Odette was in the cruelest suspense and anxiety during her stroll through the Bois de Boulogne with her husband. Fortunately, Paul was so gay and happy that he chatted merrily all the time, hardly giving her a chance to reply. After an hour or so they returned home, Paul saying he must go to his mother.

As they reached the gate, Odette said "I will leave you here."

"Are you not coming in?"

"Not just yet; I have a call to make in the neighborhood."

So Paul left her and went to his mother's room. As soon as he had entered the house she walked quickly to Claude's studio, and finding it empty, went in and locked the door. At last she was alone! She had had no time yet to think. Ever since her trip to Dijon had she been haunted by the dread of discovery, although she had always tried to banish the thought. If it did intrude she had always answered it by thinking that Paul would kill her, or else that she and Claude would commit suicide together. As she crouched now in a corner of the sofa these thoughts thronged her brain; she lived over again the frightful scene with Elaine, and grovelled in spirit before her sublime sacrifice. She compared herself to Elaine, and writhed at the abyss separating them; one so pure and noble, the other so degraded. It grew dark; her mind was full of despair and anguish. Would Claude never come to put an end to this cruel uncertainty?

At last she heard his step outside. He fitted his key in the lock and opened the door. He lighted a wax taper on the mantelpiece and started when he saw Odette. He had been walking aimlessly, miles and miles, into the country, trying to find some way to retrieve his honor and extricate himself from the quicksands where his passion had led him. But he had arrived at no decision, and had returned as miserable and anxious as when he started.

"I have been waiting hours for your return," said Odette, "for it was your wife that overheard us in the drawing-room."

"Elaine?"

"Yes! She knows all. So I was waiting till you came, to——"

"To what?"

"To commit suicide."

"Commit suicide!"

"What else can we do, now that your wife has discovered our secret? I wish you could have seen her! She knew our guilt, and yet she had the superhuman strength to speak to me, to smile and take my hand, so that she could shield her son from the blow. But no human being could stand such a struggle without succumbing sooner or later. And, besides, I should die under her contempt. My own seems, sometimes, more than I can endure. We must die!"

Claude did not reply. His was one of those natures that look upon a secret crime as comparatively harmless. Only when it is dragged to the light do they see its guilt in its true color. And now he felt degraded in his own sight, and torn by conflicting emotions.

"We must kill ourselves. There is no other way out of it."

"Kill ourselves!" he repeated in the same tone of consternation.

"Death, or flight. Take your choice."

"But, Odette, you are insane. Your ideas are entirely too dramatic. You never see such tragedies except on the stage. When we are so happy in our love, that is not the time to commit suicide!"

"But there is no other way of escape that I can discover. We have committed a crime, and must abide the consequences. We can flee, it is true. I am ready now to take your arm and go out with you into the world, giving up home and reputation for your love. Come, shall we go?"

"No; that is impossible, too."

Odette was filled with contempt at his cowardly indecision.

"Do you want to give me up?" she cried. "Would you leave me?"

"Leave you? never! You know I can not live without you. But I hesitate to sacrifice your honor, your reputation—"

"My honor! that was tarnished long ago when I gave it into your keeping. My reputation—what do I care for the respect of others, when I have lost my own!"

"And the disgrace!"

"Are you afraid? I am not."

"I am only thinking of you."

She saw his hesitation.

"You are a coward! You are trembling. You did not tremble when you followed me to Dijon. You were the one that proposed flight then. Do you not see that we must accept the responsibility of our guilt, and support it with dignity and courage. I have been more distressed by the thought of retaining the respect of our friends by deceit, than by any thing else. That has tormented me at times beyond endurance; this cringing dissembling, hypocrisy and treachery. When your wife flung her disdain and contempt in my face, I breathed freely for the first time in months; for this hateful deception of all around us must now come to an end. The world, our world, will cover us with disgrace; but we need not care. Place the pleasures of our mutual love in one side of the balance, with society's contempt in the other, and which will turn the scale? Braving scandal and disgrace shows that we at least have dignity and courage left. Come, let us go."

These burning words roused him from his torpor. How beautiful she was in her scorn and excitement! He replied to Odette, who stood straight and motionless before him:

"No; we will not go."

Her lip curled with contempt; but without replying, she turned to the door.

"Odette, where are you going?" he cried, frightened at her silence.

"I despise you."

He sprang to her side and seized her in his arms.

"But I love you. Am I not yours, body and soul? Do you blame me for hesitating to resort to extremes? You wish to die, because you are a woman, and they always incline to tragedy. I wish to enjoy your love, and yet avoid any thing leading to scandal and disgrace." He covered her with kisses as she lay quiet in his arms.

"Be reasonable and calm. We must not meet this danger with any foolish, sentimental excitement, but with cool and wary plans. Sit down here by me, and let us discuss it quietly."

She yielded, subdued as usual by his magnetic influence over her.

"Who knows our secret? Elaine.—Poor Elaine! I curse the day I was born when I think of what she must be suffering. As she shows herself nobler and more self-sacrificing, my remorse increases."

"Yes, indeed," sighed Odette.

There was silence between them. Both were lost in wondering admiration of Elaine's grand sacrifice. Claude continued:

"Why should not our life go on as before? Elaine will keep the secret, and I can not bear the thought of Death when we are enjoying such love and life. Flight would be shame and disgrace for both of us—your reputation irretrievably ruined, my career ended. You see that we can remain at home; Elaine will close her eyes to our affection——"

Both were flushed with shame at their cruel calculations on Elaine's tortured heart. Instinctively, they felt themselves still more closely bound together as they sunk lower and lower.

A servant's voice was heard outside. Odette rose. She had not replied to Claude, save by her silence. She felt herself humiliated and mortified; her brave resolutions had vanished, and she accused herself of cowardice, but still she yielded to Claude's advice.

They separated,—she going to her room, and Claude to his wife, so as to have the dreaded interview over at once.

Elaine had not left her room. When Paul knocked, she had begged him to leave her alone. Alone? She could never be alone again! The thought of her husband's black and cruel treachery would never leave her. More and more did she become convinced that her renunciation of his heart was the only way to save Paul. She must sacrifice her life to save his, and she must nerve herself to seeing Claude and Odette together under her roof. She would close her eyes to the shameful truth; she would even protect it from discovery. Her only fear was that her strength would not be sufficient to carry out the sacrifice to the bitter end. One moment of thoughtlessness or resentment would undo all. Her son must be saved from the tortures she was then undergoing.

And Claude, she shuddered when she thought of him. She loved him no longer. She saw the idol crumble to dust that she had supposed so grand and noble. She had almost deified him in her heart, but she must have been blinded by her love. She recalled their early married life. No, he was sincere and loyal in those days. Did she deceive herself, or did he deceive her?

Her maid came in to say that M. Sirvin was at the door, wishing to see her a few minutes. She replied that he might enter, in a voice she tried in vain to control. Claude appeared pale and trembling. Elaine did not venture to even glance at him—innocence always shows more embarrassment than guilt. At last she raised her head, saying coldly, "I suppose Odette has told you that I know your cruel treachery."

"Elaine!"

She looked him full in the face, with an expression of such scorn that he dropped his eyes.

She continued:

"Here is my decision. If I only listened to my own contempt and disgust, I would leave the house this minute with my son. Unfortunately, we can not always follow our inclinations in this world. One victim, I hope, is enough for you. I do not wish to have the son's heart broken, as you have broken the mother's. Our life can continue as usual, we four under one roof. That is all I wish to say, so will detain you no longer."

Claude stood in remorseful admiration before her. He gazed at her exquisite beauty, resembling in its stony pallor some antique statue. He saw the sublimity and strength of this noble character, and a sharp and strange regret overpowered him when he saw that he had lost her forever. Alas, for poor humanity! His keen regret caused him to forget Odette entirely, and only see Elaine in her sorrow.

"Why do you not leave me?" said Elaine still more coldly, surprised that he did not move.

"I am waiting your permission to say—"

"There is nothing to be said. Go!"

"But you are my wife. You loved me once—"

She interrupted him with a glance.

"Certainly; but I love you no longer."

"Forgive me, but I must say one word. I will obey you, whatever you say. May I not see at least a glimmer of hope that some day when I have expiated my sin by penances, punishments without number, some day you will forgive me?"

Seeing the cold scorn in her eyes he continued: "Very well. There are some crimes that only blood can wash away. I will kill myself."

"It is too late for that! You should have killed yourself before, not after your crime."

Pointing again to the door, he was forced to leave her.

Claude was perfectly sincere in his appeal for a hope of pardon. His heart was elastic enough to hold two affections at the same time. His passionate love for Odette did not interfere with his tender, admiring affection for Elaine; and, besides, it cut him to the quick to meet scorn and contempt where he had always before found loving idolatry.

Elaine, as he left her, buried her face in her hands, weeping: "I am bereaved. My husband is dead, but my son is left me; henceforth I only live for him."

So life recommenced for these three, as if nothing had happened. Paul always found his mother smiling and apparently cheerful. He saw her pale face, however, marked with lines of care, and was anxious about her health, fearing some secret complaint that she would not confess for fear of distressing her dear ones.

Her torments were increasing. At first Claude and Odette were silent and constrained in her presence; then gradually their prudent guard relaxed, knowing so well that Elaine would not betray them. Paul's confidence was so absolute and loyal that not the least suspicion could come to him.

But Elaine's misery increased every hour. We can accomplish in a moment of sublime courage and despair some wonderful act of self-martyrdom; but it is beyond human strength to meet with the same heroism an agony, renewed hour after hour, day after day.

Often was she tempted to shriek out the horrible truth, and have the guilty pair driven from her presence. As the days passed by and she occasionally surprised a glance passing between them, or overheard some whispered remark, she felt that she would become insane, unless she had some respite from her unceasing torture. So one morning, about a fortnight later, she sent for M. Sirvin.

"Sir!" said Elaine, as he appeared in answer to her summons, "I wish to have you and Mme. Frager leave the house for a short time. You can easily arrange some sketching tour with Grenoble, while Mme. Frager can accept Mme. de Smarte's invitation to spend a few days with her at St. Cloud."

Claude did not reply, and Mme. Sirvin, thinking his hesitation arose from disinclination, cried: "Do you not see that I can not stand this life another hour? I am growing insane, and my mouth will proclaim the truth in spite of my struggles to be silent."

"We will obey you, Madame."

The same day Elaine spoke to her son, saying: "Do you not think that Odette is indisposed? She needs a change. A few days in the country would improve her health very much. Do not be selfish, and keep her shut up with you in the stifling, hot city."

"Dear mother, how thoughtful you are! A little trip to the mountains would do us both good. I will go with her next week some where—"

"What, would you leave me alone! I have a better plan than that. Let Odette accept Mme. de Smarte's invitation to St. Cloud. She would then have the advantage of country air, and yet be so near that you could go to see her every day. Grenoble and Claude are going away to-morrow on a sketching tour, so you and I will be alone together for a week or so."

Claude left the next day; Odette, two or three days later. Elaine felt as if half of her burden had been removed when the pair were no longer in her sight. The future did not look so utterly hopeless when she and her son were at last alone.