Suzanne flushed and, in her confusion, said, at random:

"But you, Marthe, you look worried...."

"Well, yes ... perhaps I am."

And Marthe told how, on the previous evening, finding herself alone with her mother-in-law, she had spoken to her of Philippe's new ideas, the spirit of his work, his plan of resigning his position and his firm intention to have an explanation with M. Morestal.

"Well?"

"Well," said Marthe, "my mother-in-law flew out. She absolutely objects to any explanation whatever."

"Why?"

"M. Morestal is suffering from heart-trouble. Dr. Borel, who has attended him for the last twenty years, says that he must be spared any annoyance, any excessive excitement. And an interview with Philippe might have fatal results.... What can one reply to that?"

"You will have to tell Philippe."

"Certainly. And he, he must either keep silent and continue to lead an intolerable existence, or else, at the cost of the most terrible anguish, face M. Morestal's anger."

She was silent for a moment and then, striking the table with her clenched fists:

"Oh," she exclaimed, "if I could only take all those worries upon myself and save Philippe's peace of mind!"

Suzanne felt all the force of her vehemence and energy. No pain would have frightened Marthe, no sacrifice would have been beyond her strength.

"Do you love Philippe very much?" she asked.

Marthe smiled:

"With all my heart.... He deserves it."

The younger woman felt a certain bitterness and could not help saying:

"Does he love you as much as you love him?"

"Why, yes, I think so.... I deserve it too."

"And do you trust him?"

"Oh, fully! Philippe is the most loyal creature I know."

"Still ..."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Yes, say what you were going to.... Oh, you need not be afraid of asking me questions!"

"Well, I was thinking ... suppose Philippe loved another woman...."

Marthe burst out laughing:

"If you knew how little importance Philippe attaches to all that business of love!"

"However, supposing ..."

"Very well, supposing," she said, pretending to be serious. "Philippe loves another woman. He is madly in love with her. What then?"

"In that case, what would you do?"

"Upon my word ... I've never thought about it."

"Wouldn't you go for a divorce?"

"And my children?"

"But, if he wanted to be divorced?"

"Then it would be, 'Good-bye, M. Philippe!'"

Suzanne reflected, without taking her eyes from Marthe, as though she were spying for a sign of uneasiness on her features or seeking to fathom the depths of her most secret thoughts.

She murmured:

"And, if he deceived you?"

This time, the thrust went home. Marthe shivered, stung to the quick.

Her face altered. And she said, in a voice which she made an effort to contain:

"Oh, that, no! If Philippe fell in love with another woman, if he wanted to begin his life again, without me, and if he confessed it frankly, I should consent to everything ... yes, to everything, even to a divorce, however great my despair.... But treachery, lying ..."

"You would not forgive him?"

"Never! Philippe is not a man whom one can forgive. He is a conscious man, who knows what he is doing, incapable of a weakness; and no forgiveness would absolve him. Besides, I myself could not ... no ... I could not indeed." And she added, "I have too much pride."

The phrase was gravely and simply uttered and revealed a haughtiness of soul which Suzanne had not suspected. She felt a sort of confusion in the presence of the rival whom she was attacking and who held her at bay with such disdain.

A long silence divided the two women; and Marthe said:

"You're in one of your wicked moods to-day, Suzanne, aren't you?"

"I am too happy to be wicked," chuckled the girl. "Only it's such a strange happiness! I am afraid it won't last."

"Your marriage ..."

"I won't get married!" declared Suzanne, excitedly. "I won't get married at any price! I hate that man.... He's not the only man in the world, is he? There are others ... others who will love me.... I too am worthy of being loved ... worthy of being lived for!..."

There were tears in her voice; and so great a despondency overwhelmed her features that Marthe felt a longing to console her, as was her habit in such cases. Nevertheless, she said nothing. Suzanne had wounded her, not so much by her questions as by her att.i.tude, by a certain sarcasm in her accent and by an air of defiance that mingled with the expression of her grief.