t
party she was to give that very evening. With his usual tranquillity he
directed the work, protected the tall branches which the workmen might
have broken: "Not like that. Bend it over. Take care of the carpet."

The atmosphere of pleasure and merry-making which had so revolted her a
moment before pursued her to her own house. It was too much, after all
the rest! She rebelled; and as Risler saluted her, affectionately and
with deep respect as always, her face assumed an expression of intense
disgust, and she passed without speaking to him, without seeing the
amazement that opened his great, honest eyes.

From that moment her course was determined. Wrath, a wrath born of
uprightness and sense of justice, guided her actions. She barely took
time to kiss her child's rosy cheeks before running to her mother's
room.

"Come, mamma, dress yourself quickly. We are going away. We are going
away."

The old lady rose slowly from the armchair in which she was sitting,
busily engaged in cleaning her watch-chain by inserting a pin between
every two links with infinite care.

"Come, come, hurry. Get your things ready."

Her voice trembled, and the poor monomaniac's room seemed a horrible
place to her, all glistening as it was with the cleanliness that had
gradually become a mania. She had reached one of those fateful moments
when the loss of one illusion causes you to lose them all, enables
you to look to the very depths of human misery. The realization of her
complete isolation, between her half-mad mother, her faithless husband,
her too young child, came upon her for the first time; but it served
only to strengthen her in her resolution.

In a moment the whole household was busily engaged in making
preparations for this abrupt, unexpected departure. Claire hurried the
bewildered servants, and dressed her mother and the child, who laughed
merrily amid all the excitement. She was in haste to go before Georges'
return, so that he might find the cradle empty and the house deserted.
Where should she go? She did not know as yet. Perhaps to her aunt at
Orleans, perhaps to Savigny, no matter where. What she must do first of
all was-go, fly from that atmosphere of treachery and falsehood.

At that moment she was in her bedroom, packing a trunk, making a pile
of her effects--a heartrending occupation. Every object that she touched
set in motion whole worlds of thoughts, of memories. There is so much
of ourselves in anything that w