A few days later, I met Pierre Ducal. I saw at a glance that he was master of the situation and had decided on his course of conduct. He came toward me, his hand extended. I had an impulse to refuse it—why did I not yield to it? I accepted that offered hand. The treason commenced was by that act consummated.
Did he think I knew nothing of his conduct? He had arranged for leaving his cards and going away for a while, in order not to make our breach evident, and the bitter sarcasms which I had anticipated were never uttered. He continued to say only pleasant things about us, and it became a matter of general discussion that he had changed completely and was now inclined to enjoy solitude.
How had it become possible for a worldly cynic of his stamp so suddenly to withdraw from society and gain opinions so radically different from those he had always held? I can now explain that mystery. My wife had given him a new vista of life when she made him realise for the first time what respect is due a woman. He had never before met a woman of such ideals. I feel a supreme shame in thinking that he was in advance of me, perhaps, in making the honourable reparation to Raymonde, the amend which I was destined to make only later.
* * *
Spring had just begun when she asked me to allow her to return to the Sleeping Woods. I opposed it on account of the lack of comfort and the cold. But Paris did not agree with her, and she was gradually losing weight alarmingly. At last I consented, as I recognised vaguely my wrongs against her, to make the sacrifice, for such indeed it was for me, to bury myself in “the desert” of Madame Mairieux.
For the past few years we had spent very little time there, because I enjoyed travelling constantly to new places, while Raymonde found pleasure in the associations of spots she knew and loved. At my request we always left the baby in charge of her grandparents.
“I’ll go with you,” I said heroically after much hesitation, as she suggested that she should go alone and that I should remain in Paris. However, I insisted that I should go too, and during the journey I dwelt on my heroism all the way.
It was pouring, when we arrived.
“One of the joys of the country,” I muttered bitterly.
But it was Raymonde’s own beloved land. She smilingly greeted all her favourite trees; I believe she even loved the rain that was sent to nourish them.