The last volume of the "History of the Peasant" had appeared the previous month, and drawing attention to the whole work, it was the subject of numerous reviews and even heated discussions in the press. In Parliament it had inspired the plan of a bill relating to unseizable family property. The death of an old statesman, forgotten because of his almost interminable old age, had caused a vacancy in the Academy. The newspapers, influenced by such brilliant success, had sympathetically mentioned the candidacy of Albert Derize, without consulting him. To Philippe's questions, he had only replied: "In my position, it is impossible. And what do honors matter to me?" He left with his friend a copy of his book for Marie Louise, with an appropriate inscription. Through the child, he saw Elizabeth. The invalid plunged into the reading of it. She discovered therein a sharper and more bitter tone, an authority which asserted itself without discretion, almost with insolence. The conclusions concerning the importance of patrimony, the family, the freedom to make one's will, the account of rural domain, and of tradition, all accorded with the strength of the first volumes, perhaps with less force of persuasion, but a more studied power, and in places, a mood of irritation which revealed an eloquence, both high-spirited and disillusioned. Elizabeth's health triumphed over that crisis which was the result of an excess of moral fatigue--but she remained subject to nervous trouble, anæmic and susceptible to all injurious influences. Her doctor, who knew her from childhood, analyzed her case as a psychologist, and was not satisfied with her condition. "This state of uncertainty brings about an irregularity of all the vital functions. A decided position, final separation, divorce would be preferable. After the shock, she could again take up a normal life. She is so young." But she would hear nothing of this. She would wear herself out without improvement, as long as her strength lasted. Philippe, allowed to visit her, saw the "History of the Peasant" on a little table next to the sofa. "You have read it?" he asked. "Yes." "Well?" "It is very fine." She added, as if speaking of someone else: "Men can change their feelings without changing their thoughts. Women, no!" It was she, who was now generalizing. He appeared to be meditating, as if weighing a difficult case, and at the end of his reflections, remarked simply: "I believe he still loves you." "Please--" "I am sure of it. And I know how to give him back to you." Half reclining on the cushions, she sat up, her cheeks flaming, her eyes shining with fever. "I beg of you to give up that idea. He has wrecked his home. It was his affair to rebuild it. And now--" "Now." She allowed herself to fall back. "It is too late," she said. Philippe, ever eager to serve her, was painfully affected by this evidence of her state of disenchantment, and changed the conversation, which was painful to her.