A mistress can prove her love by turning willingly from a life which she is hindering, and whose happiness no longer depends upon her. She, the wife, must show hers by her firm adherence to an attachment which is indissoluble. So Elizabeth, wounded and exalted, roused herself to vitalize her inactivity. III ELIZABETH IN PARIS She wisely delayed her departure for three weeks. Should not the days fall like spadefuls of earth upon a coffin, after a separation which had been cruel? Philippe Lagier, whose rôle she did not suspect, had come to tell her of Albert's useless voyage to London. "It will not be long before he returns," he assured her in a tone of mingled bitterness and irony. "Leave him the customary time for half-mourning." But she did not confide any of her plans to him. As the days passed, she began to fear, and her hesitation took hold of her again. Was it not better to wait? Could Anne de Sézery be so quickly forgotten? The memory of Mme. Derize, the future of her children, an overwhelming desire for sacrifice and her love, drove her on, impelled her to go. Yes, she would spare her husband the first step, she would go to find him, she would bring him back. That magnanimous decision affected her like a fever, and so completely filled her mind, that she did not think of conjecturing the welcome she would receive. At the end of May, fearing some new journey of Albert's, or the negative influence of solitude, she determined to go. Old Fanchette, sharing the secret, looked with terror at the open trunk. "Paris! Paris!" she muttered, as if she were naming some beast of the Apocalypse. "Sh!" said Elizabeth, not having told Marie Louise and Philippe, who chattered too much about the object of the journey, on which she was taking them as useful allies. The two were just disputing about the matter. "I tell you we are going to Saint-Martin." "Certainly not. We are going by train," stated the more competent little girl. And their mother, as she listened, was laying her finest black dress in the top tray, arched so as not to crush it. Once in the compartment, a second class carriage, the little ones could not restrain their joy. "It is Paris!" cried the big boy, as if he had solved a delicate problem. And the magic syllables fell from his little round mouth like a golden ball. Marie Louise looked attentively at her mother, and then came and laid her face against hers. Their cheeks were of the same delicacy, and their fair hair mingled. "Shall we see papa?" asked the child. "Yes." "And we shall stay with him?" "No, darling. We shall take him away." "Ah, all the better." And the little one added: "Jeanne and Renée de Crozet will not be able to make fun of us at school now." "Make fun of you?" "Yes, because we had no papa." Elizabeth passed her hand through the childish curls. "Be calm. They won't make fun of you when he is there."