Without a word they understood each other. Daughterly modesty prevented Elizabeth, who remembered her bitterness at Uriage, from questioning her mother, and she asked herself how long must she have lived with this terrible secret. What strangers we are to one another! How little we can know of the deepest anguish of beings who are dearest to us, and how difficult it is to see and to understand! To perform a duty is easier than to know it, and no one directs or perfects in himself this delicate and complex art of knowledge. Mme. Molay-Norrois was the first to feel the necessity of an explanation. "My dear, I am finding you again. I thought I had lost you." "Oh, Mother!" "I did not understand why you were estranged from me. But I blamed myself." "Blamed yourself?" "Yes, when you came back to us from Paris ... after Albert's ... deception, I did not admit for a moment that your separation was not inevitable. I aroused you against him, instead of calming you. I still retained, at my age, so many illusions about happiness, about life! Now, I have no more, you understand. I had thought so little about those things. Forgive my mistake." Elizabeth covered the poor weeping eyes with kisses. In a low voice she asked: "Is it a long time ... since you found out?" "The last day at Uriage. And you knew then?" "Yes." "You did not tell me--you went away from me. "Not from you, Mother--from father. How could I have spoken?" "You are right." She hesitated a moment, then wished to defend herself, although she had not been accused. "It is too late. After thirty-two years of marriage. On account of you and your brothers, for the sake of their careers, my hands are tied. What should I have done? I said nothing. He did not even notice it. He is somewhat selfish. Still I have suffered terribly. My ideals are shattered." "Dear Mother, let us say no more. Lean on me. Let me soothe you, as if I were your mother." "No. Listen. You must know about it. He is not entirely to blame. When he was in the army and his post was changed, I insisted that he resign. He had nothing to do, and was very attractive. I wanted to live--I did wrong. We are often responsible for the sorrows which crush us." "Oh, you did not deserve that grief." "Now he is ill and old age is coming on. It is sad to think, but old age and illness are working in my behalf. _She_ comes less willingly. He prefers my care. That is something." She tried unsuccessfully to smile. Elizabeth continued to hold her hands, not growing weary in observing on the poor, aging face, traces of distress, which seemed living reproaches to her. In spite of her affection, she had for some months misjudged her mother, who was giving her a lesson in endurance, silence, self-denial and resignation. But she did not wish to be resigned. When asked what she thought of doing, she answered: "I do not know." "You are still his wife. If he came back to you, would you receive him?" "I do not think so."