“Come,” said he in icy tones, “let me see what I can do for you, as you are ill.”

Then she raised her arm and held it out to him.  Her skin was burning, the blood throbbing in short irregular leaps.

“You are certainly ill,” he murmured.  “You must take something to quiet you.  I will write you a prescription.”  And as he wrote, stooping over the paper, a low sound of choked sighs, smothered, quick breathing and suppressed sobs made him suddenly look round at her.  She was weeping, her hands covering her face.

Roland, quite distracted, asked her: 

“Louise, Louise, what is the mater with you?  What on earth ails you?”

She did not answer, but seemed racked by some deep and dreadful grief.  Her husband tried to take her hands from her face, but she resisted him, repeating: 

“No, no, no.”

He appealed to his son.

“But what is the matter with her?  I never saw her like this.”

“It is nothing,” said Pierre, “she is a little hysterical.”

And he felt as if it were a comfort to him to see her suffering thus, as if this anguish mitigated his resentment and diminished his mother’s load of opprobrium.  He looked at her as a judge satisfied with his day’s work.

Suddenly she rose, rushed to the door with such a swift impulse that it was impossible to forestall or to stop her, and ran off to lock herself into her room.

Roland and the doctor were left face to face.

“Can you make head or tail of it?” said the father.

“Oh, yes,” said the other.  “It is a little nervous disturbance, not alarming or surprising; such attacks may very likely recur from time to time.”

They did in fact recur, almost every day; and Pierre seemed to bring them on with a word, as if he had the clew to her strange and new disorder.  He would discern in her face a lucid interval of peace and with the willingness of a torturer would, with a word, revive the anguish that had been lulled for a moment.

But he, too, was suffering as cruelly as she.  It was dreadful pain to him that he could no longer love her nor respect her, that he must put her on the rack.  When he had laid bare the bleeding wound which he had opened in her woman’s, her mother’s heart, when he felt how wretched and desperate she was, he would go out alone, wander about the town, so torn by remorse, so broken by pity, so grieved to have thus hammered her with his scorn as her son, that he longed to fling himself into the sea and put an end to it all by drowning himself.

Ah!  How gladly now would he have forgiven her.  But he could not, for he was incapable of forgetting.  If only he could have desisted from making her suffer; but this again he could not, suffering as he did himself.  He went home to his meals, full of relenting resolutions; then, as soon as he saw her, as soon as he met her eye—­formerly so clear and frank, now so evasive, frightened, and bewildered—­he struck at her in spite of himself, unable to suppress the treacherous words which would rise to his lips.