy conscious 
 of this yourself that you will not go to look for him, you 
 will not challenge this explanation between us and in 
 your presence. You calculate too accurately that it is 
 useless and would be too risky." 
 
 " It is necessary," said Gabrielle, " and I will go and 
 look for him." 
 
 She walked with a decided step to the door which 
 separated the little drawing-room from the library. 
 Her hand raised the curtain to grope for the handle 
 of the lock, and then she did not turn it. So she stood 
 for a moment, shaking with such a fit of trembling 
 that she had to lean against the frame of the door. Her 
 hand dropped without effecting her purpose. She left 
 the door, which in simple truth she had not dared to 
 open, and came back to her son, saying: " You are right. 
 I am afraid. But do you not understand that I love 
 you both, poor boy; you as much as him, him as much as 
 you? That is why I could not bear to see you confront- 
 ing one another. Perhaps I was very guilty towards 
 you in my divorce and my remarriage. But I swear to 
 you that at this moment I am more than punished." 
 
 "You?" cried the young man, "guilty towards me? 
 You, my dearest mother? Do not say such a thing, I 
 
A FAREWELL 313 
 
 entreat you, do not even think it." He had made her 
 sit down in a chair and thrown himself on his knees be- 
 fore her, and was kissing her hands. The cry of a tor- 
 tured soul that had escaped her had shaken him to his 
 very soul. 
 
 "I am the guilty person, I deserve the pimishment 
 for having gone so far as to give you the impression 
 that I am reproaching you or complaining. I who only 
 came to assure you over and again of my worship and 
 my devotion! I wanted to make you fully understand 
 that, even when gone from the house, I shall keep the 
 best part of my affection for you always, always. You 
 punished? For what? For having been too simple, 
 too sincere, for having believed overmuch that all hearts 
 were like your own. They are not. They are not all 
 kindness, all love like yours, mine among the first. 
 Look at me, dear. Smile at me." And he added sor- 
 rowfully: "Eemember it will perhaps be a long time 
 before we see one another again." 
 
 "It is settled then?" she said with a start. "You 
 are going away from here? " 
 
 "Yes," he replied, "you yourself made it clear Just 
 now that I am right." And he pointed to the door 
 which she had not had the courage to open. "And 
 you have told me so. After what has passed and with 
 the feelings which I have allowed you to see, I cannot 
 live among you. It is no place for me now. I have 
 met with a woman whom I love and who loves me. She 
 
314 A DIVOECE 
 
 has all my ideas and I have all her tastes. Our ways 
 of thinking and our principles are identicaL She is my 
 wife, the woman with whom I shall be able to make a 
 home such as I dream of. The poor deceased under- 
 stood this. Will you not do likewise and give your con- 
 sent to our marriage? " 
 
 "No! " said she, releasing her hands from Lucien's 
 entreating clasp. She shook her head and repeated: 
 "No, no, I asked you to wait. Is it too much to re- 
 quire?" 
 
 "And I," he broke in, rising to his feet. "I told 
 you why I will not wait. My life is all before me, I 
 want to live it. It is my wish and my duty. Mile. 
 Planat has been too unhappy and too undeservedly so. 
 I have promised to make up to her in happiness all she 
 has suffered from the cruelty and wickedness of the 
 world. In coming here I foresaw your refusal. I have 
 prepared her for it, and have brought her to consent to 
 the course which I will now tell you. She and I have the 
 same beliefs. We think that the moral worth of mar- 
 riage depends solely on the tie between ttie consciences. 
 It was in vain that M. Darras waxed wroth against 
 this idea when I propounded it the other day; I hold to 
 it because it is true, and because I feel it true in all 
 honesty. The only true marriage, the only one which 
 is absolutely unstained by hypocritical convention, is 
 free union. If I have wished in the first instance to 
 marry Mile. Planat legally, it is only because legal mar- 
 
A FAEEWELL 315 
 
 riage is a public proof of my affection. You object to 
 my giving her that proof for the present. I bow to 
 your will. But we have plighted our troth, she and I. 
 We mean to live together in free union. We shall be 
 misunderstood and slandered. We shall have the ap- 
 proval of our own consciences. We have made up our 
 minds to leave Paris. Had I no other reasons for 
 wishing to go away, I should consider myself bound to 
 spare you the remarks which my life here under such 
 conditions could not fail to occasion in your circle. We 
 shall go to Germany. There my wife will continue her 
 medical studies and I shall start on mine. I have taken 
 a passion for the science of medicine. My ^betrothed 
 shares it, and we shall work together. In two years 
 I shall be free to legalise a situation which to-day is in 
 my view as honourable as the fine marriages which my 
 friends dream of are the reverse. Mile. Planat has a 
 child. I do not wish him to go through what I have 
 gone through. We shall take him with us now and he 
 will never know that I am not his father. Mother, 
 I appeal to your sense of justice, and I emphasise the 
 word, for to my mind that is everything: can you think 
 badly of me for living thus?" 
 
 "But you," rejoined she, "will you think highly 
 of yourself for having deserted me, your mother, and 
 for having taken no account of the sorrow you cause 
 me?" 
 
 " Should I be doing so if I remained here to torture 
 
316 A DIVOROE 
 
 your heart as just now, tormenting my own the while? 
 I am not deserting you. I am leaving you to your hus- 
 band, your daughter." 
 
 " And without my son," said she imploringly. 
 
 " Mother," he replied to this heartrending sigh, " do 
 not rob me of my courage. It must be. It is my duty, 
 towards you even, above all," persisted he, "towards 
 you." 
 
 Then suddenly he clasped her in his arms in so pas- 
 sionate an embrace as even to hurt her, and in a low 
 voice said, "Good-bye, good-bye." 
 
 Before she could say a word in reply, he had left 
 the little room. Her twice-repeated cry, "Lucien! 
 Lucien! " did not induce him to turn back. As on the 
 previous occasion, she heard the outer door open and 
 shut. A carriage rolled away and completed her cer- 
 tainty; this farewell, so overpoweringly sudden that she 
 remained lost in astonishment, was indeed a reality. 
 
 " He is gone," she sobbed, " gone, gone, . . . and he 
 did not even go upstairs to kiss his sister." 
 
CHAPTEK X 
 
 THE PEISON 
 
 The young man's departure had been witnessed by 
 one other person. We can guess who this was and 
 whether Darras had found the interview a long one. 
 He had too clear a conception of the consequences which 
 might ensue from this meeting between mother and 
 son not to experience anxiety strained to the point of 
 anguish while he awaited the result. Would Gabrielle 
 prevail on Lucien to consent at least to postpone his 
 projected marriage and in the meantime to return to the 
 house, if not as an inmate at least as a visitor? Or 
 would he on the other hand prove an open rebel? 
 Would he put his mother under the necessity of reply- 
 ing "Yes" or "No" immediately, and in the event 
 of a refusal would he go off, more completely estranged 
 from them than before? At the thought of a complete 
 rupture with the son of the first marriage, strangely 
 complex feelings were simultaneously aroused in the 
 divorced woman's husband. Mortal apprehension for 
 the future of his own establishment, dread lest the 
 catastrophe should end in accentuating in Gabrielle 
 those religious anxieties from which their intimacy had 
 
 317 
 
318 A DIVORCE 
 
 already sufEered so severely. His affections were 
 wounded and lacerated. He was genuinely fond of his 
 stepson, he had brought him up and was particularly 
 proud of him. At the same time, shrink as he might 
 from the admission, this rupture was the final oblitera- 
 tion of a past which he so detested that he was con- 
 scious of a feeling of savage triumph in the obscure re- 
 cesses of his heart. He was ashamed to discover in 
 himself once more stirrings of malice unworthy of his 
 character. But one may blush at the thought of mean- 
 ness and be possessed by it none the less. The inter- 
 view still went on and his wife did not come to call 
 him. So she could not bring the obstinate young man 
 to reason. Suddenly he too heard the noise of the open- 
 ing and shutting of the door. The roll of the carriage 
 as it moved away caused him to look out of the window. 
 It was indeed the cab which had brought Lucien and 
 was now bearing him away. Gabrielle had failed? Al- 
 bert hurried into the little drawing-room, where he 
 found her seated in a chair, motionless, her hands lying 
 on her knees, her head bowed. The final confirmation 
 of her son's secret and unspeakable resentment against 
 her second marriage, his departure with no sign of 
 affection for little Jeanne, had put the finishing touch to 
 her dejection. For the first time she grasped the truth; 
 between the half-brother and the half-sister, on whom 
 she herself lavished an equal wealth of affection, there 
 would never be complete sympathy. It is the greatest 
 
THE PRISON 319 
 
 grief of a woman who has borne children to two men 
 thus to recognise that the offspring of her two marriages 
 unconsciously carry on the rivalry of the fathers. So 
 profound was the distress which had overwhelmed her 
 frail woman's spirit, already shattered by one emotion 
 after another, that she did not hear her husband come 
 ia. She shuddered like a hypnotised patient snatched 
 from her trance when she recognised him, and taking 
 his hands, she sobbed: "He has gone, and for ever! 
 He means to live in shame with this girl, like the other 
 man, without marrying her. I told him all, your good- 
 ness to him, the doubts which the meeting over there 
 had raised ia their favour. I asked him not to demand 
 an immediate reply, only to wait. Nothing would do 
 for him. He spoke of going with her out of France to 
 Germany to study medicine, and said he would own 
 her child! He means not to see us again. You had 
 guessed too truly the reason, it is because he hates our 
 home." 
 
 "He is under the iofluenee of his father's death," 
 replied Darras. " On reflection, he is bound to return 
 to a more reasonable frame of mind and to the feelings 
 which he naturally cherishes and which are not spiteful. 
 It is certainly very hard on us, my poor darling, but to 
 give way is cowardly in family matters as much as in 
 public life. We have done our duty. Circumstances 
 are against us just now. We have nothing to reproach 
 ourselves with and can stiU have grounds for hope. 
 
320 A DrVOBOB 
 
 He is going to live, you say, with this girl in free 
 union? After all there is something to be said for free 
 union. It is foolish, but it is not libertinism. When 
 adopted as by Lucien in all sincerity, there is nothing 
 low about it; it is not then a state of shame as you 
 termed it. One thing or the other. Either this girl 
 is honest and will consequently behave herself. In 
 that case, simply out of care for their children, they will 
 be led to make their mock-marriage legal in two years' 
 time. Or, as I fancied at first, she is a designing 
 woman. If so, she will not put up with the humdrum 
 quiet life of a German University. She will throw ofE 
 the mask and he will not marry her. In either event 
 we shaU recover him. Even at twenty-five he must ask 
 for your consent. If this woman has proved that she 
 possesses wifely qualities you will give them this con- 
 sent, and we shall see them. If, on the other hand, the 
 connection ends in a rupture, he will turn to us for 
 refuge. So be brave and make up your mind that this 
 parting from us was undoubtedly necessary. Yes, now 
 that he has so far given way under some unwholesome 
 infiuence as to conceive such unreasonable antipathy to 
 our home, it is better that relations should be broken 
 ofE for a whUe. At least it is a lesser evil. Courage, 
 dearest, once more! Lean on me. I will love you 
 enough for both." 
 
 "You are kind," she replied, without losing her air 
 of dejection, "you are very kind. But how can you 
 
THE PKI80N 321 
 
 expect me to yield to your arguments? You have said 
 as mueh, all to the same purpose, in the last fortnight! 
 You have continually shown me that I ought to hope 
 and not to fear, and that Lucien would not persist in 
 his project, and he has persisted. You told me that he 
 would not go to ask his father's consent, and he did go; 
 that you had a sure means to stop this deplorable mar- 
 riage, and things have gone from bad to worse. Why 
 did you tfeU me all this, and much more besides? Be- 
 cause you do not wish me to face the truth, and are 
 equally anxious not to see it yourself. And the truth 
 is what Father Euvrard preached to me. Ood is strik- 
 ing us through my son. I say ' us,' for I do not dis- 
 sociate you from myself, my friend, my one and only 
 friend. We are united in punishment as we have been 
 in sin. The blow which cuts me to the heart is heart- 
 rendiQg to you also. You talk to me of courage. 
 Have the courage to see straight and to let me see 
 straight. We have lost one of our children, Albert dear. 
 Do not let us lose the other." 
 
 Whilst speaking she sat up in the chair, grip- 
 ping its arm with her hands. Her voice had grown 
 more and more steady, more and more eager. The 
 blood had come back to her cheeks, and in her eyes 
 burned a strange fire which Darras had noticed there 
 too often during this week to be mistaken in it. He 
 started at this evidence that she was again consumed by 
 the mystic fever of religious remorse. Ever since the 
 
322 A DIVORCE 
 
 arrival of Lucien's note announcing Chambault's death, 
 the second husband had been apprehensive of the 
 dreaded request which the divorced woman, at length a 
 widow, would be inevitably led to prefer by her revived 
 adhesion to the Catholic faith. Gabrielle's importu- 
 nate tone enabled him to guess the petition hinted at 
 in the enigmatic words with which she had ended, and 
 he asked: 
 
 "The other? You mean Jeanne. What connection 
 can there be between our dear little girl and our mis- 
 understanding with Lucien? Explain." 
 
 " Why do you speak to me, Albert," she replied, " as 
 if you did not understand, when you understand only 
 too well? Do not tell me you do not. Do not treat 
 me any more as if I were an invalid. The circumstances 
 are too serious, you know. We have had too solemn 
 warnings. We have lost Lucien because we were guilty, 
 myself especially, for I was a believer, in yielding to the 
 terrible temptation of this unholy law of divorce. No 
 human code can prevail against the ordinance of Qod. 
 In the sight of God I was stUl the wife of that man 
 for whom my son wears mourning. We took no notice, 
 and now I have no son. That man is now dead. I am 
 free. God who has so punished us, gives us an oppor- 
 tunity to repair our sin. We can return to Him, and 
 be married religiously. Tell me you consent, Albert 
 dear, and will make me your wife in the eyes of the 
 Church. Tell me you will! If not, I shall die. I 
 
THE PRISON 323 
 
 shall be too afraid of losing Jeanne as well, some- 
 how or other. I know not how, but I shall be tor- 
 mented by fear. In her name, in our daughter's name, 
 I beg it of you." 
 
 " I was expecting this request," replied Darras. An 
 expression of the utmost sadness had come over his 
 countenance. It reflected that resigned melancholy 
 which comes upon you at the bedside of some one dear 
 to you, suddenly struck down in the full tide of con- 
 valescence by a sharp recurrence of the disease which 
 has nearly carried him ofE and which you thought cured. 
 " I was expecting it," he repeated, " and I bear you no 
 grudge; you have just suffered so severely. There is 
 every excuse for your not^ seeing our life in quite the 
 right light. I will not try further to prove anything 
 to you. You attribute prepossessions to me in cases 
 where I am only applying the rules of the most ordinary 
 common sense. Five minutes' cool reflection, and at the 
 very outset you would recognise that this episode of 
 Lucien's is but a sequence of very ordinary events such 
 as happen every day in the most Catholic of households 
 where a young man of twenty-three and his parents are 
 concerned. On the other hand I did not expect that 
 you would make this request in the name of our daugh- 
 ter. You have then not grasped what would now be 
 the significance of a religious marriage as regards this 
 child between us, her parents? 
 
 " When you told me in your hysterical outburst the 
 
324 A DrvoEOE 
 
 other week that we were not married, you were able to 
 fathom my indignation. I was not thinking of my- 
 self only in protesting against such rank blasphemy, I 
 had Jeanne in my mind. I am stiU thinking of her at 
 the present moment. For us to be married at church 
 now, after having lived together so many years in accord- 
 ance with a civil marriage, would be to declare that in 
 our eyes the civil marriage is null and that consequently 
 our daughter is illegitimate. Confess you do not think 
 that." 
 
 "I do, I am only too convinced of it," said the 
 mother, "and I tremble with fear for her." 
 
 " And you do not feel how foolish, to go no further, 
 is a fancy which leads you to attach, any guilt to the 
 birth of this child, over whose cradle we exchanged none 
 but vows of devotion, faith, and affection? " 
 
 " IsTo, but I do feel, because I know it and believe it, 
 that we had no right to have her." 
 
 " I will not let you talk like this," cried Darras, be- 
 wildered and vexed. " Gabrielle," he continued, with a 
 growing sense of irritation which he could no longer 
 control, " do you remember the time when you told me 
 that you hoped to be a mother and the sacred emotion 
 which we both felt at the news? EecoUect the fond 
 dreams we wove, both of us here in this very place, for 
 this chUd. It was to be a girl. We were to make her 
 our joy and pride. Think too how sad we were when, 
 after she had come, we hoped for a boy and how we 
 
THE PRISON 323 
 
 regretted that our family stopped with her . . . and 
 now . . ." 
 
 "Now," she broke in, "I have this Joy and pride 
 no more. That is true. I shall never have them again. 
 The trial has been humiliation for me. I am crushed 
 for the remainder of my life. I depend on you, Albert, 
 to get a little comfort in my sadness. That I shall get if 
 my conscience is quieted by the sacrament, if I confess 
 and take Communion, and above all if I can embrace 
 you and my daughter without remorse. I must have 
 strength, you know, to bear the thought of my son's 
 downfall and the Kfe he means to lead with that crea- 
 ture. I shall find it nowhere else. If you love me, do 
 not refuse, and do not discuss it. You dreamed of 
 marrying me when I was a young girl. That marriage 
 would certainly have been a religious one, and you would 
 have consented to it. All that I ask of you is to do to- 
 day what you would have done then. Never will you 
 have given me a greater proof of your love, and I need 
 it so much, so much! " 
 
 " Do not persist further," replied he with still more 
 impatience in his voice, " it is useless. Had I married 
 you in your girlhood I should have agreed to the con- 
 ditions of marriage at church which your parents would 
 have required. I should not have done so without a 
 severe internal struggle. I was no more a believer then 
 than I am now, and these compromises with conscience 
 are always fatal. They are the source of those moral 
 
326 A DIVOEOE 
 
 hypocrisies which indefinitely prolong the existence of 
 the worst of social lies. At the time, however, the mar- 
 riage would have implied nothing more than family 
 prejudice and my acquiescence. It would not have con- 
 stituted an outrage on the honour and loyalty of a whole 
 past life. That is what it would be to-day, the solemn 
 public condemnation of the life we have spent together, 
 the disavowal of our present relations. I will not, even 
 to please you, I will not prove a traitor to life, of which 
 I am as proud as ever, even if you deny me happiness. 
 Are you my mistress, am I your lover, that we should 
 have to get married after having lived together? No, 
 you are no mistress of mine. You are my wife, and 
 I am your husband and no lover. Never, never will I 
 cast this slur on us, on you and me. Never will I in- 
 sult our home." 
 
 " You prefer to break it up," said she, almost savagely. 
 " Yes, if you^refuse me this religious marriage, you will 
 have destroyed the home. I shall not remain here. I 
 feel it. I shall not be able. To live with you and bear 
 your name and belong to you and yet not be your wife 
 in the sight of God, when there is nothing in the way 
 but your pride, will be beyond my power. I endured 
 it — ^yes, but what anguish have I gone through these 
 many days — ^because there was the invincible obstacle. 
 I said to myself: ' I am doing my duty as a Christian 
 as well as I can in circumstances that are too strong 
 for my will.' As things are now, if you persist in deny- 
 
THE PEISON 321 
 
 ing my request, I shall have to go away, go I must. An- 
 swer, will you let me go? Why? You talk of outrage, 
 and slurs? Where is the outrage in going through a 
 ceremony which was denied to us, but is now permitted? 
 Where is the slur in a marriage which to you means 
 nothing, because you are an unbeliever? I say again, 
 if you refuse, it is because your pride will have mastered 
 your love. Pride and nothing more. You will not 
 allow your imbelief to give way before my faith." 
 
 " And how so? " replied he. " Merely because I con- 
 sider it cowardly to pretend to opinions which I do not 
 hold? What convictions I have, have not been formed 
 capriciously. I have not been led by self-interest to 
 adopt them. They are the embodiment of my deepest 
 thought, my inmost consciousness. It is not only my 
 right, it is my bounden duty, to act in accordance with 
 them, for to me they represent truth. To go and be 
 married at church, when I have been married and legally 
 for the past twelve years and have looked on this legal 
 marriage as sufficient and perfect, would be to admit that 
 I attach an importance to Catholicism which I do not. 
 When I give a man my hand it is only a form, but I 
 should not do it if I despised the man. You will say 
 that this appearance with you before the priest is also 
 ■a form and nothing more. But this form is a tacit ad- 
 hesion to a dogma which I know to be false, to a priest- 
 hood which I know to be a fraud, to practices which I 
 know to be fatal. It is already more than enough that 
 
328 A DIVOEOE 
 
 a promise you stole from my love for you, obliges me to 
 see my daughter grow up among these errors. Do not 
 try to take advantage of my loyalty, for loyalty it is. 
 Do not tempt me to betray it. Let us end a conversa- 
 tion which is objectless. We have already quite enough 
 legitimate causes for vexation without inventing imag- 
 inary ones." 
 
 " This is not your last word, Albert," she begged; 
 " if you are an unbeliever, you cannot, with your sense 
 of justice and tolerance, wish to hinder me from be- 
 lieving." 
 
 "When did I hinder you?" replied he sourly. 
 
 " But you are hindering me," she groaned, " in forc- 
 ing me to live with you in a relationship which religion 
 forbids." 
 
 "I?" cried he, "I force you? And pray what are 
 you doing when you claim to prescribe for me a course 
 which my principles forbid? " 
 
 " Oh! " said Gabrielle protestingly, " how can you 
 compare the two things? You have chosen your prin- 
 ciples yourself and you interpret them yourself. Sup- 
 posing you make this sacrifice for my sake, which you 
 admit is only a matter of form to you, will it make any 
 difference to your future life? Whereas I, if I persist 
 in remaining with you as your wife, while I am not, — 
 for I am not, understand, I am not, — am outside the 
 pale of the Church. The sacraments are denied to me, 
 I cannot have any religious life. I tell you again," she 
 
THE PRISON 329 
 
 continued in a tone of blank despair, "I shall not be 
 able to endure it, I shall go away." 
 
 "Oh!" replied Darras, now quite beside himself, 
 "you will go! WeU and good, but," and his voice 
 echoed the fierce despotic nature of the exasperated 
 man, "if you go, do not mistake the consequences of 
 your rebelliousness. I shall let you go. I wiU not 
 send the Commissary of Police to induce you to return. 
 Only I shall keep my daughter. When we married we 
 made an agreement. You engaged to become my wife, 
 and I on my part engaged that if we had a child I 
 would consent to its being baptised and brought up in 
 the Catholic faith. You are now pleased to denoimce 
 this agreement. So be it. You say you are not my 
 wife? You speak of going away? So be it. But I 
 am free again of my engagement. I take Jeanne back. 
 She belongs to me. The Code gives her to me. The 
 agreement is cancelled, so I educate her after my own 
 ideas." 
 
 " You wiU not do such a thing as that! " cried the 
 mother. " You have no right to do so. You have told 
 me over and over again that one's first duty was to re- 
 spect conscience. You will not meddle with your 
 daughter's." 
 
 "I will give her another," replied the father; "I 
 win bring her up in the truth, whereas you feed her 
 with chimeras, and only my scruples have prevented me 
 from raising objections. I see at last how culpable I 
 
330 A DIVOKOE 
 
 have already been towards the man who will some day 
 marry her, if her childhood's impressions were ever to 
 revive and part her from her husband." 
 
 " You would take away her faith! " said Gabrielle. 
 "But to take away the faith of a defenceless creature 
 is a crime, Albert, an abominable crime." 
 
 " Are you quite sure," replied he, " that it is no crime 
 to have given her that faith? Ah! take care. Do not 
 awaken in me the idea, which has haunted me so often, 
 that a promise which controverts the truth is no promise, 
 and that consequently I ought never to have made the 
 promise I did. But no! I promised: I will hold to it 
 on condition that you too, having promised, also hold to 
 it. Never again will I hear talk of a religious marriage, 
 you understand me, never again. Such as you married 
 me I remain; if you keep your bargain I will keep mine; 
 if ever you fail, if you put into execution this project 
 of departure, I shall act as I have said." 
 
 " Even on the eve of her first Communion? " 
 
 " She would not make it, that is all," replied he more 
 harshly, " and so much the better! But once more, let 
 us end this." He looked at his watch and said: "A 
 quarter-past two I am due at the office. When I return 
 I hope to find you wiser. Good-bye." 
 
 For the first time perhaps since they had lived in this 
 house, he went out without imprinting a kiss on his 
 wife's forehead, without having even looked at her. His 
 sufferings of the past few days had exploded in a fit of 
 
THE PRISON 331 
 
 anger, and he had used too violent language not to 
 feel some regret. He passed from the drawing-room 
 to his own room to get his overcoat and hat, staying a 
 few moments longer than was needed, in the hope that 
 Gabrielle, knowing him to be there, would feel an im- 
 pulse towards him, and before he went would come to 
 beg him not to leave her thus. She did not come. 
 Then in turn a passionate longing came over him to go 
 back to her. He did not give way to it. His heart sud- 
 denly closed at the recollection of certain exclamations 
 wrung from his poor wife in her excitement. He 
 thought of what she had said about their daughter: 
 " We.had no right to have her; " and about their home: 
 " I am not your wife. I am not; " and he said to him- 
 self: "If I do not show firmness now, where shall we 
 be landed? She must be made to see by my displeasure 
 that she must not begia again." He went out of the 
 house and straight to his office, where he had, as a mat- 
 ter of fact, several important appointments. Neither 
 the various business calls, which happened to be more 
 numerous than usual this afternoon, nor the mental ex- 
 ertions he had to make in discussing sundry points with 
 extreme technical precision, were sufficient to calm the 
 tempest within. Whilst listening to his callers and 
 whilst replying to them, he never ceased to see before 
 his mind's eye his wife's face, with the expression of 
 maddened terror which his implacable language had 
 called up. He was himself conscious of a tightening 
 
332 A DIVOEOE 
 
 of the heartstrings, a fever in the blood, pangs in the 
 breast, a sickening feeling of his whole being. And 
 yet, at the mere thought that on returning home he 
 was to find himself face to face with the same rebellious- 
 ness, to combat the same religious mania, and to come 
 into conflict with the same obstinate desire for a mar- 
 riage which would be an insult to their past, he was 
 seized again with indignation. 
 
 Once more he was carried away by the kind of frenzy 
 which had previously displayed itself in his looks, 
 gestures, and spiteful language. Then he had been a 
 prey to unbearable torture: Gabrielle, the tender love of 
 his early youth, the adored companion of his manhood, 
 was identified with that Church with which he had been 
 accustomed to associate every form of error, lying, and 
 injustice. Apprehension of a renewal of an intolerable 
 and endless dispute as soon as they met, certainty that 
 he would go to still greater lengths of violence, with the 
 accompaniment of secret shame and stinging remorse 
 for having hurt his dearest, such were the feelings now 
 aroused in him. So fierce was the tumult of his con- 
 flicting emotions that he was anxious not to return home 
 before regaining his self-control. He came back slowly 
 on foot from the Avenue de I'Opera as far as the rue 
 du Luxembourg by the least direct road, the Place de 
 la Concorde, the Place des Invalides and the exterior 
 boulevards, thus postponing the .hour of his return 
 though at heart he thirsted to be at home. It was past 
 
THE PRISON 333 
 
 six o'clock when at length he rang at the door of his 
 house. He looked at it, as Gabrielle had looked at it 
 after her visit to Father Euvrard, with longing eyes. 
 The happiness they longed for was still within possi- 
 bility, but had been sadly compromised. Absorbed in 
 anxious anticipation of the reception he would meet 
 with, he failed to notice the peculiar look of the ser- 
 vant who opened the door to him. He went up to his 
 room; then, as his wife did not, according to the tender 
 practice of their unclouded days, come to ask him if he 
 wanted anything, he resolved to forestall her and show 
 her that he did not bear malice. So he went into the 
 little drawing-room where she must be. She was not 
 there. He went and knocked at the door of her bed- 
 room. She was not there either. Was she waiting in 
 his study? No. This room was empty too. No doubt 
 Gabrielle was busy with her daughter in the schoolroom. 
 Darras mounted the stairs leading to the second floor 
 with a presentiment which changed to real distress when 
 he ascertained that the schoolroom was empty, empty 
 the little girl's bedroom, empty the governess's room. 
 After aU Madame Darras might have gone out with her 
 daughter and Mile. Schultze. He rang the bell. It 
 was answered by the same servant who had let him in, 
 and this time the husband was not unobservant of the 
 man's demeanour. Something serious had happened. 
 What was it? Even at this moment of terrible 
 suspicion the protecting instinct which had always 
 
334 A DIVOEOE 
 
 marked his dealings with Gabrielle, asserted itself, 
 and the questions, which it cut him to the heart 
 to put, were sufficiently vague and circumspect to in- 
 sure that the drama in which master and mistress were 
 engaged should escape at least specific remark in the 
 eervants' hall. 
 
 "What time was it when Madame left the house?" 
 he enquired. 
 
 "Three o'clock, half -past three," said the servant. 
 ^'I went to fetch a carriage. In order to get a four- 
 wheeler I had to go as far as Montparnasse Station." 
 
 " Tell the maid to come to me." 
 
 " She went with Madame," replied the man. 
 
 " Oh! of course," said Darras. It left no doubt. A 
 four-wheeler, the maid taken together with the little 
 girl and her governess. Gabrielle had carried out her 
 threat. She had fled! He had the courage to enquire, 
 in the tone of one who mentions a matter of no par- 
 ticular consequence: " Did they have time to pack? " 
 
 " The maid and the governess packed everything," 
 replied the servant. "There were four packages. I 
 helped the cabman to put them up: a large trunk, two 
 bags, and Madame's dressing case." 
 
 So Gabrielle had fled, and taken her daughter, their 
 daughter, with her! 
 
 At the unexpected shock of such news as this, Darras 
 was for the moment so completely taken aback that he 
 did not even seek to learn more. Besides it was hardly 
 
THE PRISON 335 
 
 practicable to do so without betraying the secret of this 
 crisis in his home affairs. He told himself it was im- 
 possible. The fugitive would come back. Having ar- 
 rived at the point of a decision to leave, she would cer- 
 tainly be unable to endure the thought of his anxiety. 
 And then she could not possibly have gone without a line 
 to him. He set to work to ransack the room, looking 
 on every table for the envelope addressed to him which 
 she had assuredly left behind. A woman does not leave 
 her house like a criminal in a panic, without informing 
 her husband where to send and whence to expect news. 
 But no! He foimd nothing. In vain did he rimimage 
 among all his own papers in his desk, and aU GabrieUe's 
 correspondence in the drawing-room secretaire. Time 
 was passing while the search proceeded, and the butler 
 came to announce that dinner was served. The pros- 
 pect of sitting all by himself at the table, which had 
 usually welcomed the family now scattered, was too 
 hateful to Darras. He replied that he would not dine 
 at home, and he went out to walk at random in the 
 streets as he had done the other day. On that occa- 
 sion he had been tormented enough, but he had been 
 far from anticipating a catastrophe which threatened 
 to upset his mental balance altogether. Gabrielle had 
 fled! What a deep hold must not this hateful Catholic 
 dogma have taken of her, to have determined her to 
 escape rather than live with him now that she was sure 
 their home would remain outside the Church! True, 
 
336 A DIVOECE 
 
 he had allowed himself to give way to strong language 
 that afternoon. But did threats, even savage threats, 
 justify her departure, taking their daughter with her? 
 Why had she. done it? To defy him outright to execute 
 the most serious of those threats, on the effect of which 
 he had counted most confidently. It was as if she had 
 clasped their child to her heart and cried to him, " You 
 want our Jeanne; come and take her." " Yes," he re- 
 plied aloud, as if the challenge had actually been ad- 
 dressed to him, "yes, I will go and take her." Take 
 her? Ah! but where? and how? He had the law on his 
 side. . . . He would have the police force at his dis- 
 posal. The Code too gave him the right to order his 
 wife to return to the conjugal domicile. This man of 
 generous instincts who had always, except in two passing 
 instances in the last fortnight, made the fullest allow- 
 ance for Gabrielle's tender sensitiveness, suddenly pic- 
 tured her alone in a room with the little girl, and the 
 entrance of the sergeant or Commissary of Police. His 
 innate delicacy revolted at the picture. The love in him 
 was again too strong for his resentment. He asked him- 
 self, with a feeling of distress from which all trace of 
 selfishness had disappeared: "But where is she?" 
 Where had she found that evening meal which they 
 should have taken together? What had she said to the 
 child? Parted from all the Nouets by her marriage, 
 she had no family to take refuge with. Was she hiding 
 in a convent? Had she gone to an hotel? Darras 
 
THE PRISON 337 
 
 rapidly exhausted all possible alternatives, and literally 
 at his wits' end from the complete absence of positiva 
 clues, began to fancy that she had flown to Lucien. 
 This fact will show better than any lengthy analysis 
 the disorder to which anxiety had reduced his usually 
 exact and methodical mind. Such a supposition was 
 extravagant after the scene between mother and son that 
 day. It had hardly crossed his tortured brain when it 
 carried conviction with it, and Darras ran rather than 
 walked to the furnished house in the rue Monge where 
 his stepson had taken a room. He knew the address 
 from the commissionaire who had come the first even- 
 ing to remove the young man's personal effects. To his 
 question the landlord replied that M. de Chambault had 
 gone away that very evening. 
 
 " Alone? " his stepfather ventured to enquire. 
 
 "Alone," was the reply. 
 
 This had been quite a senseless move. In his de- 
 mented state the deserted husband ventured on another 
 and still more extraordinary step. The rue Monge is 
 quite near to the rue Eollin. He hurried to the latter. 
 Perhaps he might ascertain Lucien's whereabouts from 
 Bertha Planat. At her address he learnt that she too 
 had gone some hours previously. Puritan as he was, he 
 did not scruple to purchase more precise inforrtiation 
 with a bribe. Lucien had come to take her; she had 
 gone away in company with him for a lengthy absence 
 and without flying any date for her return. The young 
 
338 A DIVOEOB 
 
 people had carried out the plan which the son had f ore- 
 Bhadowed to his mother. This cold, spring evening, 
 rendered still chillier by the drizzle which was begin- 
 ning, was no doubt the wedding-night of the two lovers 
 whom Darras suddenly envied with all his poor wounded 
 heart. They at least had but one faith, one ideal, one 
 belief. A week or two ago, how passionately eager he 
 had been to save his stepson from this venture. He was 
 surprised at his indifEerence now that it was over and 
 done. Everything was dwarfed by his overpowering 
 anxiety for his wife. All he saw in this item of news 
 was the certainty that Gabrielle had not come to 
 Lucien to ask for shelter from her husband. But where 
 was she? Suddenly another and not more sensible idea 
 suggested itself. Suppose she had returned to the rue 
 du Luxembourg whilst he was following the chase with- 
 out clue or bearings! He wanted to persuade himself 
 that, as a matter of fact, she could not fail to have al- 
 ready repented. He took a cab for greater speed and 
 found his house — their house — as empty and silent as 
 when he had gone out. Gabrielle had not even sent him 
 a line to let him have in his solitude at least a token of 
 her and their child's existence. 
 
 The night which succeeded this terrible evening was 
 entirely spent by Darras in going to and fro between 
 his study and Gabrielle's room. Violent resolves con- 
 tinued to alternate in him with moods of fond relenting. 
 Now he resumed his project to make the pair of them. 
 
THE PRISON 339 
 
 mother and daughter, return by legal compulsion, and 
 in this merciless project, from which his magnanimity 
 had at first recoUed, he now took savage delight. His 
 wife's flight and the abduction of the child constituted 
 such scandalous behaviour, and touched his manly self- 
 respect to the quick. He would take this brutal venge- 
 ance to prove he was master. Now, on the other hand, 
 pride and resentment melted in the warmth of the 
 despair and fond regret that tormented him. The bed- 
 room, still filled with his wife's personality, was too 
 strongly eloquent of their intimacy all those years. He 
 breathed the delicate perfume she used, which he always 
 associated with her smile, her glances, her kisses. The 
 large glass of the pale-green wardrobe seemed to have 
 retained the graceful outlines of her dear figure, the 
 bed-pillow to have kept the impression of her head. 
 Over all the bright furniture her shapely hands had 
 wandered. On the carpet were laid out the slippers in 
 which her bare feet usually rested. The chased silver 
 trinkets on the dressing-table had been touched by her 
 even that morning. There was not one of the pictures 
 hung on the gay tapestry covering the walls, but the 
 husband could connect with some little incident in their 
 domestic life. As he thus passed these trifles in review, 
 he noticed that a leather frame, containing one of his 
 portraits, was not in its place on the little corner table. 
 The fugitive had taken it with her. Tears filled his 
 eyes at this token that even when she ran away she had 
 
340 A DIVOEOE 
 
 not ceased to love him. Why, fsince the first day when 
 she had confessed her reviving devoutness, had he al- 
 lowed her to become detached from him as he had done? 
 Why these scruples, this shyness which had kept him 
 from her side all these nights? Their misunderstand- 
 ing would not have been proof against the charm of the 
 caresses which are enough to tear asunder anything that 
 separates a man and woman who love one another as 
 they still loved in spite of years. And now, would she 
 ever come back to brighten anew this deserted room 
 with her beauty, which, suffer as it might from the rude 
 shocks of life, was stUl as ever irresistible to his heart? 
 And if she came back, would not her remorse infect 
 their old-time delights? Would she not discover sin in 
 a happiness which she would now consider forbidden to 
 her? Was the intoxication of the past gone and for 
 ever? Were they to be denied the reward of long con- 
 jugal fidelity, the slow and sweet passing from lawful 
 love to the perfect friendship of boundless confidence, 
 boundless affection? Fool! There was no answer save 
 the empty room where he sought his absent wife and 
 found her not. Seated at the foot of the bed covered 
 with her handiwork, noting the silent aspect of his sur- 
 roundings, half lighted by the lamp's weak fiame, the 
 forlorn husband felt sad, so sad as to wish himself dead 
 there among the relics of his happiness, forever de- 
 stroyed if his wife did not come back, and if she did, 
 so gravely threatened! 
 
THE PRISON 341 
 
 "However, I must make up my mind," said he on 
 the morrow of this sleepless night. Again he had con- 
 ceived the hope that the morning would not pass with- 
 out bringing him a telegram or a letter. Every hour 
 increased GabrieUe's guUt towards him and his irrita- 
 tion with her. He forced himself, however, to put the 
 question with as much impartiality as if some one else 
 had been concerned. "What would be any father's 
 rights in a case like mine? What would be his duty? 
 On which side is justice? My right is to have my 
 daughter." We can recall the almost sacred reverence 
 with which he habitually spoke of the articles in the 
 Code relating to marriage. These texts came back to 
 his memory in support of Ms assertion: " The parties 
 to the marriage, by the sole fact of marrying, contract in 
 common the obligation to nourish, maintain, and edu- 
 cate their children. The wife owes obedience to her 
 husband." 
 
 " In common? " he concluded, " but what if the wife 
 refuse to fulfil her wifely duty? What if she rebel? 
 Then, she loses her rights and the father preserves his." 
 By this sophistical argument he sought to quiet a 
 scruple which was bound up with the sum total of his 
 social ideas, which were singularly contradictory, as hap- 
 pens with moralists of his type who combine concern 
 for the general good with the principles of complete 
 anarchical individualism. He was always talking of 
 his conscience, and Gabrielle also had openly referred 
 
342 A toivoEOE ' 
 
 to hers. What was she obeying when she asked of him 
 that their marriage should be celebrated in accordance 
 with the Catholic faith? Her conscience. And when 
 she went away? Again her conscience. "A contract 
 once concluded is final," said Darras to himself, when 
 this objection came into his mind. " She was my wife. 
 She was not free to act as she does." But how did he 
 propose to act in asserting his right to recover his 
 daughter? All the second day was spent in debating 
 with himself as to the moment when he should resolve 
 to take the first preliminary step. There was, however, 
 nothing intricate in it. It was merely to consult a 
 lawyer, for he did not wish at any price to have recourse 
 to the police. He knew a very steady and skilful lawyer 
 who was retained by the Orand-Comptoir. 
 
 To consult him would mean relating to him in the 
 first place the inner history of his marriage, and put- 
 ting him in possession of the family-tragedy through 
 which Gabrielle and he had passed. That would be to 
 accuse her. Very naturally his feelings veered round, 
 the prospect revived his love and he began once more to 
 repeat over and over again his distressful litany: 
 " Gone! gone! how could she have done it! " 
 A second night was spent like the night before; he 
 continued to vex his heart with regrets and his mind 
 with uncertainties, but he ended by deciding: " Further 
 hesitation is cowardly. I will go and see M. Carrier." 
 This was the lawyer's name. So he left the house to go 
 
THE PRISON 343 
 
 direct to this man who lived at the other end of Paris. 
 He had, however, waited for the first post. His inten- 
 tion, after his interview with the lawyer, was to make 
 his way to his ofl&ee. But so unstrung were his nerves, 
 shattered by thirty-six hours of practical sleeplessness 
 and the painful suspense of expectancy, that when he 
 found Carrier out, he experienced a relief very contrary 
 to the habitual logic of his vigorous will. His return 
 after this journey to the rue du Luxembourg was only 
 a minor weakness. Eeturn he did, however, and re- 
 proached himself for his childishness in so doing. 
 Considering that Gabrielle had for two days kept from 
 his knowledge the place to which she had retired after 
 her extraordinary departure, what reason was there for 
 her to send him any information now? So slight was 
 his hope of the message which he yet so anxiously de- 
 sired, that he stood almost as thunderstruck as he had 
 been at her flight, when he noticed on the tray in the 
 hall where letters were laid, not indeed any letter or 
 missive but a plain square card on which he read the 
 name of M. I'Abbe Euvrard, member of the Institute. 
 The Oratorian priest had scribbled in pencil: "Will re- 
 turn at two o'clock if M. Darras will be good enough to 
 see him." Below he had added his address. T\\[o 
 o'clock? It was then eleven. Darras did not reflect. 
 He did not consider what he would say to the priest, 
 nor whether he might not impair his own authority in 
 the negotiations to be undertaken by this show of baste 
 
344 A DIVOECE 
 
 to meet his wife's emissary. For undoubtedly M. 
 Euvrard came on behalf of Gabrielle. With this evi- 
 dence in front of him Darras could not face delay. 
 Three long hours meant a world of torment to him 
 which he would not and could not put up with, and 
 within fifteen minutes of receiving the card he was in 
 front of the old house in the rue Servandoni. The 
 thought that Gabrielle had come there unknown to him, 
 that she had asked for the priest's rooms of this very 
 doorkeeper, had crossed this very court where the little 
 garden blossomed in the middle, and mounted those 
 same steps on the wretched wooden staircase, threw her 
 husband back into the anger of his worst moments. It 
 was such a bitter grief to him that his wife should have 
 approached an intermediary instead of writing to him. 
 And what an intermediary? The man whom they had 
 discussed, and about whom they had exchanged such 
 bitter words. His indignation found expression in the 
 imperious ring which announced his visit and the ag- 
 gressive tone of his first remarks. The proscribed monk 
 came to open the door as he had to Madame Darras on 
 another occasion, and, as then, he held in his hand a 
 piece of white chalk, having been interrupted in the mid- 
 dle of his calculations by the summons at the bell. He 
 still had the shy and embarrassed look of the learned 
 man astray in the world of life. His cassock was only 
 a little more threadbare, the reddish hair turning 
 grey a little longer, the room into which he ushered his 
 
THE PRISON 345 
 
 visitor a little more crowded with books, papers, and 
 pamphlets. But this time his clear blue eyes did not for 
 a moment betray the bewilderment of the thinker only 
 half awakened from his studies. At the first glance he 
 had guessed the identity of this man with the thin face 
 wrinkled with care, the black eyes burning with fever, 
 abrupt in manner and harsh in voice; and he, to accom- 
 plish his charitable task, had immediately discovered 
 in himself the priestly energy which had so struck Ga- 
 brielle on her first visit, when the ridiculous figure, who 
 first appeared in the hall, had in her presence been trans- 
 formed into an apostle, fiery, eloquent, and dignified. 
 He did not allow himself to be disconcerted by the 
 brusque manner in which the opponent of all he 
 held sacred opened this painful and awkward inter- 
 view. 
 
 " I found your card at my house. Sir. I am M. Dar- 
 ras. It is highly important to me to learn what reason 
 you have for wishing to speak to me, and I have ac- 
 cordingly come to see you at once. I am at your 
 service." 
 
 " What I have to say to you. Sir, is of such pressing 
 importance," replied the priest, " that I took the liberty 
 of calling on you quite early. You understand," he 
 added a minute later, " that I am entrusted with a mes- 
 sage from Madame Darras? " 
 
 " One question first. Sir," interrupted Darras. 
 " Have you seen Madame Darras, and did she tell you 
 
346 A DIVORCE 
 
 by word of mouth what she wishes you to acquaint me 
 with, or did she write to you? " 
 
 " I saw her," said the Oratorian. 
 
 " Then allow me," continued the husband, " to ex- 
 press my surprise that you did not insist on her ad- 
 dressing herself to me direct. In view of the high 
 opinion I had formed of M. Euvrard, the distinguished 
 mathematician whose talents my friends and I admire, 
 I confess it caused me- some surprise to learn of your 
 first meeting with her on a previous occasion. I am 
 not. Sir, an illustrioi^s scholar like yourself; but if a 
 married woman came to consult me, without her hus- 
 band's knowledge, on a matter connected with her mar- 
 riage, I should stop her on the spot. It is true that 
 I am not a priest either; I am merely a man of honour 
 who simply professes a layman's mora,lity." 
 
 " I know, M. Darras, that the dress I wear is an object 
 of great suspicion to you," replied Father Euvrard in 
 a mingled tone of gentleness and firmness which im- 
 pressed his hearer in spite of himself. "When I went 
 to call on you Just now, I knew to what I exposed my- 
 self. But you are right; a priest is not altogether like 
 any other man. He has specific duties, to accomplish 
 which he relies on a judgment which is not of this world. 
 Such a duty I discharged on the first occasion when I 
 received the confidence of Madame Darras, without her 
 telling me her name or any details of her life, except 
 that she had need of my help in my capacity of priest. 
 
THE PRISOK 347 
 
 Such a duty I again discharged when I agreed to be her 
 ambassador to you. You have been good enough to ex- 
 press your high opinion of my modest labours. Do me 
 the credit to believe that I have not strayed from my 
 studies/' and he pointed to the table still covered with 
 his algebraical hieroglyphics, "without an extremely 
 serious motive. My motive is the profound pity I ex- 
 perienced for a soul in distress. Had I for instance 
 chanced to be with Madame Darras in a railway acci- 
 dent and she had been hurt, you would consider it quite 
 natural that I should come to acquaint you? The mis- 
 sion which I have allowed to be entrusted to me is 
 identical in character." 
 
 "There is this difference," replied Darras, "that it 
 was no mere chance that brought you into contact with 
 Madame Darras. She came to seek you, and you gave 
 her advice. Besides, let us have done with futile com- 
 parisons. You know my religious views, and any refer- 
 ence to the subject is idle. It is a blow to me that my 
 wife has chosen you as her intermediary. But she has 
 chosen you, and after all she was within her strict 
 rights. Once more I am all attention." 
 
 " She did not come in search of me," corrected the 
 Oratorian, " she came to seek the Church. How and 
 why did this longing, this need rather, of religion in her 
 life with all the practices involved therein, arise in her 
 with so profound, so imperious, so irresistible a call? 
 That is a question. Sir, we wiU not touch upon. We 
 
348 A DIVOECE 
 
 should explain it on too contradictory grounds. It is 
 enough that we have established the fact and established 
 it in indisputable fashion. Her first visit furnished 
 me with a proof, and still more striking evidence is to 
 be found in the pitch her sufferings reached, inducing 
 her to rush from her own belongings, to fly from you 
 whom she loves so dearly, and to fly from her home, 
 when she thought she understood that you would never 
 agree to the proposal for a religious marriage on the one 
 hand, and that on the other her daughter's Catholic 
 education was threatened." 
 
 " That is false," broke in Darras, " her education has 
 never been threatened, at least not by me. Madame Dar- 
 ras cannot have told you that. When I married her I 
 agreed to allow our children to be baptised and brought 
 up religiously. I have always kept my word. She has 
 herself released me by breaking her side of the agree- 
 ment in going away. No, her daughter's education was 
 not threatened. If it is now, it is the mother's fault, 
 entirely hers. In our last conversation when she de- 
 clared that she could not live with me any longer, I 
 warned her that if she went I took back my daughter 
 and all my right to bring her up according to my own 
 ideas. She has gone: I shall take back my daughter, 
 I shall bring her up according to my own ideas. The 
 responsibility will lie with her mother." 
 
 He had spoken with so much bitterness in his tone 
 that it might have been Gabrielle herself actually fac- 
 
THE PRISON 349 
 
 ing him instead of the old ecclesiastic with the tattered 
 cassock, who listened and looked at hiTn with a singularly 
 penetrating glance. 
 
 The simple fact that the husband, so reserved in all 
 that concerned the privacy of his home, entered on this 
 discussion, showed with what respect M. Euvrard's atti- 
 tude already inspired him, in spite of aU his prejudices. 
 It indicated also some uneasiness of mind at this ques- 
 tion of conscience which the most determined fanatics 
 do not solve without anxious thought, this uprooting of 
 the idea of God from a child's heart. Darras' tone 
 contained a suggestion of protest against this responsi- 
 bility which did not escape the quick notice of the 
 Oratorian, who enquired: 
 
 " And now, if Madame Darras returned home, would 
 you consider yourself released from your engage- 
 ment? " 
 
 "If she returned?" said Darras eagerly. "That is 
 what she charged you to ask me? She wishes to re- 
 turn? " 
 
 " Our conversation has strayed from the poiat," said 
 M. Euvrard without replying directly to his questioner's 
 urgent demands. He had resumed his methodical tone, 
 in which there reappeared the habits of orderly and lucid 
 explanation contracted in front of the blackboard. " I 
 was about to explain to you on her behalf what feelings 
 determined her without premeditation to a violent step 
 so opposed to her character. Her judgment has speedily 
 
350 A DIVOROE 
 
 grasped the fact that she must not hold to her resolve. 
 Her choice of the spot to which she withdrew will 
 satisfy you, Sir, of this: even at this moment she is 
 thinking of you and her daughter. She wanted to be 
 able to give a plausible excuse for this departure to the 
 child, the governess, and the maid. She is at Versailles, 
 at the Hotel *** (he gave the name). She pretended 
 doctor's advice and said you were coming to join them. 
 Arrived there and reviewing her act in solitude, she 
 came to the conclusion that by her impulsive flight she 
 had only succeeded in supplying a weapon against her- 
 self. More than anything, the thought of your sorrow 
 drove her to despair. She thought of coming back al- 
 most as soon as she had gone. Her fears for the future 
 of her daughter's religious education returned in full 
 f orcp and stopped her. You may guess what a time she 
 has passed, poor woman, now expecting from hour to 
 hour some manifestation of your anger and to have her 
 daughter taken from her in the name of the law, now 
 basing hopes on your affection and imagining that you 
 would grant her what she desires so passionately. When 
 she went away she said to herself: ' My daughter belongs 
 to me, I will protect her.' She thought of going to see 
 a lawyer. She had not the strength to do so. It was 
 too painful to her to relate this sad story to a third 
 person. She had told me part of it already. In that 
 earlier visit she had been conscious of exciting my sym- 
 pathy. She knew that you were acquainted with my 
 
tSB PRISON 351 
 
 name and my works. She had told you that she had 
 been here once. Briefly, in her agony of unrest she had 
 recourse to me. She came yesterday afternoon. She 
 sat where you are sitting now. Ah! Sir, had you seen 
 her tears, had you heard her sobs, you would not refuse 
 this concession to her beliefs which she asks of you again 
 to-day through my agency. To force a person to choose 
 between her faith and her love, between her conscience 
 as a Christian and the dearest affection of her heart, 
 when a word from you would put an end to the terrible 
 struggle, I appeal to your sense of justice, M. Darras, 
 for I know that justice is a creed with you, is it just? 
 More plainly, is it human?" 
 
 "And I, M. Euvrard," replied Darras, "I will ask 
 you whether it is human, whether it is just to come and 
 say to a man: ' Twelve years ago you established a home 
 with all the loyalty, all the affection you were capable of; 
 for twelve years all your work, your trouble, your life 
 has been for this home. You maintained its honour 
 against the prejudices of the world. You were proud 
 of it, you loved it. All your existence, all your joy 
 in life were centred in your feelings of husband and 
 father. IS^ow you must declare that this never was a 
 home, that you had no right to establish it, that your 
 wife was never your wife but remained throughout those 
 twelve years the wife of another man, that you admit 
 this, and that your daughter was born in a state of im- 
 morality. Yes, you must make public declaration of 
 
352 A DIVOECE 
 
 this, without believing it, before the representative of 
 a religion contrary to your most steadfast convictions, 
 in fact you must cover yourself with dishonour in the 
 past and in the present. Otherwise your wife will leave 
 you. You will be compelled to dispute your child with 
 her by legal process, you will keep lonely vigil in the 
 home which was so dear to you.' 
 
 " Yet this is the ultimatum which Madame Darras 
 delivered to me when she left her house and which she 
 delivers to me through your agency at this moment. I 
 would not accept it the day before yesterday and I can- 
 not accept it any more to-day. You have acquitted 
 yourself of your message from her, will you be good 
 enough to undertake a message from me: ' If she does not 
 return to the rue du Luxembourg within forty-eight 
 hours she shall never set foot there again.' I can still 
 pardon her action as the outcome of a sudden im- 
 pulse as you yourself describe it. If her absence is pro- 
 longed and consequently becomes deliberate, the offence 
 would become singularly aggravated in my eyes. I 
 should discern in it, I will not mince my words, a most 
 abominable attempt at levying sentimental blackmail. 
 Eepeat these terms to her, I stand by them, and add 
 that in the event of her refusing I shall stick at nothing 
 to recover my daughter, at nothing. If she returns I 
 will receive her and will forget these two days of aber- 
 ration. But I must have a guarantee. She insulted me 
 by her threat to go, she insulted me by going, she has 
 
THE PRISON 353 
 
 insulted me by making me speak through a third per- 
 son. I must have her undertake not to repeat her pro- 
 ceedings. With that object I require, understand, M. 
 Euvrard, I require that she shall admit her fault. She 
 must formally declare that she withdraws all she said 
 to me in our last conversation, which I proceed to set 
 out precisely. She said that with simply a civil mar- 
 riage she did not consider herself dxily married; she 
 must retract this and allow that such a marriage is 
 valid. She said that the birth of our child was a crime, 
 and that we had no right to have a child; that*he must 
 retract. She must promise never again to make any 
 allusion to marriage at church. In default of this, all 
 will be at an end. I wiH have no more of this religious 
 war beneath my roof. I know Madame Darras. She is 
 too loyal to break a solemn promise. That is why I 
 require one from her. If she refuses to make this re- 
 cantation and this promise which is only a pledge of 
 peace for the future, it is because she does not want 
 peace. In that case it is better to make an end at once, 
 and in that case I refuse to receive her back. These 
 are my terms." 
 
 " They are hard. Sir," returned the priest, " they are 
 very hard." 
 
 " They are wise," said the husband, rising to radicate 
 clearly that he did not mean to prolong a conversation 
 which could have no further object. 
 
 " Allow me ta make one further point clear," said 
 
854 A DIVORCE 
 
 M. Euvrard, who had also risen. "If Madame Darras 
 refused these conditions, you would persist in your 
 resolve to recover your daughter from her? " 
 
 "That of course," said Darras. 
 
 "You would not, however, prevent her from seeing 
 her? " 
 
 " That again is a matter of course. It will be a 
 question for the lawyers to settle." 
 
 "You would not leave her to her mother for the 
 presrait, until she had made her first Communion? " 
 
 " That she should never make," said Darras. " I told 
 Madame Darras so before. If I recover my daughter 
 I take her not materially but morally also, and from the 
 first, I repeat, my intention wiU be to employ without 
 restriction the right which I had abdicated to direct 
 her education." 
 
 " And you are indignant," said M. Euvrard, " that a 
 Christian mother should have trembled to see you in 
 such a frame of mind, should have lost her head and 
 been eager to save her child's faith by tearing the child 
 herself from your reach?" 
 
 " She had only to remain, I should never have 
 broken my promise to let her train up her daughter 
 religiously." 
 
 " I will again put to you my question of a minute or 
 two ago," returned the Oratorian, " which you did not 
 answer: if your wife returned now, would you consider 
 yourself released from that promise?" 
 
THE PBISON 355 
 
 "No," said Darras after a moment's silence. His 
 passionate features showed traces of the fresh embar- 
 rassment created by this very direct question which he 
 had at first evaded. "I should have no right, for 
 things would revert to the status quo. I do not intend 
 that Madame Darras shall be able to point to a single 
 slip on my part from the moral contract which we si^ed 
 together. You have told me that justice is my religion. 
 That is true, and I will give you a proof. I wUl not take 
 advantage of the soundest of pretexts, though it would 
 relieve me from a clause in this contract which has al- 
 ways been a great trouble to me and is now hateful. 
 Still it is but a pretext, no more. No, no, I will not 
 avail myself of it." 
 
 Father Euvrard had the reply on his lips: " Then wait 
 and renew the promise to your wife herself," but he left 
 the words unsaid. As a matter of fact it had been ar- 
 ranged with Madame Darras on the previous evening 
 that she should come to him at noon to hear the result 
 of the effort he was to make in the rue du Luxembourg 
 in the morning. In twenty minutes she would be here. 
 From the moment when he had ushered Darras into his 
 study the priest had constantly had in his mind the 
 possible result of such an interview and the shock it 
 would cause. Since last evening and directly after 
 Madame Darras had arrived to tell him of her impru- 
 dent flight, he had foreseen the eventuality of the free- 
 thinker's giving way on this matter of a religious mar- 
 
356 A DIVOECE 
 
 riage, and, without Gabrielle's knowledge, he had taken 
 steps to render the ceremony as easy as inflexible regu- 
 lations would permit. He had been to the Archbishop 
 and had requested and obtained dispensation from all 
 public notice and from the invalidating circumstances 
 involved in the present situation of the Darras family. 
 He had gone on to the Vicar of Saint Sulpice. From 
 him he had succeeded in obtaining authority to perform 
 the marriage himself. He had only to procure two wit- 
 nesses, two for instance of the staff of this church of 
 Saint Sulpice, a few steps away, and the marriage could 
 be celebrated in this little room. A few words spoken 
 in his presence and the presence of these witnesses, and 
 Gabrielle and Darras were one in the sight of the 
 Church. But Darras was resolute in his cruel opposi- 
 tion which threatened to part forever these two devoted 
 and sincere souls. Was it resolution or embittered ob- 
 stinacy? M. Euvrard did not venture to risk the alter- 
 native. What if Darras, unexpectedly encountering 
 his wife, were to give way to such an outburst that it 
 would be impossible for her ever to make up her mind 
 to go back? What if his prejudices against the Church 
 led him to rebel against facilities in which he would 
 refuse to see more than empty formalities, instead of 
 recognisiag therein praiseworthy parental indulgence? 
 So the prudent Oratorian kept silence. He thought the 
 dmotiement was not ripe and let his visitor depart. 
 Then he sank into a train of thought, so deep that he 
 
THE PBISON 357 
 
 was only roused by the repeated ringing of the lady 
 whom he was actually expecting, and over whose future 
 he had been reflecting with the absorption of a 
 theologian engaged in considering one of the most deli- 
 cate and sorrowful problems of conscience. 
 
 "You found him at home?" she asked, as soon as 
 she entered. Her impatience to learn the truth was 
 changed to genuine distress when M. Euvrard 
 replied: 
 
 "He has just left here. A quarter of an hour ago 
 you would have met him." 
 
 "And his answer?" 
 
 "He refuses." 
 
 " My God! " she groaned, clasping her hands, " have 
 pity on me. And he will still have his daughter? " 
 
 " Yes; I suggested to him, as we had agreed, that he 
 should let her remain with you till her first Com- 
 munion. Again he refused. He charged me to convey 
 his terms to you, for he dictates terms for your return. 
 He will have you recant on all points, and declare that 
 you recognise the absolute validity of your present 
 union, and give him your solemn promise never to speak 
 to him again of a religious marriage." 
 
 " I win not be guilty of such cowardice. Father," ex- 
 claimed GabrieUe, "I wiU not give this promise. I 
 would rather not go back. I will take to flight. I will 
 go abroad with my daughter under a false name. Any- 
 thing rather than deny my faith and further offend that 
 
358 A DIVOBCE 
 
 God who has so punished me. Ah, I have sinned, but 
 His hand is heavy on me." 
 
 " But it will grow lighter," said the priest, " and that 
 soon. Have trust. I have reported to you this mes- 
 sage from M. Darras only to prove to you how right I 
 was to dread the consequences of your thoughtless de- 
 parture. I have not yet told you all. We spoke of 
 your daughter, twice. The second time, I succeeded 
 without an effort in prevailing on M. Darras to renew 
 his promise that he would respect her religious educa- 
 tion if things reverted to the statiis quo; — ^these were 
 his own words, — ^that is to say, if you returned." 
 
 "Yes," said she, "he thinks he holds me then, 
 and he is only too right. It is a fiendish calcula- 
 tion and I should not have thought him capable 
 of it." 
 
 "Do not be too hard on him," replied Father 
 Euvrard. " He does not deserve it. I listened to him 
 and watched him carefully. He is a man of absolute 
 honesty. He wishes you to return to him because he 
 loves you and looks on you as his lawful wife. He will 
 respect your daughter's religious education because he 
 had promised to do so. He will do so from a sense of 
 duty, without any calculations, I assure you. As re- 
 gards the Church, he is in what we call a state of in- 
 vincible ignorance,, the deeper because of his profi- 
 ciency in science, whose misdirected energies are one of 
 the great failings of our age. He looks on religion 
 
THE PEISON 359 
 
 through prejudices which he takes for scientific ideas. 
 He has never verified them. Will he ever do so? I 
 hope he will. To that end he must see Christian 
 virtues about him. These he would have seen, and you 
 would have obtained all that he now denies you if you 
 had refused to many him twelve years ago. Loving 
 you as he did, what would have been his impression 
 when he realised that you remained faithful to your 
 husband in spite of insult and deseriion, that to you 
 the Sacrament was indeed the sacred thing which noth- 
 ing can impair: when he saw you display aU the quali- 
 ties you have, in a spirit of self-renunciation and trust 
 in God? He would have understood, what your child's 
 piety has brought home to you, that there was super- 
 natural strength behind you. But a mistake once 
 made is irrevocable. You recognise the lesson, but you 
 cannot get him to see it. That is your supreme trial. 
 I told you the other day that it is not ^o easy to escape 
 from certain paths. Divorce is one of these paths. 
 You are its captive, even now when it makes you 
 shudder and when you have beheld all its fatal train 
 of consequences, in you, around you, in your son in his 
 relations with his stepfather, in the sad connection he 
 intends to contract, in your own relations with him and 
 M. Darras. This refusal to agree to a religious mar- 
 riage is the last of these consequences. But how to 
 escape from it?" continued he, resting his elbows on 
 the table^ with his face in his hands in an attitude of 
 
360 A DIVORCE 
 
 deep thought, "yes, how to escape from it? The rale 
 is absolute: you are not married to this man. On the 
 other hand, there is the safety of your daughter's soul 
 to consider and through her perhaps her father's 
 safety. If you do not go back, no more religious 
 education for the child, increased irritation with the 
 Church on the father's part. And you, if you return? 
 Ah, it is to prison, to prison." Then, after a fresh 
 pause, which seemed interminable in length to the poor 
 woman who also sat silent and dejected, watching her 
 fate debated in the mind of this great scholar-saint, 
 he went on: "You can try to return to-day with your 
 daughter. You must not consent at any price to the 
 condition which M. Darras has laid down, you must not 
 recant, not at any price. He will see you. You will 
 say to him: 'Here I am, I have brought back the child, 
 I have come back; but deny my faith I cannot. If 
 you require that, I must go away again.' If he does 
 require it, you will have to go again. If he does not 
 insist further, if his emotion at recovering you is 
 stronger than his pride, if he gives way on this point, 
 then you will have a right to hope that some day he 
 will give way on the other. I told you he was honest. 
 There is the key to his possible change of front. He 
 will grasp three facts. He will see, firstly, as he is 
 already begianing in his despair to realise, that your 
 faith is very true, very profound, very sincere ; secondly, 
 that you are making the greatest of sacrifices for your 
 
THE PBISON 861 
 
 daughter's education, and that there lies the only tie 
 between you now, there and there alone; and lastly, 
 that there will be no more happiness for the pair of 
 you, BO long as you are burdened with this load of re- 
 morse. On the day when these three facts become 
 patent to him, a struggle will begin to declare itself 
 in his TTiind. And I," pointing to his crucifix, "I 
 shall pray that God will do the rest." 
 
 Some hours later when Albert Darras, returning 
 from his .office at the Grand-Comptoir, where he had 
 spent all that afternoon in a state of devouring anxiety, 
 arrived at his house, he thought, and his heart beat 
 frantically, he thought that he noticed the curtain 
 move behind the window of the little drawing-room 
 on the first floor, and saw a figure, which he knew too 
 well, on the watch for his return. It was GabrieUe 
 waiting for him in such a state of excitement that, 
 though she rose to go to meet him, at the sound of his 
 step she fell back on her chair. 
 
 When he caught sight of her thus, quite pale, her 
 eyes tired, her cheeks wrinkled, and over her forehead 
 two grey spots where a fortnight earlier her hair was 
 still golden, a wave of infinite pity swept over his 
 heart. 
 
 She stammered, " M. Euvrard has told me your 
 terms." "My terms," he broke in, "there are no 
 terms. There is only you, you here, you my love. 
 
362 A DIVOEOE 
 
 whom I have found again, and will never let go any 
 more." 
 
 He seized her in his arms, and took her poor feverish 
 hands and kissed them, sobbing the while, and strained 
 her to his heart. She looked at him with a depth of 
 melancholy in which, however, there shone a glimmer- 
 ing of hope. The experiment which the old priest had 
 suggested to her without venturing to advise it, had 
 succeeded. Her grief had overcome Albert's pride on 
 one point. Would the rest of the work be accom- 
 plished as the Oratoriau had shown to be possible? 
 Gabrielle would fain hope so, and she said to the father: 
 " Go upstairs, my dearest, and embrace your daughter," 
 thus placing at once between them the child for whose 
 sake she had returned and whose piety, which she had 
 sacrificed so much to protect, would perhaps some day 
 win for her the reward of that true marriage for which 
 she so passionately yearned. But when would it be? 
 And if, as was very probable, Albert did one day yield 
 the point out of pity, would he forgive her for it? 
 Would she not find in him also that shame at breaking 
 faith with his most cherished convictions which she 
 was conscious of at the moment? Was there any out- 
 let from the situation in which they had been landed by 
 their marriage after her divorce ? And feeling herself 
 the prisoner of this divorce, as the priest had so pro- 
 foundly remarked, the mother of Lueien and Jeanne 
 cursed once more the impious law, to whose, seductions 
 
THS FBI80K 363 
 
 her feminine weakness had sxiiCCTmibed. DeBtructive of 
 family life, subversive of religion, the source of 
 anarchy and revolution, this law had promised her 
 freedom and happiness, and all she found, like so many 
 of her sisters, was captivity and wretchedness. 
 
 THB END