Blushing for shame, she turned her back to Socrate, and walked away without a look behind. The man began following her. She turned back a last time, stopped him with an imperious gesture, and disappeared in the lane.
Socrate, in his fury, growled like a wolf. Phil saw him turn his head rapidly, to make sure there was no one near, and then put his hand quickly to his pocket, as if to take out a knife. But no doubt what he sought was not there; and his hand came forth empty—luckily for Socrate, since Phil would have leaped the hedge with a bound and fallen on him like a thunderbolt. Then Socrate disappeared among the trees with a furtive look.
Phil remained alone. He put everything in order, folding his things together, and went away. He felt a sort of embarrassment—a shame that made him hurry his footsteps as if to flee from himself.
Was Poufaille right? Phil passed his hand across his forehead. A thousand things came back to him now; a bright light was thrown on the abyss where his youth had perished. The flight of the white butterflies had been a seed of remembrance to him—the remembrance of the love of his boyhood. Had it been the romantic passion of an ignorant heart? No; there had been broken promises and contempt of oaths!
Well, even in such a case, drunken Poufaille had exaggerated; Helia was more reasonable. She must understand that it was impossible. She could not deceive herself to such a degree, nor keep on pursuing imaginations never to be realized. Her own words, “I shall believe it when he tells me so himself,” were a confession. She would submit to the inevitable. How was she going to take the final rupture? Phil, in his heart, trembled to think of it, but it had to be! He would tell her everything; he would take back the word he had given. He would speak to her, lowering his eyes, hunting for his words; low, as when one begs for forgiveness. Never mind, he would tell her! He would act as with a somnambulist, commanding: “Awake! it was a dream!”
Yes; Helia would understand, without need of insisting. They would part with a loyal shake of the hand, like the good friends they were, and would follow separate destinies.
Phil walked on, without looking behind, like one escaping. He felt easier in his mind. No, there was not such a tragedy in it all as Poufaille had led him to foresee. Things would go on simply, Phil mused within himself. For him it was the time of slanting sophisms which issue from the folds of the heart like crabs from under a rock. He was more sincere and manly when he put aside with a gesture all his anguish and uncertainty and, setting his jaw, lifted his head as he said to himself: “It is too late! Fate has willed it; all society would be on my side; they would say I was right. Even if Helia’s tears should flow, even if I should see in her eyes a mute malediction for the slayer of her illusions, I could do no otherwise; it is too late!”
Phil breathed deeply, as if his breast had been lightened of a heavy load. He looked around him with the air of a man to whom the future belongs.
Lowering his eyes, he saw upon his shoulder one of the poor little fragments of torn letters. Phil threw it from him with a snap of his finger.