Then, with audacity, which he understood better at a distance, and which only his almost mystical passion for Elizabeth could explain, he had told her of his last conversation with Albert's mother, and of the artless plan which she had conceived of coming to claim her son from her, who must have been convinced by time of the inefficacy of her love. He could see her face fall, her golden eyes lose their fire as he spoke. But she had not protested. "Yes, it is just that," she had said simply. "I have thought so. Albert must never know anything about it. Good-by, Monsieur. You have pained me. I shall finish my walk alone." He had been obliged to leave her thus, despite his urgent request to go back with her, in order to palliate the suffering he had made her endure. Several times he turned around to see her again, leaning on the stone balustrade between two vases, appearing smaller and smaller, until at last what a little lost creature she seemed! Ashamed of the part he had played, he had not had the strength to meet Anne and Albert together, and, as a pretext, he said he was obliged to leave. But his talk with her had its effect. It had only hastened an event which would have occurred sooner or later, and perhaps too late. Elizabeth owed to him her husband's liberty, and the resurrection of her happiness. Yes, he had served her well. Even that generosity which she would never know, linked them together, in spite of herself. He would never forget. She would be his sorrowful secret, his Madonna, and nobody would ever know it. But would Albert entirely forget Anne de Sézery? Do not most men live with a hidden wound which reopens on bad days? This silence could not continue. Philippe broke it with these obscure words: "I have had news of _her_." She was then thinking of Mlle. de Sézery, for she questioned him, not without visible uneasiness: "Where is she?" "In India, at Poona. It is a kind of lay hospital, the Epiphany School, where they take care of invalids and bring up deserted children. She was not destined for an ordinary fate." Why had she written to him? Elizabeth guessed that he was not unconnected with Anne's flight, and without ascertaining the truth of her supposition, already overcome by fear only in hearing her spoken of, she asked: "Can you tell me what that letter contains?" He took it out of a pocketbook and gave it to her. "Read it and destroy it. I answered it yesterday. She will never write again." "Have I the right?" "Yes." She had just taken the envelope when Albert, having gone through the house, came out into the orchard.