"To the lady ... who was sad in the castle ... and he went to sleep when he was hunting...."
The story went on like this in a circle, but at last the lids with their long lashes ceased fluttering like little wings, and after two or three nervous movements, the child went to sleep on her pillow of golden curls.
Elizabeth stood motionless for some time comparing the sleep of Marie Louise with that of her brother. She was a much more imaginative child, of finer sensibility, who had to be soothed and strengthened. This duty devolved on the mother alone—now that Albert was no longer there. Albert? Where was he now? Could he desert them? She did not love him now, but when he was there, she felt the house was stronger, better protected from all harm.
To escape this recollection which tormented her, close to her children, she got up and went to her room near by. She half closed the door after her without entirely shutting it, that she might hear the least sound and be out of the draught. After taking these precautions she hastened to open the window, as she was exceedingly warm.
The moon had risen, but was hidden by the roof, and its light resembled a cloth spread over the country. The numerous lawns, without a shadow, unfolded themselves in the distance, smooth, pale and even, only broken here and there by groups of trees, standing like mysterious conspirators in the dark. Scattered stars twinkled on the edge of the horizon, without forming very distinct constellations. And over the neighboring villa, where the Passerats were living, a larch tree stood out, its curved branches outlining the silhouette of a pagoda on the wall.
This silence, this peace which Elizabeth thought she would enjoy on the balcony with the scent of the rose bushes, was disturbed by the noise of fireworks that were being let off at the casino. Rockets sprang up with a loud report, disappeared into the air and fell back again in a colored rain, whose effect was half-destroyed by the moonlight. And this was the signal for shrieks, applause, the expression of festivity, mingled with the fanfare of trumpets.
She went back into the room. The noise of her heart was sufficient for her. Nothing could lessen the impression of disgust that Philippe Lagier's avowal had left upon her, and which she could not forget, as she went from room to room. She drank a glass of water into which she had poured a few drops of ammonia and aniseed to take away the taste of ashes which her lips retained. But they were immediately dry again. A half forgotten, unexpected, almost ludicrous recollection of her childhood came suddenly, to give concrete meaning to her impressions. As a little girl she had read in mythology that there were men with goats' hoofs called fauns. Amused at this peculiarity, she had spent an entire day gazing at the passers-by in the street. "Have you met any?" her best friend and confidante, Blanche Servin, asked incredulously. In order not to make her book seem untrue, she had replied: "How can one tell if they have shoes on?" Our dispositions exert so much influence upon our individual interpretation of things that this old recollection, instead of being a diversion to her, satisfied her desire for revolt and augmented her dislike. One must see life clearly. Well! she had opened her eyes, and saw about her only ignominy and the basest deception, not even glossed over by the outward decency. One woman had a lover, not for love, but to appear up-to-date. Another took advantage of her husband's liaison. That old man—her father—allowed his mistress to be on friendly terms with his wife and daughter. And as to that honor—of which men pretend to make a religion, even if they have renounced every other law, she knew what to think of that, since the lawyer, the counsel, the most intimate friend of Albert hoped to profit by these services to offer himself as a comforter. There was no happy medium between the blindness of her mother, her own before her separation, and the recognition of this wickedness which haunted her like a nightmare. To see clearly was to gaze upon the ground, to find the cloven foot. Bah!
A sigh, then a half stifled cry which she heard from the adjoining room aroused her from the disgust into which she had sunk as into a quicksand, made her get up from her chair and walk softly with a mother's consideration. The little boy had not stirred; he was still in the same uncomfortable position. It was Marie Louise who was sleeping restlessly. Elizabeth put back the blanket which the child had thrown off, and seated herself between the two beds. By the light of the lamp she looked for a long time from right to left, comparing the motionless features of the two little sleeping faces, one quite at ease, the other fidgety and, even in this semi-conscious state, restless, as if the imagination back of the closed eyelids had remained awake and continued to work even with the lights out and the stage darkened.
"What will become of these dear mites?" she thought, turning from thoughts of herself. And the fear of the future brusquely aroused her. Later on, very soon they would learn what life meant, alone, quite alone. Even a mother's most tender devotion was powerless. They would live again the everlasting experience which each must live alone. They would meet the same sorrows, feel the same bitterness, know the same despair. For the world would not change for them. She had discovered it as it is in all its reality. Ah, at least, if she could not protect them, could not accompany them on the road, ought she not strengthen them by cultivating their understanding of disillusions, especially the little girl who took her little joys and sorrows with such intensity and was not able to distinguish, even in her games, the difference between fancy and fact, which was never sufficiently attractive to please her whims?
The night light gave to the objects in the room an animated appearance, and lengthened the shadows to the ceiling. Elizabeth felt herself surrounded by dangers and knew the necessity of protecting her children, threatened as she was. Since her departure from Paris she had given her entire time to the new life which was arranged for her, in the daily distraction of which she had forgotten her troubles. But this new life for herself and the children demanded constant attention and devotion. Now she was meeting it face to face and she feared it. Her arms hanging motionless at her side, she gave herself up to the discouragement of the minute, while she was beginning to grasp the importance of courage. Never, never would she, so unprepared, educated and trained as she was for a very ordinary lot, be able to adapt herself to the life before her.