"My daughter, forgive me!" he said solemnly, and left the room, as he saw she was longing for solitude. He was full of amazement that religious faith could so strengthen and comfort Germaine in her hopeless sorrow, and felt his theories and principles had received a violent shock. CHAPTER XI. One night not long after this, Grenoble, after trying in vain to fall asleep, sprang from his bed, and dressed himself hastily. He was subject to fearful head-aches, and at such times his head felt as if it were being slowly crushed in a vice. He opened his door gently to go down to the garden. As he stepped into the hall, he was astonished to hear steps near him. He waited, motionless, and saw by the moonlight streaming through the window on the landing, that it was Claude, creeping softly up stairs, listening and stopping from time to time, as if afraid of being overheard. When he had disappeared in the second story, Grenoble went on his way to the garden, trying to imagine what could take Claude up stairs at this time of night, as Paul and his wife were the only ones on that floor. He thought for an instant of going up himself to see if any one were sick, but was afraid he might intrude. He strolled around the garden a few minutes when he noticed that light was streaming from Odette's window, and glancing up, he was perfectly thunder-struck at what he saw. The shadow of two figures in a close embrace was thrown on the white curtain. Claude was with Odette. It was such a sudden shock to Grenoble's loyal heart that it felled him to the ground. But it could not be as he imagined! He must have made a mistake! However, he had certainly seen Claude not five minutes ago, creeping cautiously to the rendezvous. Grenoble arose and walked to a garden-seat, staggering as if intoxicated. Then he sat down and tried to collect his thoughts. The artist was Odette's lover! A sudden light seemed thrown on their life for the last few months. He thought of those frequent tête-à-têtes, drives, etc., and that Claude seemed to have relinquished painting entirely. He would go to his studio, get his easel ready, spread his paints, and that would be all. His hand seemed too heavy to work, or his head was empty of ideas. Grenoble had not paid much attention to this idleness, as he had taken it for granted it was one of those fits of inactivity that are common to all artists when the flame of inspiration seems to burn lower and lower. But now he understood it. Claude was carried away by a terrible passion that seemed to have destroyed at the same time his genius and his honor.