When the arrival of Mme. Derize became known at Uriage, the entire Molay-Norrois set unanimously condemned Elizabeth. It was an absurdly sentimental concession. It would have been better to have continued to maintain her dignity. Saint Martin was little frequented. Nobody bothered to meet an old woman of commonplace family. M. Passerat, who had formerly had occasion to converse with her, took her part, but as usual, showed himself to be a coward. "She is an educated woman, I assure you." "Yes, a former post-mistress," said Mme. de Vimelle curtly. Philippe Lagier, who had left for Florence the day following his distressing defeat, was no longer there to make them respect his old friend. However, Mme. Molay-Norrois visited her daughter more frequently, and even made advances to Albert's mother. Elizabeth, absorbed in her one idea, showed herself to be unjust in not noticing these praiseworthy efforts. Another drama was being played about her which she never suspected. The absent member of the family was never mentioned at Saint-Martin, but the thought of him abided there. It occupied the two women unceasingly, one of whom, the young wife, kept silent from pride, and the other from a motive of delicacy, feeling awkward even in presence of the children--in order not to violate instructions that she understood, but regretted. Mme. Derize did not compare the faults of her daughter-in-law with those of her son. She simply wanted to incline Elizabeth to indulgence. Orderly in her own inner life and very skeptical about the duration of illegitimate passions, she did not give up hope of Albert's return. For a fortnight this strained condition continued. In the evenings after Marie Louise and Philippe had gone to bed, it became particularly unbearable. The two women worked under the same lamp; one, wearing spectacles and bent over a thick woolen stocking intended to warm some poor neighbor's baby in the wintertime; the other, very erect; guiding herself from a pattern of some tapestry on which she worked idly and without pleasure. They exchanged a few commonplaces, then the conversation stopped. The stillness of the country at night was all about them, penetrating and quieting them. "Why does she not speak to me?" thought Elizabeth, reopening her wound. "Albert considered her so intelligent, so superior to poor silly little me. She does not bother with me. I am not worth the trouble. Then why did she come?" She did not know that the older woman was reproaching herself in the same way. "She is suffering," the latter said to herself. "She would suffer less, if she told me her secret which I guess, yet fear I may be mistaken. I ought to get closer to her, draw her to me and comfort her, and yet, I dare not--I feel a weight in my heart, which is choking and oppressing me. My lips are about to open, they do open, and I remain silent. Why, O my God, have I so little courage?"