When he had left, Elizabeth took off her hat and her furs. Her cheeks were burning and her hands frozen. The children, who had been out walking with their governess on L'Ile Verte, were about to return home: she would resume her daily work with them which sometimes made her so tired. She sat down by the fire, leaning against the back of her chair motionless, in that position in which one seeks relaxation after intense fatigue. She felt a great need of rest—of not having to think of or do anything more. Darkness was coming on, but she did not light the lamp. Before her, through the window, she saw the snow of Belledonne on the trees, lit up by the rays of the setting sun, and delicately colored like early spring flowers. Kissed by the sun, the glaciers were melting, and yet, even from a distance in the clear evening light, their coldness was apparent. Despite so many praiseworthy efforts, which seemed to give power to her poor, deserted, young life, she felt the touch of death.

What courage she had used, in order to triumph little by little over her natural indolence, to accomplish so many decisions, even the generosity of which, once they were executed, could no longer sustain her! No reward, no hope would be given her. Far away from her, the one close to the other, Albert and his mistress were freely enjoying their love. However, they would know her greatness of soul, her pride, her new and difficult life. She would force them to remember. During that very day, had she not shown of what she was capable? Did Anne's biography, which had been kept with so much admiration, contain a finer page? This comparison with her rival in exciting her jealousy and poisoning her wound, had given her a little energy. Her children, who came in in the semi-darkness to kiss her, aroused her from her torpor. She thought that Albert's mother would approve of her, would thank her, and, in this unaccustomed activity which had demanded of her sluggish youth a display of strength, the use of which she now understood, she found, despite so many causes for despair, that wonderful peace in fatigue which healthful exercise gives to the body. And this new sensation came as a surprise and a relief to her.

III
MADAME MOLAY-NORROIS

Elizabeth had resolved after her return to Grenoble, not to be at home to visitors in her new house. But on the advice of her parents, to her great surprise sanctioned by her mother-in-law as well, she had decided to have a reception-day. In Paris, preferring her own acquaintances, she had taken little trouble to keep up connections useful or pleasant to her husband. Little by little Albert had left her free and had withdrawn from society. But now the sacredness of social life was impressed on her by the Molay-Norrois, and Mme. Derize begged her to avoid solitude.

"I am confident," she said, "that the future will brighten for you. But you must arrange a normal existence for yourself. It is not always a good thing to live with one's memories."

"But how about you?"

"Oh! I am quite old and the past suffices for me. Marie Louise and Philippe will have friends whose parents you will know. You have given me great happiness in renouncing your separation."

"Nobody knows of it as yet."

"Since you bear Albert's name it is right that the sympathy and esteem of the public should go to you. If God wills that some day you shall take up your life together ..."

"I shall never live with Albert again. He has caused me too much unhappiness...."