The days that followed the carrying off of her daughter by Pierre Olsdorf were a terrible trial to Lise Barineff. Her heart had bled, as her mother reminded her, that the divorce would rear an impassable barrier between her and her son, but being prepared, so to speak, in advance for this separation, she had sought a refuge from the sorrow it caused her in her tenderness for her last-born infant. And this doubly adored child had been taken from her now. Who would give to this babe of a few months old the care that was the duty of its mother? Its mother would not now watch its growth, or tend on it if it were sick; a stranger would dry its tears, win its smiles, and have its love.
She fully understood the fatal logic by which the prince's conduct had been dictated in taking away Tekla. In the eyes of the law he was her father; if he had left the child to its mother it would have been a disavowal of his paternity, and consequently the casting upon her, the adulterous wife, the sin that he had taken upon himself in order that the decree of divorce might be pronounced against him. She was forced, therefore, to acknowledge that if he had cruelly used his power, Pierre Olsdorf had, in doing so, only been faithful to the line of conduct he had adopted; and she suffered the more in being able to accuse only herself.
For the first time the unhappy woman regretted the past, and felt remorse. For many days nothing could console her. She was insensible even to Paul's caresses, and he himself was much affected by the loss of their daughter; but little by little their love gained through this trial an elevation that hitherto it had been lacking in. They loved less coarsely, because they wept together.
There is nothing that transforms a deep passion as a deep sorrow does. Passion tried in the fire quits in part the senses to penetrate to the heart, till then scarcely touched. Suffering undergone together often makes lasting the frail bond between two beings whom their desires alone have drawn one to the other.
Lise and Paul experienced this psychological truth. They spoke less of their love, but it was deeper. The isolation that circumstances imposed upon them drew them more together; and it made them feel, too, that they must hasten their marriage.
They were no longer two lovers desirous of freedom to live in each other's arms; they were two wanderers from the path wishing to gain the right to hold up their heads, two outcasts longing for the joys of the domestic hearth.
Unhappily they had reason to fear an enforced delay of several months, as, the Code Napoleon having been adopted in Roumania, Paul was compelled to obtain his mother's consent. If he had written to her for it, Mme. Meyrin, although she adored her son, would not have replied, goaded to resistance by her daughter-in-law.
The painter, however, had an ally in the house—his brother Frantz; but that good fellow was himself under the domination of his wife, and any timid remarks that he ventured on were fruitless.
Paul determined then to have recourse to extreme measures, that is, to the "respectful summon" prescribed by law. However, wishing, out of deference, to forewarn his mother, he wrote to her as follows:
"Dear Mother,—I have a duty to fulfill, touching my honor, and you oppose me because you are ill-advised. If you listened only to your love for me you would long since have consented to my marriage with a woman whom you already love and who, whatever happens, will never be aught but the most affectionate and devoted of daughters to you. In face of your opposition and what my honor imposes upon me, I have no other course but to seek from the law what you deny me. I am deeply pained to have to do this, but my determination is unchangeable.