NERVES, that sort of “nerves” had been the trouble with Mlle. Raindal for a whole week, as they were each year at the coming of the new season.

When, one evening, a gust of warm breeze swept through the icy air, the breath of advancing spring, her customary seriousness turned to melancholy; and she waited for the inevitable trial of which this perverse breath was the herald.

The universal magic which at that time threw all human beings into confusion always struck her with special vigor. Neither her learning, her reason nor her virile will-power could protect her. She fell a languid prey to aimless fancies, which because of this very confusion, allowed full play to the dreams of a chastity suddenly in revolt. She passed from the most childish transports of tenderness to the most fanciful flights of imagination. Tears of emotion came to her eyes; sometimes she burst into sobs; the perfume of a flower, the tunes of the street-organ below, or a beggar singing an old-fashioned romance in the street caused her heart to be overfilled with sadness and gave her an instinctive desire to lean her head on some robust shoulder.

The times of her weakness were precisely those when her hatred for Mme. Chambannes was strongest and when she was most intolerant towards her father. Their behavior seemed to her more revolting, more absurd, more ludicrous than at other times. She found her consolation in mistaking for contempt the jealousy which their happiness at being together roused in her.

The acute consciousness of her own lack of attractiveness and of her isolation led her to formulating wishes all of which were impossible.

Ah! were she but beautiful; were she simply one of those seductive women over whom a few men disputed among one another and who could choose! That she could be a woman, in short, excite desires, repulse assaults, lead the warring life of her sex instead of turning white in an unnatural existence, busy with mental work and the distractions of the learned!...

Yet, lacking the needed charms, how could she change her life? How could she try to please with her bony hands, discolored eyes and thin lips which had pleased but once and then not more than for eight days?

In her discouragement, she reached a point when she felt jealous of the street girls she met passing the Boulevard Saint Michel, the grisettes. There were times when she would have readily given up everything, her knowledge, her honor and that of her family. She remembered also that there had been women, famous for their wit but too ugly to be loved, who had indulged in clandestine debauchery; and she secretly read over again with a sensual shivering the historians of scandals who related such facts. Sometimes, when she returned home at dusk, she heard a ma footsteps following her. What would he do? Was he going to address her? Although she was sure she would defend herself, yet she felt almost a vain hope that he would.... One evening, in the rue de Rennes, she was emboldened to turn round: she saw an old gentleman of M. Rainda age who smiled at her with knowing grimaces. She hurried away, stumbling, full of rage, deception and disgust with herself.

She found no peace until the day was ended and she slipped into her bedsheets after blowing out her candle. There was to her no more delicious moment than this one. She lay on her back and let the tide of sleep gently come up to her. Her limbs became paralyzed; her thoughts ran into each other; she had a feeling that her body was leaving her and the darkness of night favored this reassuring mirage. Because she no longer saw her own homeliness, Mlle. Raindal gained more audacity. Her soul at last freed and naked, as it were, bravely soared away on the wings of love. Whom, then, did she invoke in her adorations? AlbÂrt? Another man? Sleep carried her away before she could be definite, and during the hours that followed, she stretched herself out, panting in the midst of strange dreams which were forgotten the next morning.

But she measured the nothingness of her days according to the feverish fullness of her nights. She was tortured throughout the mornings with the anxieties that affect old age. When would it all end? Had the valor of her heart, of her reason and of her mind forever vanished? Or would her sorrow gradually wear itself out, as it had done before, for lack of remedies and relief?... These queries filled her with anguish. She held her pillow tight against herself and crushed her lips in it, for fear they might hear her through the door, as on the occasion when M. Raindal had found her sobbing.

One afternoon, at the BibliothÈque Nationale, she was standing before an oak desk, examining the huge folio of the Corpus inscriptionum aegyptiacarum, when a shadow suddenly passed over the pages. She looked up and recognized Boerzell, the dismissed suitor, the young Assyriologist of the Saulvard party. Facing her, leaning on the other slope of the desk, he greeted her smilingly.

“How do you do, mademoiselle!” he asked. His affectionate eyes blinked behind the crystal of his glasses. “Hm! It seems to me that you indulge in very frivolous reading!”

“Do I?” ThÉrÈse said, and returned his smile.... “This is nothing to what I have been asking for?”

“What was it?”

She gave him the titles of the books she was awaiting. Boerzell pretended to be indignant and exclaimed that it was sheer robbery and usurpation. Were women now going to meddle with such studies! They talked for a few minutes, in their idyllic attitude, over the desk which was to them as a flowery gate.

At length, ThÉrÈse exclaimed:

“Well, au revoir, monsieur.... They are bringing me my books.... The time for gossiping is past.... I must return to my seat....”

Boerzell had a huge volume under his arm. He bowed and said:

“I hope that we shall soon meet again, mademoiselle!”

“So do I, monsieur!”

Instinctively she watched him walk away, between the rows of readers bent over their tasks.

Without knowing why, she found him less awkward than at the ball, less unpleasant and like one transfigured.

He walked calmly, dropping “a good-day” here and there, pausing for a handshake, delayed an instant for a quick exchange of words; in this favorable atmosphere, he was served by his very disadvantages, by his tousled hair, his ill-cut beard, the shiny cloth of his coat and his careless silhouette which showed that he was a champion of ideas. He benefited from the temporary beauty which comes from ease and authority enjoyed in appropriate surroundings. He was handsome like a high official in his office at the Ministry, handsome like an adjutant at the gate of a military barracks.

“Well! the poor fellow is not so bad!” ThÉrÈse murmured as she returned to her seat.

Then she fell to work and completely forgot him. When she came out, however, going to the checkroom, she heard the voice of Boerzell behind her.

“Yes, it is I, mademoiselle!... Will you allow me to accompany you?... I believe we are neighbors.... I live at the end of the rue de Rennes.”

Mlle. Raindal hesitated. It was not that she questioned the propriety of his offer. She had long since disdained petty prejudices that affected such cases; for old maids are as deposed sovereigns who free themselves from etiquette once they have lost their power. On the other hand, she was weighing the point whether Boerzel company would not bore her before they reached the rue de Rennes.

Finally she gave her reply:

“Yes, surely!... I shall be very pleased.... Le go together....”

It was drizzling outside. The streets were shiny; in the narrow rue Richelieu, horses were slipping; they all trotted sidewise as if a strong wind were arching their croups. A few passers-by opened their umbrellas. Boerzell imitated them in order to protect ThÉrÈse. He was bumped into at every step; the ends of the whalebones made lines against the grain of his silk hat. At times they were parted by a pressure from those who walked in opposite direction. ThÉrÈse turned round, looking for the young savant; and she distinguished him, as he smiled over the heads of people, holding his umbrella as high as he could and shaking it to signal to her.

They began to converse with some sequence only after they had passed the door of the Carrousel.

As on the first evening, at the ball, the talk assumed at once a professional turn. But Boerzell it was who now directed the game. He led the conversation towards the notorieties of science; and he gave out his opinion of each of them, in insidious terms. Most of the time, it proved to be sarcastic and disrespectful. He withdrew in one word the commendation he had given in another, mingled restrictions and praise, stinging comments and soft words; even his voice, at once coaxing and clever, the smile of his lips or his eyes with which he softened every expression that was too bitter, his choice of expressions, the turn of his sentences—all these seemed to suggest a proud old master, but had the added zest of youth.

Every now and then, ThÉrÈse could not refrain from glancing at him. What! had he, then, out of calculation, concealed his strength on the evening of the dance; had he affected shyness in order to attract without scaring her? Had he wished to flatter her pride as a savante by allowing himself to be defeated and conquered by her? Or had he been troubled by the surroundings?

Be that as it may, she was enjoying herself. This young man was not a fool, nor was he mediocre, nor yet servile. She listened so attentively that she did not notice that they had passed over the Seine.

They climbed the rue des Saints PÈres, where drivers of entangled carriages abused each other. At times an omnibus rocked noisily, and hit the stone curb with its trembling wheels. Mlle. Raindal and Boerzell huddled close to the shops. Then the terrible machine having passed them, they went on again. Now it was Boerzell who asked questions, inquiring of the gir studies, and Mlle. Raindal readily answered, gave him the time-table of her work and the rules of her studies.

When they turned the corner of the Boulevard St. Germain, Boerzell suddenly sighed:

“What a pity!” he murmured.

“What?” ThÉrÈse asked.

The drizzle had ceased and he closed his umbrella.

“Nothing, mademoiselle.... Or rather, yes.... It is a pity that I do not please you more.... Oh! I had guessed that much at the Saulvard ball, even without the help of the silence you preserved afterwards.... I could see it in your eyes when you left.... And yet, believe me if you like, the more I talk to you, mademoiselle, the more I am convinced that we would have made an excellent couple.”

This declaration was so unexpected that ThÉrÈse could not repress a sudden laughing exclamation.

“We?” she said.

“Yes, we, quite so, we!...” Boerzell went on, with a pouting movement of his lips which gave a touch of puerility to his bearded childlike face.... “It is useless, is it not, between people of our type, to play a comedy?... They introduced us to each other in order to have us marry. Well, suppose, mademoiselle, that I had pleased you, at that ball....”

He paused to look at her.

“You must understand what this word ‘please’ means. Of course, I did not hope that you would fall in love with me on the spot.... No.... Thus, you ... you pleased me; that is to say, you inspired me with a deep sympathy.... I thought to myself: ‘Here is a worthy lady, one of strong intelligence, a wife such as I would like mine to be, a companion and a friend in whom I could confide, whose advice I could seek, without any fear of meeting with silliness or indifference....’ Well, let us suppose that you had thought likewise about it, that would have been enough.... We would have been married and I should be happy.”

ThÉrÈse remained silent.

“But, there we are!” Boerzell went on, in a grumbling tone.... “You did not think this way.... I do not please you enough.... Or, to be more exact, I displease you too much.... Yet, allow me to say it without any fatuousness, I am surprised.... If I may judge from our two conversations, we would, intellectually speaking, hit it off very well.... Upon people, and upon things, we almost share the same opinions.... Our lives are cut along the same lines, and occupied with similar studies.... Our tastes and aptitudes agree.... There remains my physical appearance! It is obviously on this ground that you dislike me, and it is precisely such weakness of judgment which surprises me, coming from you.... Ah! if you were one of those little coquettes ... a brainless little woman, one of those worldly dolls....”

“But, monsieur!...” ThÉrÈse protested smilingly.

Boerzell interrupted her, gradually more excited.

“If you please, mademoiselle, allow me to finish.... If, as I say, you were one of those fashionable women without culture, without nobility of character, and as choke-full of prejudices as a stuffed goose is with chestnuts, I would not be surprised.... I know well what my faults are, and all that I lack in order to attract a little woman of this class.... But you, a person of your quality, that you should look upon marriage as these others do, that marriage should be in your estimation a sudden stroke of lightning, a confused heart, an irresistible passion, a handsome man with a mustache and the whole clap-trap of romance, I assure you, I cannot get over it! And when I think that we very likely are made for each other, when I think that we met, by an extraordinary chance, that we could form an intelligent sensible, clear-sighted union, and that we are not doing it, see, that almost rouses me to anger!”

He struck the pavement with his umbrella.

“Are you through?” ThÉrÈse asked anxiously.

“Yes, mademoiselle!” he replied distractedly.

But he recanted at once.

“There is but one case in which your repugnance would appear to me logical and justified, worthy of you, in a word!... That would be if, by chance, you loved another man....”

Mlle. Raindal suddenly darkened. The lord of her existence surged again before her; AlbÂrt, with his impudent smartness, his big, horse-like eyes and his ironical lips. ThÉrÈse took in the young savant with a disdainful look and replied, her voice lowered by a sudden sadness:

“I love no one, monsieur!... Or, if you prefer, I am in love with a memory....”

“A memory!” Boerzell stuttered, all out of countenance.... “Ah, very good!... That is another thing.... I crave your pardon, mademoiselle.”

The silk of his hat was turned back; his thick lips, like those of a sea-god, were rounded into a ball and he wore such a disappointed, baffled and childish look that, despite the gravity of the circumstance, ThÉrÈse found it difficult not to smile.

“You see, monsieur!” she said heartily, “you were mistaken, if not as to my intentions, at least concerning the root of my feelings.... To prove to you that I find pleasure in your society, I ask you, if you care to, to come every now and then to see us on Sundays, as a colleague, as a friend; and I should be delighted....”

“Thank you, mademoiselle,” Boerzell said without enthusiasm. “Certainly, I shall come on Sundays.... Now it is unfortunate, however, that you have such ... do not take offense ... such accepted ideas, the ideas of everybody on the subject of marriage!... The dictates of the heart and love count, I admit, for much ... but they are not the only feelings in life!... Besides love, there exist sentiments of affinity, of sympathy and mutual consideration which can establish very strong links between two human beings who are all independent and superior.”

He noticed the darkening brow of ThÉrÈse.

“Well, I do not intend to importune you any further, mademoiselle.... That would be poor return for your kind invitation.... If, then, you will permit it, I say, ‘until next Sunday.’”

“Until next Sunday!”

ThÉrÈse turned into the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. Halting words called her back.

“It is I again, mademoiselle!” Boerzell said, running up to her.... “There was one last word I forgot to say.... It is possible that you have suspected an interested motive....”

With a gesture of the hand, ThÉrÈse denied that she had.

“It does not matter!” Boerzell retorted. “I would not, for anything in the world, be mistaken for one of the young gentlemen who seek a fine marriage, a useful marriage.... Moreover, you should consult M. Raindal.... He will tell you himself that my scientific life is, to use the current expression, all marked out.... My professors like me and help me.... My competitors are few and are, most of them, but second-rate men.... From the École des Hautes Études, I am therefore bound to enter the Sorbonne or the CollÈge de France, and thence, I hope, the Institute.... A marriage with you would certainly not have been unhelpful.... Nevertheless, without this marriage my career, happiness apart, will be the same.... This was what I wished to say.... You will agree with me that, for the sake of our future friendship, these details have their importance!”

“They might have perhaps, if I had doubted you....”

“Phew!” the young savant said with skepticism. “You say this.... You are polite.... It remains a fact that one cannot be too cautious in such matters.... But I am delaying you, excuse me.... Until Sunday, mademoiselle....”

“That is agreed!” said ThÉrÈse, in a tone that already showed comradeship.

When she entered the study where M. Raindal sat talking with her Uncle Cyprien, the latter welcomed her with a volley of compliments:

“Pristi! My nephew!... How well we are looking! And such shining eyes! Gayety all over your face! I could swear that you have not spent an altogether boring afternoon!”

“So it looks!” M. Raindal approved shyly.

“Well, it may be so ...” ThÉrÈse replied.... “Guess whom I met? Little Boerzell. You remember him, father? The would-be fiancÉ at the Saulvard party.... A very strange young man; he has a whole series of theories and systems which amused me.... I am still laughing now.... Well, I asked him to visit us ... and he will probably come next Sunday!”

“You did quite right, dear!” M. Raindal asserted, as much in order to conciliate ThÉrÈse as because of a mania he had to praise his inferiors.... “M. Boerzell is a young man with a rare future.... Everybody at the AcadÉmie holds him in high esteem.... It was only yesterday that someone was telling me....”

“What about you, uncle?” ThÉrÈse interrupted. “It is my turn to ask you questions! Can you tell me what you are doing here, on a week day, a Wednesday, and at the sacred hour of the apÉritif!”

“To begin with,” the younger M. Raindal objected ... “it is not more than half past five.... The apÉritif lasts normally until half past seven.... I have therefore, mademoiselle, two good solid hours, if you please.... Now, you want to know why I am here. Hah, nephew, this rouses your curiosity! Well, I came to ask your father to take me to Mme. Chambannes.”

ThÉrÈse bit her lips to repress a smile.

“Yes,” Uncle Cyprien continued, rubbing his close-cropped hair. “It was an idea that occurred to me ... a matter of curiosity!...”

“And I was telling your uncle,” M. Raindal put in rapidly, and without looking at ThÉrÈse, “that I was quite ready to take him there, whenever he wished....”

“Why not to-morrow, Thursday?” Uncle Cyprien inquired.

M. Raindal hid under a short laugh a sigh that came to his lips.

“Hm! Hm! To-morrow, that is rather sudden.... I must have time to inform Mme. Chambannes.... Especially since her husband left last night on a journey.”

“Ah! on a journey!... Where to?...” Cyprien asked.

“To Bosnia, I believe.”

“Bosnia!... Ah, really, to Bosnia!” the younger Raindal repeated, in order to memorize this particularity or to discover therein a piece of probable evidence.

He said resolutely:

“Well, write at once to Mme. Chambannes.... Two lines, two simple lines.... I shall drop your letter in the box when I go.... She will have it the first thing to-morrow morning ... and if she does not want me....”

“Oh! very well!” M. Raindal said coldly, as he took up his pen.

But he added, before writing a word: “Nevertheless, I give you fair warning.... You may perhaps meet at Mme. Chambannes’ house some people who are not to your taste....”

“Who may they be?”

“I do know for certain.... Let me see, there may be the abbÉ Touronde, a friend of the family....”

This revelation caused Uncle Cyprien to forget himself. What! Madame RhÂm-BÂhan had an abbÉ, a curÉ, a black-robed one! Ah! that was really pretty good! What morals! What a century! What a muddle! And Uncle Cyprien laughed outright.

He only calmed down when ThÉrÈse gave him a severe look to remind him of his promises.

“I am laughing,” he declared, “I am laughing, because ... you understand....”

He gave up the explanation.

“I laughed without malice.... You may rest assured that if I meet the abbÉ Tour... Tour what?—well, never mind!—I shall make myself agreeable ... most agreeable.... Go on, write, my dear fellow!”

ThÉrÈse was exhausted. A mad impulse to laugh was overcoming her. Under the pretext of going to look for a pamphlet, she went to her room and ran to her armchair, bursting out in guffaws.

“Poor father!... What a woeful face! And my uncle wants to join the band now!... Ah! life is really funny!”

She was in a jocular mood, ready to find everything amusing and grotesque; at heart, she had an impression of being at last cured and delivered from the crisis. She had a spontaneous feeling of gratitude for Boerzell. Was it not to a certain extent to this worthy young man that she owed this miracle? Had he not consoled her, distracted her, as if she had been a weeping child, with the sparkle of his conjugal thesis, the unusualness of his speeches and the insistent warmth of his voice? But for him, for that blend of comic and sound reason which emanated from his person and which now survived their conversation, she would probably still be desperately fighting the fever of evil, and exhausting herself in the dangerous nightmares of her unsatisfied desires. Could she have been, but for Boerzell, even amused by the worldly ambitions of her uncle, or by his sly waggery, or by anything at all? Poor Boerzell! She could never bring herself to accept him, to overcome the repulsion which his bearded old schoolbo face inspired in her. Nevertheless, who knew but that he might help her in the hours of her distress, might become a friend, a faithful comrade who would render her solitude less mournful, less forsaken?

She walked up and down her room, working herself up with such hopes. Brigitte had to knock twice at the door before she could inform her that dinner was served.