The love and magnanimity he displayed by rescuing her from the wretched thraldom of her position after the D’Angerolles esclandre, he assumes, have rendered Catherine ever grateful to him, and have precluded all chance of prolonged anger on her part toward him who has so definitely proven his passion for her. And thus reflecting and thus reasoning, he waits for her to manifest some sign of her desire for a reconciliation. But as time goes on and Madame Barrau reveals more quixotic tendencies, he becomes impatient. There is naught more fatiguing than the existence of two people who, forced to dwell under the same roof, are at war with each other. Then each word has a special meaning. Every step, gesture, and movement may be misinterpreted by the injured one. The torture of mind endured nearly amounts to frenzy. For a day it is a terrible ordeal; for months it is a cruel nightmare. Barrau has a magnanimous nature, and if Catherine should come to him with one expression of regret he would take her in his arms eagerly and lovingly. But no. Catherine remains frigid in feeling and manner. Accordingly Savin, showing an equal disposition to maintain an obstinate silence, allows his animosity to ripen. He is exasperated and unhappy over their relations. To go on living in this way will soon be unbearable. But he constantly asks himself what is to be done.
Catherine is quite as miserable. “What! I am not yet twenty, and must I live all my life under this horrible yoke? Surely death will be preferable. Ah, if he but loved me. But he despises me.”
And thus she rebels—racking her brains for some means of escape. Unfortunately, she has not the nature which can forgive and forget. To punish the man who has treated her like a slave—yes, like a slave—that is her one idea. But how? That is not yet clear to her.
“Only to be free! only to be free!” she repeats. But how? No solution occurs to her mind until one day she finds herself saying: “What if Savin should die?” In justice, however, be it said, she rejects that thought as too horrible. “Wretched creature that I am to think of it!” she cries.
Alas! how bitter are her reflections. And as she looks out upon the late autumn landscape and watches the scattering leaves of red and gold, again she thinks: “After all, he may not live long. Stronger men than he have been vanquished by a bad cold—a sudden fever.”
And in imagination she sees him, pale and emaciated, reduced by sickness to a shadow—in a proper condition to be humiliated. At this very moment Barrau appears at the gate, and his powerful step resounds on the gravel. Patachaud dances about him with canine glee. Graceful, young, and vigorous, with broad shoulders and magnificent physique, the gamekeeper advances, opens the door, and enters.
His presence arouses Catherine from her sullen revery.
“Fool! that I should dream of his becoming ill. Why, he is made of iron.”
And brooding over her wretched existence, the idea of her husband’s death seems less revolting to her.
“It would be still better if he killed me himself,” she inwardly declares; “I deserve it.”