Oh! the long, heartbreaking, cruel Sundays!  Consider that, mingled with all these perplexities in his mind, was the superstitious reverence of the common people for holy days, for the twenty-four hours of rest, wherein one recovers strength and courage.  If he had gone out, the sight of a workingman with his wife and child would have made him weep, but his monastic seclusion gave him other forms of suffering, the despair of recluses, their terrible outbreaks of rebellion when the god to whom they have consecrated themselves does not respond to their sacrifices.  Now, Risler’s god was work, and as he no longer found comfort or serenity therein, he no longer believed in it, but cursed it.

Often in those hours of mental struggle the door of the draughting-room would open gently and Claire Fromont would appear.  The poor man’s loneliness throughout those long Sunday afternoons filled her with compassion, and she would come with her little girl to keep him company, knowing by experience how contagious is the sweet joyousness of children.  The little one, who could now walk alone, would slip from her mother’s arms to run to her friend.  Risler would hear the little, hurrying steps.  He would feel the light breath behind him, and instantly he would be conscious of a soothing, rejuvenating influence.  She would throw her plump little arms around his neck with affectionate warmth, with her artless, causeless laugh, and a kiss from that little mouth which never had lied.  Claire Fromont, standing in the doorway, would smile as she looked at them.

“Risler, my friend,” she would say, “you must come down into the garden a while,—­you work too hard.  You will be ill.”

“No, no, Madame,—­on the contrary, work is what saves me.  It keeps me from thinking.”

Then, after a long pause, she would continue: 

“Come, my dear Risler, you must try to forget.”

Risler would shake his head.

“Forget?  Is that possible?  There are some things beyond one’s strength.  A man may forgive, but he never forgets.”

The child almost always succeeded in dragging him down to the garden.  He must play ball, or in the sand, with her; but her playfellow’s awkwardness and lack of enthusiasm soon impressed the little girl.  Then she would become very sedate, contenting herself with walking gravely between the hedges of box, with her hand in her friend’s.  After a moment Risler would entirely forget that she was there; but, although he did not realize it, the warmth of that little hand in his had a magnetic, softening effect upon his diseased mind.

A man may forgive, but he never forgets!