During the service he was wondering how he could help her. A change of air, a trip to Provence, to one of those little places, where one need only open his eyes to take in the joy of light and free space! Yes, but she was obstinately refusing Albert's assistance, and her own small resources limited her to a modest life without luxury. Perhaps that would decide the Molay-Norrois to take her back with them. How could they help noticing how she was fading? But how could Albert have gone away after being struck with her new fascination, her frailness? So he looked at her with pity. His prayers dwelt upon her. She was the tabernacle, which, like an offering, held the pure wish for self-sacrifice for which he was indebted to her.
Elizabeth tried—not less vainly, to follow the service. A memory and a fear returned to her successively with her prayers. The memory carried her back ten years to the time of her engagement on a Palm Sunday. It was on a sunny April day. But she felt no pleasure in being less than twenty and in love. Albert had gone to this same church with her and her parents. The vendors were offering their green branches too. Thoughtlessly she dwelt on the verge of an emotion, to which another, better informed or more far-sighted, would have given herself joyfully. Now she understood—after ten years—what an opportunity for uplifting their hearts she had lost in accepting with indifference that happy coincidence of the reawakening of nature, symbolized by the religious festival and the birth of their love.
"Look," he had said, "at all those branches of box-wood on the ground, for you—it seems as if you were walking in spring."
"Yes, it is Palm Sunday," she had answered.
This very simple response dispelled surprise. Was not love something which was due to little girls, and which admits of no pain? Her fiancé had then admired that tranquillity which contained the germ of their separation. How should she have expected to be deceived before understanding the care we must take of our happiness? Why had no one aroused her,—then, while there was still time—from that apathy which makes us sink into the beaten path, and does not allow us to reach the height from which we see the light and a broad vision? She would at least know how to save her children from her short-comings. They would not need despair to open their eyes to the sorrows of life. She would preserve their strength of feeling, their responsiveness, and they should be like young armed warriors, not heedless and enervated.
Would she have that power? That very morning, as she was dressing herself, she noticed how pale and thin she was, and before she could arrange her hair, she had been obliged to begin again several times, her arms heavy and stricken with an inexplicable weakness. Philippe Lagier had certainly noticed it. The remark of such a keen observer, coming back to her mind, startled her. Perhaps she was in danger. But what did a more or less long life matter to her? The last picture she had of Albert was that of a traveler, who sets out without looking back, without even suspecting the humiliated love, sobbing in the darkness a few feet away. Then why should one want so much to live? Marie Louise and Philippe, her own flesh, her blessing, and her new hope—Albert would have them. It was his right. After her death, he would marry that woman. And that woman would become the mother of her children. Ah, no, no, she could not conceive of that without a shudder of horror. She must live; at any price, she must live.
"Mamma, what is the matter with you?" asked Marie Louise, bending over her.
While the faithful worshiper had risen to receive the priest's blessing, Elizabeth remained kneeling, her head hidden, her shoulders shaking. The child repeated her question, and slipped her hand softly under her mother's arm to pat her cheek.
"Why are you crying? Philippe is good—and I love you so much."
For the child's sake, Elizabeth calmed herself at once. She drew down her veil to hide her wet eyes, and standing erect, she smiled.