"Pardon me," said he; "but a wild idea has just come into my mind."

"What idea? Tell me quickly."

"Divorce."

"No, no!" cried she. "I do not wish to bring to one whom I love with all my soul the miserable remains of my life, a broken heart and a sick body. Your idea is wicked and foolish. We have no right to seek happiness through scandal. Happiness gained thus will soon cease. Are we not happy as we are? What more can we wish? We can see each other often, talk, and press each other's hands, and we ought to be satisfied. To come nearer would, perhaps, prove a disenchantment for us both. Let us not renounce a supportable existence for dreams.

Humiliated, faded, and weak, I am no longer the girl you formerly loved. No, no! Jacob, in the name of our love, never mention that word again. Do not tempt me; do not make me dream of happiness that can never be realized; it is impossible."

"The impossibility is only in your imagination. The thing is very feasible, dear Mathilde. What is there to bind you to your husband. He is as indifferent to you as you are to him. You have no children."

"Do not make me blush, Jacob. A woman should belong to but one man; whatever be her lot, happy or unhappy, she should submit, and be humble and resigned. I cannot commence life over again, and, moreover, I am standing on the threshold of the tomb, while your life has just begun."

"I thought that you loved me, Mathilde, as much as I love you!"

"More, for I have courage to sacrifice myself for your happiness. You cannot imagine how this idea of belonging to you has troubled my spirit. I a.s.sure you it has tempted me more than once, and I have always put it from me, as I do now. Have pity on me, do not oblige me to weep. I am weak, do not take advantage of my weakness."

"But this man is unworthy of you."

"Unworthy or not, I married him."

"And if he himself desired the divorce, would you hinder him?"

"Have you any reason for saying that?"

"No."

"Very well, then, say no more. Even if he desert me, I will refuse to be yours."

"This is folly, Mathilde."

"No, it is love. The true love of a woman who can love chastely. To give you my hand would be to put you in his place. After him; oh, no!

that would be too humiliating."

"You are an angel, but I wish you to be a woman."

"Let us seek rather to elevate ourselves above this idle humanity."

"Perhaps you can attain this ideal, but I cannot."

"I can understand," said Mathilde with a slight blush. "I can understand an instant of aberration, a sudden and unforeseen fall; but I have no sympathy with the profanation of conscience by a designing woman. She who has pressed two men to her bosom, becomes afterward like an inn open to all. One only! only one for life and death!"

"And that only one, Henri!"

"No, it is not he! It is you, Jacob; he has only my body, you have my soul."

After a moment of exaltation she continued:--

"Tell me," said she, "do you really believe in the immortality of the soul and a life beyond the tomb?"

"Yes, I believe it. Otherwise man would have been an aspiration that G.o.d would not have realized. How else can we account for the desire for immortality that each one bears within his soul? Why should we suppose that this presentiment, this divination of a future existence, should be an illusion? As to the conditions of the future life we are ignorant. Man dreams that he will awaken the same as when he closes his eyes here below. That is perhaps an error; but one sure thing is, that the soul will not lose acquired virtues nor the reward for suffering, courageously endured. Certainly there is another world."

"You throw balm on my spirit; I desire to believe, but it is in vain that I search for faith in books. They puzzle me, and I always end by being confirmed in an ignorance which can be expressed in these words: I know nothing."

"Yes; but one does not draw faith from books, it proceeds from an inner voice."

"But this uncertainty; everywhere this dreadful uncertainty. Virtue, science, reason itself are so many spider webs which are torn by every wind. Yet it is frightful to die with this idea of annihilation in one's heart."

"Belief in G.o.d warrants us in this hope for the future. G.o.d cannot be unjust. He could not have implanted in us such strong and persistent hopes to make a cruel mockery of us. It is inadmissible if one believe in him. Have confidence in G.o.d and keep his commandments."

"But where is this law of G.o.d? In the books called holy? They differ; some of them are supposed to be revelation, others simple popular legends. How uncertain everything is, cold, empty, frightful!"

With these words she trembled, as if the spectre of death had appeared before her. Then she went to the piano, and played one of Chopin's touching fantasies, while Jacob listened. Some one put a hand on her shoulder, and Mathilde gave a little cry of fright. The dream was over.

This was reality. Henri, with a cigar in his mouth, appeared before her.

"You have at last deigned to remember us," said he jokingly to Jacob.

"You haven't been here for a long while. Mathilde, will you order the tea? What time is it? Nine o'clock. At ten I must be at the chateau. I have scarcely time to dress and to take tea, which is much better than I get there, in spite of their golden cups; but how can you stay in this room, it is freezing."

"I have not felt cold," said Jacob.

"The music has warmed you, then. Have you heard Muse play Liszt's last fantasie? It is stupefying."

"Muse's execution is marvellous, but she plays without expression."

"Profane blasphemer!"

Jacob said no more, and Henri looked at his watch.

"That which exasperates me is the white cravat; but one meets the best society at the chateau. The Namiestnik is one of the most courteous men in the world."

"Good-night," said Jacob, taking his hat.

"Good-night."

CHAPTER XXI.

LIA.

Jacob sought for two days the place where Lia had concealed herself. He at last obtained some information about her, and found that the poor girl's misery was horrible, but that she had endured it uncomplainingly and with angelic patience. She lived in the _rue des Jardins_, called thus because of the gardens which formerly abounded there, most of which had long since disappeared. The house was old and in bad repair, but it still possessed a small garden planted with fruit-trees. Under the shadow of the apple and pear trees grew beets, carrots, potatoes, and onions, also strawberries and raspberry bushes. In the centre rose a magnificent linden-tree, the pride of the proprietor. This tree gave shade, as well as some profit from its flowers and its bees. In many places the old and ruined house was propped up to keep it from falling, and the shingles on the roof were covered with a thick moss. In the lower part lived Jewish families blessed with many children; Lia lived on the floor above.

At the door Jacob met the landlady. She was very fat, and m.u.f.fled up in an ap.r.o.n of foulard, on which the portrait of Napoleon I. was printed.

At his first question regarding the lodger he sought, she looked at him suspiciously, and replied:--

"The woman for whom you ask lives here, but she receives no one. If, however, monsieur, your business is important"--

"Yes; I come on business."