He read first the letter Elizabeth had received from Anne de Sézery, and that revelation of a voluntary renunciation aroused in him, as a storm stirs the calm waters of a lake, all the passionate recollections which he had buried in his heart. For a moment he was crushed, possessed, carried beyond himself. What had become of her, whom he had not suspected to be capable of such a sacrifice? The second letter, addressed to Philippe Lagier, informed him. In India, at the Epiphany School, she was filling the office of Sister of Mercy, and found there the occupation of her great soul. She would never write again. With a woman's intuition, she had understood in her far-away post, her lover's resistance to his own happiness, and was letting him know of the consolation she was finding in her new life, and of the vow she had taken to make sure that her renunciation had not been in vain. "With you, uncertainty may last for a lifetime," she said to her rival, whom she overwhelmed somewhat with her magnanimity. Albert hated uncertainty and he would have to choose before Elizabeth's return. Circumstances would not allow him to hesitate when his surging thoughts were seeking direction. In refusing to owe her reconquered place to a person whose character was still to remain a mystery; in giving him the knowledge of Mlle. de Sézery's splendid courage, even divested of the exigencies which lessened its value, did not Elizabeth reveal a greatness of soul equivalent to Anne's? With what superiority both women gave proof of their love! Ah, man, whatever he may do, is always surpassed in this, and if he wishes to be favorably judged, he must invoke the continuance of his efforts to create a lasting work, an enduring structure: passion never fills his life completely, forever. The minutes passed. How should he welcome Elizabeth? He could only take her in his arms and give back to her confidence and the peace of her heart. And he would even hide his wound from her. Anne, far away--Anne, lost to him--Anne idealized by her flight, would remain in his life like one of those mysterious divinities to whom one offers occult homage. Many men's hearts contain these idols, and no one divines it. It is the secret garden of each and every one. He would cultivate his secret garden as a thing apart, rather than have his wife henceforth know the least doubt, the slightest suffering. He had arrived at this resolution when he saw Elizabeth before him. She had returned unheard. She stood waiting for the words he was going to say, her body bent by anxiety, as a stem by the weight of the flower it supports. Then he took the two letters and threw them into the flames. They watched them twist, blacken, dwindle away, and when it was all over, he drew her to him, trying to smile, so as not to alarm her. "You see, the fire has devoured them. It is you I love." In an indistinct voice she asked: "And her?" "I have so much pity for her." "Only pity?" "Yes."