He had never known Andree to utter an immodest word or to think a thought that was not clean and good. He had wondered at a certain diffident loftiness in her thoughts. She was a woman whose soul was to be regarded with awe, as any virtuous soul is to be regarded with awe. He did not believe he saw her falsely, nor that love blinded him to defects which should be apparent. He knew he saw her truly, and that she was worthy of all his love.... And yet his friends, his neighbors—above all, his mother—would despise her as a woman of light virtue, as a thing of evil.... He could see the seething among the gossips if Andree were to be set down in their midst, and he despised them.... But—
Again he evaded. He had not the courage to ask himself what he would do when the moment for doing arrived.... He could not give her up. That was the thought that came now—that she was indispensable.... But would he have the courage to face the vestibule of the Presbyterian church with her? He did not ask.
One of those moods of depression to which he was liable when his reflections were troubled settled upon him. He was acutely unhappy. Those moods possessed a physical sensation, not a pain so much as a consciousness of the existence of his body, which was very disturbing. It was as if his arms and legs had suddenly become vivid. At such times he did not want companionship, could not have answered conversational advances. The life within him seemed to become as putty—a dead mass. The only relief was to walk and walk and walk.
He left the office to trudge to the apartment, meaning to eat lightly and to wander about Paris until the obsession was ejected.... At the entrance to the building the concierge was standing, waiting for him.
“Oh, monsieur ... monsieur,” she said, and broke forth into weeping.
He was not surprised. Such scenes were to be expected in those days when every mail brought word that some loved one had been demanded of his country. He patted her shoulder awkwardly.
“You have had evil news, madame,” he said. “I am so sorry.”
Through her tears rage flared. “The boches,” she exclaimed. “Why is it that the good God allows such creatures to be!... What good can it do them? But they would laugh and be joyous. It is so. I have read.... These killers of babies!”
“What is it, madame? Your son? Have you had the news?”
“My son, monsieur, is gone these two years,” she said, not without a lift of the shoulders. “It would not be that. When one is a soldier one must march.... To kill the men—that is war. But the babies—the helpless little babies!... They are not men, monsieur, but monsters....”