But could he be silent? Could he close his eyes to his own dishonor? He would take Odette far, far away; cross the ocean; hide himself in a desert—no matter where; at least, he would leave peace and contentment with his mother.
God seemed to reward his noble resolution, for a heavenly calm succeeded the tempest of rage in his soul. He had been on the point of committing a crime, but God had shown him that vengeance cometh from on high. Was he the only unhappy creature on earth? Among the hundreds lying so peacefully before him, there must have been some that had suffered during their mortal life. The moonlight showed hundreds and hundreds of graves, and in each one there must be either a man, or a woman, or a child; and each one had had their share of pain and sorrow.
Pain and sorrow—they meet us at the cradle, and accompany us to the grave.
Paul buried his face in his hands and wept. The cypresses, the willows, the graves—all were silent. Not a murmur, not a whisper, among the branches. Nature seemed to sympathize with his unspeakable woe. As he wept his grief seemed lightened. His mother needed him, or he would have been tempted to lay down this life that had grown such a sad, sad burden. He envied the dead around him. But still it was cowardly to even wish to die. This life is a battle-field, and God pardons no deserters. Paul said to himself he would fight it out to the bitter end, would struggle and conquer. If even his contempt and hatred should not strangle his fatal love for Odette; if, in spite of all his efforts, he could not tear her from his heart, why, even then, life is not made for happiness alone, and he ought not to complain.
The path of duty lay plain before him. Prevent his mother from suspecting the truth; take his wife to America, for he must earn his own livelihood now. That infamous gift of Claude's should be cast in his teeth!
He raised his head, strengthened by his decisions, and turned to retrace his steps; but where could he go? Return to Claude's house—eat his bread? Never! And yet he would be obliged to, for he must avoid giving his mother the least cause for suspicion. He would go to St. Cloud the next day to acquaint Odette with his decision. He thought of her quite calmly now; his scorn and contempt had killed his love.
It was long past midnight when he found himself again in his study. He shuddered, for he was surrounded by the traces of Odette's presence. He saw her in the book she had been reading, in the furniture, arranged according to her taste, in the paintings she admired.
He staggered into her bedchamber, where he fell into a chair, his heart beating fast. Every thing was as he had left it. The oaken cabinet faced him with its open doors and contents in disorder. The letters still lay scattered about the floor. Her room! And he had loved her so! The delicate perfume that she was accustomed to use floated in the air; in one corner stood the tiny book-case with her favorite books; Germaine's portrait smiled at him from the wall. He shivered from head to foot; and he thought his love had been killed by contempt! How foolish he had been to think that his passionate love, stronger than death itself, had been destroyed in an hour!
He hated her; he despised her; and he adored her! He threw himself, still dressed, on the bed, and all night long he tossed and turned, his brain teeming with these burning thoughts, his heart bleeding with anguish, and his imagination recalling scenes of happiness and despair. The sun stood high in the heavens when sleep came at last to soothe his fevered brain.