The Masterpieces of George Sand, Amandine Lucille Aurore Dupin, Baroness Dudevant, NOW FOR THE FIRST TIME COMPLETELY TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH SHE AND HE, AND LAVINIA BY G. BURNHAM IVES; WITH MEMOIR BY J. ALFRED BURGAN (continued 5)

"All this that I am saying to you, my dearest love, I should not dare to say to Richard Palmer if he were here. I should be afraid that my doubts would cause him horrible pain, and I am sorely embarrassed, for I have these doubts in spite of myself, and I am afraid, for to-morrow at all events, if not for to-day. Will he not cover himself with ridicule by marrying a woman whom he has loved, he says, for ten years, to whom he has never lisped a word of anything of the sort, and whom he decides to attack on the day that he finds her crushed and bleeding under the feet of another man?

"I am sojourning in a horrible yet magnificent little seaport, where I passively await the command of my destiny. Perhaps Palmer is at Spezzia, three leagues away. That was where we had arranged to meet. And I, like a sulking, or rather like a timid, child, cannot make up my mind to go to him and say: 'Here I am!'—No, no! if he suspects me, no further relations between us are possible! I forgave the other five or six insults a day. With this one I could not overlook the shadow of a suspicion. Is this unjust? No! henceforth I must have a sublime love or nothing! Did I seek his love? He forced it upon me, saying: 'It will be heaven!'—The other had told me that perhaps what he brought me would be hell. He did not deceive me. Nor must Palmer deceive me, while deceiving himself; for, after this new error, nothing would be left for me but to deny everything, to say to myself that, like Laurent, I have forfeited forever, by my own fault, the right to believe; and I do not know whether, with that certainty, I could endure life!

"Forgive me, my beloved; my perplexities distress you, I am sure, although you would say that I must spare you none of them! At all events, have no anxiety concerning my health; I am exceedingly well, I have the loveliest bit of ocean before my eyes, and over my head the loveliest sky that can be imagined. I lack nothing, I am boarding with excellent people, and it is likely that I shall write you to-morrow that my uncertainties have disappeared. Do not forget to love your Thérèse, who adores you."

Palmer had actually been at Spezzia since the preceding night. He had purposely arrived just an hour after the sailing of the Ferruccio. Not finding Thérèse at the Maltese Cross, and learning that she had planned to put Laurent on board at the mouth of the bay, he awaited her return. At nine o'clock, the boatman she had hired in the morning, who belonged to the hotel, returned alone. The worthy man was not accustomed to drink too much. He had been surprised by a bottle of Cyprus, which Laurent gave him after his lunch on the grass with Thérèse, and which he drank during their stay on the Isola Palmaria; so that he remembered well enough that he had put the signor and signora aboard the Ferruccio, but had no remembrance of having afterward taken the signora to Porto Venere.

If Palmer had questioned him calmly, he would soon have discovered that the man's ideas were not very clear on the latter point; but the American, notwithstanding his serious and impassive manner, was very irritable and very passionate. He believed that Thérèse had gone with Laurent, gone shamefacedly, afraid or unwilling to confess the truth to him. He was thoroughly convinced, and returned to the hotel, where he passed a terrible night.

We have not undertaken to tell the story of Richard Palmer. We have entitled our tale She and He, that is to say, Thérèse and Laurent. Of Palmer, therefore, we shall say no more than it is necessary to say to make it possible to understand the events in which he was involved, and we think that his character will be sufficiently explained by his conduct. Let us hasten to say simply this, that Richard was as ardent as he was romantic, that he had an abundance of pride, pride in the good and the beautiful, but that the strength of his character did not always come up to the idea he had formed of it, and that, while striving constantly to rise above human nature, he cherished a noble dream, but one probably impossible of realization in love.

He rose early, and walked by the shore of the bay, thinking seriously of suicide, from which he was turned aside, however, by a feeling of something like contempt for Thérèse; then the fatigue of a night of intense agitation asserted itself and gave him sensible advice. Thérèse was a woman, and he should not have subjected her to a hazardous trial. But since he had done so, since Thérèse, whom he had placed so high in his esteem, had been vanquished by a deplorable passion after her sacred promises, why, he must never believe in any woman, and no woman deserved the sacrifice of a good man's life. Palmer had progressed thus far when he saw a graceful black cutter drawing near the place where he stood, with a naval officer at the stern. The eight oarsmen who pulled the long and narrow craft swiftly through the smooth water tossed their white oars by way of salute, with military precision; the officer stepped ashore and walked toward Richard, whom he had recognized in the distance.

It was Captain Lawson, in command of the American frigate Union, which had been stationed in the bay for a year. It is common knowledge that the different maritime powers are accustomed to station war vessels, for months or even for years, all over the globe to safeguard their commercial interests.

Lawson had been a friend of Palmer's from boyhood, and Thérèse was provided with a letter of introduction to him, in case she should care to visit the ship while rowing about the harbor.

Palmer thought that Lawson would mention her, but he did not. He had received no letter, had had no visit from any friend of Palmer's. He invited him to breakfast on board, and Richard made no objection. The Union was to leave the station at the end of the spring. He conceived the idea of seizing the opportunity to return to America in her. Everything seemed to be at an end between Thérèse and him; however, he determined to remain at Spezzia, the sight of the sea having always had a strengthening influence upon him in the critical moments of his life.

He had been there three days, living on board the American vessel much more than at the Maltese Cross, making an effort to revive his interest in the study of navigation, which had occupied the greater part of his life, when a young ensign, at breakfast one morning, declared, half-laughing and half-sighing, that he had fallen in love the day before, and that the object of his passion was a problem concerning which he should be glad to have the opinion of a man of the world like Palmer.

She was a woman apparently twenty-five to thirty years old. He had simply seen her at a window at which she was seated making lace. Coarse cotton lace is made by women all along the Genoese coast. It was formerly a flourishing branch of commerce, which the looms have ruined, but which still affords occupation and a trifling profit to the women and girls of the coast. Therefore the young woman of whom the ensign was enamored belonged to the artisan class, not only because of the work she was doing, but because of the poverty of the house in which he had seen her. And yet the cut of her black dress and the distinction of her features caused some doubt in his mind. She had wavy hair, which was neither dark nor light; dreamy eyes, a pale complexion. She had seen that the young officer was gazing curiously at her from the inn, where he had sought refuge from the rain. She had not condescended to encourage him or to avoid his glances. She had presented a distressing image of indifference personified.

The young seaman also stated that he questioned the innkeeper's wife at Porto Venere. She had told him that the stranger had been there three days, living with an old woman who said that she was her niece and who probably lied, for she was an old schemer who let a miserable bedroom to the detriment of the genuine, licensed public-house, and who apparently presumed to invite and entertain guests, but who must feed them very badly, for she had nothing, and for that reason deserved the contempt of all well-to-do people and self-respecting travellers.

As a result of this harangue, the young ensign lost no time in going to the old woman and asking her for lodgings for a friend of his whom he was expecting, hoping, by means of this fable, to induce her to talk, and to learn something about the stranger; but the old woman was impenetrable, yes, and incorruptible.

The portrait that the officer drew of this young unknown aroused Palmer's attention. It might be Thérèse; but what was she doing at Porto Venere? why was she hiding there? Of course, she was not alone; Laurent must be hidden in some other corner. Palmer deliberated whether or not he should go to China in order not to witness his misfortune. However, he adopted the more sensible course, which was to find out the truth of the matter.

He crossed at once to Porto Venere, and had no difficulty in discovering Thérèse, lodged and occupied as he had been told. They had an earnest and frank explanation. They were both too sincere to sulk; so they both confessed that they had been angry, Palmer because Thérèse had not let him know where she had concealed herself, Thérèse because Palmer had not sooner sought and found her.

"My dear," said he, "you seem to reproach me most of all for having, as it were, exposed you to some danger. I did not believe that danger existed!"

"You were right, and I thank you. But in that case, why were you so depressed and despairing when I left you? and how does it happen that you did not discover where I was the very first day after you arrived here? Did you suppose that I had left, and that it was useless to search for me?"

"Listen to me," said Palmer, evading the question, "and you will see that I have had, during the last few days, much rough experience that may well have made me lose my head. You will also understand why, having first known you when you were very young and when it was possible for me to think of marrying you, I let slip a happiness which I have never ceased to dream of and to regret. I was at that time the lover of a woman who has deceived me in a thousand ways. For ten years I considered myself in duty bound to keep her on her feet and shelter her. At last, she put the finishing-touch to her ingratitude and treachery, and I was able to leave her, to forget her, and to dispose of myself as I chose. But I fell in with that woman, whom I supposed to be in England, in Florence, just as Laurent was about to leave. Abandoned by a new lover who had taken my place, she desired and expected to recapture me: so many times before had she found me generous or weak! She wrote me a threatening letter, and, feigning an utterly absurd jealousy, she declared that she would come to insult you in my presence. I knew that she was a woman who would recoil from no scandal, and I would not for anything in the world have had you see her in one of her fits of frenzy. I could not persuade her not to appear on the scene, except by promising to have an explanation with her the same day. She was living in the same hotel where we were living with our sick man, and when Laurent's carriage was at the door, she was on hand, determined to make a scene. Her detestable and ridiculous plan was to exclaim before all the hotel people and the whole street that I shared my new mistress with Laurent de Fauvel. That is why I sent you away with him, and why I remained behind, in order to have done with that mad woman without compromising you, and without exposing you to the necessity of seeing her or listening to her. Now, do not say again that my purpose was to subject you to a test by leaving you alone with Laurent. I suffered enough on that account, God knows! don't reproach me! And when I thought of your having gone with him, all the demons of hell attacked me."

"And that is what I reproach you for," said Thérèse.

"Ah! what can you expect!" cried Palmer; "I have been so miserably deceived in my life! That wretched woman stirred up a whole world of bitterness and contempt in me."

"And that contempt overflowed on me!"

"Oh! don't say so, Thérèse!"

"But I, too, have been deceived," she rejoined, "and I believe in you none the less."

"Let us say no more about it, my love; I regret that I have been driven to tell you the story of my past. You will believe that it may react on my future, and that, like Laurent, I shall make you pay for the treachery with which I have been sated. Come, come, my dear Thérèse, let us have done with these depressing thoughts. This place you are in is enough to give one the blues. The boat is waiting; come and take up your quarters at Spezzia."

"No," said Thérèse, "I shall stay here."

"What? what does this mean? hard feeling between us?"

"No, no, my dear Dick," she replied, offering him her hand; "I can never be angry with you. Oh! I implore you, let our affection be ideally sincere; for my part, I will do all that it is possible for a trustful heart to do to that end; but I did not know that you were jealous, whereas you were and you admit it. Be sure that it is not in my power to avoid suffering keenly from your jealousy. It is so entirely opposed to what you promised me, that I cannot help asking myself whither we are going now, and why it was necessary that, on making my escape from a hell, I should enter a purgatory, when I aspired to naught save repose and solitude.—Not for myself alone do I dread these new tortures which seem to be brewing for me; if it were possible that in love one of the two should be happy while the other suffers, the path of self-sacrifice would be all marked out and easy to follow; but, as you see, that is not the case: I cannot have a moment's pain that you do not feel. So here am I, who sought to render my life inoffensive, in a fair way to ruin your life, and I am beginning to make a man unhappy! No, Palmer, believe me, we thought that we knew each other, but we did not. What attracted me in you was a trait which you have already lost—confidence. Don't you understand that, debased as I was, I needed that, and nothing else, in order to love you? If I should now accept your affection with its blemishes and weaknesses, with its doubts and tempests, would you not be justified in saying to yourself that I was influenced by selfish motives in marrying you? Oh! do not say that idea will never occur to you; it will occur to you in spite of yourself. I know too well how a person goes from one suspicion to another, and what a steep incline hurries us from a first disenchantment to humiliating repulsion! Now I, for my part, have drunk enough of that gall! I want no more of it, and I do not assume too much in saying I am no longer capable of undergoing what I have undergone; I told you so the very first day, and, although you may have forgotten it, I remember it. Let us put aside this idea of marriage," she added, "and remain friends. I retract my promise provisionally, until I can rely upon your esteem, such esteem as I supposed that I possessed. If you are not willing to submit to a trial, let us part at once. As for myself, I swear that I do not propose to owe anything to you, not even the most trivial service, while I am in my present position. I must tell you what that position is, for you must fully understand my purpose. I have board and lodging here on the strength of my word, for I am absolutely penniless, I gave all I had to Vicentino to pay the expenses of Laurent's journey; but it happens that I can make lace quicker and better than the women hereabout, and, pending the arrival of my money from Genoa, I can earn enough from day to day to pay my excellent landlady for the very frugal board with which she supplies me, if not to reward her. I am neither distressed nor humiliated by this state of things, and it must continue until my money arrives. Then I will see what it is best to do. Until then, return to Spezzia, and come to see me when you choose; I will make lace as we chat."

Palmer had to submit, and he submitted with a good grace. He hoped to regain Thérèse's confidence, which he felt that he had shaken by his own fault.

X

A few days later, Thérèse received a letter from Geneva. Laurent accused himself, in writing, of all that he had previously accused himself of in speech, as if he had determined to perpetuate thus the testimony of his repentance.

"No," he wrote, "I was not capable of deserving you. I was unworthy of such a generous, pure, and unselfish affection. I tired out your patience, O my sister, my mother! Even the angels would have been tired of me! Ah! Thérèse, as I return to health and life, my memory becomes clearer, and I look into my past as into a mirror, which shows me the spectre of a man whom I once knew, but whom I no longer understand. Surely, that poor devil was mad; don't you think, Thérèse, that, as I drew nearer to that ghastly physical illness from which you saved me, I may have been, even three or four months beforehand, in the grasp of a moral illness which took from me all consciousness of my words and my acts? Ah! if that were so, should you not have forgiven me? But what I am saying lacks common-sense, alas! What is wrong-doing, if not a moral malady? Could not the man who kills his father allege the same excuse that I do? Good, evil—this is the first time that idea has ever bothered me. Before I knew you and made you suffer, my poor love, I had never thought of it. Evil was to my mind a monster of low estate, the apocalyptic beast that soils with his hideous caresses the offscourings of mankind in the unhealthy bogs of society; could evil come near me, the man of fashion, the Parisian beau, the son of the Muses? Ah! fool that I was, I imagined, because my beard was perfumed and my hands neatly gloved, that my caresses would purify the great harlot of the nations, debauchery, my fiancée, who had bound me to her with chains as noble as those with which convicts are bound in the galleys! And I sacrificed you, my poor, sweet mistress, in my brutal egotism, and after that I held my head erect, saying: 'It was my right, she belonged to me; nothing that I have the right to do can be evil!'—Ah! miserable, miserable creature that I am! my behavior was criminal; and I never suspected it! Nothing would make me understand it but to lose you, you, my only treasure, the only mortal who had ever loved me and who was capable of loving the insane and ungrateful child that I was! Not until I saw my guardian angel veil her face and resume her flight heavenward did I realize that I was forever alone and abandoned on earth!"

A large part of this first letter was written in a lofty tone, the sincerity of which was confirmed by realistic touches and abrupt changes of manner, characteristic of Laurent.

"Would you believe that, on my arrival at Geneva, the first thing that I did, even before I thought of writing to you, was to go out and buy a waistcoat? Yes, a summer waistcoat, a very pretty one, on my word, and very well made, which I found at a French tailor's,—a most agreeable find for a traveller in great haste to leave this city of watchmakers and naturalists! Behold me, therefore, parading the streets of Geneva, delighted with my new waistcoat, and halting in front of a book-shop where an edition of Byron, bound in exquisite taste, offered an irresistible temptation to me. What am I to read while travelling? I cannot endure books of travel, unless they treat of countries which I shall never be able to visit. I prefer the poets, who take you into the world of their dreams, and I purchased this edition. And then I followed aimlessly a very pretty girl in a short dress who passed me, and whose ankle seemed to me a masterpiece of jointing. I followed her, thinking much more of my waistcoat than of her. Suddenly she turned to the right and I to the left without noticing it, and I found myself back at my hotel, where, as I went to put my new books in my trunk, I discovered the double violets that you strewed in my cabin on the Ferruccio when we parted. I picked them up, one by one, with great care, and kept them as a relic; but they made me weep like a waterspout, and, glancing at my new waistcoat, which had been the principal event of my morning, I said to myself:

"'And yet this is the child that poor woman loved!'"

Elsewhere he said:

"You made me promise to take care of my health. 'As it was I who gave it back to you,' you said, 'it belongs to me in a measure, and I have the right to forbid you to throw it away.'—Alas! my Thérèse, what do you expect me to do with this infernal health, which begins to intoxicate me like new wine? The spring is at hand, it is the season for loving, I know; but is it in my power to love? You were unable to inspire true love in my heart, and do you suppose that I shall meet a woman capable of performing the miracle that you could not perform? Where am I to find this magician? In society? No, surely not: there are no women there but those who do not choose to risk or sacrifice anything. They are quite right, no doubt, and you could tell them, my poor dear, that those for whom a woman sacrifices herself seldom deserve it; but it is not my fault if I can no more readily make up my mind to share with a husband than with a lover. But should I love a maiden? and marry her? Oh! surely, Thérèse, you cannot think of that without laughing—or without trembling. Think of me, chained by the law, when even my own desires are powerless to chain me!

"I once had a friend who loved a grisette and who believed that she was true to him. I paid court to that faithful light-o'-love, and she was mine for a green parrot which her lover would not give her. She said, artlessly: 'Dame! 'tis his own fault; why didn't he give me that parrot!' And from that day I have sworn never to love a kept woman, that is to say, a woman who longs for everything her lover does not give her.

"Thus, in the way of mistresses, there seems to be nothing left but an adventuress, such as we meet on the high-roads, who are all born princesses but have had misfortunes. Too many misfortunes, thank you! I am not rich enough to fill the gulf of those past lives.—A famous actress? That idea has often tempted me; but my mistress must renounce the public, and the public is a lover that I do not feel the strength to replace. No, no, Thérèse, I cannot love! I ask too much, and I ask what I cannot give back; so I shall have to return to my former life. I prefer that, because your image in my heart will never be contaminated by possible comparisons. Why should my life not be arranged thus: women for the passions, and a mistress for my heart? It is not in your power nor in mine, Thérèse, to effect that you should be that mistress, that ideal which I have dreamed of, lost, and wept for, and of which I dream now more longingly than ever. I will never suggest such a thing to you, for you may take offence. I will love you in my secret thoughts so that no one will know it and no other woman can ever say: 'I have replaced that Thérèse!'

"My dear, you must grant me a favor which you denied me during those last dear, sweet days that we passed together; you must tell me something of Palmer. You have thought that would increase my pain. But you are mistaken. It would have killed me the first time that I questioned you about him angrily; I was still sick and a little mad; but, when my reason returned, when you let me guess the secret that you were not obliged to confide to me, I felt, in the midst of my grief, that by being reconciled to your happiness I should atone for all my wrong-doing. I watched closely your manner when you were together; I saw that he loved you passionately, and that he seemed, nevertheless, to have a fatherly affection for me. That was too much for me, Thérèse. I had no conception of such generosity, such grandeur in love. Lucky Palmer! how sure he is of you, how fully he understands you, and consequently deserves you! It reminded me of the time when I said to you: 'Love Palmer, you will do me a great favor!'—Ah! what a hateful sentiment I had in my heart at that time! I longed to be delivered from your love, which overwhelmed me with remorse, and yet, if you had answered me then: 'I do love him,' I would have killed you!

"And he, that great, warm heart, already loved you, and was not afraid to devote his life to you, when perhaps you still loved me! Under such circumstances, I would never have dared to take the risk. I had too large a dose of that pride which we parade so haughtily, we men of the world, and which was invented by fools to prevent us from striving to win happiness at any risk to ourselves, or from even knowing enough to grasp it when it is slipping from us.

"Yes, I propose to confess to the end, my poor dear. When I said to you: 'Love Palmer,' I believed, at times, that you already loved him, and that is what finally drew me apart from you. In the last days, there were many hours when I was on the point of throwing myself at your feet; I was kept from it by this thought: 'It is too late, she loves another. It was my wish, but she should not have consented. Therefore she is unworthy of me!'

"That is how I reasoned in my madness, and yet I am sure now that if I had come back to you in all sincerity, even though you had begun to love Dick, you would have sacrificed him to me. You would have entered anew upon that martyrdom which I forced on you. Tell me, did I not do well to run away? I felt that I did, when I left you. Yes, Thérèse, that was what gave me strength to run away to Florence without a word to you. I felt that I was killing you day by day, and that there was no other way to undo the wrong I had done you than to leave you with a man who really loved you.

"That was what sustained my courage at Spezzia, too, during that day when I might have made another attempt to obtain my pardon; but that detestable thought did not once occur to me, I give you my word, my friend. I don't know whether you had told that boatman not to lose sight of us; but it was quite unnecessary. I would have thrown myself into the sea rather than try to betray the confidence in me which Palmer displayed in leaving us together.

"Say to him, then, that I love him dearly, as much as I can love. Tell him that it is to him as much as to you that I am indebted for having condemned and executed myself as I have done. I suffered terribly, God knows, in committing that suicide of the old man! But I am proud of myself now. All my former friends would consider that I had been a fool or a coward not to try to kill my rival in a duel, and then to abandon the woman who had betrayed me, spitting in her face. Yes, Thérèse, that is the judgment which I myself should probably have pronounced upon another man for conducting himself as I have conducted myself toward you and Palmer with so much resolution and delight. I am not a brute, thank God! I am not good for much, but I understand how little I am good for, and I do myself justice.

"So write me about Palmer, and do not be afraid that it will hurt me; far from it; it will be my consolation in my hours of spleen. It will be my strength, too; for your poor child is still sadly weak, and, when he begins to think of what he might have been and what he actually is to you, his head becomes still more confused. But tell me that you are happy, and I will say, proudly: 'I might have disturbed, combated, and perhaps destroyed her happiness; I did not do it. So it is my work to some extent, and I am entitled now to Thérèse's friendship."

Thérèse replied affectionately to her poor child. That was the title under which he was thenceforth buried and, as it were, embalmed in the sanctuary of the past. Thérèse loved Palmer; at least, she wished to love him, and believed that she did. It did not seem to her that she could ever regret the time when, as she afterward said, she looked up every morning when she woke to see if the house were not falling about her ears.

And yet something was lacking, and an indefinable depression of spirits had taken possession of her since she had dwelt upon that livid-hued cliff of Porto Venere. It was as if she were held aloof from life, which, at times, was not without a charm for her; but there was a touch of gloom and dejection in her feelings, which was unnatural to her and which she could not explain to herself.

It was impossible for her to do what Laurent asked with regard to Palmer; she wrote of him briefly in the highest terms, and conveyed the most affectionate messages from him; but she could not make up her mind to make him a confidant of their relations. She felt disinclined to divulge her real situation, that is to say, to confide to him plans concerning which she had not absolutely made up her own mind. And even if she had decided, would it not have been too early to say to Laurent: "You are still suffering? so much the worse for you! I am to be married!"

The money that she expected did not arrive for a fortnight. She made lace during that fortnight with a perseverance that drove Palmer to despair. When, at last, she found herself in possession of a few bank-notes, she paid her kind landlady handsomely, and indulged in a sail around the bay with Palmer; but she desired to remain at Porto Venere a little longer, although she could not explain why she clung to that dismal and wretched hamlet.

There are phases of the mind which one feels much more distinctly than one can describe them. In her letters to her mother, Thérèse succeeded in pouring out her whole heart.

"I am still here," she wrote in July, "notwithstanding the intense heat. I have attached myself like a shell-fish to this rock where no tree has ever thought of growing, but where brisk and revivifying breezes blow. The climate is severe but healthy, and the constant view of the sea, which formerly I could not endure, has become, in a certain sense, necessary to me. The country which lies behind me, and which I can reach by boat in less than two hours, was fascinating in the spring. On walking inland from the head of the bay, two or three leagues from the shore, you come across some most peculiar spots. There is one place where the ground was all torn up by earthquakes Heaven knows how many years ago, where the surface presents most extraordinary irregularities. There is a series of hills of red sand, covered with pines and heather, rising one above another, with natural paths of considerable width on their summits, which paths end abruptly on the brink of sheer precipices and leave you sorely perplexed as to how you are to go on. If you retrace your steps and lose your way in the labyrinth of narrow paths trodden by the herds, you come to other precipices, and Palmer and I have passed whole hours on those wooded hill-tops, unable to find the path by which we had come. Beyond these hills is a vast expanse of tilled land, broken here and there, with something like regularity, by similar curious excrescences, and beyond that vast expanse stretches the blue immensity of the sea. The horizon seems boundless in that direction. Toward the north and east are the Maritime Alps, whose sharply outlined peaks were still covered with snow when I arrived here.

"But it is all over with the great fields of wild roses and the trees of white heather which gave forth so sweet and delicious a perfume in the early days of May. Then it was an earthly paradise: the woods were full of Alpine ebony-trees, of Judas-trees, of fragrant genesta, and laburnum gleaming like gold amid the black clumps of myrtle. Now everything is burned, the pines exhale an acrid odor, the fields of lupin, lately so fragrant and so bright with blossoms, display naught but shorn stalks, as black as if they had been overrun by fire; the crops are harvested, the ground smokes in the noonday sun, and one must rise early in order to walk without discomfort. So that, as it takes at least four hours, whether by boat or on foot, to reach the wooded part of the country, the return journey is far from pleasant, and all the heights on the immediate shores of the bay, magnificent as they are in shape and in the views they afford, are so bare, that it is cooler at Porto Venere and on Isola Palmaria.

"And then there is a scourge at Spezzia: I mean the mosquitoes, bred by the stagnant waters of a small pond near by and of the vast marshes, possession of which the hand of the husbandman disputes with the waters of the sea. Here there is no water on shore to annoy us; we have only the sea and the bare rock, consequently no insects, and not a blade of grass; but such golden and purple clouds, such sublime tempests, such solemn calms! The sea is a picture which changes in color and feeling at every moment of the day and night. There are chasms here filled with uproars of which you cannot conceive the terrifying variety; the sobbing of despair, the imprecations of hell, seem to have appointed a meeting there, and, from my little window, at night, I hear those voices of the abyss, sometimes roaring a nameless bacchanalian refrain, sometimes singing wild hymns, awe-inspiring even in their mildest form.

"And I love all this now, I who always cherished rustic tastes and a love for tranquil little green nooks. Is it because in that fatal love-affair I became accustomed to storms and to a craving for tumult? Perhaps so. We women are such strange creatures! I must confess to you, my own beloved, that many days passed before I could accustom myself to the absence of my daily torment. I did not know what to do with myself, having nobody to wait upon and nurse. Palmer would have done well to be a little overbearing; but observe my injustice: as soon as he showed signs of being so, I rebelled, and now that he has become as kind as an angel once more, I don't know how to deal with the horrible ennui that assails me now and again. Woe is me! that is the truth.—And must I tell you? No, it is better that I should not find out myself, or if I do, that I should not grieve you with my madness. I intended to write of nothing but the country, my walks, my occupations, and my dull chamber under the roof, or rather on the roof, where I take pleasure in being alone, unknown, forgotten by the world, with no duties, no customers, no business, no other work than that which it pleases me to do. I get little children to pose for me, and I amuse myself arranging them in groups; but all this will not satisfy you, and if I don't tell you where I stand with regard to my heart and my desires, you will be more anxious than ever. Very well; it is a fact that I have fully decided to marry Palmer, and that I love him; but I have not yet been able to make up my mind to appoint a time for the marriage; I fear for him and for myself the morrow of that indissoluble union. I have passed the age of illusions, and after such a life as mine one has had a hundred years of experience and consequently of terrors! I believed that I was absolutely severed from Laurent, and so, in fact, I was, at Genoa, on the day that he told me I was his scourge, the assassin of his genius and his glory. But now I no longer feel so entirely independent of him; since his sickness, his repentance, and the letters he has written me during these last two months, letters adorable in their gentleness and resignation, I feel that a solemn duty still binds me to that ill-fated child, and I am reluctant to wound him by a complete desertion. And yet that is just what is likely to happen on the day after my marriage. Palmer has had a moment's jealousy, and that jealousy may return on the day that he has the right to say to me: I wish it! I no longer love Laurent, my beloved, I swear it, I would rather die than love him; but on the day that Palmer seeks to break the friendship which has survived that unhappy passion in my heart, perhaps I shall cease to love Palmer.

"I have told him all this; he understands it, for he prides himself on being a great philosopher, and he persists in believing what seems fair and right to him to-day will never bear a different aspect in his eyes. I believe it also, and yet I ask him to allow the days to pass, without counting them, and without disturbing our present calm and pleasant situation. I have attacks of spleen, it is true; but Palmer is not naturally very keen-sighted, and I can conceal them from him. I can wear before him what Laurent used to call my sick bird's face, without frightening him. If my future suffering is limited to this, that I may have irritated nerves and gloomy thoughts without his noticing it or being affected by it, we can live together as happily as possible. If he should begin to scrutinize my absent-minded glances, to seek to pierce the veil of my reveries, to do, in short, ali the cruel, childish things with which Laurent used to overwhelm me in my hours of moral weakness, I feel that I have not the strength to struggle longer, and I should prefer that he would kill me at once; it would be done with the sooner."

About the same time, Thérèse received from Laurent so ardent a letter that she was alarmed by it. It was no longer the enthusiasm of friendship, but of love. The silence that Thérèse had maintained concerning her relations with Palmer had restored the artist's hope of renewing his intimacy with her. He could not live without her; he had made vain efforts to return to a life of pleasure. Disgust had seized him by the throat.

"Ah! Thérèse," he said, "I used to reproach you for loving too chastely and for being better adapted for the convent than for love. How could I have blasphemed thus? Since I have been trying to renew my acquaintance with vice, I feel myself that I am becoming as pure as in my childhood, and the women I see tell me that I would make a good monk. No, no, I shall never forget what there was between us above and beyond love, that motherly gentleness which watched over me for long hours with a placid, melting smile, those outpourings of the heart, those aspirations to a higher intelligence, that twofold poem of which we were the authors and the characters, without realizing it. Thérèse, if you do not belong to Palmer, you cannot belong to any one but me! with what other man can you find again those profound, ardent emotions? Were all our days unhappy? Were there not some delicious ones? Besides, is it happiness that you seek, you, the self-sacrificing woman? Can you do without suffering for some one, and did you not call me sometimes, when you pardoned my follies, your dear torment, your necessary torment? Remember, remember, Thérèse! You suffered, and you are alive. I made you suffer, and I am dying! Have I not atoned sufficiently? Three long months of death-agony for my heart!"

Then came reproaches. Thérèse had said too much or too little. Her expressions of friendship were too warm if it was only friendship, too cold and too reserved if it was love. She must have the courage either to give him new life or to kill him.

Thérèse decided to reply that she loved Palmer, and that she expected to love him forever, but did not speak of the projected marriage, which she could not make up her mind to consider as definitely decided upon. She softened as much as she could the blow that confession was certain to deal to Laurent's pride.

"Understand," she said, "that it is not, as you claimed, to punish you, that I have given my heart and my life to another. No, you were fully forgiven on the day that I responded to Palmer's affection, and I proved it by hurrying to Florence with him. Do you think, my poor child, that, when I nursed you as I did during your illness, I was there simply as a Sister of Charity? No, no, it was not duty that tied me to your bedside, but a mother's affection. Does not a mother always forgive? Well, it will be always so with me, as you will see! Whenever, without failing in my duty to Palmer, I can serve you, nurse you, and comfort you, you will find me ready. It is because Palmer makes no objection to that, that I am able to love him and do love him. If it had been necessary for me to pass from your arms into those of your enemy, I should have had a horror of myself; but it was just the opposite. Our hands met as we swore to each other that we would watch over you, would never abandon you."

Thérèse showed this letter to Palmer, who was deeply moved by it, and insisted upon writing to Laurent himself, to make similar promises of constant solicitude and true affection.

Laurent made them wait for another letter from him. He had begun to dream a new dream, and saw it fly away beyond hope of recall. He was deeply affected at first; but he resolved to shake off the sorrow which he felt that he had not the strength to bear. There took place in him one of those sudden and complete revolutions which were sometimes the scourge, sometimes the salvation, of his life; and he wrote to Thérèse:

"Bless you, my adored sister; I am happy, I am proud of your faithful friendship, and Palmer's cordial words moved me to tears. Why did you not speak sooner, bad girl? I should not have suffered so keenly. What did I crave, in truth? To know that you were happy, nothing more. It was because I thought that you were alone and sad, that I came and knelt again at your feet, and said: 'Since you are suffering, let us suffer together. I long to share your sorrows, your vexations, and your solitude.'—Was not that my duty and my right?—But you are happy, Thérèse, therefore so am I. I bless you for telling me. At last, I am delivered from the remorse that was gnawing at my heart! I can walk with my head erect, breathe freely, and say to myself that I have not marred and ruined the life of the best of friends. Ah! I am full of pride to feel within me this generous joy, instead of the horrible jealousy that formerly tortured me!

"Dear Thérèse, dear Palmer, you are my two guardian angels. You have brought me happiness. Thanks to you, I feel at last that I was born for something different from the life I have led. I am born again, I feel the air of heaven descend into my lungs, which thirst for a pure atmosphere. My being is transformed. I am going to love.

"Yes, I am going to love, I love already! I love a pure and lovely child who knows nothing of my love as yet, and in whose presence I take a mysterious pleasure in guarding the secret of my heart, and in appearing and acting as artless, as gay, as child-like as herself. Ah! how lovely they are, these first days of a newly-born emotion! Is there not something sublime and terrifying in this idea: 'I am going to betray myself, that is to say, I am going to give myself away! to-morrow, perhaps to-night, I shall cease to belong to myself'?

"Rejoice, my Thérèse, in this conclusion of your poor child's sad and insane youth. Say to yourself that this rehabilitation of a creature who seemed lost, and who, instead of crawling about in the mire, now spreads his wings like a bird, is the work of your love, your gentleness, your patience, your anger, your sternness, your forgiveness, and your friendship! Yes, it required all the changing scenes of a private drama in which I was vanquished to force me to open my eyes. I am your handiwork, your son, your labor and your reward, your martyrdom and your crown. Bless me, both of you, my friends, and pray for me: I am going to love!"

All the rest of the letter was in this strain. On receiving this hymn of joy and gratitude, Thérèse felt for the first time that her own happiness was complete and assured. She held out both hands to Palmer, and said:

"And now, when and where shall we be married?"

XI

It was decided that the marriage should take place in America. Palmer looked forward with intense delight to presenting Thérèse to his mother, and receiving the nuptial benediction before her eyes. Thérèse's mother could not promise to be present, even if the ceremony should take place in France. She was compensated for the disappointment by the joy she felt in the knowledge that her daughter was pledged to a sensible and devoted man. She could not endure Laurent, and she was always in mortal terror that Thérèse would fall under his yoke again.

The Union was making preparations for her voyage. Captain Lawson offered to take Palmer and his fiancée as passengers. Everybody on board was overjoyed at the prospect of crossing the ocean with that favorite couple. The young ensign atoned for his impertinence by maintaining a most respectful attitude toward Thérèse, and conceiving the most sincere esteem for her.

Thérèse, having made all her preparations to sail on August 18th, received a letter from her mother begging her to come first to Paris, if for no more than twenty-four hours. She had to go thither herself on some family matters. Who could say when Thérèse would return from America? The poor mother was not happy with her other children, who, guided by the example of a suspicious and irritable husband, were insubordinate and cold toward her. So she loved Thérèse all the more dearly, who alone had really been a loving daughter and devoted friend to her. She wished to give her her blessing and to embrace her, perhaps for the last time, for she felt prematurely aged, sick, and fatigued by a life of constant insecurity and without love.

Palmer was more disturbed by this letter than he cared to confess. Although he had always referred with apparent satisfaction to the certainty of a lasting friendship between Laurent and himself, he had not ceased to be anxious, in spite of himself, touching the sentiments which might spring to new life in Thérèse's heart when she should see him again. Not that he was conscious of this anxiety when he asserted the contrary; but he became conscious of it on the 18th of August, when the guns of the American man-of-war woke the echoes of the gulf of Spezzia with repeated farewell salutes, throughout the day.

Each report made him jump, and, at the last one, he wrung his hands until he nearly cracked the joints.

Thérèse was surprised. She had had no suspicion of Palmer's uneasiness since the explanation they had had together at the beginning of their residence in that neighborhood.

"Mon Dieu! what is the matter?" she cried, watching him closely. "What presentiment——"

"Yes! that is it," replied Palmer, hastily. "I have a presentiment—about Lawson, my friend from boyhood. I don't know why.—Yes, yes, it is a presentiment!"

"Do you think that something will happen to him at sea?"

"Perhaps. Who can tell? However, you will not be exposed to it, thank Heaven, as we are going to Paris."

"The Union is to touch at Brest, and remain there a fortnight. Are we not going to join her there?"

"Yes, yes, to be sure, unless some catastrophe happens between now and then."

Palmer continued downcast and depressed, nor could Thérèse imagine what was going on in his mind. How could she have imagined? Laurent was taking the waters at Baden; Palmer knew it perfectly well. Moreover, Laurent had his own marriage plans as he had written.

They set off by post the next day, and returned to France by Turin and Mont Cenis, stopping nowhere on the way.

The journey was extraordinarily dull. Palmer saw signs of disaster everywhere; he confessed to superstitions and mental foibles which were entirely foreign to his character. Ordinarily so placid and so mild a master, he indulged in savage fits of temper against the postilions, against the roads, against the customs officers, against the passers-by. Thérèse had never seen him in such a mood. She could not refrain from telling him so. He answered with meaningless words, but with so sombre an expression and so marked an accent of irritation, that she was afraid of him, and consequently of the future.

Some lives are pursued by an implacable destiny. While Thérèse and Palmer were returning to France by Mont Cenis, Laurent was returning thither by Geneva. He reached Paris some hours in advance of them, his mind engrossed by a painful anxiety. He had discovered at last that Thérèse, to make it possible for him to travel for a few months, had parted with every sou that she then possessed, and he had learned (for everything comes to light sooner or later) from a person who had visited Spezzia at that time, that Mademoiselle Jacques was living at Porto Venere in extraordinarily straitened circumstances, and was making lace to pay for her lodgings at the rate of six francs per month.

Humiliated and repentant, angry and hopeless, he determined to learn the exact truth with reference to Thérèse's present situation. He knew that she was too proud to consent to accept anything from Palmer, and he said to himself, reasonably enough, that if she had not been paid for the work she did at Genoa, she must have sold her furniture in Paris.

He hurried to the Champs-Elysées, trembling lest he should find strangers installed in that dear little house, which he could not approach without a violent beating of the heart. As there was no concierge, he had to ring at the garden-gate, and he wondered who would come in answer. He knew nothing of Thérèse's approaching marriage, he did not even know that she was free to marry. The last letter that she had written him touching on that subject had reached Baden the day after his departure.

He was delighted beyond measure when the gate was opened by old Catherine. He leaped on her neck; but his spirits instantly sank when he saw the consternation depicted on the goodwoman's face.

"What have you come here for?" she said, angrily. "Have you found out that mademoiselle is coming to-day? Can't you leave her in peace? Have you come to make her miserable again? They told me that you had separated, and I was glad of it; for, although I was fond of you at first, I had grown to detest you. I saw plainly enough that you were the cause of her troubles and her sorrows. Come, come, don't stay here waiting for her, unless you have made a vow to kill her!"

"You say that she is coming to-day!" Laurent exclaimed again and again.

That was all that he had heard of the old servant's lecture. He entered Thérèse's studio, the small lilac salon, and even the bedroom, raising the gray covers that Catherine had spread over all the furniture to preserve it. He gazed at all those rare and fascinating things one by one, artistic, dainty objects which Thérèse had bought with the fruits of her toil; not one was missing. There seemed to have been no change in Thérèse's Parisian environment, and Laurent repeated in a slightly bewildered tone, looking at Catherine, who was following him step by step, with an anxious air:

"She is coming to-day!"

When he said that he loved a lovely child with a love as pure and fair as she, Laurent had boasted unduly. He had believed that he was telling the truth when he wrote to Thérèse, with the passionate warmth to which he was wont to give way when speaking to her of himself, and which contrasted so strangely with the cold and mocking tone he felt called upon to adopt in society. The declaration he was supposed to have made to the young woman who had filled his dreams, he had not made. A bird or a cloud, passing through the sky at night, had sufficed to overthrow the fragile edifice of happiness and passionate declamation which had sprung up in the morning in that childish, poetic imagination. The fear of making himself ridiculous had taken possession of him, or else the fear of being cured of his invincible and fatal passion for Thérèse.

He remained there, making no reply to Catherine, who, being in haste to prepare everything for her dear mistress's arrival, decided to leave him alone. Laurent was agitated beyond expression. He asked himself why Thérèse was returning to Paris without telling him. Was she coming secretly with Palmer, or had she done as Laurent had done himself? Had she announced to him a happiness which had no existence, and the thought of which had already vanished? Did not this sudden and mysterious return conceal a rupture with Dick?

Laurent was at once overjoyed and terrified by the thought. A thousand contrary ideas and emotions wrangled in his brain and in his nerves. There was a moment when he himself insensibly forgot the reality, and persuaded himself that those linen-covered objects were tombs in a cemetery. He had always had a horror of death, and his mind dwelt constantly upon it, in spite of himself. He saw it about him in all its forms. He fancied that he was surrounded by shrouds, and sprang to his feet in terror, crying:

"Who is dead, then? Is it Thérèse? is it Palmer? I see, I feel that some one is dead in this neighborhood to which I have returned!—No, it is you," he replied, talking to himself, "it is you, who have lived in this house the only real days of your life, and who return hither lifeless, abandoned, forgotten, like a corpse!"

Catherine returned, unnoticed by him, removed the coverings, dusted the furniture, threw all the windows and blinds wide open, and placed flowers in the great china vases which stood on gilt consoles. Then she approached him, and said:

"Well, what are you doing here?"

Laurent came out of his dream, and, looking about him in a dazed sort of way, saw the flowers reflected in the mirrors, the Boule cabinets glistening in the sun, and the whole holiday aspect which had succeeded, as if by magic, the funereal atmosphere of absence, which does, in truth, so closely resemble death.

His hallucination took another course.

"What am I doing here?" he said, smiling darkly; "true, what am I doing here? To-day is a holiday in Thérèse's house, a day of joy and oblivion. Evidently the mistress of this house has appointed a rendezvous here to-day, and certainly it is not I whom she expects, I, a dead man! What business has a corpse in this nuptial chamber? And what will she say when she sees me here? She will say, as you do, poor old woman; she will say: 'Begone! your place is in a coffin!'"

Laurent talked as if he were in a fever. Catherine felt sorry for him.

"He is mad," she thought; "he always was."

And as she was thinking what she should say to send him away quietly, she heard a carriage stop in the street. In her joy at seeing Thérèse again, she forgot Laurent, and hastened to open the door.

Palmer was there with Thérèse; but, being in haste to rid himself of the dust of the journey, and not wishing to give Thérèse the trouble of having the post-chaise unloaded at her door, he stepped in again at once and ordered the postilions to drive him to Hôtel Meurice, saying to Thérèse that he would return in two hours to dine with her, and would bring her trunks.

Thérèse embraced her dear old Catherine, and, while she questioned her concerning her own health during their separation, entered the house with that impatient curiosity, sometimes joyous, sometimes anxious, which we instinctively feel on returning to a place where we have lived a long while; so that Catherine had no opportunity to tell her that Laurent was there, and she surprised him sitting on the sofa in the salon, pale, absorbed, and, as it were, petrified. He had not heard the carriage, nor the noise of doors hurriedly opened and closed. He was still buried in his dismal meditations when he saw her before him. He uttered a terrible cry, darted toward her to embrace her, and fell, gasping for breath, almost fainting, at her feet.

They had to remove his cravat, and give him ether to inhale. He was suffocating, and his heart beat so violently that his whole body was shaken as by a succession of electric shocks. Thérèse, dismayed to see him thus, thought that he had fallen sick again. However, his youthful vigor soon returned, and she noticed that he had grown stout. He swore a thousand times that he had never been in better health, and that he was overjoyed to find her improved and her eye as clear and bright as on the first day of their love. He knelt before her and kissed her feet to testify his respect and adoration. His outpourings of emotion were so ardent that Thérèse was disturbed, and thought it her duty to remind him at once of her impending departure and her approaching marriage to Palmer.

"What? what's that? what do you say?" cried Laurent, as pale as if the lightning had struck at his feet. "Departure! marriage!—How? why? am I still dreaming? did you say those words?"

"Yes," she replied, "I did say them. I had already written them to you; did you not receive my letter?"

"Departure! marriage!" repeated Laurent; "why, you used to say that it was impossible! Remember! there were days when I regretted that I could not impose silence on people who tore your reputation to pieces, by giving you my name and my whole life. And you always said: 'Never, never, so long as that man lives!'—Is he dead, pray? or do you love Palmer as you never loved me, since for him you brush aside scruples which I thought well founded, and defy a horrible scandal, which I consider inevitable?"

"The Comte de —— is dead, and I am free."

Laurent was so thunderstruck by this revelation, that he forgot all his schemes of disinterested, fraternal friendship. What Thérèse had foreseen at Genoa, happened under peculiarly distressing conditions. Laurent conceived a most exalted idea of the happiness he might have enjoyed as Thérèse's husband, and he shed torrents of tears; nor could words of reason or remonstrance produce any effect upon his perturbed and despairing heart. His grief was expressed so vehemently, and his tears were so genuine, that Thérèse could not escape the emotion naturally incident to a pathetic, heart-rending scene. She had never been able to see Laurent suffer without feeling all the compassion of maternal love, reproachful but vanquished. She tried in vain to restrain her own tears. They were not tears of regret, she was not deceived by this vertigo from which Laurent was suffering, and which was nothing more than vertigo; but it acted on her nerves, and the nerves of such a woman were the very fibres of her heart, torn by a pain which she could not understand.

She succeeded finally in calming him, and, by speaking to him gently and affectionately, in persuading him to look upon her marriage as the wisest and best solution for them both. Laurent agreed, with a sad smile.

"Yes," he said, "I should certainly have made a detestable husband, and he will make you happy! Heaven owed you that compensation and that reward. You are quite right to thank Heaven for it and to consider that it preserves you from a wretched existence, and me from a remorse worse than the old one. It is because all that is so true, so wise, so logical, and so well arranged, that I am so unhappy!"

And he began to sob afresh.

Palmer entered the house unheard by either of them. He was, in truth, oppressed by a ghastly presentiment, and, albeit entirely without premeditation, he arrived like a jealous man whose suspicions have been aroused, ringing very softly, and walking so that his footsteps made no noise on the floor. He stopped at the door of the salon and recognized Laurent's voice.

"Ah! I was perfectly sure of it!" he said to himself, tearing the glove which he had held in his hand to be put on at the door, apparently to give himself time for reflection before entering. He thought it best to knock.

"Come in!" cried Thérèse hastily, astounded that any one should insult her by knocking at the door of her salon.

When she saw Palmer, she turned pale. What he had done was more eloquent than many words: he suspected her.

Palmer saw that pallor, and could not understand its real cause. He saw also that Thérèse had been weeping, and Laurent's discomposed countenance put the finishing-touch to his agitation. The first glance that the two men exchanged was a glance of hatred and defiance; then they walked toward each other, uncertain whether they should shake hands, or grasp each other by the throat.

At that moment, Laurent was the better and more sincere of the two, for he had spontaneous impulses which redeemed all his faults. He opened his arms, and embraced Palmer effusively, making no effort to conceal his tears, which were beginning to suffocate him.

"What is all this?" said Palmer, glancing at Thérèse.

"I do not know," she replied, firmly; "I have just told him that we are going to America to be married. It causes him some grief. He apparently thinks that we are going to forget him. Tell him, Palmer, we shall always love him, at a distance as well as near at hand."

"He is a spoiled child!" rejoined Palmer. "He must know that I have but one word, and that I desire your happiness before everything. Must we take him to America, to make him cease grieving and causing you to weep, Thérèse?"

These words were uttered in a tone impossible to describe. It was a tone of paternal affection, blended with an indefinable flavor of profound and unconquerable bitterness.

Thérèse understood. She asked for her hat and shawl, saying to Palmer:

"We will go to dine at a restaurant. Catherine expected nobody but me, and there is not enough dinner in the house for us both."

"You mean for us three," rejoined Palmer, still half-bitter and half-loving.

"But I cannot dine with you," said Laurent, understanding at last what was going on in Palmer's mind. "I must leave you; I will come again to say adieu. What day do you start?"

"In four days," said Thérèse.

"At least!" added Palmer, looking at her with a strange expression; "but that is no reason why we three should not dine together to-day. Do me this favor, Laurent. We will go to the Frères Provençaux, and after that we will take a drive in the Bois de Boulogne. That will remind us of Florence and the Cascines. Come, I beg you."

"I am engaged," said Laurent.

"Oh! well, break your engagement," said Palmer. "Here are paper and pens! Write, write, I beg you!"

Palmer spoke in such a decided tone that there was no denying him. Laurent remembered vaguely that it was his old-time peremptory tone. Thérèse wanted him to refuse, and she could have made him understand it with a glance; but Palmer did not take his eyes from her face, and he seemed in a mood to interpret everything in an unfavorable light.

Laurent was very sincere. When he lied, he was the first person deceived. He deemed himself strong enough to face that delicate situation, and it was his straightforward, generous purpose to restore Palmer's former confidence. Unluckily, when the human mind, borne onward by vigorous aspirations, has climbed certain lofty summits, if it is attacked with vertigo, it does not descend gradually, but plunges recklessly down. That is what happened to Palmer. Although the most noble-hearted and loyal of men, he had aspired to control the emotions aroused by a too delicate situation. His strength had betrayed him; who could blame him for it? And he plunged into the abyss, dragging Thérèse and Laurent himself with him. Who would not pity them—all three? All three had dreamed of scaling heaven and of reaching those serene regions where passions have naught of earthliness; but it is not given to man to reach that height; it is much for him to deem himself for an instant capable of loving without doubt or distrust.

The dinner was mortally dismal; although Palmer, who had assumed the rôle of host, made it a point to set before his guests the daintiest dishes and choicest wines, everything had a bitter taste to them, and Laurent, after vain efforts to recover the frame of mind which he had found so delightful during his relations with those two at Florence immediately after his illness, refused to accompany them to the Bois de Boulogne. Palmer, who had drunk a trifle more than usual in order to forget himself, insisted in a way that annoyed Thérèse.

"Come, come," she said, "don't be so persistent. Laurent is right to refuse; in the Bois de Boulogne, in your open carriage, we shall be very conspicuous, and we may meet people whom we know. We can't expect them to know what an exceptional position we three occupy with respect to each other; and they may well draw some very unpleasant conclusions regarding all of us."

"Very well, then let us return to your house," said Palmer; "then I will go and take a walk alone; I need a bit of fresh air."

Laurent made his escape when he saw that Palmer had determined to leave him alone with Thérèse, apparently for the purpose of watching them or surprising them. He returned to his own quarters very much depressed, saying to himself that perhaps Thérèse was not happy, and involuntarily deriving some satisfaction from the thought that Palmer was not superior to the weakness of human nature, as he had imagined, and as Thérèse had represented him in her letters.

We will pass rapidly over the ensuing week, a week during which the heroic romance of which the three ill-fated friends had dreamed more or less vividly, faded from hour to hour. Thérèse clung to her illusions more persistently than the others, because, after such far-seeing apprehensions and precautions, she had determined that she would risk her whole life, and that however unjust Palmer might be, she ought to, and would, keep her word to him.

Palmer released her from it at one stroke, after a succession of suspicions more aggravating, because they were unexpressed in words, than all Laurent's insults had been.

One morning, after passing the night concealed in Thérèse's garden, Palmer was about to retire when she appeared near the gate and detained him.

"Well," she said, "you have been watching here six hours; I saw you from my room. Are you convinced that no one came to see me last night?"

Thérèse was angry, and yet, by forcing the explanation Palmer wished to avoid, she hoped to lead him back to confidence in her; but he thought otherwise.

"I see, Thérèse," he said, "that you are tired of me, since you demand a confession after which I should be contemptible in your eyes. And yet it would not have cost you much to close them to a weakness with which I have not annoyed you overmuch. Why do you not let me suffer in silence? Have I insulted you and pursued you with bitter sarcasms? Have I written you volumes of insults, only to come the next day and weep at your feet and make frantic protestations of repentance, reserving the right to begin anew to torture you the next day? Did I ever so much as ask you an indiscreet question? Why could you not sleep quietly last night while I sat on yonder bench, not disturbing your repose by shrieks and tears? Can you not forgive a suffering for which I blush, perhaps, and which, at all events, I have the pride to wish to conceal and know how to? You have forgiven much more in the case of one who had not so much courage."

"I have forgiven him nothing, Palmer, for I have parted from him irrevocably. As for this suffering which you avow, and which you think that you conceal so perfectly, let me tell you that it is as clear as daylight to my eyes, and that I suffer more from it than you do yourself. Understand that it humiliates me profoundly, and that, coming from a strong and thoughtful man like you, it wounds me a hundred times more deeply than the insults of an excited child."

"Yes, yes, of course," rejoined Palmer. "So you are wounded by my fault, and angry with me forever! Well, Thérèse, everything is at an end between us. Do for me what you have done for Laurent: continue to be my friend."

"So you mean to leave me?"

"Yes, Thérèse; but I do not forget that, when you deigned to give me your word, I placed my name, my fortune, and my worldly station at your feet. I have but one word, and I will keep my promise to you; let us be married here, quietly and joylessly, accept my name and half of my income, and then——"

"And then?" echoed Thérèse.

"Then I will go home, I will go to embrace my mother, and you will be free!"

"Is this a threat of suicide?"

"No, on my honor! Suicide is rank cowardice, especially when one has a mother like mine. I will travel, I will start around the world again, and you will hear no more of me!"

Thérèse was shocked by such a proposition.

"This would seem to me a wretched joke, Palmer," she said, "if I did not know you to be a serious man. I prefer to believe that you do not deem me capable of accepting this name and this money which you offer me as the solution of a case of conscience. Never recur to such a suggestion; I should feel insulted."

"Thérèse! Thérèse!" cried Palmer, violently, squeezing her arm until he bruised the skin, "swear to me, by the memory of the child you lost, that you no longer love Laurent; I will kneel at your feet and implore you to forgive my injustice."

Thérèse withdrew her wounded arm, and gazed at him in silence. She was outraged to the very bottom of her soul that he should exact such an oath from her, and his words seemed to her even more cruel and brutal than the physical pain she had undergone.

"My child," she cried, stifling her sobs, "I swear to you, to you who are in heaven, that no man shall ever debase your poor mother again!"

She rose, went to her room, and locked herself in. She felt so entirely innocent with respect to Palmer, that she could not endure the idea of descending to self-justification like a guilty woman. Moreover, she anticipated a horrible future with a man who could brood so long over a deep-rooted jealousy, and who, after he had twice provoked what he thought to be a serious danger for her, attributed his own imprudence to her as a crime. She thought of her mother's ghastly life with a husband who was jealous of the past, and she said to herself, justly enough, that, after she had had the misfortune to be subjected to a passion like Laurent's, she had been insane to believe in the possibility of happiness with another man.

Palmer had a reserve store of good sense and pride which did not allow him to hope to make Thérèse happy after such a scene as had just occurred. He felt that his jealousy would never be cured, and he persisted in believing that it was well-founded. He wrote to Thérèse:

"Forgive me, my friend, if I have pained you; but it is impossible for me not to realize that I was about to drag you down into an abyss of despair. You love Laurent, you have always loved him in spite of yourself, and in all probability you will always love him. It is your destiny. I tried to relieve you from it; you tried with me. I also realize that in accepting my love you were sincere, and that you did your utmost to respond to it. I indulged in many illusions, but I have felt them slipping from me every day since we left Florence. If he had persisted in being ungrateful, I should have been saved; but his repentance and gratitude touched your heart. I myself was touched by them, and yet I strove to believe that I was perfectly calm. It was of no avail. Thenceforth there were between you, because of me, sorrows of which you never told me, but which I divined. He recurred to his former love for you, and you, although you fought against the feeling, regretted that you belonged to me. Alas! Thérèse, that was the time when you should have retracted your promise. I was ready to give it back to you. I left you at liberty to go with him from Spezzia: why did you not do it?

"Forgive me; I rebuke you for having suffered terribly to make me happy and to become attached to me. I have fought hard, too, I promise you! And now, if you care to accept my devotion, I am ready to struggle and suffer anew. Tell me if you are yourself willing to suffer, and if, by going with me to America, you hope to be cured of this wretched passion which threatens you with a pitiable future. I am ready to take you with me; but let us say no more of Laurent, I implore you, and do not look upon it as a crime on my part to have guessed the truth. Let us remain friends, come and live with my mother, and if, a few years hence, you find me not unworthy of you, accept my name and a permanent home in America, with no thought of ever returning to France.

"I will wait in Paris a week for your reply.

"RICHARD."

Thérèse rejected an offer which wounded her pride. She still loved Palmer, and yet she felt so insulted by the offer to take her as a favor when she had no reason to reproach herself, that she concealed the pain that tore her heart. She felt, too, that she could not resume any sort of connection with him without prolonging a torture which he no longer had the strength to dissemble, and that their life thenceforth would be a constant struggle or constant misery. She left Paris with Catherine, telling no one where she was going, and hid herself in a small country-house in the provinces, which she hired for three months.

XII

Palmer sailed for America, bearing with dignity a very deep wound, but utterly unable to admit that he had been mistaken. He had an obstinate streak in his mind, which sometimes reacted upon his disposition, but only to make him do this or that thing with resolution, not to make him persist in a painful and really difficult undertaking. He had believed that he was capable of curing Thérèse of her fatal love, and he had performed that miracle by his enthusiastic and, if you please, imprudent faith; but he lost the fruit just as he was on the point of plucking it, because, when the last test came, his faith failed him.

It should be said also, that, in establishing a genuine, serious connection between two persons, nothing can be more unfortunate than an attempt to take possession too quickly of a heart that has been broken. The dawn of such a connection is attended by the noblest illusions; but jealousy of the past is an incurable disease, and stirs up storms which even old age does not always dispel.

If Palmer had been a really strong man, or if his strength had been calmer and less unreasoning, he might have saved Thérèse from the disasters that he foresaw for her. It was his duty to do it, perhaps, for she had confided herself to him with a sincerity and disinterestedness worthy of solicitude and respect; but many who aspire to strength of character and believe that they possess it possess nothing more than energy, and Palmer was one of those as to whom one may be mistaken for a long while. Such as he was, he surely deserved Thérèse's regrets. We shall see ere long that he was capable of the noblest impulses and the bravest deeds. His whole mistake consisted in believing in the unassailable duration of that which in him was simply a spontaneous effort of the will.

Laurent knew nothing at first of Palmer's departure for America; he was dismayed to find that Thérèse, too, had gone away without bidding him adieu. He had received from her only these few words:

"You are the only person in France who knew of my projected marriage to Palmer. The marriage is broken off. Keep our secret. I am going away."

As she wrote these ice-cold words to Laurent, Thérèse was conscious of a bitter feeling toward him. Was not that fatal child the cause of all the misfortunes and all the sorrows of her life?

She soon felt, however, that this time her irritation was unjust. Laurent had behaved admirably toward both Palmer and herself during that wretched week which had ruined everything. After the first outburst, he had accepted the situation with perfect good faith, and had done his utmost not to give offence to Palmer. He had not once sought to take advantage with Thérèse of her fiancé's unjust suspicions. He had never failed to speak of him with respect and affection. By a strange concatenation of circumstances, it was he who had the dignified rôle during that week. And Thérèse could not help realizing that, although Laurent was sometimes insane to the point of downright atrocity, his mind was never open to any base or despicable thought.

During the three months which followed Palmer's departure, Laurent continued to show that he was worthy of Thérèse's friendship. He had succeeded in discovering her retreat, and he did nothing to disturb her tranquillity. He wrote to her, complaining mildly of the coldness of her adieu, and reproaching her for not having confidence in him in her sorrows, for not treating him like a brother; "was he not created and brought into the world to serve her, to console her, to avenge her at need?" Then followed questions to which Thérèse was forced to reply. Had Palmer insulted her? Should he go to him and demand satisfaction? Did I do anything imprudent, which wounded you? Have you any reproach to bring against me? God knows, I did not think it! If I am the cause of your suffering, scold me, and if I am not the cause of it, tell me that you will allow me to weep with you.

Thérèse justified Richard without entering into any explanations. She forbade Laurent to mention his name to her. In her generous determination to leave no stain on her fiancé's memory, she allowed him to believe that she alone was responsible for the rupture. Perhaps the result was to revive in Laurent's heart hopes which she had no purpose of reviving; but there are situations in which one bungles, whatever one may do, and rushes onward, impelled by fatality, to one's destruction.

Laurent's letters were infinitely gentle and affectionate. He wrote without art, without pretension in the way of style, and often in bad taste and incorrectly. He was sometimes honestly emphatic, and sometimes childish without prudery. With all their defects, his letters were dictated by a depth of conviction which made them irresistibly persuasive, and one could feel in every word the fire of youth and the effervescent energy of an artist of genius.

Moreover, Laurent began to work with great ardor, thoroughly resolved never to return to his former dissolute habits. His heart bled at the thought of the privations Thérèse had imposed upon herself in order to provide him with the variety, the bracing air, and the renewed health of the journey to Switzerland. He had determined to pay his debt at the earliest possible moment.

Thérèse soon began to feel that the affection of her poor child, as he still called himself, was very pleasant to her, and that, if it could continue as it was, it would be the best and purest sentiment of his life.

She encouraged him by motherly replies to persevere in the path of toil to which he said that he had returned forever. Her letters were sweet, resigned, and breathed a chaste affection; but Laurent soon detected a strain of mortal sadness in them. Thérèse admitted that she was slightly ill, and she sometimes had thoughts of death at which she laughed with heart-rending melancholy. She was really ill. Without love and without work, ennui was consuming her. She had carried with her a small sum of money, which was all that remained of what she had earned at Genoa, and she used it with the strictest economy, in order to remain in the country as long as possible. She had conceived a horror of Paris. And then it is possible that there had gradually stolen over her a longing and at the same time a sort of dread to see Laurent once more, changed, resigned, and improved in every way, as his letters showed him to be.

She hoped that he would marry; as he had once had an inclination in that direction, that excellent plan might occur to him again. She encouraged him to do it. He said sometimes yes and sometimes no. Thérèse constantly anticipated that some trace of the old love would appear in Laurent's letters: it did crop out a little now and then, but always with exquisite delicacy; and the prevailing characteristic of these veiled references to ill-disguised sentiment was a delightful tenderness, an effusive sensibility, a sort of ardent filial devotion.

When the winter arrived, Thérèse, finding that she had come to the end of her resources, was obliged to return to Paris, where her patrons were and her duties to herself. She concealed her return from Laurent, preferring not to see him again too soon; but, impelled by some mysterious power of divination, he passed through the unfrequented street on which the little house stood. He saw that the shutters were down, and he went in, drunk with joy. It was an ingenuous, almost child-like joy, which would have made a suspicious, reserved attitude utterly ridiculous and prudish. He left Thérèse to dine alone, begging her to come in the evening to his studio, to see a picture which he had just finished and upon which he was absolutely determined to have her opinion before sending it away. It was sold and paid for; but, if she had any criticism to make upon it, he would work at it a few days more. The deplorable days had passed when Thérèse "was no connoisseur, when she had the narrow, realistic judgment peculiar to portrait-painters, when she was incapable of comprehending a work of the imagination," etc. Now she was "his muse and his inspiration. Without the aid of her divine breath, he could do nothing. With her advice and encouragement, his talent would fulfil all its promises."

Thérèse forgot the past, and, while she was not too much bewildered by the present, she did not think that she ought to refuse what an artist never refuses a fellow-artist. After dinner, she took a cab and went to Laurent's studio.

She found the studio illuminated, and the picture in a magnificent light. It was a most excellent and beautiful picture. That peculiar genius had the faculty of making, while in repose, more rapid progress than is always attained by those who work most persistently. As a result of his travelling and his illness, there had been a gap of a year in his work, and it seemed that, by reflection simply, he had thrown off the defects of his earlier exuberance of fancy. At the same time, he had acquired new qualities which one would hardly have deemed consistent with his nature—accuracy of drawing, more agreeable choice of subjects, charm of execution—everything that was likely to please the public without lowering him in the estimation of artists.

Thérèse was touched and enchanted. She expressed her admiration in the warmest terms. She said to him everything that she deemed best adapted to make the noble pride of talent vanquish all the wretched enthusiasms of the past. She found nothing to criticise, and even forbade him to retouch any part of it.

Laurent, albeit modest in manners and language, had more pride than Thérèse gave him credit for. In the depth of his heart he was enraptured by her praise. He had a feeling that she was the shrewdest and most conscientious of all those who were capable of appreciating him. He felt, too, a violent recrudescence of the old longing for her to share his artistic joys and sorrows, and that hope of becoming a master, that is to say, a man, which she only could revive in his moments of weakness.

When Thérèse had gazed a long while at the picture, she turned to look at a figure as to which Laurent desired her opinion, saying that she would be even more pleased with it; but, instead of a canvas, Thérèse saw her mother, with smiling face, standing in the doorway of Laurent's chamber.

Madame C—— had come to Paris, not knowing just what day Thérèse would return. This visit was occasioned by serious business: her son was to be married, and Monsieur C—— himself had been in Paris for some time. Thérèse's mother having learned from her that she had renewed her correspondence with Laurent, and dreading the future, had called upon him unexpectedly to say to him all that a mother can say to a man, to prevent his making her daughter unhappy.

Laurent was gifted with eloquence of the heart. He had reassured this poor mother, and had detained her, saying:

"Thérèse is coming here, and I propose to swear to her at your feet that I will always be to her whichever she may choose, her brother or her husband, but in any event her slave."

It was a very pleasant surprise for Thérèse to find her mother there, for she did not expect to see her so soon. They embraced with tears of joy. Laurent led them to a small salon filled with flowers, where tea was served in sumptuous fashion. Laurent was rich, he had just earned ten thousand francs. He was proud and happy to be able to repay Thérèse all that she had expended for him. He was adorable that evening; he won the daughter's heart and the mother's confidence, and yet he had the delicacy not to say a word of love to Thérèse. Far from that, as he kissed the clasped hands of the two women, he exclaimed with absolute sincerity that that was the loveliest day of his life, and that never had he felt so happy and so self-contented when he and Thérèse were alone.

Madame C—— first broached the subject of marriage to Thérèse some days later. That poor woman, who had sacrificed everything to external appearances, who, despite her domestic sorrows, believed that she had done well, could not endure the idea of her daughter being cast off by Palmer, and she thought that Thérèse might set herself right in the eyes of the world by making another choice. Laurent was famous and much in vogue. Never could there be a better assorted marriage. The young but great artist had reformed. Thérèse possessed an influence over him which had dominated the most violent crisis of his painful transformation. He had an unconquerable attachment for her. It had become a duty on the part of both of them to weld anew and forever a chain which had never been completely severed, and which could never be, strive as hard as they might.

Laurent excused his past offences by very specious reasoning. Thérèse, he said, had spoiled him at the outset by too great gentleness and resignation. If, at the time of his first ingratitude, she had shown that she was offended, she would have corrected his wretched habit, contracted with low women, of yielding to his impulses and his caprices. She would have taught him the respect a man owes to the woman who has given herself to him through love.

Another consideration, too, which Laurent made the most of in his defence, and which seemed more weighty, was this, which he had already suggested in his letters.

"Probably," he said to her, "I was ill, although I did not know it, when I wronged you the first time. A brain-fever seems to strike you like the lightning, and yet it is impossible to believe that in a young, strong man there has not taken place, perhaps long beforehand, a terrible revolution by which his reason has already been disturbed, and under which his will has been unable to react. Is not that just what took place in me, my poor Thérèse, when that sickness was coming on which nearly killed me? Neither you nor I could understand it; and, as for myself, it often happened that I woke in the morning and thought of your grief of the preceding day, unable to distinguish between the dreams I had just dreamed and the reality. You know that I could not work, that the place where we were aroused an unhealthy aversion in my mind, that I had had an extraordinary hallucination in the forest of ——; and that, when you gently reproached me for certain cruel words and certain unjust accusations, I listened to you with a dazed air, thinking that you were the one who had dreamed it all. Poor woman! I accused you of being mad! You must see that I was mad, and can you not forgive involuntary offences? Compare my conduct after my illness with what it was before! Was it not like a reawakening of my heart? Did you not suddenly find me as trustful, as submissive, as devoted, as I had been cynical, irritable, and selfish, before that crisis which restored me to my senses? And have you had any reason to reproach me from that moment? Did I not bow to your marriage to Palmer as a punishment I had earned? You saw me almost dead with grief at the thought that I was going to lose you forever: did I say a word against your fiancé? If you had bade me run after him, and even to blow out my own brains in order to bring him back to you, I would have done it, so absolutely do my heart and my life belong to you! Do you want me to do it now? If my existence embarrasses you or makes you unhappy, say but a word, I am ready to put an end to it. Say a word, Thérèse, and you will never again hear the name of this wretched creature, who has no other desire than to live or die for you."