he went home. he shut himself up in his room and never stirred for several days. he only went out even into the town, when he was compelled. he was fearful of ever going out beyond the gates and venturing forth into the fields: he was afraid of once more falling in with the soft, maddening breath that had blown upon him like a rushing wind during a calm in a storm. he thought that the walls of the town might preserve him from it. he never dreamed that for the enemy to slip within there needed be only the smallest crack in the closed shutters, no more than is needed for a peep out.

in a wing of the house, on the other side of the yard, there lodged on the ground floor a young woman of twenty, some months a widow, with a little girl. frau sabine froehlich was also a tenant of old euler's. she occupied the shop which opened on to the street, and she had as well two rooms looking on to the yard, together with a little patch of garden, marked off from the eulers' by a wire fence up which ivy climbed. they did not often see her: the child used to play down in the garden from morning to night making mud pies: and the garden was left to itself, to the great distress of old justus, who loved tidy paths and neatness in the beds. he had tried to bring the matter to the attention of his tenant: but that was probably why she did not appear: and the garden was not improved by it.

frau froehlich kept a little draper's shop which might have had customers enough, thanks to its position in a street of shops in the center of the town: but she did not bother about it any more than about her garden. instead of doing her housework herself, as, according to frau vogel, every self-respecting woman ought to do—especially when she is in circumstances which do not permit much less excuse idleness—she had hired a little servant, a girl of fifteen, who came in for a few hours in the morning to clean the rooms and look after the shop, while the young woman lay in bed or dawdled over her toilet.

christophe used to see her sometimes, through his windows, walking about her room, with bare feet, in her long nightgown, or sitting for hours together before her mirror: for she was so careless that she used to forget to draw her curtains: and when she saw him, she was so lazy that she could not take the trouble, to go and lower them. christophe, more modest than she, would leave the window so as not to incommode her: but the temptation was great. he would blush a little and steal a glance at her bare arms, which were rather thin, as she drew them languidly around her flowing hair, and with her hands, clasped behind her head, lost herself in a dream, until they were numbed, and then she would let them fall. christophe would pretend that he only saw these pleasant sights inadvertently as he happened to pass the window, and that they did not disturb him in his musical thoughts; but he liked it, and in the end he wasted as much time in watching frau sabine, as she did over her toilet. not that she was a coquette: she was rather careless, generally, and did not take anything like the meticulous care with her appearance that amalia or rosa did. if she dawdled in front of her dressing table it was from pure laziness; every time she put in a pin she had to rest from the effort of it, while she made little piteous faces at herself in the mirrors. she was never quite properly dressed at the end of the day.

often her servant used to go before sabine was ready: and a customer would ring the shop-bell. she would let him ring and call once or twice before she could make up her mind to get up from her chair. she would go down, smiling, and never hurrying,—never hurrying would look for the article required,—and if she could not find it after looking for some time, or even (as happened sometimes) if she had to take too much trouble to reach it, as for instance, taking the ladder from one end of the shop to the other,—she would say calmly that she did not have it in stock: and as she never bothered to put her stock in order, or to order more of the articles of which she had run out, her customers used to lose patience and go elsewhere. but she never minded. how could you be angry with such a pleasant creature who spoke so sweetly, and was never excited about anything! she did not mind what anybody said to her: and she made this so plain that those who began to complain never had the courage to go on: they used to go, answering her charming smile with a smile: but they never came back. she never bothered about it. she went on smiling.

she was like a little florentine figure. her well marked eyebrows were arched: her gray eyes were half open behind the curtain of her lashes. the lower eyelid was a little swollen, with a little crease below it. her little, finely drawn nose turned up slightly at the end. another little curve lay between it and her upper lip, which curled up above her half-open mouth, pouting in a weary smile. her lower lip was a little thick: the lower part of her face was rounded, and had the serious expression of the little virgins of filippo lippi. her complexion was a little muddy, her hair was light brown, always untidy, and done up in a slovenly chignon. she was slight of figure, small-boned. and her movements were lazy. dressed carelessly—a gaping bodice, buttons missing, ugly, worn shoes, always looking a little slovenly—she charmed by her grace and youth, her gentleness, her instinctively coaxing ways. when she appeared to take the air at the door of her shop, the young men who passed used to look at her with pleasure: and although she did not bother about them, she noticed it none the less. always then she wore that grateful and glad expression which is in the eyes of all women when they know that they have been seen with sympathetic eyes. it seemed to say:

"thank you!… again! look at me again!" but though it gave her pleasure to please, her indifference would never let her make the smallest effort to please.

she was an object of scandal to the euler-vogels. everything about her offended them: her indolence, the untidiness of her house, the carelessness of her dress, her polite indifference to their remarks, her perpetual smile, the impertinent serenity with which she had accepted her husband's death, her child's illnesses, her straitened circumstances, the great and annoyances of her daily life, while nothing could change one jot of her favorite habits, or her eternal longing,—everything about her offended them: and the worst of all was that, as she was, she did give pleasure. frau vogel could not forgive her that. it was almost as though sabine did it on purpose, on purpose, ironically, to set at naught by her conduct the great traditions, the true principles, the savorless duty, the pleasureless labor, the restlessness, the noise, the quarrels, the mooning ways, the healthy pessimism which was the motive power of the euler family, as it is that of all respectable persons, and made their life a foretaste of purgatory. that a woman who did nothing but dawdle about all the blessed day should take upon herself to defy them with her calm insolence, while they bore their suffering in silence like galley-slaves,—and that people should approve of her into the bargain—that was beyond the limit, that was enough to turn you against respectability!… fortunately, thank god, there were still a few sensible people left in the world. frau vogel consoled herself with them. they exchanged remarks about the little widow, and spied on her through her shutters. such gossip was the joy of the family when they met at supper. christophe would listen absently. he was so used to hearing the vogels set themselves up as censors of their neighbors that he never took any notice of it. besides he knew nothing of frau sabine except her bare neck and arms, and though they were pleasing enough, they did not justify his coming to a definite opinion about her. however, he was conscious; of a kindly feeling towards her: and in a contradictory spirit he was especially grateful to her for displeasing frau vogel.

after dinner in the evening when it was very hot it was impossible to stay in the stifling yard, where the sun shone the whole afternoon. the only place in the house where it was possible to breathe was the rooms looking into the street, euler and his son-in-law used sometimes to go and sit on the doorstep with louisa. frau vogel and rosa would only appear for a moment: they were kept by their housework: frau vogel took a pride in showing that she had no time for dawdling: and she used to say, loudly enough to be overheard, that all the people sitting there and yawning on their doorsteps, without doing a stitch of work, got on her nerves. as she could not—(to her sorrow)—compel them to work, she would pretend not to see them, and would go in and work furiously. rosa thought she must do likewise. euler and vogel would discover draughts everywhere, and fearful of catching cold, would go up to their rooms: they used to go to bed early, and would have thought themselves ruined had they changed the least of their habits. after nine o'clock only louisa and christophe would be left. louisa spent the day in her room: and, in the evening, christophe used to take pains to be with her, whenever he could, to make her take the air. if she were left alone she would never go out: the noise of the street frightened her. children were always chasing each other with shrill cries. all the dogs of the neighborhood took it up and barked. the sound of a piano came up, a little farther off a clarinet, and in the next street a cornet à piston. voices chattered. people came and went and stood in groups in front of their houses. louisa would have lost her head if she had been left alone in all the uproar. but when her son was with her it gave her pleasure. the noise would gradually die down. the children and the dogs would go to bed first. the groups of people would break up. the air would become more pure. silence would descend upon the street. louisa would tell in her thin voice the little scraps of news that she had heard from amalia or rosa. she was not greatly interested in them. but she never knew what to talk about to her son, and she felt the need of keeping in touch with him, of saying something to him. and christophe, who felt her need, would pretend to be interested in everything she said: but he did not listen. he was off in vague dreams, turning over in his mind the doings of the day. one evening when they were sitting there—while his mother was talking he saw the door of the draper's shop open. a woman came out silently and sat in the street. her chair was only a few yards from louisa. she was sitting in the darkest shadow. christophe could not see her face: but he recognized her. his dreams vanished. the air seemed sweeter to him. louisa had not noticed sabine's presence, and went on with her chatter in a low voice. christophe paid more attention to her, and, he felt impelled to throw out a remark here and there, to talk, perhaps to be heard. the slight figure sat there without stirring, a little limp, with her legs lightly crossed and her hands lying crossed in her lap. she was looking straight in front of her, and seemed to hear nothing. louisa was overcome with drowsiness. she went in. christophe said he would stay a little longer.

it was nearly ten. the street was empty. the people were going indoors. the sound of the shops being shut was heard. the lighted windows winked and then were dark again. one or two were still lit: then they were blotted out. silence…. they were alone, they did not look at each other, they held their breath, they seemed not to be aware of each other. from the distant fields came the smell of the new-mown hay, and from a balcony in a house near by the scent of a pot of cloves. no wind stirred. above their heads was the milky way. to their right red jupiter. above a chimney charles' wain bent its axles: in the pale green sky its stars flowered like daisies. from the bells of the parish church eleven o'clock rang out and was caught up by all the other churches, with their voices clear or muffled, and, from the houses, by the dim chiming of the clock or husky cuckoos.

they awoke suddenly from their dreams, and got up at the same moment. and just as they were going indoors they both bowed without speaking. christophe went up to his room. he lighted his candle, and sat down by his desk with his head in his hands, and stayed so for a long time without a thought. then he sighed and went to bed.

next day when he got up, mechanically he went to his window to look down into sabine's room. but the curtains were drawn. they were drawn the whole morning. they were drawn ever after.

next evening christophe proposed to his mother that they should go again to sit by the door. he did so regularly. louisa was glad of it: she did not like his shutting himself up in his room immediately after dinner with the window and shutters closed.—the little silent shadow never failed to come and sit in its usual place. they gave each other a quick nod, which louisa never noticed. christophe would talk to his mother. sabine would smile at her little girl, playing in the street: about nine she would go and put her to bed and would then return noiselessly. if she stayed a little christophe would begin to be afraid that she would not come back. he would listen for sounds in the house, the laughter of the little girl who would not go to sleep: he would hear the rustling of sabine's dress before she appeared on the threshold of the shop. then he would look away and talk to his mother more eagerly. sometimes he would feel that sabine was looking at him. in turn he would furtively look at her. but their eyes would never meet.

the child was a bond between them. she would run about in the street with other children. they would find amusement in teasing a good-tempered dog sleeping there with his nose in his paws: he would cock a red eye and at last would emit a growl of boredom: then they would fly this way and that screaming in terror and happiness. the little girl would give piercing shrieks, and look behind her as though she were being pursued; she would throw herself into louisa's lap, and louisa would smile fondly. she would keep the child and question her: and so she would enter into conversation with sabine. christophe never joined in. he never spoke to sabine. sabine never spoke to him. by tacit agreement they pretended to ignore each other. but he never lost a word of what they said as they talked over him. his silence seemed unfriendly to louisa. sabine never thought it so: but it would make her shy, and she would grow confused in her remarks. then she would find some excuse for going in.

for a whole week louisa kept indoors for a cold. christophe and sabine were left alone. the first time they were frightened by it. sabine, to seem at her ease, took her little girl on her knees and loaded her with caresses. christophe was embarrassed and did not know whether he ought to go on ignoring what was happening at his side. it became difficult: although they had not spoken a single word to each other, they did know each other, thanks to louisa. he tried to begin several times: but the words stuck in his throat. once more the little girl extricated them from their difficulty. she played hide-and-seek, and went round christophe's chair. he caught her as she passed and kissed her. he was not very fond of children: but it was curiously pleasant to him to kiss the little girl. she struggled to be free, for she was busy with her game. he teased her, she bit his hands: he let her fall. sabine laughed. they looked at the child and exchanged a few trivial words. then christophe tried—(he thought he must)—to enter into conversation: but he had nothing very much to go upon: and sabine did not make his task any the easier: she only repeated what he said:

"it is a fine evening."

"yes. it is a very fine evening."

"impossible to breathe in the yard."

"yes. the yard was stifling."

conversation became very difficult. sabine discovered that it was time to take the little girl in, and went in herself: and she did not appear again.

christophe was afraid she would do the same on the evenings that followed and that she would avoid being left alone with him, as long as louisa was not there. but on the contrary, the next evening sabine tried to resume their conversation. she did so deliberately rather than for pleasure: she was obviously taking a great deal of trouble to find subjects of conversation, and bored with the questions she put: questions and answers came between heartbreaking silences. christophe remembered his first interviews with otto: but with sabine their subjects were even more limited than then, and she had not otto's patience. when she saw the small success of her endeavors she did not try any more: she had to give herself too much trouble, and she lost interest in it. she said no more, and he followed her lead.

and then there was sweet peace again. the night was calm once more, and they returned to their inward thoughts. sabine rocked slowly in her chair, dreaming. christophe also was dreaming. they said nothing. after half an hour christophe began to talk to himself, and in a low voice cried out with pleasure in the delicious scent brought by the soft wind that came from a cart of strawberries. sabine said a word or two in reply. again they were silent. they were enjoying the charm of these indefinite silences, and trivial words. their dreams were the same, they had but one thought: they did not know what it was: they did not admit it to themselves. at eleven they smiled and parted.

next day they did not even try to talk: they resumed their sweet silence. at long intervals a word or two let them know that they were thinking of the same things.

sabine began to laugh.

"how much better it is," she said, "not to try to talk! one thinks one must, and it is so tiresome!"

"ah!" said christophe with conviction, "if only everybody thought the same."

they both laughed. they were thinking of frau vogel.

"poor woman!" said sabine; "how exhausting she is!"

"she is never exhausted," replied christophe gloomily.

she was tickled by his manner and his jest.

"you think it amusing?" he asked. "that is easy for you. you are sheltered."

"so i am," said sabine. "i lock myself in." she had a little soft laugh that hardly sounded. christophe heard it with delight in the calm of the evening. he snuffed the fresh air luxuriously.

"ah! it is good to be silent!" he said, stretching his limbs.

"and talking is no use!" said she.

"yes," returned christophe, "we understand each other so well!"

they relapsed into silence. in the darkness they could not see each other.

they were both smiling.

and yet, though they felt the same, when they were together—or imagined that they did—in reality they knew nothing of each other. sabine did not bother about it. christophe was more curious. one evening he asked her:

"do you like music?"

"no," she said simply. "it bores me, i don't understand it."

her frankness charmed him. he was sick of the lies of people who said that they were mad about music, and were bored to death when they heard it: and it seemed to him almost a virtue not to like it and to say so. he asked if sabine read.

"so. she had no books."

he offered to lend her his.

"serious books?" she asked uneasily.

"not serious books if she did not want them. poetry."

"but those are serious books."

"novels, then."

she pouted.

"they don't interest you?"

"yes. she was interested in them: but they were always too long: she never had the patience to finish them. she forgot the beginning: skipped chapters and then lost the thread. and then she threw the book away."

"fine interest you take!"

"bah! enough for a story that is not true. she kept her interest for better things than books."

"for the theater, then?"

"no…. no."

"didn't she go to the theater?"

"no. it was too hot. there were too many people. so much better at home.

the lights tired her eyes. and the actors were so ugly!"

he agreed with her in that. but there were other things in the theater: the play, for instance.

"yes," she said absently. "but i have no time."

"what do you do all day?"

she smiled.

"there is so much to do."

"true," said he. "there is your shop."

"oh!" she said calmly. "that does not take much time."

"your little girl takes up your time then?"

"oh! no, poor child! she is very good and plays by herself."

"then?"

he begged pardon for his indiscretion. but she was amused by it.

"there are so many things."

"what things?"

"she could not say. all sorts of things. getting up, dressing, thinking of dinner, cooking dinner, eating dinner, thinking of supper, cleaning her room…. and then the day was over…. and besides you must have a little time for doing nothing!"

"and you are not bored?"

"never."

"even when you are doing nothing?"

"especially when i am doing nothing. it is much worse doing something: that bores me."

they looked at each other and laughed.

"you are very happy!" said christophe. "i can't do nothing."

"it seems to me that you know how."

"i have been learning lately."

"ah! well, you'll learn."

when he left off talking to her he was at his ease and comfortable. it was enough for him to see her. he was rid of his anxieties, and irritations, and the nervous trouble that made him sick at heart. when he was talking to her he was beyond care: and so when he thought of her. he dared not admit it to himself: but as soon as he was in her presence, he was filled with a delicious soft emotion that brought him almost to unconsciousness. at night he slept as he had never done.

when he came back from his work he would look into this shop. it was not often that he did not see sabine. they bowed and smiled. sometimes she was at the door and then they would exchange a few words: and he would open the door and call the little girl and hand her a packet of sweets.

one day he decided to go in. he pretended that he wanted some waistcoat buttons. she began to look for them: but she could not find them. all the buttons were mixed up: it was impossible to pick them out. she was a little put out that he should see her untidiness. he laughed at it and bent over the better to see it.

"no," she said, trying to hide the drawers with her hands. "don't look! it is a dreadful muddle…."

she went on looking. but christophe embarrassed her. she was cross, and as she pushed the drawer back she said:

"i can't find any. go to lisi, in the next street. she is sure to have them. she has everything that people want."

he laughed at her way of doing business.

"do you send all your customers away like that?"

"well. you are not the first," said sabine warmly.

and yet she was a little ashamed:

"it is too much trouble to tidy up," she said. "i put off doing it from day to day…. but i shall certainly do it to-morrow."

"shall i help you?" asked christophe.

she refused. she would gladly have accepted: but she dared not, for fear of gossip. and besides it humiliated her.

they went on talking.

"and your buttons?" she said to christophe a moment later. "aren't you going to lisi?"

"never," said christophe. "i shall wait until you have tidied up."

"oh!" said sabine, who had already forgotten what she had just said, "don't wait all that time!"

her frankness delighted them both.

christophe went to the drawer that she had shut.

"let me look."

she ran to prevent his doing so.

"no, now please. i am sure i haven't any."

"i bet you have."

at once he found the button he wanted, and was triumphant. he wanted others. he wanted to go on rummaging; but she snatched the box from his hands, and, hurt in her vanity, she began to look herself.

the light was fading. she went to the window. christophe sat a little away from her: the little girl clambered on to his knees. he pretended to listen to her chatter and answered her absently. he was looking at sabine and she knew that he was looking at her. she bent over the box. he could see her neck and a little of her cheek.—and as he looked he saw that she was blushing. and he blushed too.

the child went on talking. no one answered her. sabine did not move. christophe could not see what she was doing, he was sure she was doing nothing: she was not even looking at the box in her hands. the silence went on and on. the little girl grew uneasy and slipped down from christophe's knees.

"why don't you say anything?"

sabine turned sharply and took her in her arms. the box was spilled on the floor: the little girl shouted with glee and ran on hands and knees after the buttons rolling under the furniture. sabine went to the window again and laid her cheek against the pane. she seemed to be absorbed in what she saw outside.

"good-night!" said christophe, ill at ease. she did not turn her head, and said in a low voice:

"good-night."

on sundays the house was empty during the afternoon. the whole family went to church for vespers. sabine did not go. christophe jokingly reproached her with it once when he saw her sitting at her door in the little garden, while the lovely bells were bawling themselves hoarse summoning her. she replied in the same tone that only mass was compulsory: not vespers: it was then no use, and perhaps a little indiscreet to be too zealous: and she liked to think that god would be rather pleased than angry with her.

"you have made god in your own image," said christophe.

"i should be so bored if i were in his place," replied she with conviction.

"you would not bother much about the world if you were in his place."

"all that i should ask of it would be that it should not bother itself about me."

"perhaps it would be none the worse for that," said christophe.

"tssh!" cried sabine, "we are being irreligious."

"i don't see anything irreligious in saying that god is like you. i am sure

he is flattered."

"will you be silent!" said sabine, half laughing, half angry. she was beginning to be afraid that god would be scandalized. she quickly turned the conversation.

"besides," she said, "it is the only time in the week when one can enjoy the garden in peace."

"yes," said christophe. "they are gone." they looked at each other.

"how silent it is," muttered sabine. "we are not used to it. one hardly knows where one is…."

"oh!" cried christophe suddenly and angrily.

"there are days when i would like to strangle her!" there was no need to ask of whom he was speaking.

"and the others?" asked sabine gaily.

"true," said christophe, a little abashed. "there is rosa."

"poor child!" said sabine.

they were silent.

"if only it were always as it is now!" sighed christophe.

she raised her laughing eyes to his, and then dropped them. he saw that she was working.

"what are you doing?" he asked.

(the fence of ivy that separated the two gardens was between them.)

"look!" she said, lifting a basin that she was holding in heir lap. "i am shelling peas."

she sighed.

"but that is not unpleasant," he raid, laughing.

"oh!" she replied, "it is disgusting, always having to think of dinner."

"i bet that if it were possible," he said, "you would go without your dinner rather than haw the trouble of cooking it."

"that's true," cried she.

"wait! i'll come and help you."

he climbed over the fence and came to her.

she was sitting in a chair in the door. he sat on a step at her feet. he dipped into her lap for handfuls of green pods; and he poured the little round peas into the basin that sabine held between her knees. he looked down. he saw sabine's black stockings clinging to her ankles and feet—one of her feet was half out of its shoe. he dared not raise his eyes to look at her.

the air was heavy. the sky was dull and clouds hung low: there was no wind. no leaf stirred. the garden was inclosed within high walls: there was no world beyond them.

the child had gone out with one of the neighbors. they were alone. they said nothing. they could say nothing. without looking he went on taking handfuls of peas from sabine's lap: his fingers trembled as he touched her: among the fresh smooth pods they met sabine's fingers, and they trembled too. they could not go on. they sat still, not looking at each other: she leaned back in her chair with her lips half-open and her arms hanging: he sat at her feet leaning against her: along his shoulder and arm he could feel the warmth of sabine's leg. they were breathless. christophe laid his hands against the stones to cool them: one of his hands touched sabine's foot, that she had thrust out of her shoe, and he left it there, could not move it. they shivered. almost they lost control. christophe's hand closed on the slender toes of sabine's little foot. sabine turned cold, the sweat broke out on her brow, she leaned towards christophe….

familiar voices broke the spell. they trembled. christophe leaped to his feet and crossed the fence again. sabine picked up the shells in her lap and went in. in the yard he turned. she was at her door. they looked at each other. drops of rain were beginning to patter on the leaves of the trees…. she closed her door. frau vogel and rosa came in…. he went up to his room….

in the yellow light of the waning day drowned in the torrents of rain, he got up from his desk in response to an irresistible impulse: he ran to his window and held out his arms to the opposite window. at the same moment through the opposite window in the half-darkness of the room he saw—he thought he saw—sabine holding out her arms to him.

he rushed from his room. he went downstairs. he ran to the garden fence. at the risk of being seen he was about to clear it. but when he looked at the window at which she had appeared, he saw that the shutters were closed. the house seemed to be asleep. he stopped. old euler, going to his cellar, saw him and called him. he retraced his footsteps. he thought he must have been dreaming.

it was not long before rosa began to see what was happening. she had no diffidence and she did not yet know what jealousy was. she was ready to give wholly and to ask nothing in return. but if she was sorrowfully resigned to not being loved by christophe, she had never considered the possibility of christophe loving another.

one evening, after dinner, she had just finished a piece of embroidery at which she had been working for months. she was happy, and wanted for once in a way to leave her work and go and talk to christophe. she waited until her mother's back was turned and then slipped from the room. she crept from the house like a truant. she wanted to go and confound christophe, who had vowed scornfully that she would never finish her work. she thought it would be a good joke to go and take them by surprise in the street. it was no use the poor child knowing how christophe felt towards her: she was always inclined to measure the pleasure which others should have at seeing her by that which she had herself in meeting them.

she went out. christophe and sabine were sitting as usual in front of the house. there was a catch at rosa's heart. and yet she did not stop for the irrational idea that was in her: and she chaffed christophe warmly. the sound of her shrill voice in the silence of the night struck on christophe like a false note. he started in his chair, and frowned angrily. rosa waved her embroidery in his face triumphantly. christophe snubbed her impatiently.

"it is finished—finished!" insisted rosa.

"oh! well—go and begin another," said christophe curtly.

rosa was crestfallen. all her delight vanished. christophe went on crossly:

"and when you have done thirty, when you are very old, you will at least be able to say to yourself that your life has not been wasted!"

rosa was near weeping.

"how cross you are, christophe!" she said.

christophe was ashamed and spoke kindly to her. she was satisfied with so little that she regained confidence: and she began once more to chatter noisily: she could not speak low, she shouted deafeningly, like everybody in the house. in spite of himself christophe could not conceal his ill-humor. at first he answered her with a few irritated monosyllables: then he said nothing at all, turned his back on her, fidgeted in his chair, and ground his teeth as she rattled on. rosa saw that he was losing his temper and knew that she ought to stop: but she went on louder than ever. sabine, a few yards away, in the dark, said nothing, watched the scene with ironic impassivity. then she was weary and, feeling that the evening was wasted, she got up and went in. christophe only noticed her departure after she had gone. he got up at once and without ceremony went away with a curt "good-evening."

rosa was left alone in the street, and looked in bewilderment at the door by which he had just gone in. tears came to her eyes. she rushed in, went up to her room without a sound, so as not to have to talk to her mother, undressed hurriedly, and when she was in her bed, buried under the clothes, sobbed and sobbed. she made no attempt to think over what had passed: she did not ask herself whether christophe loved sabine, or whether christophe and sabine could not bear her: she knew only that all was lost, that life was useless, that there was nothing left to her but death.

next morning thought came to her once more with eternal illusive hope. she recalled the events of the evening and told herself that she was wrong to attach so much importance to them. no doubt christophe did not love her: she was resigned to that, though in her heart she thought, though she did not admit the thought, that in the end she would win his love by her love for him. but what reason had she for thinking that there was anything between sabine and him? how could he, so clever as he was, love a little creature whose insignificance and mediocrity were patent? she was reassured,—but for that she did not watch christophe any the less closely. she saw nothing all day, because there was nothing to see: but christophe seeing her prowling about him all day long without any sort of explanation was peculiarly irritated by it. she set the crown on her efforts in the evening when she appeared again and sat with them in the street. the scene of the previous evening was repeated. rosa talked alone. but sabine did not wait so long before she went indoors: and christophe followed her example. rosa could no longer pretend that her presence was not unwelcome: but the unhappy girl tried to deceive herself. she did not perceive that she could have done nothing worse than to try so to impose on herself: and with her usual clumsiness she went on through the succeeding days.

next day with rosa sitting by his side christophe waited is vain for sabine to appear.

the day after rosa was alone. they had given up the struggle. but she gained nothing by it save resentment from christophe, who was furious at being robbed of his beloved evenings, his only happiness. he was the less inclined to forgive her, for being absorbed with his own feelings, he had no suspicion of rosa's.

sabine had known them for some time: she knew that rosa was jealous even before she knew that she herself was in love: but she said nothing about it: and, with the natural cruelty of a pretty woman, who is certain of her victory, in quizzical silence she watched the futile efforts of her awkward rival.

left mistress of the field of battle rosa gazed piteously upon the results of her tactics. the best thing she could have done would have been not to persist, and to leave christophe alone, at least for the time being: but that was not what she did: and as the worst thing she could have done was to talk to him; about sabine, that was precisely what she did.

with a fluttering at her heart, by way of sounding him, she said timidly that sabine was pretty. christophe replied curtly; that she was very pretty. and although rosa might have foreseen the reply she would provoke, her heart thumped when she heard him. she knew that sabine was pretty: but she had never particularly remarked it: now she saw her for the first time with the eyes of christophe: she saw her delicate features, her short nose, her fine mouth, her slender figure, her graceful movements…. ah! how sad!… what would not she have given to possess sabine's body, and live in it! she did not go closely into why it should be preferred to her own!… her own!… what had she done to possess such a body? what a burden it was upon her. how ugly it seemed to her! it was odious to her. and to think that nothing but death could ever free her from it!… she was at once too proud and too humble to complain that she was not loved: she had no right to do so: and she tried even more to humble herself. but her instinct revolted…. no. it was not just!… why should she have such a body, she, and not sabine?… and why should sabine be loved? what had she done to be loved?… rosa saw her with no kindly eye, lazy, careless, egoistic, indifferent towards everybody, not looking after her house, or her child, or anybody, loving only herself, living only for sleeping, dawdling, and doing nothing…. and it was such a woman who pleased … who pleased christophe…. christophe who was so severe, christophe who was so discerning, christophe whom she esteemed and admired more than anybody!… how could christophe be blind to it?—she could not help from time to time dropping an unkind remark about sabine in his hearing. she did not wish to do so: but the impulse was stronger than herself. she was always sorry for it, for she was a kind creature and disliked speaking ill of anybody. but she was the more sorry because she drew down on herself such cruel replies as showed how much christophe was in love. he did not mince matters. hurt in his love, he tried to hurt in return: and succeeded. rosa would make no reply and go out with her head bowed, and her lips tight pressed to keep from crying. she thought that it was her own fault, that she deserved it for having hurt christophe by attacking the object of his love.

her mother was less patient. frau vogel, who saw everything, and old euler, also, had not been slow to notice christophe's interviews with their young neighbor: it was not difficult to guess their romance. their secret projects of one day marrying rosa to christophe were set at naught by it: and that seemed to them a personal affront of christophe, although he was not supposed to know that they had disposed of him without consulting his wishes. but amalia's despotism did not admit of ideas contrary to her own: and it seemed scandalous to her that christophe should have disregarded the contemptuous opinion she had often expressed of sabine.

she did not hesitate to repeat it for his benefit. whenever he was present she found some excuse for talking about her neighbor: she cast about for the most injurious things to say of her, things which might sting christophe most cruelly: and with the crudity of her point of view and language she had no difficulty in finding them. the ferocious instinct of a woman, so superior to that of a man in the art of doing evil, as well as of doing good, made her insist less on sabine's laziness and moral failings than on her uncleanliness. her indiscreet and prying eye had watched through the window for proofs of it in the secret processes of sabine's toilet: and she exposed them with coarse complacency. when from decency she could not say everything she left the more to be understood.

christophe would go pale with shame and anger: he would go white as a sheet and his lips would quiver. rosa, foreseeing what must happen, would implore her mother to have done: she would even try to defend sabine. but she only succeeded in making amalia more aggressive.

and suddenly christophe would leap from his chair. he would thump on the table and begin to shout that it was monstrous to speak of a woman, to spy upon her, to expose her misfortunes; only an evil mind could so persecute a creature who was good, charming, quiet, keeping herself to herself, and doing no harm to anybody, and speaking no ill of anybody. but they were making a great mistake if they thought they could do her harm; they only made him more sympathetic and made her kindness shine forth only the more clearly.

amalia would feel then that she had gone too far: but she was hurt by feeling it; and, shifting her ground, she would say that it was only too easy to talk of kindness: that the word was called in as an excuse for everything. heavens! it was easy enough to be thought kind when you never bothered about anything or anybody, and never did your duty!

to which christophe would reply that the first duty of all was to make life pleasant for others, but that there were people for whom duty meant only ugliness, unpleasantness, tiresomeness, and everything that interferes with the liberty of others and annoys and injures their neighbors, their servants, their families, and themselves. god save us from such people, and such a notion of duty, as from the plague!…

they would grow venomous. amalia would be very bitter. christophe would not budge an inch.—and the result of it all was that henceforth christophe made a point of being seen continually with sabine. he would go and knock at her door. he would talk gaily and laugh with her. he would choose moments when amalia and rosa could see him. amalia would avenge herself with angry words. but the innocent rosa's heart was rent and torn by this refinement of cruelty: she felt that he detested them and wished to avenge himself: and she wept bitterly.

so, christophe, who had suffered so much from injustice, learned unjustly to inflict suffering.

some time after that sabine's brother, a miller at landegg, a little town a few miles away, was to celebrate the christening of a child. sabine was to be godmother. she invited christophe. he had no liking for these functions: but for the pleasure of annoying the vogels and of being with sabine he accepted eagerly.

sabine gave herself the malicious satisfaction of inviting amalia and rosa also, being quite sure that they would refuse. they did. rosa was longing to accept. she did not dislike sabine: sometimes even her heart was filled with tenderness for her because christophe loved her: sometimes she longed to tell her so and to throw her arms about her neck. but there was her mother and her mother's example. she stiffened herself in her pride and refused. then, when they had gone, and she thought of them together, happy together, driving in the country on the lovely july day, while she was left shut up in her room, with a pile of linen to mend, with her mother grumbling by her side, she thought she must choke: and she cursed her pride. oh! if there were still time!… alas! if it were all to do again, she would have done the same….

the miller had sent his wagonette to fetch christophe and sabine. they took up several guests from the town and the farms on the road.. it was fresh dry weather. the bright sun made the red berries of the brown trees by the road and the wild cherry trees in the fields shine. sabine was smiling. her pale face was rosy under the keen wind. christophe had her little girl on his knees. they did not try to talk to each other: they talked to their neighbors without caring to whom or of what: they were glad to hear each other's voices: they were glad to be driving in the same carriage. they looked at each other in childish glee as they pointed out to each other a house, a tree, a passerby. sabine loved the country: but she hardly ever went into it: her incurable laziness made excursions impossible: it was almost a year since she had been outside the town: and so she delighted in the smallest things she saw. they were not new to christophe: but he loved sabine, and like all lovers he saw everything through her eyes, and felt all her thrills of pleasure, and all and more than the emotion that was in her: for, merging himself with his beloved, he endowed her with all that he was himself.

when they came to the mill they found in the yard all the people of the farm and the other guests, who received them with a deafening noise. the fowls, the ducks, and the dogs joined in. the miller, bertold, a great fair-haired fellow, square of head and shoulders, as big and tall as sabine was slight, took his little sister in his arms and put her down gently as though he were afraid of breaking her. it was not long before christophe saw that the little sister, as usual, did just as she liked with the giant, and that while he made heavy fun of her whims, and her laziness, and her thousand and one failings, he was at her feet, her slave. she was used to it, and thought it natural. she did nothing to win love: it seemed to her right that she should be loved: and if she were not, did not care: that is why everybody loved her.

christophe made another discovery not so pleasing. for a christening a godfather is necessary as well as a godmother, and the godfather has certain rights over the godmother, rights which he does not often renounce, especially when she is young and pretty. he learned this suddenly when he saw a farmer, with fair curly hair, and rings in his ears, go up to sabine laughing and kiss her on both cheeks. instead of telling himself that he was an ass to have forgotten this privilege, and more than an ass to be huffy about it, he was cross with sabine, as though she had deliberately drawn him into the snare. his crossness grew worse when he found himself separated from her during the ceremony. sabine turned round every now and then as the procession wound across the fields and threw him a friendly glance. he pretended not to see it. she felt that he was annoyed, and guessed why: but it did not trouble her: it amused her. if she had had a real squabble with some one she loved, in spite of all the pain it might have caused her, she would never have made the least effort to break down any misunderstanding: it would have been too much trouble. everything would come right if it were only left alone.

at dinner, sitting between the miller's wife and a fat girl with red cheeks whom he had escorted to the service without ever paying any attention to her, it occurred to christophe to turn and look at his neighbor: and, finding her comely, out of revenge, he flirted desperately with her with the idea of catching sabine's attention. he succeeded: but sabine was not the sort of woman to be jealous of anybody or anything: so long as she was loved, she did not care whether her lover did or did not pay court to others: and instead of being angry, she was delighted to see christophe amusing himself. from the other end of the table she gave him her most charming smile. christophe was disgruntled: there was no doubt then that sabine was indifferent to him: and he relapsed into his sulky mood from which nothing could draw him, neither the soft eyes of his neighbor, nor the wine that he drank. finally, when he was half asleep, he asked himself angrily what on earth he was doing at such an interminable orgy, and did not hear the miller propose a trip on the water to take certain of the guests home. nor did he see sabine beckoning him to come with her so that they should be in the same boat. when it occurred to him, there was no room for him: and he had to go in another boat. this fresh mishap was not likely to make him more amiable until he discovered that he was to be rid of almost all his companions on the way. then he relaxed and was pleasant. besides the pleasant afternoon on the water, the pleasure of rowing, the merriment of these good people, rid him of his ill-humor. as sabine was no longer there he lost his self-consciousness, and had no scruple about being frankly amused like the others.

they were in their boats. they followed each other closely, and tried to pass each other. they threw laughing insults at each other. when the boats bumped christophe saw sabine's smiling face: and he could not help smiling too: they felt that peace was made. he knew that very soon they would return together.

they began to sing part songs. each voice took up a line in time and the refrain was taken up in chorus. the people in the different boats, some way from each other, now echoed each other. the notes skimmed over the water like birds. from time to time a boat would go in to the bank: a few peasants would climb out: they would stand there and wave to the boats as they went further and further away. little by little they were disbanded. one by one voices left the chorus. at last they were alone, christophe, sabine, and the miller.

they came back in the same boat, floating down the river. christophe and bertold held the oars, but they did not row. sabine sat in the stern facing christophe, and talked to her brother and looked at christophe. talking so, they were able to look at each other undisturbedly. they could never have done so had the words ceased to flow. the deceitful words seemed to say: "it is not you that i see." but their eyes said to each other: "who are you? who are you? you that i love!… you that i love, whoever you be!…"

the sky was clouded, mists rose from the fields, the river steamed, the sun went down behind the clouds. sabine shivered and wrapped her little black shawl round her head and shoulders. she seemed to be tired. as the boat, hugging the bank, passed under the spreading branches of the willows, she closed her eyes: her thin face was pale: her lips were sorrowful: she did not stir, she seemed to suffer,—to have suffered,—to be dead. christophe's heart ached. he leaned over to her. she opened her eyes again and saw christophe's uneasy eyes upon her and she smiled into them. it was like a ray of sunlight to him. he asked in a whisper:

"are you ill?"

she shook her head and said:

"i am cold."

the two men put their overcoats about her, wrapped up her feet, her legs, her knees, like a child being tucked up in bed. she suffered it arid thanked them with her eyes. a fine, cold rain was beginning to fall. they took the oars and went quietly home. heavy clouds hung in the sky. the river was inky black. lights showed in the windows of the houses here and there in the fields. when they reached the mill the rain was pouring down and sabine was numbed.

they lit a large fire in the kitchen and waited until the deluge should he over. but it only grew worse, and the wind rose. they had to drive three miles to get back to the town. the miller declared that he would not let sabine go in such weather: and he proposed that they should both spend the night in the farmhouse. christophe was reluctant to accept: he looked at sabine for counsel: but her eyes were fixed on the fire on the hearth: it was as though they were afraid of influencing christophe's decision. but when christophe had said "yes," she turned to him and she was blushing—(or was it the reflection of the fire?)—and he saw that she was pleased.

a jolly evening…. the rain stormed outside. in the black chimney the fire darted jets of golden sparks. they spun round and round. their fantastic shapes were marked against the wall. the miller showed sabine's little girl how to make shadows with her hands. the child laughed and was not altogether at her ease. sabine leaned over the fire and poked it mechanically with a heavy pair of tongs: she was a little weary, and smiled dreamily, while, without listening, she nodded to her sister-in-law's chatter of her domestic affairs. christophe sat in the shadow by the miller's side and watched sabine smiling. he knew that she was smiling at him. they never had an opportunity of being alone all evening, or of looking at each other: they sought none.

they parted early. their rooms were adjoining, and communicated by a door. christophe examined the door and found that the lock was on sabine's side. he went to bed and tried to sleep. the rain was pattering against the windows. the wind howled in the chimney. on the floor above him a door was banging. outside the window a poplar bent and groaned under the tempest. christophe could not close his eyes. he was thinking that he was under the same roof, near her. a wall only divided them. he heard no sound in sabine's room. but he thought he could see her. he sat up in his bed and called to her in a low voice through the wall: tender, passionate words he said: he held out his arms to her. and it seemed to him that she was holding out her arms to him. in his heart he heard the beloved voice answering him, repeating his words, calling low to him: and he did not know whether it was he who asked and answered all the questions, or whether it was really she who spoke. the voice came louder, the call to him: he could not resist: he leaped from his bed: he groped his way to the door: he did not wish to open it: he was reassured by the closed door. and when he laid his hand once more on the handle he found that the door was opening….

he stopped dead. he closed it softly: he opened it once more: he closed it again. was it not closed just now? yes. he was sure it was. who had opened it?… his heart beat so that he choked. he leaned over his bed, and sat down to breathe again. he was overwhelmed by his passion. it robbed him of the power to see or hear or move: his whole body shook. he was in terror of this unknown joy for which for months he had been craving, which was with him now, near him, so that nothing could keep it from him. suddenly the violent boy filled with love was afraid of these desires newly realized and revolted from them. he was ashamed of them, ashamed of what he wished to do. he was too much in love to dare to enjoy what he loved: he was afraid: he would have done anything to escape his happiness. is it only possible to love, to love, at the cost of the profanation of the beloved?…

he went to the door again: and trembling with love and fear, with his hand on the latch he could not bring himself to open it.

and on the other side of the door, standing barefooted on the tiled floor, shivering with cold, was sabine.

so they stayed … for how long? minutes? hours?… they did not know that they were there: and yet they did know. they held out their arms to each other,—he was overwhelmed by a love so great that he had not the courage to enter,—she called to him, waited for him, trembled lest he should enter…. and when at last he made up his mind to enter, she had just made up her mind to turn the lock again.

then he cursed himself for a fool. he leaned against the door with all his strength. with his lips to the lock he implored her:

"open."

he called to sabine in a whisper: she could hear his heated breathing. she stayed motionless near the door: she was frozen: her teeth were chattering: she had no strength either to open the door or to go to bed again….

the storm made the trees crack and the doors in the house bang…. they turned away and went to their beds, worn out, sad and sick at heart. the cocks crowed huskily. the first light of dawn crept through the wet windows, a wretched, pale dawn, drowned in the persistent rain….

christophe got up as soon as he could: he went down to the kitchen and talked to the people there. he was in a hurry to be gone and was afraid of being left alone with sabine again. he was almost relieved when the miller's wife said that sabine was unwell, and had caught cold during the drive and would not be going that morning.

his journey home was melancholy. he refused to drive, and walked through the soaking fields, in the yellow mist that covered the earth, the trees, the houses, with a shroud. like the light, life seemed to be blotted out. everything loomed like a specter. he was like a specter himself.

at home he found angry faces. they were all scandalized at his having passed the night god knows where with sabine. he shut himself up in his room and applied himself to his work. sabine returned the next day and shut herself up also. they avoided meeting each other. the weather was still wet and cold: neither of them went out. they saw each other through their closed windows. sabine was wrapped up by her fire, dreaming. christophe was buried in his papers. they bowed to each other a little coldly and reservedly and then pretended to be absorbed again. they did not take stock of what they were feeling: they were angry with each other, with themselves, with things generally. the night at the farmhouse had been thrust aside in their memories: they were ashamed of it, and did not know whether they were more ashamed of their folly or of not having yielded to it. it was painful to them to see each other: for that made them remember things from which they wished to escape: and by joint agreement they retired into the depths of their rooms so as utterly to forget each other. but that was impossible, and they suffered keenly under the secret hostility which they felt was between them. christophe was haunted by the expression of dumb rancor which he had once seen in sabine's cold eyes. from such thoughts her suffering was not less: in vain did she struggle against them, and even deny them: she could not rid herself of them. they were augmented by her shame that christophe should have guessed what was happening within her: and the shame of having offered herself … the shame of having offered herself without having given.

christophe gladly accepted an opportunity which cropped up to go to cologne and düsseldorf for some concerts. he was glad to spend two or three weeks away from home. preparation for the concerts and the composition of a new work that he wished to play at them took up all his time and he succeeded in forgetting his obstinate memories. they disappeared from sabine's mind too, and she fell back into the torpor of her usual life. they came to think of each other with indifference. had they really loved each other? they doubted it. christophe was on the point of leaving for cologne without saying good-bye to sabine.

on the evening before his departure they were brought together again by some imperceptible influence. it was one of the sunday afternoons when everybody was at church. christophe had gone out too to make his final preparations for the journey. sabine was sitting in her tiny garden warming herself in the last rays of the sun. christophe came home: he was in a hurry and his first inclination when he saw her was; to bow and pass on. but something held him back as he was passing: was it sabine's paleness, or some indefinable feeling: remorse, fear, tenderness?… he stopped, turned to sabine, and, leaning over the fence, he bade her good-evening. without replying she held out her hand. her smile was all kindness,—such kindness as he had never seen in her. her gesture seemed to say: "peace between us…." he took her hand over the fence, bent over it, and kissed it. she made no attempt to withdraw it. he longed to go down on his knees and say, "i love you."… they looked at each other in silence. but they offered no explanation. after a moment she removed her hand and turned her head. he turned too to hide his emotion. then they looked at each other again with untroubled eyes. the sun was setting. subtle shades of color, violet, orange, and mauve, chased across the cold clear sky. she shivered and drew her shawl closer about her shoulders with a movement that he knew well. he asked:

"how are you?"

she made a little grimace, as if the question were not worth answering. they went on looking at each other and were happy. it was as though they had lost, and had just found each other again….

at last he broke the silence and said:

"i am going away to-morrow."

there was alarm in sabine's eyes.

"going away?" she said.

he added quickly:

"oh! only for two or three weeks."

"two or three weeks," she said in dismay.

he explained that he was engaged for the concerts, but that when he came back he would not stir all winter.

"winter," she said. "that is a long time off…."

"oh! no. it will soon be here."

she saddened and did not look at him.

"when shall we meet again?" she asked a moment later.

he did not understand the question: he had already answered it.

"as soon as i come back: in a fortnight, or three weeks at most."

she still looked dismayed. he tried to tease her:

"it won't be long for you," he said. "you will sleep."

"yes," said sabine.

she looked down, she tried to smile: but her eyes trembled.

"christophe!…" she said suddenly, turning towards him.

there was a note of distress in her voice. she seemed to say:

"stay! don't go!…"

he took her hand, looked at her, did not understand the importance she attached to his fortnight's absence: but he was only waiting for a word from her to say:

"i will stay…."

and just as she was going to speak, the front door was opened and rosa appeared. sabine withdrew her hand from christophe's and went hurriedly into her house. at the door she turned and looked at him once more—and disappeared.

christophe thought he should see her again in the evening. but he was watched by the vogels, and followed everywhere by his mother: as usual, he was behindhand with his preparations for his journey and could not find time to leave the house for a moment.

next day he left very early. as he passed sabine's door he longed to go in, to tap at the window: it hurt him to leave her without saying good-bye: for he had been interrupted by rosa before he had had time to do so. but he thought she must be asleep and would be cross with him if he woke her up. and then, what could he say to her? it was too late now to abandon his journey: and what if she were to ask him to do so?… he did not admit to himself that he was not averse to exercising his power over her,—if need be, causing her a little pain…. he did not take seriously the grief that his departure brought sabine: and he thought that his short absence would increase the tenderness which, perhaps, she had for him.

he ran to the station. in spite of everything he was a little remorseful. but as soon as the train had started it was all forgotten. there was youth in his heart. gaily he saluted the old town with its roofs and towers rosy under the sun: and with the carelessness of those who are departing he said good-bye to those whom he was leaving, and thought no more of them.

the whole time that he was at düsseldorf and cologne sabine never once recurred to his mind. taken up from morning till night with rehearsals and concerts, dinners and talk, busied with a thousand and one new things and the pride and satisfaction of his success he had no time for recollection. once only, on the fifth night after he left home, he woke suddenly after a dream and knew that he had been thinking of her in his sleep and that the thought of her had wakened him up: but he could not remember how he had been thinking of her. he was unhappy and feverish. it was not surprising: he had been playing at a concert that evening, and when he left the hall he had been dragged off to a supper at which he had drunk several glasses of champagne. he could not sleep and got up. he was obsessed by a musical idea. he pretended that it was that which had broken in upon his sleep and he wrote it down. as he read through it he was astonished to see how sad it was. there was no sadness in him when he wrote: at least, so he thought. but he remembered that on other occasions when he had been sad he had only been able to write joyous music, so gay that it offended his mood. he gave no more thought to it. he was used to the surprises of his mind world without ever being able to understand them. he went to sleep at once, and knew no more until the next morning.

he extended his stay by three or four days. it pleased him to prolong it, knowing he could return whenever he liked: he was in no hurry to go home. it was only when he was on the way, in the train, that the thought of sabine came back to him. he had not written to her. he was even careless enough never to have taken the trouble to ask at the post-office for any letters that might have been written to him. he took a secret delight in his silence: he knew that at home he was expected, that he was loved…. loved? she had never told him so: he had never told her so. no doubt they knew it and had no need to tell it. and yet there was nothing so precious as the certainty of such an avowal. why had they waited so long to make it? when they had been on the point of speaking always something—some mischance, shyness, embarrassment,—had hindered them. why? why? how much time they had lost!… he longed to hear the dear words from the lips of the beloved. he longed to say them to her: he said them aloud in the empty carriage. as he neared the town he was torn with impatience, a sort of agony…. faster! faster! oh! to think that in an hour he would see her again!…

it was half-past six in the morning when he reached home. nobody was up yet. sabine's windows were closed. he went into the yard on tiptoe so that she should not hear him. he chuckled at the thought of taking her by surprise. he went up to his room. his mother was asleep. he washed and brushed his hair without making any noise. he was hungry: but he was afraid of waking louisa by rummaging in the pantry. he heard footsteps in the yard: he opened his window softly and saw rosa, first up as usual, beginning to sweep. he called her gently. she started in glad surprise when she saw him: then she looked solemn. he thought she was still offended with him: but for the moment he was in a very good temper. he went down to her.

"rosa, rosa," he said gaily, "give me something to eat or i shall eat you!

i am dying of hunger!"

rosa smiled and took him to the kitchen on the ground floor. she poured him out a bowl of milk and then could not refrain from plying him with a string of questions about his travels and his concerts. but although he was quite ready to answer them,—(in the happiness of his return he was almost glad to hear rosa's chatter once more)—rosa stopped suddenly in the middle of her cross-examination, her face fell, her eyes turned away, and she became sorrowful. then her chatter broke out again: but soon it seemed that she thought it out of place and once more she stopped short. and he noticed it then and said:

"what is the matter, rosa? are you cross with me?"

she shook her head violently in denial, and turning towards him with her usual suddenness took his arm with both hands:

"oh! christophe!…" she said.

he was alarmed. he let his piece of bread fall from his hands.

"what! what is the matter?" he stammered.

she said again:

"oh! christophe!… such an awful thing has happened!"

he thrust away from the table. he stuttered:

"h—here?"

she pointed to the house on the other side of the yard.

he cried:

"sabine!"

she wept:

"she is dead."

christophe saw nothing. he got up: he almost fell: he clung to the table, upset the things on it: he wished to cry out. he suffered fearful agony. he turned sick.

rosa hastened to his side: she was frightened: she held his head and wept.

as soon as he could speak he said;

"it is not true!"

he knew that it was true. but he wanted to deny it, he wanted to pretend that it could not be. when he saw rosa's face wet with tears he could doubt no more and he sobbed aloud.

rosa raised her head:

"christophe!" she said.

he hid his face in his hands. she leaned towards him.

"christophe!… mamma is coming!…"

christophe got up.

"no, no," he said. "she must not see me."

she took his hand and led him, stumbling and blinded by his tears, to a little woodshed which opened on to the yard. she closed the door. they were in darkness. he sat on a block of wood used for chopping sticks. she sat on the fagots. sounds from without were deadened and distant. there he could weep without fear of being heard. he let himself go and sobbed furiously. rosa had never seen him weep: she had even thought that he could not weep: she knew only her own girlish tears and such despair in a man filled her with terror and pity. she was filled with a passionate love for christophe. it was an absolutely unselfish love: an immense need of sacrifice, a maternal self-denial, a hunger to suffer for him, to take his sorrow upon herself. she put her arm round his shoulders.

"dear christophe," she said, "do not cry!"

christophe turned from her.

"i wish to die!"

rosa clasped her hands.

"don't say that, christophe!"

"i wish to die. i cannot … cannot live now…. what is the good of living?"

"christophe, dear christophe! you are not alone. you are loved…."

"what is that to me? i love nothing now. it is nothing to me whether everything else live or die. i love nothing: i loved only her. i loved only her!"

he sobbed louder than ever with his face buried in his hands. rosa could find nothing to say. the egoism of christophe's passion stabbed her to the heart. now when she thought herself most near to him, she felt more isolated and more miserable than ever. grief instead of bringing them together thrust them only the more widely apart. she wept bitterly.

after some time, christophe stopped weeping and asked:

"how?… how?…"

rosa understood.

"she fell ill of influenza on the evening you left. and she was taken suddenly…."

he groaned.

"dear god!… why did you not write to me?"

she said:

"i did write. i did not know your address: you did not give us any. i went and asked at the theater. nobody knew it."

he knew how timid she was, and how much it must have cost her. he asked:

"did she … did she tell you to do that?"

she shook her head:

"no. but i thought …"

he thanked her with a look. rosa's heart melted.

"my poor … poor christophe!" she said.

she flung her arms round his neck and wept. christophe felt the worth of such pure tenderness. he had so much need of consolation! he kissed her:

"how kind you are," he said. "you loved her too?"

she broke away from him, she threw him a passionate look, did not reply, and began to weep again.

that look was a revelation to him. it meant:

"it was not she whom i loved…."

christophe saw at last what he had not known—what for months he had not wished to see. he saw that she loved him.

"'ssh," she said. "they are calling me." they heard amalia's voice.

rosa asked:

"do you want to go back to your room?"

he said:

"no. i could not yet: i could not bear to talk to my mother…. later on…."

she said:

"stay here. i will come back soon."

he stayed in the dark woodshed to which only a thread of light penetrated through a small airhole filled with cobwebs. from the street there came up the cry of a hawker, against the wall a horse in a stable next door was snorting and kicking. the revelation that had just come to christophe gave him no pleasure; but it held his attention for a moment. it made plain many things that he had not understood. a multitude of little things that he had disregarded occurred to him and were explained. he was surprised to find himself thinking of it; he was ashamed to be turned aside even for a moment from his misery. but that misery was so frightful, so irrepressible that the mistrust of self-preservation, stronger than his will, than his courage, than his love, forced him to turn away from it, seized on this new idea, as the suicide drowning seizes in spite of himself on the first object which can help him, not to save himself, but to keep himself for a moment longer above the water. and it was because he was suffering that he was able to feel what another was suffering—suffering through him. he understood the tears that he had brought to her eyes. he was filled with pity for rosa. he thought how cruel he had been to her—how cruel he must still be. for he did not love her. what good was it for her to love him? poor girl!… in vain did he tell himself that she was good (she had just proved it). what was her goodness to him? what was her life to him?…

he thought:

"why is it not she who is dead, and the other who is alive?"

he thought:

"she is alive: she loves me: she can tell me that to-day, to-morrow, all my life: and the other, the woman i love, she is dead and never told me that she loved me: i never have told her that i loved her: i shall never hear her say it: she will never know it…."

and suddenly he remembered that last evening: he remembered that they were just going to talk when rosa came and prevented it. and he hated rosa….

the door of the woodshed was opened. rosa called christophe softly, and groped towards him. she took his hand. he felt an aversion in her near presence: in vain did he reproach himself for it: it was stronger than himself.

rosa was silent: her great pity had taught her silence. christophe was grateful to her for not breaking in upon his grief with useless words. and yet he wished to know … she was the only creature who could talk to him of her. he asked in a whisper:

"when did she…"

(he dared not say: die.)

she replied:

"last saturday week."

dimly he remembered. he said:

"at night?"

rosa looked at him in astonishment and said:

"yes. at night. between two and three."

the sorrowful melody came back to him. he asked, trembling:

"did she suffer much?"

"no, no. god be thanked, dear christophe: she hardly suffered at all. she was so weak. she did not struggle against it. suddenly they saw that she was lost…."

"and she … did she know it?"

"i don't know. i think …"

"did she say anything?"

"no. nothing. she was sorry for herself like a child."

"you were there?"

"yes. for the first two days i was there alone, before her brother came."

he pressed her hand in gratitude.

"thank you."

she felt the blood rush to her heart.

after a silence he said, he murmured the question which was choking him:

"did she say anything … for me?"

rosa shook her head sadly. she would have given much to be able to let him have the answer he expected: she was almost sorry that she could not lie about it. she tried to console him:

"she was not conscious."

"but she did speak?"

"one could not make out what she said. it was in a very low voice."

"where is the child?"

"her brother took her away with him to the country."

"and she?"

"she is there too. she was taken away last monday week."

they began to weep again.

frau vogel's voice called rosa once more. christophe, left alone again, lived through those days of death. a week, already a week ago…. o god! what had become of her? how it had rained that week!… and all that time he was laughing, he was happy!

in his pocket he felt a little parcel wrapped up in soft paper: they were silver buckles that he had brought her for her shoes. he remembered the evening when he had placed his hand on the little stockinged foot. her little feet: where were they now? how cold they must be!… he thought the memory of that warm contact was the only one that he had of the beloved creature. he had never dared to touch her, to take her in his arms, to hold her to his breast. she was gone forever, and he had never known her. he knew nothing of her, neither soul nor body. he had no memory of her body, of her life, of her love…. her love?… what proof had he of that?… he had not even a letter, a token,—nothing. where could he seek to hold her, in himself, or outside himself?… oh! nothing! there was nothing left him but the love he had for her, nothing left him but himself.—and in spite of all, his desperate desire to snatch her from destruction, his need of denying death, made him cling to the last piece of wreckage, in an act of blind faith:

"… he son gia morto: e ben, c'albergo cangi resto in te vivo. c'or mi vedi e piangi, se l'un nell' altro amante si trasforma."

"… i am not dead: i have changed my dwelling. i live still in thee who art faithful to me. the soul of the beloved is merged in the soul of the lover."

he had never read these sublime words: but they were in him. each one of us in turn climbs the calvary of the age. each one of us finds anew the agony, each one of us finds anew the desperate hope and folly of the ages. each one of us follows in the footsteps of those who were, of those before us who struggled with death, denied death—and are dead.

* * * * *

he shut himself up in his room. his shutters were closed all day so as not to see the windows of the house opposite. he avoided the vogels: they were odious to his sight. he had nothing to reproach them with: they were too honest, and too pious not to have thrust back their feelings in the face of death. they knew christophe's grief and respected it, whatever they might think of it: they never uttered sabine's name in his presence. but they had been her enemies when she was alive: that was enough to make him their enemy now that she was dead.

besides they had not altered their noisy habits: and in spite of the sincere though passing pity that they had felt, it was obvious that at bottom they were untouched by the misfortune—(it was too natural)—perhaps even they were secretly relieved by it. christophe imagined so at least. now that the vogels' intentions with regard to himself were made plain he exaggerated them in his own mind. in reality they attached little importance to him: he set too great store by himself. but he had no doubt that the death of sabine, by removing the greatest obstacle in the way of his landlords' plans, did seem to them to leave the field clear for rosa. so he detested her. that they—(the vogels, louisa, and even rosa)—should have tacitly disposed of him, without consulting him, was enough in any case to make him lose all affection for the person whom he was destined to love. he shied whenever he thought an attempt was made upon his umbrageous sense of liberty. but now it was not only a question of himself. the rights which these others had assumed over him did not only infringe upon his own rights but upon those of the dead woman to whom his heart was given. so he defended them doggedly, although no one was for attacking them. he suspected rosa's goodness. she suffered in seeing him suffer and would often come and knock at his door to console him and talk to him about the other. he did not drive her away: he needed to talk of sabine with some one who had known her: he wanted to know the smallest of what had happened during her illness. but he was not grateful to rosa: he attributed ulterior motives to her. was it not plain that her family, even amalia, permitted these visits and long colloquies which she would never have allowed if they had not fallen in with her wishes? was not rosa in league with her family? he could not believe that her pity was absolutely sincere and free of personal thoughts.

and, no doubt, it was not. rosa pitied christophe with all her heart. she tried hard to see sabine through christophe's eyes, and through him to love her: she was angry with herself for all the unkind feelings that she had ever had towards her, and asked her pardon in her prayers at night. but could she forget that she was alive, that she was seeing christophe every moment of the day, that she loved him, that she was no longer afraid of the other, that the other was gone, that her memory would also fade away in its turn, that she was left alone, that one day perhaps …? in the midst of her sorrow, and the sorrow of her friend more hers than her own, could she repress a glad impulse, an unreasoning hope? for that too she was angry with herself. it was only a flash. it was enough. he saw it. he threw her a glance which froze her heart: she read in it hateful thoughts: he hated her for being alive while the other was dead.

the miller brought his cart for sabine's little furniture. coming back from a lesson christophe saw heaped up before the door in the street the bed, the cupboard, the mattress, the linen, all that she had possessed, all that was left of her. it was a dreadful sight to him. he rushed past it. in the doorway he bumped into bertold, who stopped him.

"ah! my dear sir," he said, shaking his hand effusively. "ah! who would have thought it when we were together? how happy we were! and yet it was because of that day, because of that cursed row on the water, that she fell ill. oh well. it is no use complaining! she is dead. it will be our turn next. that is life…. and how are you? i'm very well, thank god!"

he was red in the face, sweating, and smelled of wine. the idea that he was her brother, that he had rights in her memory, hurt christophe. it offended him to hear this man talking of his beloved. the miller on the contrary was glad, to find a friend with whom he could talk of sabine: he did not understand christophe's coldness. he had no idea of all the sorrow that his presence, the sudden calling to mind of the day at his farm, the happy memories that he recalled so blunderingly, the poor relics of sabine, heaped upon the ground, which he kicked as he talked, set stirring in christophe's soul. he made some excuse for stopping bertold's tongue. he went up the steps: but the other clung to him, stopped him, and went on with his harangue. at last when the miller took to telling him of sabine's illness, with that strange pleasure which certain people, and especially the common people, take in talking of illness, with a plethora of painful details, christophe could bear it no longer—(he took a tight hold of himself so as not to cry out in his sorrow). he cut him short:

"pardon," he said curtly and icily. "i must leave you."

he left him without another word.

his insensibility revolted the miller. he had guessed the secret affection of his sister and christophe. and that christophe should now show such indifference seemed monstrous to him: he thought he had no heart.

christophe had fled to his room: he was choking. until the removal was over he never left his room. he vowed that he would never look out of the window, but he could not help doing so: and hiding in a corner behind the curtain he followed the departure of the goods and chattels of the beloved eagerly and with profound sorrow. when he saw them disappearing forever he all but ran down to the street to cry: "no! no! leave them to me! do not take them from me!" he longed to beg at least for some little thing, only one little thing, so that she should not be altogether taken from him. but how could he ask such a thing of the miller? it was nothing to him. she herself had not known his love: how dared he then reveal it to another? and besides, if he had tried to say a word he would have burst out crying…. no. no. he had to say nothing, to watch all go, without being able—without daring to save one fragment from the wreck….

and when it was all over, when the house was empty, when the yard gate was closed after the miller, when the wheels of his cart moved on, shaking the windows, when they were out of hearing, he threw himself on the floor—not a tear left in him, not a thought of suffering, of struggling, frozen, and like one dead.

there was a knock at the door. he did not move. another knock. he had forgotten to lock the door. rosa came in. she cried out on seeing him stretched on the floor and stopped in terror. he raised his head angrily:

"what? what do you want? leave me!"

she did not go: she stayed, hesitating, leaning against the floor, and said again:

"christophe…."

he got up in silence: he was ashamed of having been seen so. he dusted himself with his hand and asked harshly:

"well. what do you want?"

rosa said shyly:

"forgive me … christophe … i came in … i was bringing you…."

he saw that she had something in her hand.

"see," she said, holding it out to him. "i asked bertold to give me a little token of her. i thought you would like it…."

it was a little silver mirror, the pocket mirror in which she used to look at herself for hours, not so much from coquetry as from want of occupation. christophe took it, took also the hand which held it.

"oh! rosa!…" he said.

he was filled with her kindness and the knowledge of his own injustice. on a passionate impulse he knelt to her and kissed her hand.

"forgive … forgive …" he said.

rosa did not understand at first: then she understood only too well: she blushed, she trembled, she began to weep. she understood that he meant:

"forgive me if i am unjust…. forgive me if i do not love you…. forgive me if i cannot … if i cannot love you, if i can never love you!…"

she did not withdraw her hand from him: she knew that it was not herself that he was kissing. and with his cheek against rosa's hand, he wept hot tears, knowing that she was reading through him: there was sorrow and bitterness in being unable to love her and making her suffer.

they stayed so, both weeping, in the dim light of the room.

at last she withdrew her hand. he went on murmuring;

"forgive!…"

she laid her hand gently on his hand. he rose to his feet. they kissed in silence: they felt on their lips the bitter savor of their tears.

"we shall always be friends," he said softly. she bowed her head and left him, too sad to speak.

they thought that the world is ill made. the lover is unloved. the beloved does not love. the lover who is loved is sooner or later torn from his love…. there is suffering. there is the bringing of suffering. and the most wretched is not always the one who suffers.

once more christophe took to avoiding the house. he could not bear it. he could not bear to see the curtainless windows, the empty rooms.

a worse sorrow awaited him. old euler lost no time in reletting the ground floor. one day christophe saw strange faces in sabine's room. new lives blotted out the traces of the life that was gone.

it became impossible for him to stay in his rooms. he passed whole days outside, not coming back until nightfall, when it was too dark to see anything. once more he took to making expeditions in the country. irresistibly he was drawn to bertold's farm. but he never went in, dared not go near it, wandered about it at a distance. he discovered a place on a hill from which he could see the house, the plain, the river: it was thither that his steps usually turned. from thence he could follow with his eyes the meanderings of the water down to the willow clump under which he had seen the shadow of death pass across sabine's face. from thence he could pick out the two windows of the rooms in which they had waited, side by side, so near, so far, separated by a door—the door to eternity. from thence he could survey the cemetery. he had never been able to bring himself to enter it: from childhood he had had a horror of those fields of decay and corruption, and refused to think of those whom he loved in connection with them. but from a distance and seen from above, the little graveyard never looked grim, it was calm, it slept with the sun…. sleep!… she loved to sleep! nothing would disturb her there. the crowing cocks answered each other across the plains. from the homestead rose the roaring of the mill, the clucking of the poultry yard, the cries of children playing. he could make out sabine's little girl, he could see her running, he could mark her laughter. once he lay in wait for her near the gate of the farmyard, in a turn of the sunk road made by the walls: he seized her as she passed and kissed her. the child was afraid and began, to cry. she had almost forgotten him already. he asked her:

"are you happy here?"

"yes. it is fun…."

"you don't want to come back?"

"no!"

he let her go. the child's indifference plunged him in sorrow. poor sabine!… and yet it was she, something of her…. so little! the child was hardly at all like her mother: had lived in her, but was not she: in that mysterious passage through her being the child had hardly retained more than the faintest perfume of the creature who was gone: inflections of her voice, a pursing of the lips, a trick of bending the head. the rest of her was another being altogether: and that being mingled with the being of sabine was repulsive to christophe though he never admitted it to himself.

it was only in himself that christophe could find the image of sabine. it followed him everywhere, hovering above him; but he only felt himself really to be with her when he was alone. nowhere was she nearer to him than in this refuge, on the hill, far from strange eyes, in the midst of the country that was so full of the memory of her. he would go miles to it, climbing at a run, his heart beating as though he were going to a meeting with her: and so it was indeed. when he reached it he would lie on the ground—the same earth in which her body was laid: he would close his eyes: and she would come to him. he could not see her face: he could not hear her voice; he had no need: she entered into him, held him, he possessed her utterly. in this state of passionate hallucination he would lose the power of thought, he would be unconscious of what was happening: he was unconscious of everything save that he was with her.

that state of things did not last long.—to tell the truth he was only once altogether sincere. from the day following, his will had its share in the proceedings. and from that time on christophe tried in vain to bring it back to life. it was only then that he thought of evoking in himself the face and form of sabine: until then he had never thought of it. he succeeded spasmodically and he was fired by it. but it was only at the cost of hours of waiting and of darkness.

"poor sabine!" he would think. "they have all forgotten you. there is only i who love you, who keep your memory alive forever. oh, my treasure, my precious! i have you, i hold you, i will never let you go!…"

he spoke these words because already she was escaping him: she was slipping from his thoughts like water through his fingers. he would return again and again, faithful to the tryst. he wished to think of her and he would close his eyes. but after half an hour, or an hour, or sometimes two hours, he would begin to see that he had been thinking of nothing. the sounds of the valley, the roar of the wind, the little bells of the two goats browsing on the hill, the noise of the wind in the little slender trees under which he lay, were sucked up by his thoughts soft and porous like a sponge. he was angry with his thoughts: they tried to obey him, and to fix the vanished image to which he was striving to attach his life: but his thoughts fell back weary and chastened and once more with a sigh of comfort abandoned themselves to the listless stream of sensations.

he shook off his torpor. he strode through the country hither and thither seeking sabine. he sought her in the mirror that once had held her smile. he sought her by the river bank where her hands had dipped in the water. but the mirror and the water gave him only the reflection of himself. the excitement of walking, the fresh air, the beating of his own healthy blood awoke music in him once more. he wished to find change.

"oh! sabine!…" he sighed.

he dedicated his songs to her: he strove to call her to life in his music, his love, and his sorrow…. in vain: love and sorrow came to life surely: but poor sabine had no share in them. love and sorrow looked towards the future, not towards the past. christophe was powerless against his youth. the sap of life swelled up again in him with new vigor. his grief, his regrets, his chaste and ardent love, his baffled desires, heightened the fever that was in him. in spite of his sorrow, his heart beat in lively, sturdy rhythm: wild songs leaped forth in mad, intoxicated strains: everything in him hymned life and even sadness took on a festival shape. christophe was too frank to persist in self-deception: and he despised himself. but life swept him headlong: and in his sadness, with death in his heart, and life in all his limbs, he abandoned himself to the forces newborn in him, to the absurd, delicious joy of living, which grief, pity, despair, the aching wound of an irreparable loss, all the torment of death, can only sharpen and kindle into being in the strong, as they rowel their sides with furious spur.

and christophe knew that, in himself, in the secret hidden depths of his soul, he had an inaccessible and inviolable sanctuary where lay the shadow of sabine. that the flood of life could not bear away…. each of us bears in his soul as it were a little graveyard of those whom he has loved. they sleep there, through the years, untroubled. but a day cometh,—this we know,—when the graves shall reopen. the dead issue from the tomb and smile with their pale lips—loving, always—on the beloved, and the lover, in whose breast their memory dwells, like the child sleeping in the mother's womb.