"Yes, you come in the morning and go away in the evening like the day boarders at the convent."
One day a tradesman's bill had been presented while he was there. With haste, and yet embarrassment, he showed such an eagerness to pay it, that Elizabeth did not protest. And this new share in her household, which was a pleasure to her, brought him a little closer to her.
Anne had been gone for four or five months. He often estimated the time, surprised to find it so short. Then he began to indulge in retrospection. Little by little he regained his former influence over Marie Louise and Philippe, for whom he invented new games and stories. The little ones, fascinated by this art of ornamenting life, neglected their mother, who was miserable about it in secret, but when does one cease to learn to love unselfishly? However, even if this childish joy did refresh him, he was too loyal and far-sighted to hide from himself any longer the fact, that it was Elizabeth who attracted him to Saint-Martin d'Uriage. He gained an understanding of her from Marie Louise's remarks, Philippe's questions, and her own words. The young woman's reserve gave way in their interviews. She showed more freely, but without display, her intelligence, circumspect, though clear and just. As he got to know her better, he manifested more eagerness to reconquer her. She neither repulsed nor encouraged him, flattered by that strange homage, which he paid her with all the resources of his mind, and proud too, of showing him what she had become, which he had not divined. In her turn, she held herself aloof, and was happy in expectation, and he was sometimes irritated by this unexpected indifference, and again promised himself to conquer her and to lay down the law.
With the exception of Philippe Lagier, who was often away, he saw no one but Elizabeth. In this charm of intimacy which so few men can resist, he confided to her his entire projects, the plans of his work. One day he brought along the manuscript of a "Popular Life of Pasteur" which he was finishing for his collection of biographies. He read it aloud, and when he had finished, humbly seeking praise, she gave him the highest: that of a deep emotion, which she felt, even to the degree of silence in listening to the story of the scientific career, so honorable and so full of enthusiasm. Another time, he did not conceal his bad humor because all the Verniers in the world were already there for the day when he arrived at Saint Martin. Blanche's husband, in his vanity at being in close touch with a great man, took possession of him, and Albert, in spite of his desire to be pleasant to his wife's friends, was wearied by this attitude.
"What is the matter with you to-day?" Elizabeth asked him as he was going away.
"You are never alone."
The reproach was so droll that she burst out laughing. But he did not share her gayety. And that evening she watched him for a long time, until she could no longer see him. He did not turn around, for he gave himself up passionately to recollections of Anne, and promised himself to give up all this new life.
Two days later, he remained until after dinner, which he had never dared to do before, except on a Sunday. Elizabeth, asked to open the piano, played the "Appassionata," which had revealed to Marie Louise the attraction of melancholy. He was behind her. Music exercised a deep influence on him. In addition to his studies in history, he had always reserved a portion of his time for it, and his works bore the trace of it. At the last chord, he bent toward her, and murmured:
"Forgive me, Elizabeth."
For a man of so much pride, it was the most pathetic avowal. She stood up at once before him. Dressed in black, her face in darkness, she held herself like a flower on a long stem, which is awaiting the day. Her eyes wide open and bewildered, glowed in the dusk. The mask of unconcern discarded, he saw her again so fragile, so easy to destroy, no longer able to resist this state of uncertainty, just as she had appeared to him at the death bed of his mother, or in Paris in the little, drawing-room in the Paris Hotel. Softened, he repeated: