The evening was calm and clear over Montmorency, where there was even grandeur in the stillness.  Nature—­the discreet confident and inexhaustible counsellor, always ready to intermediate between God and man—­nature was appeasing passion and misery in all bosoms but Felix Clemenceau’s, as he strolled in the garden which he did not expect long to possess.  Rebecca was going away and Cesarine had come, two sufficient reasons for him to detest the place.  He had called upon the scene to give him advice on his course, and he hoped to understand clearly what it had commanded to him in the hour of grief tempered with faith.  He had not the resources of others; he could not consult the shades of his parents; his mother’s tomb was not one to be pointed out with pride, any more than his father’s.

It seemed to him that he was ordered to continue struggling till he vanquished; this he had always tried.  Work and seek out!  And yet his mind wavered and his resolve was unsettled.  It was the ever dulcet voice of that Circe which sufficed to agitate and obscure his soul in spite of his having believed it was forever detached from her.  But these umbrageous and odoriferous hills, knew how deeply he loved her, for he had spoken of his thraldom to them when he might not speak to her under pain of shame and debasement.

Had he not undergone enough and pardoned as far as could be expected?  But she had disdained condonation, mocked at it and trampled it under foot.

Again she came to entangle him in her love.  No; her wiles and witchery, for she was not a woman to love anyone or anything.  Unable to love her own flesh and blood, she was an alien to humanity, as well as to love.  To such a mother, he owed solely indifference.

Such a woman was only a human form, less to him than the least of the patient, laborious animals useful to man.

As the stars grew darkened by clouds above the impassible horizon, his reflections turned more gloomy and deadly.  Was it impious for him to arrogate the right to substitute his justice for that supreme, and wield its dreadful sword?  But he shrank from acting as his father had done, and mainly because he saw that, if ever the world knew that he loved Rebecca, it would say that he had slain his wife to clear the path to the altar for his second marriage.

Cesarine had hinted of repentance, her return portended the same.  The world would side with her.  Yes; he would give her another chance.  After the guests departed, he would let Antonino also go, he would resign himself to being coupled again with this chain-companion in the galleys of life!

“If it is true,” he concluded, “I will endeavor to lead her to the light and truth, although her soul is full of shadows and the divine spark is clogged with ashes.  Oh, heaven, may she be filled with the temptation to do good and mayest thou receive her in thy endless mercifulness!”

The squeaking of the gravel under a regular and heavy step induced him to look round, and a burly shape loomed up in the darkness between the plane trees.  It was the so-called Cantagnac, who bowed, with his hat off.