Fortunate in his birth, he had contracted obligations that he had turned his back on; a compact, and he had broken it. If our families owe us help in evil fortune or in peril, by what right do we forget them and pursue our egotistical bents, sowing our own happiness and reaping consequences that do them harm? Pride kept him from appealing to his father. His mother had been his confidante: he would ask her for the sum he needed for his liberation. That was the pressing thing. Above all things, he must win back his own self-esteem. Having come to this decision, he returned promptly to the hotel and wrote a letter to Mrs. Roquevillard. He had just finished it and put it in the postbox when Edith came in. He saw her at the end of the garden walk, almost with a feeling of astonishment at beholding her so soon again, so far away from her had his thoughts translated him in a few hours. For a year she had filled all his days, each beating of his heart. Was she so soon dispossessed of her kingdom? When she saw him she stopped, as if stunned, then ran and threw herself into his arms. “It’s you--it’s you----” she cried. “Dear sweetheart----” he murmured, very gently. “You’re here! I’m so glad----” She pointed toward the lake with a frightened gesture, to explain to him where she had been. “I’ve been down there. I went along the beach. Let’s sit down, shan’t we? I can scarcely stand. I was so afraid.” She could not turn her eyes away from him, and again the old enchantment at the sight of her came over him. The autumn landscape was all around them, tender and voluptuous. Love stood victorious amid the ruins. Desperately they tasted of their happiness, both knowing that it had been condemned to death. Thenceforth they talked no more about the past. He was waiting for an answer to his letter, and she dared not question him, only redoubling her charms to keep him pleased. She modified and adapted her fascination. She was no longer provoking and perpetually agitated. The fear of losing her lover made her humble and submissive, kept her quite frail and tender. She sought out the things that he liked to talk about, the books he preferred to read. She divined what music he would have her play to him on the piano. And he, on his part, was more than ever good to her. It was only that both had some feeling of embarrassment in this renewal of peace and affection between them. It was a joyless concord, lacking confidence, and unconvincing. The second of November was a particularly cruel day for them. Maurice wanted to give himself up more freely to the memories of his family on this day of the Dead, that should have made them more vivid for him, and would have preferred to take his walk alone. Edith, however, begged to go with him, and he consented, though with no pleasure in the prospect. She went off to get ready, and he was to wait for her at the Sacred Mountain. “Where shall we go to-day?” she asked, when she joined him there.