Marie Louise and Philippe had soon exhausted the novelty of change. The friendship of the farmers' children, calling in the fowls to give them corn, the mystery of the barns and the farm implements, the heat of the stables, the joy of going into the fields with the cows in the charge of their nervous governess, only made them forget for a few days their motor trips and the children's dances at the casino. They imperiously demanded more refined amusements. Their mother tried to take them walking to Prémol or to the Oursière Waterfall in the Chestnut woods. But she did not know the difference between mushrooms and toadstools, and the untiring youngsters wanted to drag her too far; unaccustomed to walking, she became exhausted before they did. This dual inferiority lessened her in their esteem. She ended by forgetting herself in trying to read stories to them. The library at Saint Martin, carelessly arranged on white pinewood shelves, contained all kinds of curious old books, novels of chivalry, collections of popular legends, ballads of France and other countries. Elizabeth had often seen her husband glance hurriedly over them and take out a volume which she thought was chosen at random, but from whose pages, fantastic heroes escaped. When she wished to do likewise, she saw how ignorant she was. "You don't know," said Marie Louise condescendingly. "Papa knew. And then he did not read--he told us stories. It's much nicer." And the impertinent little girl finished by saying: "I will tell you the story of the 'Cup of Happiness.'" How difficult it was to keep a resolution! After the sad exaltation of her night of awakening, which had inspired her so tremendously in her desire for change and sacrifice, she was now hesitating at little daily obstacles and struggling against them. She would never attain the object which she sought. What was the good of trying? Albert would know nothing of it. The irreparable separated them. He belonged to another love. Thus discouraged, she ceased all resistance and gave way. But she increased her sorrow by worrying, as one irritates a wound by frequent probings. And, at night, the sight of the lights attracted her. She was already considering going back, renouncing the decision made at a time of deadly insomnia. Only self-love still retained her. She pictured the ironical glances of Mme. Passerat or of Mme. de Vimelle.