The day passed, another, and another. The same: she shrank from him, was impatient, agitated, unhappy, went out alone. Annette saw, and mourned, entreated, prayed; Jacques was miserable. There was no joyous passion to redeem the situation for which Gaston had risked so much. They rode, they took excursions in fishing-boats and little sail-boats. Andree entered into these with zest: talked to the sailors, to Jacques, caressed children, and was not indifferent to the notice she attracted in the village; but was obviously distrait. Gaston was patient--and unhappy. So, this was the merchandise for which he had bartered all! But he had a will, he was determined; he had sowed, he would reap his harvest to the useless stubble. “Do you wish to go back to your work?” he said quietly, once. “I have no work,” she answered apathetically. He said no more just then. The days and weeks went by. The situation was impossible, not to be understood. Gaston made his final move. He hoped that perhaps a forced crisis might bring about a change. If it failed--he knew not what! She was sitting in the garden below--he alone in the window, smoking. A bundle of letters and papers, brought by the postman that evening, were beside him. He would not open them yet. He felt that there was trouble in them--he saw phrases, sentences flitting past him. But he would play this other bitter game out first. He let them lie. He heard the bells in the church ringing the village commerce done--it was nine o’clock. The picture of that other garden in Paris came to him: that night when he had first taken this girl into his arms. She sat below talking to Annette and singing a little Breton chanson: “Parvondt varbondt anan oun, Et die don la lire! Parvondt varbondt anan oun, Et die don la, la!” He called down to her presently. “Andree!” “Yes.” “Will you come up for a moment, please?” “Surely.” She came up, leaving the room door open, and bringing the cub with her. He called Jacques. “Take the cub to its quarters, Jacques,” he said, quietly. She seemed about to protest, but sat back and watched him. He shut the door--locked it. Then he came and sat down before her. “Andree,” he said, “this is all impossible.” “What is impossible?” “You know well. I am not a mere brute. The only thing that can redeem this life is love.” “That is true,” she said, coldly. “What then?” “You do not redeem it. We must part.” She laughed fitfully. “We must--?” She leaned towards him. “To-morrow evening you will go back to Paris. To-night we part, however: that is, our relations cease.” “I shall go from here when it pleases me, Gaston!” His voice came low and stern, but courteous: “You must go when I tell you. Do you think I am the weaker?” He could see her colour flying, her fingers lacing and interlacing. “Aren’t you afraid to tell me that?” she asked.