With the first autumn rains, the bathers left Uriage. M. Molay-Norrois had not waited until the end of September to pack up and go away. "Don't you feel the dampness, my dear?" he said twenty times a day to his wife, even when the weather was dry, though not quite so warm. "It drifts into this narrow valley. Let us get back to town where we can make ourselves comfortable." After a little opposition, Mme. de Molay-Norrois gave in. No doubt she wanted to be near her daughter and grandchildren, but thought more of her invalid's happiness. Soon Elizabeth recovered the solitude in which she had been so happy the previous year. Somewhat rheumatic, and wishing not to become a burden on her daughter-in-law in this resourceless village, her mother-in-law had gone back to Grenoble at the beginning of October. "Come back to me soon," she said at parting. "Solitude at your age is not a good counselor." But the youngsters were in splendid health, and Elizabeth let herself sink into that supine state, which comes with the last rays of the autumn sun and the treacherous charm of Nature. The view of a deeper forest, a more impassioned feeling which she was beginning to understand, filled her this season with a bitterness which soothed her. She was conscious of her weakness, afraid of it, and forced herself to struggle against it. In order not to take up the routine of the city so soon, she invited Blanche Vernier to spend a week or two at Saint Martin with her children. These, four in number, put themselves under the yoke of Marie Louise and Philippe who surpassed them in brains and cleverness. Elizabeth was entertained for several days by the simple joy expressed by her friend, in following the work in the fields, which was entirely new to her, in running down the wild paths, in which, accustomed to city life, she found an almost exaggerated charm. Then she grew weary of her exclamations, even of her pretty sayings which were somewhat vulgar. She wearied of it, because, abandoned and neglected, she was more sensitive and susceptible than usual, at this season which deepens one's suffering. Then she allowed Blanche to take the crowd of children out, and remained alone to express her sadness in the music she interpretated, to begin but not finish books, whose contagious melancholy she knew, and still more uselessly, to think, aimlessly, hopelessly and without any object, for no purpose but the pleasure of giving herself as much pain as possible. And, rousing herself from that state of languor, she determined that she could no longer remain in the country.