he had taken his gloves, which would show whether he had really gone somewhere.
She saw them there, at first glance. Near them lay a crumpled paper, where he had thrown it.
She recognized it immediately; it was the one that had just been given to Georges.
And a burning temptation took possession of her, the first of her life, to read—to know. Her conscience struggled in revolt, but the itch of an exacerbated and cruel curiosity impelled her hand. She seized the paper, opened it, recognized at once the handwriting as that of Julie, a trembling hand, written in pencil. She read:
“Come alone and embrace me, my poor dear; I am going to die.”
She could not understand it all at once, but stood stupefied, struck especially by the thought of death. Then, suddenly, the familiarity of it seized upon her mind. This came like a great light, illuminating her whole life, showing her the infamous truth, all their treachery, all their perfidy. She saw now their prolonged cunning, their sly looks, her good faith abused, her confidence deceived. She saw them looking into each other’s face, under the shade of her lamp in the evening, reading from the same book, exchanging glances at the end of the pages.
And her heart, stirred with indignation, bruised with suffering, sank into an abyss of despair that had no boundaries.
When she heard steps, she fled and shut herself in her room.
Her husband called her: “Come quickly, Madame Rosset is dying!”
Berthe appeared at her door and said with trembling lip:
“Go alone to her; she has no need of me.”
He looked at her wildly, dazed with grief, and repeated:
“Quick, quick! She is dying!”
Berthe answered: “You would prefer if it were I.”
Then he understood, probably, and left her to herself, going up again to the dying woman.
There he wept without fear, or shame, indifferent to the grief of his wife, who would no longer speak to him, nor look at him, but who lived shut in with her disgust and angry revolt, praying to God morning and evening.
They lived together, nevertheless, eating together face to face, mute and hopeless.
After a time, he recovered his calm, but she would not pardon him. And so life continued hard for them both.
For a whole year they lived thus, strangers one to the other. Berthe almost became mad.
Then one morning, having set out at dawn, she returned about eight o’clock, carrying in both hands an enormous bouquet of roses, of white roses, all white.
She sent word to her husband that she would like to speak to him. He came in disturbed, troubled.
“Let us go out together,” she said to him. “Take these flowers, they are too heavy for me.”
He took the bouquet and followed his wife. A carriage awaited them, which started as soon as they were seated.
It stopped before the gate of a cemetery. Then Berthe, her eyes full of tears, said to Georges: “Take me to her grave.”
He trembled, without knowing why, but walked on in front, holding the flowers in his arms. Finally he stopped before a shaft of white marble and pointed to it without a word.
She took the bouquet from him, and, kneeling, placed it at the foot of the grave. Then she sank into an unfamiliar prayer of supplication.
Her husband stood behind her, weeping, haunted by memories.
She arose and put out her hands to him.
“If you wish, we will be friends,” she said.
The Relic
To the Abbé Louis d’Ennemare, at Soissons.
My Dear Abbé:
“My marriage with your cousin is broken off in the stupidest manner, on account of a stupid trick which I almost involuntarily played my intended, in my embarrassment, and I turn to you, my old schoolfellow, for you may be able to help me out of the difficulty. If you can, I shall be grateful to you until I die.
“You know Gilberte, or rather you think you know her, for do we ever understand women? All their opinions, their ideas, their creeds, are a surprise to us. They are all full of twists and turns, of the unforeseen, of unintelligible arguments, or defective logic and of obstinate ideas, which seem final, but which they alter because a little bird came and perched on the window ledge.
“I need not tell you that your cousin is very religious, as she was brought up by the White or Black Sisters at Nancy. You know that better than I do, but what you perhaps do not know, is, that she is just as excitable about other matters as she is about religion. Her head flies away, just like a leaf being whirled away by the wind; and she is a woman, or rather a girl, more so than many are, for she is moved, or made angry in a moment, starting off at a gallop after affection, just as she does after hatred, and returning in the same manner; and she is as pretty … as you know, and more charming than I can say … and in a way you can never know.
“Well, we became engaged, and I adored her, as I adore her still, and she appeared to love me.
“One evening, I received a telegram summoning me to Cologne for a consultation, which might be followed by a serious and difficult operation, and as I had to start the next morning, I went to wish Gilberte goodbye, and tell her why I could not dine with them on Wednesday, but on Friday, the day of my return. Ah! Take care of Fridays, for I assure you they are unlucky!
“When I spoke of going away, I saw that her eyes filled with tears, but when I said I should be back very soon, she clapped her hands, and said:
“ ‘I am very glad you are going, then! You must bring me back something; a mere trifle, just a souvenir, but a souvenir that you have chosen for me. You must find out what I should like best, do you hear? And then I
