"It was only a visit after all," stated Lestaque and Dauras, who regretted their money.
After his wife's trip, Albert had spent three months in Paris—the summer months—in almost complete solitude. The information he had gathered about Anne de Sézery's flight all tended toward Bladen Lodge. Without his knowledge she had been able to give up her flat, to dispose of her furniture, to accomplish all the complicated preparations for departure, and for a final departure at that: how he must have pained her by his incomplete love! The agency with which she had deposited her money had received orders to transfer it to London to Miss Pearson's address, and her mail as well. Albert crossed the Channel a second time to beg Miss Pearson for information. She would not consent to give him any definite news. Anne was not in London, he would never see her again, and that was all. She advised him to be calm, to forget and to be silent; she assured him it would be best so.
Albert came back to Paris. Must he not accept reality? Alone, he would take up the burden of days, with application. He threw himself into some new work with all his heart. But in the evening, exhausted, he was so depressed that he sometimes wished it were all over.
No doubt, he would never hear from Anne again. She was alive, she could live far from him and still overpower him with that abnormal, cruel uncertainty, with which he struggled as with a nightmare. But why was Elizabeth also so silent? She had contributed to this flight, she who had not been willing to leave them to their passion, but had taken time and memories for her allies. Knowing him to be free, she had come at a most untimely occasion to remind him of his duty. If he had refused to accompany her, was that a reason for him to give up their children again? He had the right to be told of their health, of their education, of their holidays. In spite of himself, in this scorching, deserted Paris, his thoughts turned to Elizabeth, and he became set on demanding his rights, and reached the conclusion that he must not allow them to be disregarded. Nothing now prevented his claiming his children for several months of the year. He would go to Grenoble, and even to Saint Martin to find them. In this way he would be able to see Elizabeth, whom he still thought only of harassing. But to annoy her was precisely the only way of seeing her again, of seeing once more her touching eyes, her frightened face, her tense body, fragile and thin, when he had known her to be only indifferent and unresponsive. In certain more lucid hours, he reproached himself for his concern about her, as for a new impossible infidelity. But why did she not write? Had she then tired of her rôle of faithfulness?
At the end of August, exhausted by an uneasiness of mind which was unbearable to a man of decided character, he resolved to go to Dauphiné, to arrange amicably the question of the care of the children. Certain suggestions, at first put aside, later exert their influence, make their impression little by little. Elizabeth had spoken to him of settling in the Boulevard des Adieux in the vacant apartment of Mme. Derize, and of going from there to Saint Martin d'Uriage some day. Leaving Paris, where the leaves in the avenues and gardens were already turning yellow, he buried himself, as it were, at Grenoble, in the Boulevard des Adieux. Immediately he experienced that sort of distressing peace, which the tracked beast finds in his lair. The thought of his mother was strengthening. He succeeded in concentrating on the history notes which he had brought with him. The atmosphere being heavy and suffocating, he took some walks in the evening. The first was as far as the cemetery of Saint-Roch, which is nearby. Then he went to Saint-Ismier and hardly recognized the old restored castle, the park of new design, the rows of trees of which a great number had been cut down to set off the view: Anne de Sézery's vow was realized;—even things had changed and lost their power of enchantment without her. There, she had first loved him. Yet that past which he awakened recalled nothing of her, but stirred up, on the contrary, other memories, as the step of a sportsman in the forest calls out game which he does not expect, and impels him to fire another shot. It was the time he met Mlle. Molay-Norrois in the streets and did not dare to bow to her. The pilgrimages turned against their own purpose. The Tower of London and Hyde Park, the allée of Mortemart and Chantilly, the quays of Paris, the Avenue de l'Observatoire which leads to the Luxembourg Garden as a river to the sea, the woods of Ville d'Avray, other corners of the great city and its suburbs, all these comprised the domain reserved for Anne. Dauphiné, although it had been her home, did not belong to her. Accustomed to understand the relation of landscape to human life, to give a soul to surroundings, he unconsciously felt the influence of his native country. It was, at every step, the return to years of struggle, to happy years, and it was the picture of a bright child of sixteen, Elizabeth, his youth. In his loneliness, he was walking towards the slope, whither his thoughts preceded him. He wished to stop, to leave again for Paris, and could not decide to do so. But why did she not write?
Unable to bear it any longer, he went up to Saint Martin d'Uriage one Sunday morning, opened the gate, crossed the orchard, rang at the door, although it was half open. He hesitated to enter his home without being announced. The old servant, hobbling along, came to receive him:
"Goodness me! M. Albert!"
"Good day, Fanchette."
He kissed the cheek, wrinkled like a russet apple, and took pleasure in it. Did she not maintain in the present, a past, which, without her, would be more distant? She explained that madame was at high mass with the children.
"I will wait," he said.