"I am so sorry for you. Do you not understand?"
She freed herself, tried to recover her breath, then rebelliously protested:
"You! ... Oh, you! ... Leave me."
"Madame," he begged.
But she had already fled down the path. Motionless, his feet rooted to the spot, he watched her distinct figure until a tree suddenly hid her from sight. Then, seeking support, he threw himself on the grass. His deepest emotions were always controlled and lent themselves to the demands of reason. He pleaded in his own defense the extenuating circumstances of the hour, the season, his vanishing youth. Can a man see with impunity almost daily a young woman of charm, who shows that she takes pleasure in his society? He tried unsuccessfully to become tender in thinking about himself, his loneliness intensified by a superior mentality, hampered in his search for happiness by hesitation, excessive analysis and disenchantment. One thought alone, which he tried to put away with all his force, overlapped all others, as a higher and swifter wave submerges those which precede it: he had betrayed his friend. After one last thought of Albert's aversion, he gave way to his self-contempt, and lying on the earth, his face hidden, humiliated in his faith in himself, he wept tears of despair. This was a moment which he no longer had the power to dismiss; henceforth, its remembrance must come to him relentlessly every time he sought the silence of his inmost heart....
II
THE WATCH
Elizabeth hurried to her room, as a bird with heavy wings beaten down by a tempest rushes to find shelter. Her mouth somewhat twisted, her lips dry, her limbs wearied by the effort to climb the stairs, she fell into an armchair, where, alone with herself, she could better bear her state of fatigue, and uneasiness of heart. This scene had been surprising and terrifying to her, who disliked violent or even unexpected sensations, and sought nothing but peace, order and daily unvarying monotony. Darkness, kind charitable darkness, enveloping her like a veil which hangs lightly from the shoulders, lessened her indignation, but made her more self-pitying. She was confiding in herself as in a friend, and so found relief, when her mother came in, scarcely touching the door, as if in the intimacy of the family, it were almost unnecessary to announce oneself.
"Elizabeth," called Mme. de Molay-Norrois.
Elizabeth did not answer at once, finding added vexation in the fact that she who was so seldom in need of it, was even at this time unable to have a corner in which she might take refuge undisturbed.
"You are tired—why did you not ring?"