a possibility, resented the existence of that other personality that waited somewhere behind the years. He would not be Gervais. He would bring her happiness, love, but he would not be this man whom she loved without knowing why or how, from whom she asked nothing, and everything, this man who was thrown across her path at this particular time, when she was yoxmg, and free, and alone—as never before nor after.
For before anything else Violette was a lover of love. Underlying everything all through her youth, beginning even in childhood, was her infatuation with the idea of love. It was because she asserted the existence of love that she could afford to be gay, could afford to be an artist, could afford to drift happily and joyously on the bosom of life, looking about her with almost wild eyes at the beauties to right and left, the soft dales, the green pine-clad hills, beautiful in the morning sunlight or flaming copper-like at sunset.
As she grew older Violette began to see a face somewhere behind all the other faces in the world. It was that of a man who had freed himself from the weight of superstitions and fears that oppress people from their birth, and adventured far into untried ways of thinking, conserving his own life, never yielding his right over himself, not knowing how to halt, how to lessen himself. It was that of a man created in struggle, in a transitional time in the world's history. It was the face of a great man, and of one who might be educated or imeducated, rich or poor, for before all it was a xmiversal face, marked deep with the wisdom and love that belong to all mankind.
When love came all things might happen to her—she might have to think new thoughts, she might become different altogether in some subtle, strange way. Love would plunge her into new worlds, would be another birth. She would feel what she did for her friend and more, what she felt for the striking new faces she encountered in her work and more—more and differently. For it would come with a conviction that here was a force that changed her life, that compelled everything to begin all over again, that drew her to itself irresistibly for all time.
Perhaps not all people were able to feel such love, or, being able to feel it, were fortunate enough to encoxmter it. She did not know how it was with her, or how it would he; only her faith was sure that such things happen, that it is life's greatest miracle, that to hold the heart in readiness for it was in itself good.
He had loved, and she whom he loved had died. He did not think there was anything more.
If he had said this in weakness or weariness—but he said it with a face glowing with strength, and with a mind open, a spirit flooded with light. His suffering was hidden beneath something deeper than Suffering. Violette had never met any one so master of himself, and yet this man had been about to die!
His beloved had been the soul of a group of people who believed themselves pioneers of a new time. When a crisis came and the people were starving, she helped organise a demonstration which was scattered by the militia charging on the people with the bayonet. She and he were well towards the front, and he saw her fall. He described how he leaned up against a human wall, and how he tried to open his eyes to see if she had risen, and how he caught, through a rain of blood, a flash of sunshine, a stretch of blue sky before night closed over him.
Yet it was not the wanton murder of his beloved that brought him to the brink of death. It was something more terrible than that, and he tried to tell Violette of the despair which laid hold on him the day of the funeral when they buried her and the other slain comrades and dispersed to their homes, beaten, helpless, without strength to retaliate, and seemingly without a plan of ever meeting again in an organised form. The conditions that he saw in the world called for something more than pleading or complaint. They called for action. They called for revolution. They must be replaced by others, human, civilised, natural— they must be replaced at great cost, by the consecration of a whole generation of men and women. That was all. That was a programme simple and easily understood, easily undertaken. But now there was no longer a movement dedicated to the carrying out of this progranmie. That is why he had grown suddenly tired and why he had sought in vain for an impulse or a reason to go on with an aimless life. He had found himself suddenly bereft of social hope and yet all his life and even his love was based on this hope upon which he had spent himself.
II. First-Love
VIOLETTE ministered to Gervais. She wanted more than that he should be willing to live because she had found him; he must live again as he was before death and disillusionment and defeat destroyed him. This would be a miracle, but Violette believed that miracles could come to pass.
She went to see her friend. He led her to her old seat opposite the portrait of Rachel; then he looked at her. The sun was setting over Paris, gilding the green of the Madeline and throwing long shadows over chimneys and roofs. From below faintly the murmur of the street stole up. It seemed to her friend that she had grown more beautiful, her expression had more subtlety, her smile and look were, as always, brilliant and tremulous as though half-afraid to reveal the longing of the soul, the unmeasured delight she took in life and people. To-day there was something mystic about her, haunting. 'You overtake us who are older,' he said, and looked so kindly at her that the tears rushed to her eyes. He understood that she loved, and he feared for her, for of all the artists of her day no one seemed younger than she.
Gervais too had never known that any one could be as young and free as she. He was drawn by the simple and obvious facts about her, her brilliance, her sensitiveness, her hungry-heartedness, her thoughtfulness hke that of a serious and beautiful child. Before long he ceased analysing and appraising and felt that they could really continue their life together. With her he might still reach the heights of which he had despaired.
This he discovered one night when Violette was very beautiful, as beautiful as she was when she first appeared to him. Her grandfather was in the room, and he put a shaking hand on his shoulder and looked into his face. Violette was impelled to rush forward to thwart the purpose of the unspoken prayer he was making to the man she loved. She saw her grandfather step aside, saw Gervais approach her. Her hands flew to his; in another moment she was returning kiss for kiss, and before her closed eyes there passed grey tombs and trees, vast audiences, her mother, whom she fancied she saw clearly for an instant, her grandfather, and lastly and always Gervais's face bending above her, his eyes that had gone beyond the grave and had returned to her, his spirit that had died the better to reach and love her.
III. Sterile Ground
OH, my love, I cannot believe in your reality. It is too good to last in this implacable world. What if the time should come when you would not be here where my eyes fall on you, my arms reach towards you where you sit within the sound of my voice ? Oh, my love, come and comfort me. Can not we two defy time and death?' How her wild heart, casting such shadows and asking such questions, paid for her joy!
At first she felt the humility of love—a deep humility beneath all her pride. A glorious star was shining over their life, but who could say it would never fade from their sight? Yet should it be so, she could not live, she thought.
She felt that in her fear itself lay danger to their love. If only she were more confident I To be loved she must have a faith in herself that even surpassed his. She must take herself for granted, take him for granted, and the inevitableness of his love for her. But as yet her love was all dread and fear, every cloud that passed over his face, every change in his voice when he spoke affected her. She who did not know how to compromise, who could never resign herself to a modification of love, who would be the first one to say love was dead, when it was only a little tired perhaps, how was she to meet the eternal fact, so often drilled into the patient and sad hearts of people, of love's satiety, love's disillusionment?
But as the months succeeded one another, her peace became deeper. The pride of love replaced love's himiility. She dared many things now, herself not conscious that there was any change in her conduct towards him, though she felt vibrantly her greater happiness, looked clad as with splendour because of it, felt strong as it seemed to her no human being on earth could ever have felt because of the inspiration of their love. She dared now appear just as she was, no longer with the instinctive desire to be better in his eyes.
'Violette,' Gervais asked one day, 'how can you love me so wonderfully? Why, Violette? Why?' It was an old question. A tremulous smile played over her face. 'My mother gave me this legacy,' she said; 'this love of
