As she entered the lunch room with Mme. Sirvin, she saw Claude talking to Grenoble by the window. He turned as she approached and said politely and naturally: "I hope you have recovered from the fatigue of your journey, Madame."
She thanked him by a formal salutation, but she could not utter a sound. She felt as if some one had suddenly pierced her heart with a red-hot iron. She soon excused herself on a plea of headache, and returned to her room. Then slowly she drew a chair in front of the long cheval glass, and, sinking into it, gazed at her reflection. Her face was livid. Her eyes were nearly twice their natural size. She passed her hand across her cold brow, and said in a tone of utter despair:
"I am lost!"
At the sound of her own voice she trembled from head to foot. So all her struggles and efforts had been in vain. She had seen him, and one glance had brought the old passion back again in all its strength and power. What could she do? Where could she flee? She could implore Paul to save her, to take her away, any where; but it would break his heart.
Her arms crossed, she paced up and down, nervous, feverish, almost insane. Who could help her? Perhaps Germaine. If she were to confess every thing to her sister! She would go immediately! She rang for the maid. Paul answered the summons, and, with the tender vigilance of affection, inquired if she were sick, or if any thing were the matter. Her excitement lent her strength to dissemble: "I am better, thank you. I want to see Germaine. I have a thousand things to tell her. No!—I do not care to have you go with me."
She spoke quite naturally, almost smilingly, running a pin again and again into her hat, which she held in her hand. She felt that her husband must be allowed no glimpse of her anguish. And how could he have had the least suspicion? How could he know any thing of her unhappy passion?
As soon as she was alone on the street, her former thought came again to her, to confess every thing to Germaine. But she felt now it was impossible. Her womanly instinct revolted at the thought of such a confession. There are some things that can never be confided, even to a dearly loved sister. She hurried along, her eyes fixed on the ground, accusing herself of cowardice; that one little sentence from Claude had sufficed to undo the work of months. M. Laviguerie occupied the first floor of one of those large, old-fashioned houses on the quai Voltaire, with high ceilings, comfortable and airy. Germaine had taken possession of two large sunny rooms, one for her bed-room, the other her sitting-room, and was always at home to any one in trouble. Mme. de Rozan had left her a considerable fortune, which she expended in feeding the hungry and clothing the poor, with tender words of sympathy and hope for those in sorrow. Thus was her life spent; almost nun-like in her self-sacrificing devotion to suffering humanity.
At seven o'clock, every morning, she attended early service at Saint Germain-des-Prés. She then visited her poor people until lunch time, when she returned home to be with her father, trying to enter into his pursuits and make his life cheerful and happy.
At first, M. Laviguerie was somewhat embarrassed in her presence. He did not feel at ease with this daughter that he had condemned to disease and morbid nervousness. Her peaceful life seemed to subvert all his theories. But he felt re-assured of his correct judgment when he saw her devotion to religion and charity. He saw in her many little traits that reminded him of her mother, and when M. Descoutures, one day, with great hesitation, ventured to enquire his present opinion of Germaine, he replied, "I was not mistaken. There are certain unmistakable symptoms. Women of this nature must always have something to which they can devote their time and energies; at present, Germaine thinks of nothing but her religion and her poor people. I do not interfere at all, of course."
Germaine was sewing busily on a black dress, for a poor woman whose husband had been killed the day before by some accident, when Odette came to her room.