The note-book finished with that last evening spent at St. Martin d'Uriage. Elizabeth, before taking up the continuation, wished to breathe, to stop, to rest. Her breath came short, and her mind was in a whirl. Thus accused, she wished to clear herself, and sought in this chaos of new thoughts to find mistakes and duplicity. But it was like a weight too heavy to lift, and to dispense with such effort, she preferred to hasten her reading, waiting to reply later to these reproaches in their entirety. She heard the front door open and the guarded voices of her parents. She immediately put out the light, so that her mother should not be tempted to come into her room, knowing she was still awake. In the condition of fever and mental confusion in which she found herself, she could not bear anyone's presence. And in the darkness she brought into play all her overwrought attention to listen for the silence, which, little by little, came upon the house. Then she lighted her lamp, whose chimney had almost time to grow cold again. It was eleven o'clock. If she had to sit up all night she would read to the conclusion of these unexpected confidences. In the second book Albert came back to Paris, seeming to have left his sorrow in the country. The little blue crosses were lacking, and at first one saw only history notes, short sketches of some celebrated men, of some session in the Chamber, some account of a short journey, or some idea for an article. And then again the marks reappeared. Elizabeth, relying on their definite indication, joined the scattered passages. "December: Heard Orpheus. Gluck both exalts and calms me. The emotion he arouses strengthens, rather than weakens. I need to hear that music or Beethoven's. When we were first married I asked Elizabeth to play sonatas for me in the evening--but she has only fingers. Little by little, by tacit agreement, we gave up this use of our evenings. In the same way we have given up our visits to the museums, our trips: she became so fatigued by them and her complaints enervated me. We now go each our own way. She prefers her quiet family relations to the bold conversations of my friends. If her beauty makes the passersby turn to look at her; if she is very much admired in society, especially when she enters a room--for she does not spend herself in either coquetry or effort of conversation, it is quite sufficient to make her enjoy in peace the lights, the gowns and her own success. I have confidence in her indifference and her loyalty.