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Cornell University Library 
 PQ 2603.O65N3 1913 
 
 Footprints beneath the snow : 
 
 3 1924 027 335 870 
 
The original of tlnis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027335870 
 
FOOTPRINTS BENEATH 
 
 THE SNOW 
 
Footprints Beneath 
 the Snow 
 
 A Novel 
 
 By 
 Henry Bordeaux 
 
 Author of "The Parting of the Ways," "The Woollen 
 Dress," " The Fear of Living," etc., etc. 
 
 Translated hy 
 Mary Seymour Houghton 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
 1913 
 
 ^ 
 

 Copyright, 1913 
 Sy DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK FIRST 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Triumph of Love . . . . .,„-,... 1 
 
 BOOK SECOND 
 
 The Triumph or Life . , ., ,„ ,., i., ,. .159 
 
TO PAUL BOURGET 
 
 My Dear Master and Friend: 
 
 Many years have gone by, — now nearly twenty — 
 since an unknown youth sent you his first volume of 
 essays, — a book bearing every evidence of extreme 
 youth, but witnessing also to the writer's passion for 
 literature. Instead of the non-committal ,card of 
 thanks which I might have expected, I received from 
 you a most perspicacious, most illuminating com- 
 mentary on " Ames Modernes " the weakness of which 
 as criticism I now realise. With that wide outlook, 
 that art of word painting, which I had admired in 
 your " Essays on Contemporary Psychology," with 
 that benevolence for the coming generation which is 
 the evidence of reverence for letters, you gave m6 
 such counsel as an elder would give to a younger 
 brother, adding these words of encouragement : " It 
 is long since I have enjoyed reading anything as 
 much as this volume of yours . . ." Such words 
 from the author of " Crime d' Amour " and of the 
 " Disciple " and even more perhaps the criticisms 
 which accompanied and modified them, were enough 
 to give a beginner a feeling of walking on air. 
 
 In memory of this, your reception of my first 
 work, and with gratitude for this early manifested 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 sympathy, and the friendship that followed, — such 
 a friendship as is an honour, an inspiration, an en- 
 couragement to a young writer, — allow me to dedi- 
 cate this romance to you, in the hope that, bearing 
 the traces of aU the days that have passed since then, 
 it may be less unworthy of your notice. 
 
 In your very first letter you showed me the im- 
 portance, for the historian of morals, of looking be- 
 neath the facts for the essential laws of life. You 
 have always advised the writer of romance to subor- 
 dinate himself to the object of his observation. 
 But facts, in their bare, brutal truth, are only signs ; 
 like rind-encased fruits they must be opened, so to 
 speak, that we may know what phases of humanity 
 they enclose and represent. Then we find, deep 
 within, what really is in us — that is, in man as a 
 member of society — of the enduring, the permanent, 
 the eternal. 
 
 It seems to me that if any thought binds my ro- 
 mances to one another it must be the idea of the 
 family. The ancient theme of the domestic tragedy 
 draws me. Our old masters who so often treated it 
 did not say its last word. They made the hearth- 
 stone the symbol of race solidarity, they set apart 
 special divinities to the conservation of this sacred 
 fire. Even Venus, with all her fatal power, did not 
 easily get the better of the humble Lares, gods of the 
 home. Love, among the Greeks, found itself con- 
 fronted with this firm and yet redoubtable force of 
 order, innate in every heart of woman, well-born and 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 ■of normal health. Thus Helen, after the faU of 
 Troy and the death of Paris, serenely returns to her 
 household tasks, and refers to her tempestuous past 
 with the simplicity and remoteness with which one re- 
 calls a past illness. In romances love seeks refuge 
 in death. Our classic realists make him find it in 
 life, by accepting it. 
 
 This persistent love of life, even after the passing 
 of the most perfect love, permits the reparation of 
 the ruins too often caused by passion. It is a pain- 
 ful task to reanimate the flame of a hearth over 
 which no one has watched. To build is always hard, 
 but the work of building is fuU of happiness. To 
 rebuild is a harder task and not exempt from 
 melancholy. God has kept for himself the right to 
 pronounce the words that cancel the irreparable, ef- 
 facing it as faUen snow effaces the print of foot- 
 steps. That is why true forgiveness can proceed 
 only from the divine part of us. All other forgive- 
 ness can only debase. This book is the story of 
 such a reconstruction — or, to adopt a term from 
 " La Crise," of a wounded happiness. . . . 
 
 One evening last summer I was descending into a 
 vaUey of Savoy. I always take with me to the moun- 
 tains my dreams and stories, after real life has given 
 me the material. They keep me company and find 
 their own way to a denouement. Sometimes I carry 
 them to dizzy heights. That evening I was hasten- 
 ing to find shelter, for I was both hungry and tired. 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 My eyes were soon gladdened by the sight of a roof ; 
 I quickened my steps and knocked at the door. 
 
 The man who opened it had about him that air 
 of neglect which proceeds not from poverty, but from 
 indifference; he had intrenched himself in a defeat 
 which he had accepted, even sought for. His clothes 
 were not worn out, but they hardly held together, 
 they seemed never to have been brushed or mended. 
 He was unshorn and his beard neglected. Yet his 
 face was not unrefined. 
 
 He looked at me with sad eyes, not with hos- 
 tility, indifferently. I told him of my weariness. 
 It so happened that his supper was already on the 
 shaky table: a more than frugal repast of bread 
 and goat's milk cheese. And I was longing for some 
 good hot soup, that had been long simmering by the 
 fire ! But there was no fire. He invited me to share 
 what he had, adding: 
 
 " There is nothing here now. It is no longer a 
 home." 
 
 It was my own opinion. But in politeness to my 
 host, I protested: 
 
 "What more is needed.""' 
 
 " What more is needed ? — A fire, surely." 
 
 " Why don't you light one then? " 
 
 " I come in too late from work." 
 
 " Have you no wife, then? " 
 
 " I did have one. I have none, now." 
 
 " She is dead? " 
 
 " No." 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 This " no " closed the conversation. After a 
 silence, he arose and wished me farewell: 
 
 " Farther down there are real homes, where you 
 will be more comfortable." 
 
 I left, and farther down, I did see a thatched roof, 
 a real home, as the poor fellow had said, a roof from 
 which came a spiral of smoke. I entered and found 
 quite a little company: husband, wife and children, 
 around a brazier of clear fire over which a black pot, 
 suspended from an iron crane, was licked by red 
 flames. At once they invited me to join them, after 
 the fashion of old Savoy. Amused and enlivened by 
 the laughter of the little tots, I asked about the soli- 
 tary man living not far above them. They told me 
 his wife had gone off with a smuggler. One day she 
 returned, but he refused to take her back. So she 
 went back to her native country and no one had heard 
 anything more of her. 
 
 " Back to her native country? '* 
 
 " To Italy, She was not a woman of these 
 parts. . . ." 
 
 Thus I learned that a house is no longer a home 
 without its cockade of smoke. Did they not in olden 
 time count the inhabitants of a village by the num- 
 ber of fires? Each fire is a family. 
 
 If art does not become interested in the hearth- 
 fire it will soon leave reality behind, will fall into 
 portraying the false and romanesque. In large 
 cities the houses are too high, the spirals of smoke 
 are lost in the fogs that obscure the sky, and ideas 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 as well. In the country, at eventide, it is easier to 
 count them. • . . 
 
 After Balzac, you, my dear master and friend, 
 have shown the family as the true social unit. In 
 reading this book which I dedicate to you, may you 
 taste that satisfaction with which one who loves the 
 warmth of life sees the rekindling of a half-extinct 
 flame. 
 
 Henet Boedeattx. 
 
 Paris, January 10, 1912. 
 
BOOK I 
 THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 
 
wga. 
 
 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE 
 SNOW 
 
 Franqueville Street, which joins the Avenue 
 Henri-Martin at the edge of the Bois de Boulogne, 
 crosses that Park of La Muette which was once one 
 of the gems of Paris, and which, even in its re- 
 duced proportions, still remains, with its green- 
 swards which rival the Ranelagh gardens of Marie- 
 Antoinette, its deeply shaded walks with their far 
 glimpses of the ancient meet of the royal hunt, a 
 miniature replica of Chantilly or Versailles. It 
 borders the new ivy-draped wall, and has houses only 
 on one side, broadening out here and there into open 
 spaces, like a river not yet hemmed in by embank- 
 ments, — wide fields where ancient trees, relics of the 
 beauty of former days, though doomed to death, en- 
 joy their last days of sunshine. 
 
 Most of the houses along the street are of modem 
 construction and have alike upon their fronts the 
 inscription, Mark Romenay, Architect. 
 
 Among those who knew the attractions of this re- 
 
 1 
 
& FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 tired spot, Mark Romenay had made a name for 
 himself in architecture. At' a time when architect- 
 ure, making a great show of freeing itself from the 
 slow influences of the past, of being individual, as is 
 the fashion of the day, has yet been compelled to fall 
 back upon the older forms or sacrifice its very exist- 
 ence as an art, Mark Romenay had the ingenuity to 
 adapt to modern requirements the charmingly deco- 
 rative style of Louis XVI, embellishing it with balus- 
 trades and window boxes, opening it up to admit 
 light and air, giving to small dimensions the illusion 
 of space, and adapting them generally to furnish- 
 ings in light English woods, dainty imitations of 
 Chippendale and Adam : in other words of suiting his 
 houses to the requirements of men and women who 
 shrink alike from seclusion and from external ugli- 
 ness, and abhor equally that which wounds the sen- 
 sibilities and that which compels to reflection. It is 
 a condition of mind which curiously relates the pres- 
 ent age to the reckless eve of the Revolution, of which 
 a historian has said that it surrounded the elegances 
 of its last moments with the perfume of dying roses. 
 The stroller who should venture into Franque- 
 ville Street, a place usually so quiet that he might 
 fancy himself its discoverer, could hardly fail to ob- 
 serve a villa two stories in height, with a small garden 
 half hiding its unobtrusive front. The straight, 
 pure lines of the main building, the terraced roof, 
 were no doubt suggested by the " Little Trianon," 
 but they were so overlaid with ornament and futile 
 
THE TRimiPH OF LO^'E 3 
 
 additions that one lost sight of the model ; there were 
 indeed so many bays and windows that one might 
 wonder how the walls could maintain their equilib- 
 rimn. Mark Romenay had reserved this habitation 
 for himself, and he never entered it without an ex- 
 pression of pleasure lighting up his sad eyes. His 
 personal tragedy had made small impression upon 
 his disposition or his features, both naturally grave 
 and in marked contrast always with his social sur- 
 roundings, and with the requirements of an art more 
 concerned to adapt itself to society than to home 
 life. 
 
 On this warm day in July he even paused to con- 
 sider his dwelling more attentively. Was it not the 
 prettiest picture in the world? — The declining sun 
 caressed so warmly the white tones of the villa, stfll 
 too harsh and new, now rose-coloured in the quiver- 
 ing light. At the foot of the steps the miniature 
 parterre, covered with flame-coloured canna-blooms, 
 resembled a festival bouquet, offered to whom? — 
 Surely to a little girl crowned with golden curls 
 who laughed and called to him from a balcony above 
 the garden, clapping her little hands in the sunlight, 
 and crying: 
 
 " Grood afternoon. Papa ! " 
 
 What sight can be more charmingly welcome and 
 restful after the day's work than that of one's own 
 child plajdng on the bsJcony of one's own house, 
 and that house built and arranged according to one's 
 own ideas of home? What more ennobling, and full 
 
4 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 of creature joy?\ Only one thing more was needed 
 to give perfection, — the profile of the young mother 
 half revealed behind the open window. Some one was 
 indeed there now, but it was only the old governess. 
 
 Mark Romenay answered the pretty welcome of 
 the child with a wave of his hand, but without smiling ; 
 he had always been very reserved. Yet the mere 
 sight of his little Juliette rested him, as a drop of 
 cold water relieves the moment's thirst. 
 
 He was hastening up the steps to join her when 
 a servant handed him his mail, with the remark: 
 
 " There is a telegram also. It came some time 
 ago." 
 
 The architect took the packet of letters with in- 
 difference. There was no one he expected to hear 
 from, and there was plenty of time to attend to 
 any business in his working hours. He went on to 
 Juliette, who was prancing with delight at the head 
 of the stairs. He took her up lightly at arms' 
 length, and lifted her through the open door into the 
 room which served as her school room. 
 
 " Well, Madame Acher," he said as he entered with 
 his precious burden, " are you satisfied with her ? " 
 
 " Mademoiselle," replied the governess, " simply 
 lives on this balcony ; I can hardly make her attend 
 to anything." 
 
 Mark Romenay looked sternly at his daughter as 
 if to reprove her, but glancing round the room he 
 understood better and hesitated. Even from within 
 one had a feeling of being out of doors. La Muette 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 5 
 
 park quietly took possession of the entire room by 
 way of the great window which occupied one whole 
 side of it, and a large mirror repeated the impres- 
 sion. The light table and chairs, thus surrounded 
 by the green of the park, seemed as if arranged in a 
 garden for an out-of-door repast. The idea of 
 bending over lessons and copybooks in such a place ! 
 
 " It is hardly necessary to go out on the balcony," 
 he remarked with an air of resignation. 
 
 And then he asked, almost maternally : 
 
 " Have you had your little lunch.'' " 
 
 " Yes, Papa." 
 
 " She ate only half of her muffin," explained good- 
 hearted Madame Acher, always much concerned 
 about her pupil. 
 
 Mark was disturbed by the child's loss of appe- 
 tite, which he felt to be much more serious than the 
 small attention to lessons of which the governess 
 had complained. 
 
 " Listen," he said to the child, " learn your les- 
 son quickly, and we will take a walk together." 
 
 But the idle child was not to be taken in by fine 
 promises. 
 
 " Oh ! " she said with a little grimace of doubt. 
 " You always say that, and when I am all ready, I 
 have to hunt for papa, for papa is not to be found ; 
 he forgets to come for me." 
 
 " This evening I will surely go. We are having 
 long days now and we can go as far as the ponds, and 
 then you will be hungry for your dinner." 
 
6 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 " Truly? truly? truly? " exclaimed the child in her 
 shrill staccato, " Now then, Madame, quick, we will 
 have the names of the capital cities." 
 
 And with the words Berlin, Saint Petersburg, 
 Vienna, sounding in his ears, Mark Romenay left the 
 room for his own study, not without a consciousness 
 of failure to live up to his paternal responsibilities. 
 How often it was thus! He would come home, his 
 mind full of plans for the child, and when the time 
 came for carrying them out, other cares would have 
 crowded them out. He had believed that he could 
 replace the absent one and yet, like most fathers, he 
 had rested satisfied with good intentions. This time 
 he resolved that everything must give way before the 
 promised walk with his little daughter. Nothing 
 could be of more importance, nothing else could take 
 its place in his heart and mind ; and hastily, the 
 sooner to get through with them, he went at the pile 
 of letters on his desk, already heaped up with models 
 and plans, — and tore off the flap of the telegram, 
 which no doubt was to remind him of a business meet- 
 ing, or to arrange for one. He had not the least 
 suspicion of its contents, he believed his heart to be 
 cold and dead ; but by the shock it gave him he rec- 
 ognised his mistake. The blue paper contained two 
 lines that his eye took in at a glance : 
 
 Madame Romenay dying Hospice Grand Saint 
 Bernard desires speak with you: if consent see her 
 again, come immediately time presses. Then fol- 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE T 
 
 lowed the signature of one unknown: Dornaz, 
 Prior. 
 
 With a strange authority, insidiously, inevitably, 
 grief took possession of him, in spite of him, pulsed 
 through his veins, invaded his brain. Yet his first 
 impulse was one of revolt against this power which 
 laid its strong hand upon him. What had he to do 
 with the tragedy that was coming to its close so far 
 SLwaj? With what right did his wife come back into 
 his life after he had driven her from it? She might 
 well die, sinfp shp bad bpp n nntrue to him . 
 
 Yet even now he felt this false front of pride and 
 indifference breaking down before the all powerful 
 thought, — the certainty of death. Three times it 
 had been emphasized with a persistence that left no 
 doubt : 
 
 Madame Romenay dying . . . come immediately 
 . . . time presses. . . . 
 
 He looked at the despatch for the hour of its 
 departure: eleven o'clock. She had been dying since 
 morning. Could she survive till sunset? Would 
 strength be given to her to live till the morrow, or 
 even the day after? How much time would be re- 
 quired for the journey that they demanded of him? 
 Mechanically, to drive away unbearable thoughts, 
 to evade an immediate decision, he took from the book- 
 case (this promised nothing) a guide-book of 
 Switzerland, the same book that he had looked over 
 with her, a little over a year ago, when they were 
 
8 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 planning a vacation trip to the mountains. The 
 mountains ! It was then that she had fallen in love 
 with them. Once free to indulge this passion she 
 must have given way with a boldness, a delight in 
 danger, which takes possession of those whose un- 
 eventful life is broken up. This overwhelming mis- 
 fortune that had laid her low at the Grand Saint 
 Bernard could be nothing less than an accident. 
 Doubtless she had been found in the snow, half dead. 
 Yes, that must have been it. But surely she was not 
 alone? The other one must also have been there. 
 No, no, he could not, he ought not to go to her now. 
 
 Baedeker instructed him as to the distance: In 
 order to reach the hospice one must leave the Simplon 
 Line at Martigny and take a carriage for a long 
 day's drive — nearly fifty kilometres, and two thou- 
 sand metres of ascent. He opened the great Indi- 
 cator. The Simplon Express left at eight o'clock 
 in the evening, reached Lausanne at six the following 
 morning and Martigny an hour later. A whole day 
 between them, if he yielded to her last appeal and 
 consented to see her again. To see her again! 
 What good would it do, and why should he ? For the 
 third time he re-read the telegram. Surely he could 
 hardly arrive in time. 
 
 And if he did go after all.'' You can never be sure 
 
 . how long an ebbing life may last. You draw back, 
 
 you hesitate, you pause when Death is surely there, 
 
 the one irreparable thing. What was expected of 
 
 him, if not a word of peace, of pardon? Could he 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 9 
 
 refuse it to a dying woman who had such need of it 
 before annihilation — or the mysterious passage be- 
 yond? That was in fact only what the past de- 
 manded of him. However just his resentment, could 
 he refuse this without needless cruelty? Are not 
 such last reconciliations meaningless? And if so, 
 how could he refuse to perform his part in a 
 funeral ceremony which was of no real significance 
 and required only a little pity? Thus little by little 
 a new decision, seemingly outside of his will, began to 
 take possession of him. 
 
 Under the dominance of this feeling he mechanic- 
 ally composed his reply to the telegram: Prior 
 Dornaz, Hospice Grand Saint Bernard. Will ar- 
 rive to-morrow night. Inform the invalid. Rome- 
 nay, 
 
 Should he send it? He was not quite sure. He 
 was tempted to add a few words which would make 
 evident that this was but conventional magnanimity, 
 but he dreaded intermediaries. Above all things, let 
 no one else be mixed up in this conjugal tragedy. 
 Mark hastily summoned the servant to receive 
 orders which he hardly yet felt sure of giving — 
 which yet the appearance of the servant seemed to 
 oblige him to give : to send the telegram, to pack his 
 valise, with warm clothing because of the altitude, to 
 advance the dinner an hour, to bid the chauffeur have 
 the automobile ready. 
 
 Thus, everything being in readiness for his de- 
 parture, he was relieved of those material cares which 
 
10 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 in a time of catastrophe keep us steady and allow 
 the shaken spirit to grow calm, to get accustomed to 
 misfortune and submissive to it. His decision sur- 
 prised him as if he had not had to make it. Weary 
 with the conflict he gave himself up to memory, 
 which brought back former days. Was he afraid of 
 his recollections ? He started up, attempted to walkj 
 and was surprised to find himself tottering as if he 
 had been wounded. Had the moral shock been so 
 heavy that he felt the blow physically.'' Unnerved, 
 troubled by the loss of his habitual self-possession, 
 Mark left his study, hardly knowing where he was 
 going. On the landing he heard a clear little voice 
 rapidly repeating a string of names : " Spain, capi- 
 tal Madrid ; Portugal, capital Lisbon " ; — Juliette, 
 impetuously throwing herself into her lesson, was 
 crossing Europe at a gallop. Shortly, in a few mo- 
 ments, she would come to claim her reward — and her 
 mother was dying. But for her, the child, was not 
 the mother already dead? 
 
 Therese was dying : the two words began to rever- 
 berate in his ears like the tolling of the passing bell. 
 He took refuge from the sound in a room that had 
 been hermetically closed, and drew up the shades. 
 It was his wife's room, a room laquered, polished, 
 varnished, a whole side open to receive the light, fur- 
 nished with a refined taste that made the most of the 
 farthermost corner for ornamentation, till no space 
 was left for one's own fancies, for tenderness, for 
 intimacy; one of those light, luxurious, meaningless 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 11 
 
 rooms where nothing can be changed, and which 
 bear no impress of personality, of the presence of one 
 dear : rooms for show, for gaiety, for pleasure, rooms 
 in which there is no place for meditation, for quiet 
 thought, for dreams or for grief. The room seemed 
 to be waking from a long slumber under the level 
 rays of the declining sun, that found their way be- 
 tween the branches of the trees. Solitude seemed to 
 have thrown across the street a bridge joining the 
 windows to the park of La Muette. What had 
 brought Mark Romenay here if not the past, the 
 past to which death would soon aflSx the seal.? 
 
 How pretty and new and harmonious it all was ! 
 Why should so much charm give him a sense of in- 
 jury .^ was it not he himself who before and in view 
 of his marriage had built this house, selected its fur- 
 niture, adapted each thing to its place with pains- 
 taking art.'' He remembered how, on the return 
 from their wedding journey, when he had led his 
 young wife into the apartment which he had prepared 
 for her with such fervent interest, expecting to enjoy 
 her bewildered delight — for she had not been accus- 
 tomed to such luxury, and he desired to enjoy to the 
 full her pleased surprise — she had said with a little 
 air of satisfaction, and he still heard the slightly 
 singing tone of her voice: 
 
 " Oh, it is too beautiful ! You will spoil me." 
 And yet, a few moments later, when she had been all 
 around the room and had exclaimed with delight over 
 all its conveniences and beauties, she had suddenly 
 
12 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 stopped in her proprietary rounds to ask timidly: 
 " Then nothing can be changed in here? " 
 
 Instead of smiling at her innocent remark he had 
 taken it for a reproach. Yet did not this little criti- 
 cism, ventured with such sweet gentleness, precisely 
 meet the case? He had thought of everything, ex- 
 cept of leaving to his young wife the pleasure of ar- 
 ranging things according to her own taste. 
 
 One morning she had stopped to speak to a beg- 
 gar-woman, instead of merely giving alms. Their 
 singular dialogue came back to him word for word. 
 
 " I am glad to see you," said Therese ; " it is a long 
 time since I have seen any of you." 
 
 "Any of who?" 
 
 " Poor people. They hardly ever come around 
 here." 
 
 " I will come again, Madame, you are very kind. 
 It's pretty, — your house ! " 
 
 "Would you like to see it?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! " 
 
 " Come in and see it." 
 
 And Therese had showed the poor old woman over 
 the house, bidding her good-bye with the words, 
 
 " Do you know? Sometimes I long to be poor 
 myself." 
 
 The beggar had laughed. It was only one of the 
 funny things rich ladies say, that amuse beggars, 
 without hurting their feelings. It pays bettef not to 
 be insolent. But why, when the beggar laughed, did 
 Therese become thoughtful? She had lightly ac- 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 13 
 
 cepted the advantages of fortune, but in her heart 
 she cared little for them. When she lost them, for 
 she had lost at least a good part of them, it could 
 not have seemed to her that she had lost anything 
 she really valued. 
 
 Why did Mark recall little scenes like these which 
 did not lessen her in his esteem, why did he find in 
 these memories a sort of tender distress.'' After the 
 break between them, looking backward, as he often 
 did in spite of himself, he would rather have known 
 her dead. Now that she was dying — dead perhaps 
 — he asked himself if the pain of knowing her to be 
 alive did not in all its cruelty awake in him some se- 
 cret tenderness. 
 
 Did he love her still.? He put from him the im- 
 portunate question — whether he did or not, he was 
 not one of those cowards whose hearts impel them 
 to a base weakness. Since circumstances required 
 this last-hour compassion he would act his part in the 
 comedy of pardon ; he would climb the Saint Bernard 
 carrying this viaticum. Never but for this would he 
 have consented to see her again. Never, never . . . 
 and even this journey — 
 
 See her again? In a few hours he would see her 
 again. This was the pivot around which he was re- 
 volving, drawn to it by a thousand ties that were 
 tightening little by little. Instinctively he sought a 
 photograph, a portrait. There was none in her 
 room, there was none anywhere in the house. When 
 we hang on the walls the mementos of our happy 
 
14 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 days we believe that happiness is our right because it 
 was ours. It has existed. Nothing can ravish it 
 from our grasp. Yet even our past is not secure: 
 it is always dependent upon something. We can- 
 not be sure of having been happy in the past unless 
 we are happy stiU. And the sharpest pang of be- 
 trayal is not the present wrong but the blow it deals 
 to the past, reducing it to a heap of ruins. 
 
 The face that he sought and yet dreaded to see, 
 did he not daily find it in Juliette.? To begin with, 
 her hair, — fine and fluffy, though lighter in shade 
 than her mother's. Oh, Therese's lovely hair, so 
 soft, so alive, so hard to gather into a twist, with 
 the ruddy colour of half-ripe chestnuts where they 
 begin to turn brown! . . • And then her eyes, those 
 brown eyes that some blond women have, at once 
 coaxing and deep, with the wild sweetness of ponds 
 hidden in the woods when the sun touches them. 
 The child's face had a longer oval, a firmer chin than 
 her mother's, stronger features that came from him. 
 But why this comparison? And here the image of 
 the faithless one, unfortunately recalled, became 
 more distinct, larger, like a figure which, first seen at 
 the end of an avenue, grows larger as one approaches 
 it. 
 
 To shake ofi' the thought of her he left the room, 
 so alive with her presence that the mirrors reflecting 
 the sunlight seemed as if they might yet reflect her 
 image. Returning to his study, he took from a 
 locked drawer a packet of rumpled letters. With 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 16 
 
 this evidence he would feed his disdain and hate. 
 For a long time he had read them daily, by degrees 
 drawing from their contents a sort of calm, like 
 that of convalescence after iUness. For his cure, 
 he had used the heroic remedy prescribed for the 
 strong: instead of trying to forget one's trouble, 
 to plunge deep into it, steep oneself in it, satiate 
 one's self with it. Then he realised that one lives on 
 in spite of all, that one must live, through terrible, 
 beautiful days. 
 
 Among the letters that he held in his hand, of 
 which he knew only too well the contents, he made 
 a rapid selection. Those that were not addressed to 
 him, that he had secretly read to extract all the bit- 
 terness of certainty, he put back unfolded, as if the 
 sense of the irreparable commanded a new respect. 
 He kept out only the two that were addressed to him- 
 self, and which contained a confession and a plea. 
 Though his memory held them, word for word, as a 
 musician's fingers on the piano hold the notes of a 
 familiar air, he forced himself to read them again. 
 
 The first was dated from a well-known boarding 
 house of the Avenue Mozart — where his wife had 
 taken refuge on the evening of their rupture. It 
 began with sobs, moans, sighs, prayers — pathetic in 
 their monotonous repetition; then she became a 
 pleader; she implored one favour. 
 
 "... No, it is impossible, Mark. You cannot 
 have sent me away for always. You have not 
 
16 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 thought, you cannot know, the horror of having no 
 child, no husband, no home, nothing, — and to lose 
 them all at once. I have no fire, and I am cold, I'm 
 hungry, I'm afraid, the whole dark night has fallen 
 upon me. I call Juliette in my heart, and sJie can- 
 not hear me call. If you no longer love me, have 
 pity, as one pities the poor. If you love me still 
 hark to my tears. For the sake of my suffering and 
 my deep repentance, forgive me! 
 
 " I accepted your severe reproaches with hawed 
 head. I denied nothing, and it was even a comfort 
 that I need lie no more. It always hurt me so to 
 deceive you. But oh, do not believe me so very 
 guilty! In these eight years of married life, have 
 you so little learned to know me as to believe me so 
 base, so perfidious? I cannot bear the shame of it! 
 Ah, understand me better, I implore you! Indeed, 
 you must! No one has the right to condemn another 
 thus. How other women are I do not know; no 
 doubt they know better than I how to choose the 
 good or the evil. But I — I am all weakness, and 
 not the same every day, not the same in winter as in 
 spring. I never meant to be false to you, I swear 
 it on our daughter, and you may believe me. One 
 does wrong without realising it, and because one is 
 oneself deceived. I needed to be protected and 
 sheltered, and you did not take the trouble to realise 
 it. You were absorbed in your business, and I — I 
 was there alone. Oh! I am not turning against you. 
 I know my fault only too well. You had given me 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 17 
 
 everything and I had little to give in return, — noth- 
 ing hut my warm heart that you had only half taken. 
 I was without fortune and without a secure future, 
 and you made me your wife. It was beautiful. It 
 was too beautiful, and no doubt the devotion of a 
 whole life was not too much to prove my gratitude. 
 I had given you my love, and you, too — remember 
 — you loved me. Only your affection was not the 
 same thing. I think I had pleased you, because I 
 was a little untamed creature, very different from the 
 Parisian women you had known. But you did not 
 spend much time m taming me — not enough, per- 
 haps. You were always so busy, so hurried. So 
 there were parts of me that you never explored. 
 Perhaps, indeed, they were not worth the trouble. 
 I do not say this to excuse myself, but to explain my- 
 self to you, do you see? And then I was not used to 
 the ways of the Paris world. In Paris a woman is 
 not protected, she is not upheld. God seems so far 
 away that one cannot think of Him. One is be- 
 wildered by all that one sees and hears. Nothing 
 seems to be forbidden. Books, theatres, everything 
 say the same thing, and the women we used to see 
 did just as they liked, without the least disturbance 
 of their calm. One has no time to think, and even 
 if one does think, it is only of love. Love alone could 
 hold one back, in a life that rushes on like a train, so 
 that one cannot stop a moment, not even to admire 
 some beautiful thing or to say a prayer, — which is 
 a comfort when one has too tender a heart, like mine. 
 
18 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 The thing was done before I knew it, I swear to you. 
 He came to me in all true friendship. Last summer 
 when we were all at the Riffelalp, we experienced to- 
 gether the dangers of the high mountains. That 
 brings people nearer each other than you realise. 
 And more than all, he was unhappy. You, you are 
 so strong, you go straight ahead. It never seemed 
 to m£ that my love added much to your orderly and 
 busy life. He assured me that it was everything to 
 him. Ah! I acknowledge that I ought to have told 
 you all this, but one dares not talk about such things, 
 especially when you are not sure whether you really 
 do love or not, and you think that nothing serious 
 will come of it. But something did come, and I 
 found no joy in it; I loved him in terror. Now if 
 you will, it shall be ended — ended forever. He will 
 understand, he will go far away. Take me back, 
 Mark, forgive me; I mil take up no place in your 
 home, I will devote myself entirely to Juliette, you 
 shall hardly know that I am there, and only when 
 you wish to. My dear, my friend, — I beg of you, 
 remember our past love; be kind, be generous, open 
 the door to me to-morrow when I go back home. It 
 seems such a long time since I kissed my little girl. 
 And now, I can bear no more, have pity, have pity on 
 your wife, 
 
 " Thekese." 
 
 This letter had remained unanswered though he 
 had no doubt of its sincerity — what would be the 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 19 
 
 good? He had never been able to read it since with- 
 out a feeling of disgust at the false compassion that 
 it still awoke within him; and how could he reply 
 without taking up one by one its feeble appeals to 
 sentiment? Yes, Therese, he admitted, was innocent 
 of perfidy or baseness ; why accuse her uselessly ? 
 Was it not bad enough when he was just to her? Did 
 she deny her guilty love? She offered to give it up 
 because of maternal tenderness, — that she might re- 
 sume her place in her home — from a spirit of sub- 
 mission, from a thirst for peace, but she did not 
 realise her great offence, she showed no true remorse. 
 And how was he to believe in this imperative pas- 
 sion, the too easy excuse for all sorts of self-in- 
 dulgence, for the domination of sensual impulses? 
 Such impulses never come without warning, they do 
 not at once appear in their full power; there is al- 
 ways a time when one can put them aside, if only by 
 fleeing from them. Why had not Therese had the 
 courage to confide in him? Even without confi- 
 dences, without romantic scenes, does not a wife 
 know how to occupy a little more of her husband's 
 care and attention, especially when the husband is 
 one from whom she has received only proofs of 
 kindness, whom she has no cause to reproach 
 except for seriousness and absorption in business, 
 when lack of occupation is the direct cause of so 
 many divisions and infidelities? And why did she re- 
 mind him, with so little delicacy, of the disparity in 
 their fortunes, which he had never made her feel? 
 
20 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 She had ceased to love him and so she discovered 
 imaginary causes of complaint. She had ceased to 
 love him; what could he do about that? If she 
 had cause to complain of him, why had she not com- 
 plained before? If she loved her little daughter so 
 much, why did she not find in maternal af- 
 fection a refuge from the struggle against an un- 
 worthy love? To allow himself to be touched, to 
 give in to her pleading, to consent to an impossible 
 forgiveness — a more impossible promise to forget, 
 — would have been the most deplorable weakness. 
 Doubtless many disunited households do take up 
 again the mutual chain, but they transform the 
 marriage tie into an association of business interests, 
 with no common fund but self -contempt in self-indul- 
 gence. He had refused to lower himself to such a 
 degree, to consent to such degradation. The 
 thought of his little girl had for a moment only dis- 
 turbed his firm conviction of being in the right. 
 That first evening, that tragic evening, she had 
 called for her mamma with such persistence — her 
 mamma from whom she had never before been sepa- 
 rated! How could he let her be half orphaned? 
 Ought he to submit possession of her to the courts 
 like a property that may be divided? Then his 
 memory pictured Therese returning from her guilty 
 absences, caressing the child, with her lying lips 
 still moist with strange kisses. 
 
 Thus he had refused to receive her back. Two 
 days later he had fought a duel with her lover, 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 21 
 
 Andre Norans, had wounded him severely in the side 
 with a sword thrust. At first, it was thought that 
 his life was in danger, but the wound healed well, and 
 sooner than was expected. 
 
 Andre Norans was also a married man, and on the 
 eve of the duel which caused such a scandal he had 
 left his home and broken with his wife. He was car- 
 ried, wounded, to a furnished apartment which he 
 had hastily hired, whither he was followed and nursed 
 by Therese, who, believing him to be dying, would not 
 abandon him. From thence she had sent a second 
 letter which Mark Romenay now read over. 
 
 " This vmhappy duel has raised an insuperable har- 
 rier between us. They brought him back dying. 
 He was alone, he kept calling for me. How could I 
 refuse to go to him? I did not stop to reflect, I ran 
 to him. If you had been wounded, would I not even 
 have forced your door? Whatever might be the re- 
 sult, I was torn in two. Yet I had first offered to 
 return to you, with repentance and with my whole 
 heart. But you threw me out as if I had been a dog, 
 and you tried to revenge your wrongs upon another. 
 Ah! all my powers of love have now become powers 
 for suffering. I have not a thought, no part of me, 
 that is not one pain. . . . 
 
 He will live, but his death, if you had succeeded in 
 killing him, would not have separated us more than 
 his life. Now I can never return into your life. 
 You mil demand a divorce and it will he granted, I 
 
22 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 shall not defend myself. What would be the use? 
 What could I say? And you will keep Juliette. 
 Perhaps I might be allowed to see her from time to 
 time. I have been a good mother, I have nothing to 
 reproach myself with in that respect. But later she 
 will not understand why we do not live together, and 
 after that she will understand too much, I had 
 thought of demanding her of you, snatching her away 
 from you; hut I am so afraid of doing her harm. I 
 have never wished to harm any one. I did not see the 
 abyss into which I was falling. I am not strong 
 enough to carry on a lawsuit in a court of justice. 
 And when I have wept my tears out, I see before me a 
 frightful thing; hut even that is better than to fight 
 over the possession of our child. I do not want my 
 fault to fall bach upon her head. Keep her entirely, 
 care for her well, since with me she would always be 
 measured by me, while with you she will not be meas- 
 ured. Your mother, who seemed to be a little fond of 
 me, will help you to bring her up. Do not forget 
 that Juliette has a delicate throat, and that she must 
 be well wrapped up when she goes out, and let her 
 keep on a few of her wrappings when she first comes 
 in, that she may not have a chill. Oh! never to feel 
 her warm little cheek, never to see her trustful eyes, 
 never to hear her sweet voice, her little sayings! It 
 is torture much worse than death! And yet, you see, 
 I make this sacrifice to you, I do it because it seems 
 to me better for her. She is so sensitive, and so pre- 
 cocious, that our enmities would crush her. Promise 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 23 
 
 me to keep her memory/ of me alive, do not wean her 
 heart away from me, from me who will always be far 
 away. You owe me this much, for my heart is torn 
 in shreds. You do not, you ca/nnot, know what a 
 mother's heart is, if you think anything in the world 
 can fill the place of her child. Farewell, farewell, I 
 shall not read this over, for I fear I should not send 
 it if I did. I believe I am doing right to send it. 
 God will forgive me, seeing me so unhappy, and as 
 for you, may you never regret what you have done 
 with me. . . . 
 
 " Theeese." 
 
 To this letter, the tone of which, in spite of him- 
 self, had touched him more deeply than he allowed to 
 himself, he had replied by a few words in the third 
 person. He had confided his trouble to no one. He 
 approved of his wife's wish to spare Juliette the sor- 
 row of parting and promised in return to watch care- 
 fully over the child, to keep alive her memory of her 
 mother. He even promised that news of her should 
 be sent each month through the governess. What 
 more could he do? He had ordered his lawyer to 
 make suitable pecuniary arrangements for Madame 
 Romenay, but she had refused all aid. Finally, in 
 the divorce proceedings which he instituted a little 
 later, he had simply pleaded as cause the article of 
 " grave wrongs." There had been no response" to 
 the summons and he was now awaiting, from day to 
 day, the official decision in his favour. 
 
24 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 Thus, before setting out, he lived over that past 
 from which he had believed himself freed. He was 
 cut short in these reflections by the entrance of little 
 Juliette, with her skipping step like a little wagtail 
 in the field. She darted to him across the room ; her 
 long curls waved her large straw hat as she held out 
 her tiny gloved hands : 
 
 "Here I am, all ready, Papa;" then realising 
 from his surprised look that he had entirely forgot- 
 ten his promise, an expression of disappointment 
 overshadowed her face, and in a tone of regret she 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " Oh, I might have known ! You won't go out with 
 me after all ! It is always so ! " 
 
 Her father looked at her so fixedly, as she stood 
 there before him, hardly knee high, like a little pot 
 of flowers, scarcely reaching to the level of the table, 
 that she began to feel embarrassed, and half afraid. 
 At the least emotion her cheeks would crimson to her 
 ears. This too sensitive nature, so easily moved, was 
 one of her mother's charms, which the familiar inter- 
 course of married life had not lessened. After a 
 long silence, through which Therese's plaintive voice 
 seemed to echo, Mark said at last, 
 
 " Yes, I wiU take you with me." 
 
 " Where shall we go? " 
 
 " A long way off. To Switzerland." 
 
 The child clapped her hands ; an idea came to her 
 which she did not express. The childish imagination 
 transposes truth without falsifying it, as legend 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 25 
 
 restores history in its own fashion, which is none the 
 less true. 
 
 " Run and call Madame Acher ; we start in an 
 hour." 
 
 Poor Madame Acher, with arms uplifted, had 
 hardly heard of this suddenly improvised journey, 
 which was a mystery tb her, but of which she was 
 to be a party — how crazy to start thus at a mo- 
 ment's notice for the Grand Saint Bernard! — when 
 the footman announced : 
 
 " Madame Romenay." 
 
 Mark must have looked strangely, for the servant 
 hastened to add, " Master's mother." 
 
 Madame Romenay, his mother, was a woman such 
 as is rarely seen in these days, one who has con- 
 sented to grow old. Under her white hair, in spite 
 of the melancholy expression at the depressed cor- 
 ners of her mouth, her eyes, which a life of practical 
 piety had softened, gave to her features an expres- 
 sion akin to the peace of eventide. She must have 
 been beautiful in her prime, for there still remained 
 that unconscious dignity of carriage which the pos- 
 session of beauty adds to its other gifts. After her 
 son's marriage she had withdrawn from active par- 
 ticipation in his life from a feeling of delicacy, and 
 also because she was fond of solitude ; but after the 
 break between him and his wife she had quietly re- 
 appeared. Of Therese she had spoken only words of 
 pity and indulgence, somewhat unexpected from one 
 of such rigid virtue. Mark, feeling that she did not 
 
26 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 approve of his stern attitude, sadly attributed her 
 sympathy with the erring one to the depressing in- 
 fluence of advancing years. 
 
 He held out the telegram. She was deeply moved 
 by it. 
 
 " You are going.? " 
 
 " In a few minutes." 
 
 " You are quite right." 
 
 As she came up the stairs she had seen through 
 the open door the hurry of preparation; the gover- 
 ness and the chambermaid, all consternation and con- 
 fusion, hastily packing a trunk. 
 
 "Are you taking Juliette.-'" the mother asked 
 timidly. 
 
 He assented apologetically: 
 
 " Yes, perhaps I am wrong. What shall I do with 
 her up there.? And if ... if the other one is 
 there. . . ," 
 
 He was already repenting his decision, and about 
 to give contrary orders. With persuasive charity 
 his mother stopped him: 
 
 " Since she is dying — she will more easily believe 
 in your sincerity if Juliette is with you. . . ." 
 
 To take Juliette with him meant forgiveness. He 
 had already granted it from afar, without even being 
 aware of it. But to save his dignity, he repeated:. 
 
 " Since she is dying. . . ," 
 
II 
 
 Juliette trotted along, the railway platform at 
 Madame Acher's side, calling from time to time, 
 " Papa," her shrill childish voice lost in the noise. 
 She could not keep up with Romenay's rapid steps, 
 hurrying toward the Paris-Milan sleeper, in the wake 
 of a luggage-laden porter. Turning back, Rome- 
 nay signed them to wait while he booked their com- 
 partment. 
 
 In the passage he met a tall, dark young woman in 
 a travelling cloak. As he drew back to let her pass, 
 they exchanged a careless glance, and he felt a cold 
 chill as her countenance changed. Summoning his 
 presence of mind, he turned into an empty compart- 
 ment. The lady had turned as if to speak to him, 
 but he had disappeared. When he came out to seek 
 his daughter and her governess she was no longer 
 there. 
 
 The train started. Before installing himself in a 
 place near them, Mark Romenay gave his instructions 
 to Madame Acher. The child could sleep all night: 
 they would not reach Martigny until morning, and 
 it would be soon enough to awaken her at Lausanne 
 or even as late as Montreux. But Juliette, excited 
 
28 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 by this mysterious journey, had no wish to sleep. 
 There was time enough for that, for out of doors 
 it was still light. All sorts of questions tumbled 
 from her lips. Even her eyes seemed full of interro- 
 gations that her lips did not know how to frame. 
 Where were they going, anyhow.'' Why had Papa 
 so suddenly decided to go? And this Grand Saint 
 Bernard Mountain; was it a very high place, and 
 hard to climb ? 
 
 Mark Romenay, who usually enjoyed her chatter, 
 lent a careless ear, replying in monosyllables. At 
 dinner where he had seated himself to make a sem- 
 blance of eating, in the automobile which had carried 
 them to the station, he had been absorbed and tacti- 
 turn. His sadness had never been stern. But now 
 a new shadow darkened his features and hardened 
 them. 
 
 To occupy the child's mind Madame Acher spoke 
 of two pictures which she had seen in an album of 
 Picturesque Switzerland; one of them represented a 
 traveller, overcome by fatigue, lying in the snow, 
 being rescued by two great dogs which licked his face 
 to revive him, one of them having a little keg of wine 
 hanging from his collar, the other a blanket strapped 
 to his back. In the distant background the hospice 
 could be perceived, and two monks hurrying to the 
 rescue. 
 
 " What are the two dogs' names? " asked Juliette. 
 
 The second picture was of the First Consul cross- 
 ing the Alps on the back of a white mule. He was 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 29 
 
 draped in a flowing mantle, his impenetrable face 
 under a three-cornered hat, his firm hand loosely hold- 
 ing the bridle. He was dreaming, while the path led 
 along the edge of the most frightful precipices. 
 And the governess, warming to the heroic, dwelt with 
 pride on this romantic picture, describing with de- 
 light the small beautiful hand, — so careless and yet 
 so firm. Napoleon and the Saint Bernard dogs, — 
 here was enough to inflame the child's imagination; 
 she begged for more stories about them and would 
 not go to sleep. The Grand Saint Bernard seemed 
 like the ascent into a fairy tale, and surely wonder- 
 ful things must happen there. There was no know- 
 ing what she was to find there. 
 
 " You must go to sleep," commanded her father. 
 
 " Oh, not yet ! the sky is still red." 
 
 The slowly declining sun turned the western sky to 
 copper-colour. It was a fine summer evening, soft 
 and lingering. Mark Romenay, unyielding, closed 
 the curtains. Light came only from the small lamp 
 in the ceiling. Juliette tried to struggle against the 
 drowsiness that weighed down her eyelids. Once or 
 twice she murmured the names of Barry and Lion, 
 which Madame Acher had given at a guess to the ca- 
 nine saviours of the mountain. Then vanquished at 
 last, Juliette kissed her father and let the governess 
 put her to bed. 
 
 Mark wished them good night and went to his own 
 section, which by chance he had all to himself. Day- 
 light was still there. In July the days are so long. 
 
30 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 However, the light of the setting sun began to fade 
 little by little, as if to make one forget its presence, 
 while still remaining. Its paling rays, almost hori- 
 zontal, became dimmed like a fire burned down to the 
 ground and almost extinct. Before the train reached 
 the Forest of Fontainebleau, it already had to con- 
 fess itself defeated. The trees near the railway 
 could still be perceived, but in confused masses, 
 rather than distinct forms ; no breath of air dis- 
 turbed them. The train plunged into the still dark- 
 ness of the woods, to which was now added that of 
 night. At intervals the strident whistle of the loco- 
 motive tore through the shadows, like the shriU cry 
 of peacocks in a park, seeming to presage a misfor- 
 tune. 
 
 The air penetrating the open portiere cooled his 
 forehead. He had tried not to think, — to let him- 
 self go. But in the regular rhythm of the train he 
 heard, like a refrain, distinct words that seemed to 
 scan : She is dead; — a continuous refrain, insist- 
 ently recurring with each turn of the wheels and that 
 brayed his brain as in a mortar. With a strange re- 
 vulsion of feeling he felt irritation rather than pain, 
 and he blamed himself for having yielded to sympa- 
 thy in undertaking to bring a useless pardon. All 
 this for no reason except that he had shortly before 
 met in the corridor a woman closely connected with 
 his life's tragedy, Madame Norans. 
 
 He had not seen her since the day when, six 
 months before, she had come like a mad woman, in 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 31 
 
 all her unbridled jealousy, to Franqueville Street; 
 had insisted on seeing him, on seeing him alone, had 
 glided like a venomous serpent into his study, and de- 
 fiantly gazing into his eyes, her own blazing with 
 hate and malediction, without fear of what might 
 ensue, had informed him that they had both been 
 basely deceived, that Therese Romenay was the mis- 
 tress of Andre Norans. How haughtily he had re- 
 fused to believe her! He was the guardian of his 
 hearth; he would allow no intruder. Let her spare 
 him these lies and calumnies ! He would hear none 
 of her proofs. Surprised at this reception, Madame 
 Norans had drawn back, her head lowered and her 
 mouth full of biting words, like a dog driven out yet 
 still trying to bite. Thus he had led her to his door. 
 But after she was gone, suddenly struck to the heart 
 by an atrocious suspicion, by certain incidents which 
 came into his mind, he had gone, distrustful, to his 
 absent wife's room, forced the lock of her desk, and 
 discovered letters which permitted him no longer to 
 doubt. Then he had sent away the servants and 
 watched for the wretched woman's return, in order 
 to cast her off. 
 
 Madame Norans had wilfully unchained the venge- 
 ance which must fall back upon herself. 
 
 The two lovers, the two fugitives, at this mo- 
 ment dying or dead, had doubtless been struck down 
 together, since that woman was here, in the same 
 train, like himself a prey to memories of the past, 
 she too summoned to a death-bed meeting. With 
 
S2 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 increasing certainty he saw all the details of an ac- 
 cident on the mountains: the searchers had found 
 them in the same crevasse or on the same glacier. 
 Kindly fate still united them. Their love would 
 never know all the tragedy of love, fts sad decline, 
 the indifference of custom, the weariness of satiety, 
 degrading jealousy, the fear of infidelity. It would 
 end without decreasing, — and Mark Romenay, envy- 
 ing them, began again to abhor them. 
 
 Was it that he might contemplate their beautiful, 
 their triumphant death that he had been summoned? 
 Why had Theresa insisted on his being called to her 
 death-bed? Was not the presence of her lover at 
 that last moment enough for her? This commisera- 
 tion that the menace of a fatal end had stirred in 
 his heart was only weakness, and the presence of 
 Madame Norans, the similarity of their positions, 
 emphasised aU that was odious and grotesque in the 
 situation. 
 
 She also was hastening, called by a telegram ap- 
 parently as imperative and mysterious as that which 
 had summoned him ; near him, on the other side of a 
 thin partition, she was suffering. But their identical 
 sufferings did not, could not, mingle. It was enough 
 for him to feel her there so near to harden him 
 against his trouble, for his trouble was stiU his 
 love. 
 
 Restless, he went out into the corridor, first at 
 haphazard, then seeking Madame Norans, not dar- 
 ing to open the doors, not wishing to question the 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 33 
 
 unhappy woman, yet anxious to be near her because 
 she knew something. He no longer reasoned with 
 his inconsistencies. Feverish and weary, he returned 
 to his seat, sent away the porter who would have 
 made up his berth, lowered the light, and in the 
 darkness left sorrow free to master thought. For 
 a few moments his thoughts wandered like birds seek- 
 ing their way; then choosing their direction, they 
 settled down upon his past. Alighting there as upon 
 a bark they floated along the tide of the years. 
 And just because they went further back than his 
 memories of Therese, he believed that he was freeing 
 himself from those memories. 
 
 In times of serious moment, our life's story seems 
 spontaneously to pass before us as a whole, as if to 
 assume its true significance when it is about either 
 to go under or shine out triumphant. We fly back 
 to childhood's memories as to a refuge, then to our 
 loves and friendships to know our own heart, and 
 measure our ills or our joys. In this night's vigil 
 Mark could cast up the account of his fortunes and 
 find no happiness there. Had destiny showered fa- 
 vours on him only to refuse him the gift of enjoying 
 them, like the legendary latest-arrived fairy, whose 
 gift annulled those of all who had preceded her? 
 
 When quite a little fellow he had borne the burden 
 of wealth and pleasure after the manner of those 
 royal infants of Velasquez' portraits, crushed under 
 the load of heavy laces, and who, bedizened with gold 
 chains and precious stones, would have enjoyed play- 
 
34 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 ing about if only they could have dragged them- 
 selves around under their rich apparel. In that villa 
 in the Avenue de Friedland it was the continual com- 
 ing and going of receptions and parties. He used 
 to watch the preparations, and then they would tuck 
 him away, in housekeeper's or steward's quarters, 
 unless they dressed him up to be exhibited, as some- 
 thing to be shown off. His father, Philibert 
 Romenay, the celebrated architect, the large builder 
 of casinos, concert halls, theatres, railway stations, 
 the accomplished constructor of those great halls 
 and bazars through which streams contemporary life, 
 had always been hungry for publicity, luxury and 
 movement, adoring excitement, noise, tumult, gaiety, 
 decorations, disguises. " All Paris " passed through 
 his home, with its artificiality and its prestige. But, 
 while the mirror of remembrance brought back to 
 Mark a distinct picture of the wonderful father, 
 always dapper, happy, with laughing mouth and 
 sparkling eyes, with carefully tended blond beard, 
 two absolutely distinct reflections of his mother 
 would come between. 
 
 Never before having observed this difference, he 
 was surprised at his discovery, and leaned forward 
 curiously to get a better view. 
 
 There she was in the mirror, coming towards the 
 child, dressed for the evening; she was like a pastel 
 whose colours turn to dust and fall and are faded 
 by time. But even half effaced, and so far away, 
 ah, dear God ! what a sweet mother she was ! If only 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 35 
 
 he dared to touch her ! She bends towards him smil- 
 ing, and he wants to kiss her; she puts him back 
 gently; he guesses that she must be careful of her 
 fine colouring, for she is powdered and her lips are 
 too red to be natural. He knows that she is some- 
 thing fragile and fragrant, something to which one 
 must not come too near : he is very awkward, and so, 
 not to frighten this beautiful creature, of his own 
 accord he puts his hands behind his back. 
 
 At other times she takes possession of him pas- 
 sionately; she even breaks in upon his boyish habits, 
 — and then again he feels himself forgotten. Al- 
 ready the child begins to perceive how complicated is 
 life, and one day — when was it .P — a long time 
 after? or soon? — in vain he searches his memory, 
 it refuses to respond — everything is changed. He 
 finds that he is first, above everything else, to his 
 mother, and after a few hesitations he finds this af- 
 fection quite natural. In fact has anything been 
 really changed? There is the same hubbub in the 
 house, and for him the same flight before the inva- 
 sion of strange guests. Madame Romenay, dressed 
 up, receives, talks, smiles, as before, no, he must be 
 mistaken : the reflections in memory's mirror are con- 
 fused. But if the reflections are confused it must 
 be that the blurred mirror is becoming worn. His 
 mother is present as a spectator, she no longer plays 
 a part. Her sole part, now, is that of mother to 
 himself. 
 
 Of the mysterious drama that he is not even sure 
 
$e FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 of having touched ever so lightly, whose dimly per- 
 ceived threads are now broken, after which his 
 mother continues to live, apparently the same, but in 
 reality transformed, — an experience of his youth 
 gave him the key. A woman whom he met on his 
 first entrance into society had made his youthful 
 senses thrill with desire. No doubt she was much 
 older than he, but she had such rare and seductive 
 gifts ! Her gestures, her words, marvellously dis- 
 ciplined, sang after the manner of worn-out tenors 
 who hide by cultivation the breaking of their voice. 
 She had the perfection of a choice work of art. 
 Was it not she whose cajoleries attracted him, whose 
 glances set him on fire, who gave herself, even when 
 she seemed to refuse, negligently arranging for 
 meetings which he was never quite sure she would 
 keep? He could not believe that a first mistress 
 could be at once so magnificent and so artificial. He 
 would have asked more from love — more despera- 
 tion, more determination, a more noble exaltation. 
 His very success inspired in him a vague fear. One 
 so expert in pleasure rather appalled than dazzled 
 him ; and but a few weeks had passed when he learned 
 the horrible truth that this woman had formerly been 
 his father's ; the caprice she felt for himself was only 
 the wandering of a corrupt imagination. In a dis- 
 gusted revulsion of feeling he overwhelmed her with 
 his contempt. She did not attempt to deny, she 
 made a boast of her audacity, she even dared to 
 laugh insolently, with that shamelessness which in 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 37 
 
 such women increases from one false connection to 
 another, and which at last brings them to find quite 
 natural the infamous conduct which they exalt as 
 the worship of passion. Then, his eyes suddenly 
 opened, he saw in his once loved one only a sorceress 
 possessed of evil charms. Now he saw her paint, 
 realised her years, and knew the shame of loving. 
 Yet though he had brushed her away from his life, 
 had she not taken with her his guilelessness, the gay 
 confidence of his youth, his ready credulity.'' Did 
 he not owe to this cruel connection the disenchant- 
 ment with which a first love without freshness over- 
 shadows a youthful heart.? 
 
 Now with startling clearness he understood those 
 paternal disorders, half perversity, half nervous ex- 
 citement, which had resulted in the crisis, the inci- 
 dents of which his childish memories had preserved. 
 His mother had come in contact with the intractable 
 selfishness of a man of pleasure, of one who always 
 insists upon being spared all tears and complaints. 
 She had drawn back within herself without explana- 
 tions, but thenceforth she had lavished upon her 
 neglected chUd all her wasted tenderness. Dear old 
 mother ! sad and pious, vanquished and self -forget- 
 ting, too much detached from life, bearing upon her 
 features the imprint of a soft austerity refined by 
 suffering, too saintly, one who having had the 
 strength — or the weakness — of systematic for- 
 giveness, would now persuade him to have mercy, for- 
 getting, in her pity, the pride of man, the honour 
 
38 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 of the hearth, her son's bleeding wound, — as if the 
 comparison of her own immaculate sorrow did not 
 add to Therese's guilt! 
 
 Mark Romenay, given over to his memories, mo- 
 tionless in a corner of his compartment, shook off his 
 torpor. The chill of night came in by the still open 
 portiere. He did not close it — ^^he needed air, but 
 he unfolded his rugs. Here and there a clump of 
 trees deepened the uniform darkness; the vivid, 
 quivering light of stars overspread a sky from which 
 the sunset light had faded, and over which that of 
 early dawn had not yet begun to break. It was the 
 short respite of night between twilight and morning, 
 when the summer night blooms like a mysterious, in- 
 visible flower. 
 
 Only one year ago, from a seat on the Riffelalp, 
 she had pointed out to him by name some of these 
 constellations. Now he turned from them indiffer- 
 ently, after having involuntarily looked for Cygnus, 
 which she used to like best. She.? — He was almost 
 surprised to find her still present in his thoughts. 
 Had he not but now been reviewing all that part of 
 his life in which she had had no share? But even to 
 that past he had gone back only to come from it to 
 his first meeting with her, as one searches for a pres- 
 ence at the end of an avenue. 
 
 What had made him choose her? His comfortable 
 fortune, after the unexpected death of his father, his 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 39 
 
 rapid rise in his profession, a fine presence of which 
 he could not but be aware, and even the air of dis- 
 dain which he had kept from the first love-disillu- 
 sionment, made him attractive to women and gave him 
 the right to look forward to a most ambitious mar- 
 riage. Like those unquiet souls who know neither 
 how to give nor how to accept happiness, and who 
 spread round about them an eternal unrest, he at- 
 tracted sympathy without believing in it, he sought 
 the gay world and detested it, he disdained flattery, 
 but missed it when it was absent. A secret longing 
 for a quiet home tormented him, as a traveller on a 
 long, tempestuous voyage longs for a quiet harbour. 
 But nowhere did he see the longed-for face. Fur- 
 thermore, he doubted that he would ever find it. 
 How could he entrust the order and peace of his 
 home to any one of these young girls whose eyes have 
 no reticences and whose manners rival in boldness 
 those of the freest of women.'' It was perhaps pos- 
 sible that the simplicity of youth might be concealed 
 under this appearance of worldly knowledge, that it 
 even tended to make them the more audacious ; and it 
 would not be just to judge them without knowing 
 them better. But so long as they offered nothing 
 else in looks and conversation than that sort of at- 
 traction which is found in any commonplace love af- 
 fair, it was impossible to think of them in the light 
 of conjugal love. The very word has come to sig- 
 nify something hostile — and yet does it not add to 
 
40 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 the usual charm the idea of duration, the desire to 
 live on into the future, the dear consent to grow old 
 together ? 
 
 The most dangerous result of that modern rev- 
 olution of ideas which the family has been called 
 to undergo is the utter neglect of all that is 
 most vital in an offer of marriage. The young girl 
 shows it, if only by the light shining from her face, 
 to the man who only wishes to find in her a continua- 
 tion of his former love adventures. One heart, one 
 flesh forever — who, now-a-days, understands the 
 meaning of the sacred words? . . . Mark Romenay 
 heard them echo in his heart with a sad, insulting 
 irony. She whom he had chosen to share his life, 
 the brilliant future which might satisfy any woman, 
 did not belong to those social circles without founda- 
 tion, without traditions, of which he had fully recog- 
 nised the emptiness. She had brought as her dowry 
 her wonder, her confidence, the sensitiveness of a 
 retired life, apt to find joy everywhere, — in a word, 
 she had brought him security. And he had been 
 forced to send her away ! 
 
 While the night was beginning to thrill with the 
 distant approach of dawn he lived over again his 
 first meeting with Therese de Rodange. 
 
 The construction of a villa on the hillside of 
 Publier, overlooking Lake Leman, about a league 
 from Evian, where he left the train, called him occa- 
 sionally to Chablais. He was just finishing the su- 
 perintendence of this work. It was a rustic villa 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 41 
 
 with a terraced roof, ornamented with loggias, 
 verandas, balustrades, not without pretension, and 
 which would doubtless have been more appropriately 
 placed on Lake Maggiore or Lake Como, the home of 
 pillars and marbles, than in this region at once re- 
 fined and old-fashioned, with its chestnut trees, its 
 vineyards, the soft outlines of its shores, the rug- 
 gedness of its mountains, and its lovely everchang- 
 ing sky which is not that of Italy, but seems rather 
 to yield itself to mists, like a northern sky, and veils 
 the outlines of objects with gentle caresses. By de- 
 grees, as he came to know better this kindly country 
 with its careless grace, he had come to realise how ab- 
 normal were these classic lines, this crude colouring, 
 which he had used so much, how much better adapted 
 to the neighbourhood of a Grecian sea, with its un- 
 changing vegetation. Accustomed to planning city 
 houses, he now made the discovery that there is a 
 special architecture suited to the country, the ap- 
 parent irregularities and disproportions of which be- 
 come advantages. The overhangings roofs of old 
 farmhouses, throwing a bluish shadow over walls 
 yellowed by time, enchanted him. But in his pride 
 he resisted these impressions, urging against them 
 discomfort and lack of conveniences. It was essen- 
 tial that houses should be adapted to the require- 
 ments of modem life — light, air, cleanliness, com- 
 fort, arrangements for rest and facilities for going 
 and coming, for the daily invasion of outside affairs. 
 In former days people built in hollows to be sheltered 
 
42 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 from the winds, without seeking wide views of the sur- 
 rounding country, without large windows, actually 
 as if a man sought his home for the quiet of private 
 life, a refuge from the outside world! 
 
 One day, as he was considering without much en- 
 thusiasm the general impression given by his nearly 
 finished villa, a clear voice, somewhat raised, ex- 
 claimed behind him, 
 
 " Goodness ! how ugly it is." 
 
 Indignantly he turned about to confound with a 
 glance the impertinent perpetrator of the remark. 
 It was a fair young girl, dressed in white, quite 
 guiltless of insolence or eifrontery, even of boldness, 
 for her whole face crimsoned. Hardly had the 
 blood receded from her cheeks when she blushed 
 again, as the Savoy mountains, illumined by the set- 
 ting sun, suddenly take on an afterglow after the 
 shadows have fallen upon them. At that very mo- 
 ment, a mason, drawing near, addressed Mark as 
 " Mr. Architect " and thus made her aware of the 
 enormity of her blunder. She immediately mur- 
 mured : 
 
 " Oh ! I beg your pardon, sir ! " 
 
 She was so much confused that he hastened to re- 
 assure her with somewhat disdainful consideration: 
 
 " Criticisms are permitted. Mademoiselle." 
 
 " Mine are of no value," she replied apologet- 
 ically. " You understand, I know nothing about 
 it; and the old house I live in is so different from 
 this villa — this fine villa." 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 43 
 
 " Too fine altogether," he laughingly acknowl- 
 edged, for he noticed her sweet manners, and he 
 wished to put her at ease. 
 
 " That is it, it is too fine. I am not accustomed 
 to such things. About our home there is no pre- 
 tence of anything fine, no luxury, but it is all so as- 
 sociated with the surroundings that it looks like a 
 part of the landscape; one hardly distinguishes one 
 from the other. And I — I find that beautiful." 
 
 " May I come and see it.' " asked Mark. 
 
 As she hesitated to reply, he urged, for every de- 
 nial only heightened his desire. 
 
 "Is it far from here.?" 
 
 " Oh, no, only a few steps ! " 
 
 " Kindly show me the way, then." 
 
 Again she blushed; she was so full of life that 
 her blood quickened at the slightest cause. 
 
 " It is a poor old shell. But I love it as if it 
 were a living friend, and perhaps it really is. 
 Promise me that you will say nothing against the 
 dear old place, even if you do not like it. It would 
 hurt me." 
 
 He promised. At the end of an avenue he soon 
 perceived an ancient, somewhat quaint building, 
 covered by an enormous roof with a steep slope, on 
 account of the heavy snows, set upon it like an over- 
 large hat upon a withered face which it half con- 
 ceals. A little clock tower served as a plume. A 
 roman-arched door and mullioned windows orna- 
 mented the front, while the powerful lines of the 
 
44 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 great beams, filled in with heavy masonry, were 
 half concealed by clematis mingled with wild grape 
 vines. Under the action of time and weather the 
 well £tted tiles of the roof had taken on a brownish 
 tint which went well with the beams and woodwork 
 of the house. The whole building had a look of 
 hearty gaiety, as of a stout old grandmother who 
 can bear away the bell from the young girls when it 
 comes to the question of work and appetite. 
 
 As Mark was silent she spoke up for her house, 
 believing that he was finding fault with it. 
 
 " Oh ! the old house has no style, of course ; but it 
 shows weU among the trees. Do you not see how 
 well it matches the chestnut trees around it? They 
 are great balls of leaves with stout trunks to bear 
 them. Such a heavy roof needs thick walls to sup- 
 port it, — and then the old house has belonged to the 
 family for generations. Thus it has entered into 
 our life at all times." 
 
 " I find it very attractive," said Mark, " and I 
 can well understand how you must enjoy living in it." 
 
 Scrupulous to avoid exaggeration, she murmured 
 frankly : 
 
 " I weary of it, too, at times. When it rains, 
 when the leaves fall, when the year begins, when the 
 month ends — " 
 
 She herself laughed at the enumeration, and he 
 looked deep into her eyes, guessing at the secret of 
 this secluded young life buried in the country. Her 
 hair was so abundant that it seemed almost disor- 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 45 
 
 derly, and of so light a copper shade that the colour 
 of her eyes surprised him, — the dark, almost black, 
 pupils, so dilated as almost to hide the iris, gave them 
 the expression, at once melancholy and wild, of fawns 
 that are kept prisoners in Zoological gardens, and 
 that come without gladness to eat out of your hand. 
 Here, before this quiet old house, at that very in- 
 stant, he intuitively felt that this girl would some day 
 become his wife, and that he was to be, — oh, the 
 mockery ! — the fairy prince of this Sleeping Beauty 
 of the Wood. 
 
 Not wishing to reply to confidences rather 
 guessed at than heard, he pointed to the house, and 
 under the pretext of architectural changes he drew 
 the plan of an entirely new life: 
 
 " Yes, it should be given more air ; a bay window 
 opened here in the drawing-room and a veranda 
 there for the dining-room. One could imagine one- 
 self out of doors among the trees, A conservatory 
 could easily be added. I am sure that you have 
 neither electric light nor telephone." 
 
 " Alas ! not even water, sir." 
 
 " Not even water ! incredible ! it will require a 
 thorough overhauling. However, it will answer for 
 the summer. The rest of the year, it could be shut 
 up." 
 
 He was tempting her with this list of improve- 
 ments. She listened, shocked yet yielding, van- 
 quished in advance, and none the less somewhat 
 ashamed of her defeat. 
 
46 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 "Leave the house?" she said. 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " And what about Mamma .'' " 
 
 He made no reply, and even began to repent of 
 all he had dared to say so carelessly, and which, an- 
 ticipating his thought, she had only too well un- 
 derstood. He remembered how she had bent her 
 head; doubtless she was acknowledging to herself 
 that she would even leave her mother also, if some 
 one asked it of her. 
 
 They took a few steps side by side in the chest- 
 nut avenue. Through the branches, for all their 
 thick covering, could be seen between tree and tree, 
 as through open windows, the blue lake, a blue 
 almost white, as it were a nuptial blue, so fresh and 
 new, so restful to the eyes. Now and again little 
 shivers ran over its surface as if to certify that 
 it was alive, and the points scintillated with light. 
 A fish leaping up after an insect was made visible 
 by a sudden flash, as of a carbuncle. The lateen 
 sails of the Meillerie boats made a pathway of light. 
 This shadowless landscape, this young girl, unknown 
 and sad, but so easily made happy, so prompt to 
 hope, this inviting house embedded in trees, which, 
 even when closed, had an air as of an indulgent 
 grandparent, all this was so happily harmonious, 
 , that he felt his usual restlessness fall from him, like 
 a leaf already dry before autumn. He felt so far 
 away from Paris, with its feverish life and its women. 
 Perhaps happiness looked like this. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 47 
 
 " Till we meet again, Mademoiselle." 
 
 " Good-bye, sir." 
 
 The light gate that shut oif the small domain 
 closed upon him; but he dimly felt that some one 
 would wait for him. 
 
 As he recalled the period of his engagement, in 
 which he was surprised to find a timid charm, such 
 as that with which a convalescent half fearfully re- 
 sumes life after a severe illness which had led him 
 to the brink of the grave, he noticed that day was 
 breaking. The train was painfully dragging itself 
 up the side of the Jura, and behind the curtain of 
 fir-trees, rays of red gold announced the sunrise. 
 
 How short the night had seemed — so full of 
 memories of Tier! Why, during this journey, had 
 his vagrant thoughts, ill-controlled by a half- 
 slumbering will, been enticed beyond the narrow limits 
 within which, since his betrayal, he had kept them 
 as in a devastated park? Shortly, after passing 
 Vallorbe and the Swiss frontier where Lake Leman 
 would appear — her lake — he would seek on the 
 opposite bank, among the chestnuts, the site of that 
 old house that had been the first witness of his love, 
 now so wounded. He had neither torn it down nor 
 repaired it as he had threatened to do, and he had 
 revisited it only once with Therese for the last hours 
 and the funeral of her mother, Madame de Rodange, 
 who had died shortly after their marriage. How 
 should they have found time to revisit it? So many 
 
48 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 pleasanter country places were open to them, and m 
 the most beautiful regions on earth. Perhaps, yes, 
 perhaps, Therese, driven away from her home, might 
 have come there with him? Then why revive those 
 memories of their betrothal? Like aU the other 
 memories that she had left him, they were like with- 
 ered flowers — poisonous flowers. 
 
 Yet he had showered precious gifts on this little 
 country girl whom fate had brought so low. For 
 her he had planned and built that wonderful house 
 in the rue de Franqueville, with its many windows, 
 its pure design, and its decorative surroundings of 
 the greenery of La Muette. He had set free her 
 captive youth, lifted her up, set her in the pathway 
 of pleasure. Truly he had loaded her with bene- 
 fits. He had wanted her to be radiant, triumphant, 
 and to accomplish this he had stopped at nothing. 
 His sole surprise had been that she had not been 
 more touched by it, more proud of it all. Yet for 
 a number of years and even up to the last she had 
 given herself up to his direction, precisely as he had 
 expected her to do. False and secretive as a slave, 
 she had been plotting her treachery. . . . 
 
 The lake smiled to the morning. He turned to- 
 ward Evian, which on the other side was sleeping be- 
 side the water. His gaze travelled up the hill slope 
 of Publier. It was there. . . . 
 
 Suddenly the vision vanished; the train entered 
 the Lausanne station. 
 
Ill 
 
 The Simplon express stops at Lausanne only a 
 brief ten minutes. Mark Romenay knocked at the 
 stateroom door where Juliette was sleeping, and 
 Madame Acher, already dressed, opened it. 
 
 " Miss Juliette is still asleep," she said in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " Very well, there is still time enough : but perhaps 
 it is best not to let her sleep too long. We shall be 
 at Martigny in an hour." 
 
 Having given his instructions, he got out upon 
 the platform. A few of his fellow travellers, in long 
 dust coats, their caps drawn over their eyes, were 
 walking up and down to stretch their legs and 
 breathe the morning air. A vendor was pushing be- 
 fore him his little cart laden with fruits, drinks, sand- 
 wiches, and also books and newspapers. Here and 
 there through a lifted window shade he would pass 
 a bowl of coffee to a half-dressed woman. 
 
 " Swiss papers ? " asked Mark, to pass the time. 
 He was given the Lausanne Journal, and hurried 
 back to his car, at the porter's call of " All aboard." 
 
 As far as Villeneuve, at the entrance of the 
 
 Rhone, the railway overlooks Lake Leman. Vine- 
 
 49 
 
50 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 yards, villas in gardens, and then a series of sta- 
 tions that seem to run into each other like a string 
 of beads, Vevay, Clarens, Montreux, Territet, lying 
 between the railway and the shore. The first sun 
 rays were playing on the white house-fronts, 
 gilding the strand, kissing the waters; but on the 
 opposite side the slopes of the Savoyard Alps were 
 still in shadow. The dispersing mists trailed about 
 their summits like carelessly fastened gauze veils, 
 blown by the wind. Then appeared the Dent du 
 Midi, with its seven peaks. 
 
 This view, so fresh and calm, after the intermi- 
 nable night did not change Mark's train of thought. 
 He was still looking backward, seeking on the slopes 
 of Publier the old rustic roof, which was too far 
 away and too well hidden among the trees for him 
 to distinguish it. Under that roof, on a summer's 
 day like this, the disaster of his life had been pre- 
 pared. He gazed with hostile feelings on this 
 mountain panorama, widening out around the lake 
 and again suddenly narrowing as the train entered 
 the Rhone valley. 
 
 Only a year ago he had followed that same 
 route with Therese. Then they had gone farther, as 
 far as Viege, to take the little railway that leads 
 to Zermatt, from thence to climb to Riffelalp. 
 The doctor, somewhat concerned about Juliette's 
 pale cheeks, had advised a stronger and purer 
 air. In the evenings at home, when no social 
 duty pressed, they had weighed and compared the 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 51 
 
 attractive offers of the guide books. He suggested 
 the Tyrol, she Savoy; the hotel of the Riffelalp, at 
 a height of two thousand metres, with its modern 
 conveniences, its southern exposure, its fine walks, 
 its forests of larch trees and Austrian pines, had 
 gained the day, in spite of the banality of a vaca- 
 tion in Switzerland. How well he remembered their 
 arrival ! From the Weisshom to the Cervin were all 
 those snowy enchantresses, uprising above their 
 seas of ice, rosy under the setting sun! Little 
 Juliette, all excitement, had clapped her hands. On 
 the threshold — the bell having already rung — 
 were the Norans, in evening dress, scanning the new 
 comers, and surprised and delighted at the chance 
 that had brought them fellow country-folk. 
 
 He had met Andre Norans in Rome, the last year 
 of his stay in the Villa Medicis. Andjce-Nprans, 
 younger than he, as apt for pleasure as for disil- 
 lusions, now ardent for life — almost too much so . 
 — and again weary of it all, a lover of painting,4 
 sculpture, music, of sports also, a lover of every- 
 thing indeed, variable in character, full of con- 
 trasts, with quick enthusiasms followed by deep de- 
 pression, at once bold and sensitive, with sudden 
 bursts of gaiety in the inns of Frascati and Tivoli, 
 and at other times depressed and bored; too highly 
 endowed with imagination not to divert his compan- 
 ions, and too capricious not to repel those who, re 
 fusing to squander their lives, try to regulate them, 
 sometimes at the cost of individuality. Thus Andre 
 
52 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 Norans by turns attracted and repelled him. On 
 Mark's return to Paris he had lost sight of him, 
 when he heard of his marriage to the beautiful 
 Simone Meris, well known in society and whom for 
 some time report had engaged to Mark, as she herself 
 would perhaps have desired, rather however from 
 ambition than from affection. She was one of those 
 fashionable girls whose portraits appear in the 
 magazines, as if they made a part of the thousand 
 attractions of the city. After her marriage she had 
 continued to shine. She was noted for her wit and 
 for her fine clothes ; the last somewhat a matter of 
 surprise, as the modest means of the Norans was a 
 fact of common knowledge ; but otherwise she was 
 never spoken of. Mark had sometimes met her, ad- 
 mired her, perhaps almost regretted her; and when 
 they had reached the Riffelalp he had felt a curious 
 kind of embarrassment on meeting her, all tricked 
 out in her finery, while Therese in her crumpled 
 travelling suit, her features bearing traces of fa- 
 tigue, her colour gone, seemed almost a nonentity in 
 comparison. 
 
 As often happened at summer resorts, they had 
 been much thrown together. The hotel was filled 
 with English and Germans, and foreign languages 
 were heard everywhere; the mere music of French 
 words would have been enough to bring them to- 
 gether. The lovely Simone made the first advances, 
 for she was having a stupid time. Her son Edward, 
 of about the same age as Juliette, soon became the 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 53 
 
 devoted playmate, or rather the slave, of the little 
 girl, who was quite capable of leading a whole train 
 of small boys. Norans, however, was often absent. 
 Infatuated with the delights of mountain climbing, 
 he would disappear for a day or two, reappearing 
 with a sunburned face: he had been up the Dent 
 Blanche or the Gabelhorn, Once he had even made 
 the ascent of the Cervin, whose pyramid, silhouetted 
 against the Zermatt horizon, seems to hypnotise all 
 who gaze upon it. Then for days he would hardly 
 stir out. He would tell of his exploits with all the 
 false modesty of Alpine climbers who take on a 
 knowing air, the better to emphasise the facility 
 with which they have accomplished those wonders, 
 posing thus as a sort of hero. Nevertheless he at 
 times condescended to organise a little trip that 
 every one could share, even the children: the 
 Gornergrat without the electric railway, Lac Noir 
 at the foot of the Cervin, the Findelen Glacier. He 
 laid himself out on these poor little plans. By the 
 newly adopted fad, sunburn and frost-bites seemed 
 to make him all the handsomer in the eyes of his ad- 
 mirers, as young German girls admire the sword cuts 
 on the faces of German students. Whether from 
 deliberate purpose or not he thus won a doubtful 
 distinction. Mark remembered, looking back, that 
 the beautiful Simone, whom, however, report repre- 
 sented as much in love with her husband, had shown 
 herself particularly amiable to himself, displaying 
 for his benefit all her practised graces. How well he 
 
54 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 understood the arts of women! How he scorned 
 them, however much they amused him! His con- 
 tempt spared Theresa alone. He could never sus- 
 pect her, since she owed him everything. 
 
 On his return from a short absence, made neces- 
 sary by business which obliged him to make brief 
 runs up to Paris, he was displeased at finding 
 Therese tired, with sunburned skin and aching 
 limbs. She excused herself for not having gone to 
 meet him at the station. 
 
 " What under the sun have you been doing? " 
 he had asked in surprise. 
 
 Proud of her exploit, though a little frightened 
 at her unaccustomed courage, she had answered, 
 blushing through her tan : 
 
 " Climbing the Breithorn : that is something, isn't 
 it.? " 
 
 Now the Breithorn, although more than four 
 thousand metres in height, is a ladies' climb — the 
 classic test of their powers of endurance. From 
 the RifFelalp it is made in two stages: you leave 
 the Riffelalp in the afternoon, pass the night at 
 Theodule's cabin, and at early dawn you begin the 
 climb to the summit, returning to Zermatt in the 
 course of the day. ]\Iark knew all about the trip, 
 but this unusual initiative on Therese's part sur- 
 prised and irritated him. 
 
 " What did you do with Juliette while you were 
 gone?" 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 55 
 
 She blushed more deeply, while hastily defending 
 herself: 
 
 " I left her in Madame Acher's care. Madame 
 Acher is so trustworthy and careful. And besides, 
 Simone was with them." 
 
 "Simone?" 
 
 " Yes, Madame Norans ; she asked that we should 
 call each other by our Christian names." 
 
 What progress they had made to come to this 
 intimacy! In his memory he went over the rest of 
 his questioning: 
 
 " But surely, you did not go all by yourself.? " 
 
 " Oh, no, you may be sure of that. Mr. Norans 
 looked after every detail. We had a guide and a 
 porter with us, Guide Auber, and Fridolin Burger. 
 They are celebrated." 
 
 " And you spent the night at Theodule's .f* " 
 
 " Yes, I was in a room ; they were out on the 
 straw. We arrived there late, and there was only 
 one bed left, which I had. However, I never slept 
 a wink. You know that I was never away from 
 Juliette at night before." 
 
 " As I was absent, it would indeed have been bet- 
 ter not to leave her." 
 
 Repentant, or affecting to be so, she had acknowl- 
 edged that she had done wrong. They had pursued 
 the topic no further: but the following day, with an 
 affectation of contrition and in Tier most caressing 
 tones, she had told him, half timidly, the whole story 
 
56 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 of the climb of which she had been so proud: the 
 sensation of loneliness, almost of fear, that had 
 come over her that evening at Theodule's hut, the 
 beauty of the morning light on the snow, the slow, 
 interesting walk over the glacier, the almost sacred 
 emotion that she had experienced in reaching the 
 summit, the sound of the wind all about them; re- 
 curring again to the magnificence of the evening in 
 that vast solitude. He had listened without en- 
 couraging her, but envying her her delight in it all. 
 Had she even then had an understanding with 
 Andre Norans? The letters which he had dis- 
 covered seemed to put their treachery at a later 
 date; but how was he not to carry back his jealousy 
 and hate to that time, when the snare of friendly 
 comradeship had hidden the more tender feeling? 
 Madame Norans had felt no alarm over this com- 
 radeship : she had relied on the charm of her beauty, 
 as if beauty could preserve love ! He himself had 
 attached little importance to it : he relied upon grati- 
 tude allied with love ; as if love ever thought of 
 gratitude! In spite of his youthful disillusion and 
 all the disdain of women which had grown upon him 
 since his first cruel love affair, he in his honest up- 
 rightness could never have conceived of such double 
 dealing as, from that day, had made its home at his 
 fireside. 
 
 To please Therese, now quite possessed with the 
 spirit of the mountain climber, he had been weak 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 57 
 
 enough, a few days later, to consent to go with 
 them on another expedition, the ascension of the 
 Cima di Jazzi which overtops Macugnaga in Italy. 
 He remembered the irritation he had felt during the 
 climb and on their return, at seeing her so light of 
 foot, so elastic of tread, while he, less enthusiastic, 
 had been mainly occupied with Keeping his breath, 
 and not falling too far behind. He did not admit it 
 in his review of the past, but he could not but re- 
 member how surprised he had been to observe his 
 wife's newly found liberty of movement, and her tri- 
 umphant expression, arising from the pleasure of 
 discovering in herself unsuspected powers, and no 
 doubt also, desires, never dreamed of until then. . . . 
 
 After Villeneuve the train, leaving the shore of 
 the lake, enters the Rhone valley. His satchel was 
 ready, his travelling rug rolled and strapped, Ma- 
 dame Acher had informed him that Juliette was 
 awake and being dressed. To fill up the three quar- 
 ters of an hour that remained before their arrival 
 at Martigny, and above all to rid himself of the fixed 
 idea which was overmastering his mind, he looked for 
 the newspaper he had bought and opened it ; but 
 he was ruthlessly brought back to his own tragedy, 
 now become a public matter, open to all curious eyes. 
 Before he had turned the first page, devoted to 
 European politics, his eyes fell upon the headlines: 
 The Accident on Mount Velan. It instinctively 
 
58 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 drew his attention, and he read these lines, dated 
 the day before, as cold and colourless as a deposi- 
 tion: 
 
 " Mahtigny, Saturday, July 15. 
 " The search expedition sent to find the unknown cou- 
 ple whose disappearance we noted in yesterday's issue, 
 who last Sunday left Bourg-Saint-Pierre without a guide 
 to attempt the ascent of the Velan, has at last succeeded. 
 As everything gave reason to suppose, they, like so many 
 other tourists, were victims of their own rashness. At- 
 tempting to descend to the Cantine of Proz, by follow- 
 ing the arete, they made a false step and falling, would 
 have rolled to the very bottom of the abyss, had they 
 not been stopped by a ledge of rock by which they were 
 caught and where they hung suspended; there the monks 
 of the Grand Saint Bernard, after many explorations of 
 the mountain, found them on Thursday morning. The 
 man was dead, but the woman was still feebly breath- 
 ing. It is a wonder how she could have survived the 
 lingering agony. Leaving till the next day the task of 
 bringing down the corpse, the monks immediately under- 
 took the rescue of the unfortunate woman, a long and 
 even a most perilous undertaking. By dint of unimag- 
 inable efforts they at last succeeded in carrying her, in 
 the course of the evening, to the Refuge. From thence 
 she was carried in a htter to the Hospice, where she is 
 sure of receiving the best of care. There is indeed no 
 hope of her life. That evening she was still able 
 to speak, but she is now in such a state of prostration 
 and weakness that a fatal issue may be expected at any 
 moment. Still, this morning she was alive, after that 
 fearful journey! Though no serious wounds have been 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 59 
 
 found, it is believed that there are internal injuries, due 
 to the fall of between four and five hundred feet. 
 
 " The corpse of her fellow traveller will be brought 
 down to-day to Bourg-Saint-Pierre, and no doubt it will 
 be sent to-morrow to Martigny, if, as is probable, friends 
 request its possession. The two victims have been iden- 
 tified by their notebooks and portfolios: the deceased is 
 
 Mr. A • N of Paris, and the survivor is Mme 
 
 R . We are at present unacquainted with their ties 
 
 of relationship. We are informed that the families of 
 both have been notified from the hospice. 
 
 " This sad accident, occurring thus at the opening of 
 the season, should prove a sufficient warning to over-con- 
 fident and inexperienced Alpine climbers, who venture on 
 these dangerous ascents without guides or other necessary 
 precautions." 
 
 Mark Romenay, who had intently pursued these 
 lines, threw the sheet violently from him. No doubt 
 they would arrive too late: the mountain would have 
 completed its victory. 
 
 Again he clearly perceived that he preferred the 
 pain of knowing her to be alive, to that of believing 
 her to be dead. A second time he felt the shock of 
 a pain for which there is no cure. 
 
 Juliette, bright as a ray of sunshine, burst into 
 his section: 
 
 " Good morning, papa; have you slept well? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed," he answered her, though his face 
 was lined and his eyes heavy ; " and how did you 
 get along.? " 
 
60 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 " Oh, me ! Madame Acher had to wake me, and 
 we are not there yet." 
 
 A few minutes later the train stopped at Mar- 
 tigny. As Mark preceded his daughter and Ma- 
 dame Acher, followed by a porter loaded with hand 
 luggage, he perceived Madame Norans before him. 
 A priest, who seemed to be carefully scanning the 
 faces of the travellers, approached her and asked 
 her name. She drew back for a moment, her erect 
 figure swayed, but she quickly recovered herself, and 
 entered a carriage, followed by the priest. No 
 doubt she knew. 
 
 Mark searched the approaches to the railway sta- 
 tion. No one was there to meet him, no one was 
 thinking of him. Then Therese must still be alive. 
 Without realising it he felt his heart dilate. He 
 breathed more easily. 
 
 He at once ordered a carriage from the hotel to 
 take them to Saint Bernard ; with the best horses 
 the time is hardly less than ten hours, while the post- 
 stage, that changes horses at Liddes, takes eleven. 
 After a hasty breakfast, at which the child and her 
 governess took their time while the horses were be- 
 ing put to the landau, he called for a local news- 
 paper. Perhaps he might find in it a more detailed 
 account. They handed him the Petit Valaiswn say- 
 ing: 
 
 " The Sunday edition, just out. It is very well 
 edited, as you will see. There is a long account of 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 61 
 
 the Saint Bernard accident. It is very sad. That 
 poor gentleman. . . ." 
 
 Mark was tempted to ask : " How about the 
 lady.''" But a natural reserve prevented his speak- 
 ing of her with a restaurant waiter, and he buried 
 himself in the newspaper. It was a popular jour- 
 nal, intended for the spread of news best suited to 
 its readers. Several columns were devoted to the ac- 
 cident under a general caption divided by subheads: 
 
 THE MOUNTAIN TRAGEDY 
 
 Our Good Religious Discover the Two Tourists at 
 THE Foot of Velan 
 
 THE MAN DEAD: THE WOMAN LIVING 
 
 THE RESCUED WOMAN's STORY 
 
 " The two tourists, who last Monday undertook the as- 
 cent of Mount Velan without a guide, were found Thurs- 
 day morning by our good religious, the monks of Grand 
 Saint Bernard, whose devotion is well known through- 
 out the civilised world. Unhappily one of the tourists, 
 Mr. Norans of Paris, was already dead. We have been 
 able to reconstruct the progress of events, and our read- 
 ers will be grateful to us for giving the continuous story, 
 with all the details, which led up to the search and the 
 melancholy discovery. 
 
 THE JOYFUL DEPARTURE 
 
 " On the evening of Saturday, July eighth, two trav- 
 ellers arrived at Bourg-Saint-Pierre by the Chatelard rail- 
 way from the Chamounix valley; they stopped at the 
 
62 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 Hotel Napoleon and registered their names as Mr. and 
 Mrs. Noirant. They were in Alpine climbers' dress, with 
 caps, Tyrolese knapsacks, and leather belts. On Sun- 
 day they attended mass in the old church, and on coming 
 out they appeared much interested in the women's head- 
 dresses, and the costumes of the country. 
 
 " After consulting with the hotel keeper about the diffi- 
 culties of their proposed ascent they ordered their heavy 
 luggage sent on ahead to the Hospice of the Grand 
 Saint Bernard, which they expected to reach on Monday 
 evening, on their way to the valley of Aosta. They kept 
 with them only the essentials of their equipment: knap- 
 sacks, coloured spectacles, alpenstocks, drinking gourds, 
 etc. Their plan was to reach the Velan by way of the 
 glacier of Valsorey, and descend on the other side by 
 the Cantine de Proz. 
 
 " All Alpine climbers of the canton of Le Valais 
 know that though the ascent of the Velan — from whence 
 the view is incomparable — is somewhat difficult, it is 
 not dangerous, provided the necessary precautions are 
 taken. It is a deplorable thought that the late catas- 
 trophe may lessen the zest for mountain sports, and the 
 number of our visitors. A guide is most helpful and even 
 necessary for the Velan excursion, and excellent guides 
 may be found at Bourg-Saint-Pierre. The Valsorey gla- 
 cier is full of crevasses, and at the higher part it is nec- 
 essary to resort to the aid of steps cut in the ice. 
 Finally the descent to the Proz glacier is particularly 
 bad. It follows the arete, which is composed of loose 
 and broken stones that at every step threaten to roll down 
 into the gaping abyss. On the Italian side it becomes a 
 perpendicular wall. On the Swiss side the slope is some- 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 63 
 
 what more gradual^ but even there it is dangerously steep. 
 Seasoned tourists prefer to pass the arete straddle-wise. 
 
 " In vain did the manager of the Napoleon Hotel 
 (whose prudence is well known) try to dissuade his guests 
 from undertaking this dangerous excursion without a 
 guide. They laughed his fears to scorn, they were con- 
 fident in the success of their trip, sure of themselves, 
 thoughtless and gay. For whatever reason they wished 
 to be alone. 
 
 " On Sunday afternoon they went up easily to the 
 chalet of Amont, — a two-hours' walk from Saint-Pierre. 
 They ate with relish the soup, eggs, and cold meat which 
 they had brought with them, reserving for the morrow 
 a fowl and some other provisions. 
 
 " The next day, at two or three o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, before dawn, they set out again. A little shepherd 
 boy, Augustine BoUey, nicknamed Tintin, showed them 
 the trail that they had to take at the top of the moraine, 
 east of the Valsorey glacier. He left them a little be- 
 yond the rocky wall of Mont de la Gouille. There the 
 two travellers bade him good-bye, giving him a five franc 
 piece. He was the last person who saw them before the 
 accident: no one met them on the mountain. 
 
 THE SEARCH 
 
 " It was not until Tuesday evening that the Brothers 
 of the Grand Saint Bernard hospice telephoned to the 
 Hotel Napoleon to make inquiries about some travellers, 
 whose baggage had arrived and whose rooms had been 
 engaged for the preceding night. At the cantine of 
 Proz where they might have halted nothing had been 
 seen of them. It was late in the evening for a searcU 
 
64i FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 party to set out, nevertheless a party of guides was or- 
 ganised, composed of the brothers Menoud, with Peter 
 Millet, Victor Bontemps and Charles Corsaz. That same 
 evening they left Bourg-Saint-Pierre and reached the 
 chalet of Amont. The following day, Wednesday, the 
 search was begun on both sides of the Velan, by the Val- 
 sorey glacier and by that of Proz, for also from the 
 hospice a rescue party had set out, lead by Abbe Sonnier, 
 whose name is well known in all this region. This party 
 had with them two or three of their best St. Bernard 
 dogs, well trained for these mountain conflicts. 
 
 " However, the entire day passed without result. In 
 vain did the guides search the crevasses of the Valsorey 
 glacier and the steep sides of Mont de la Gouille. The 
 Brothers, after climbing the Proz glacier, took the short- 
 est way, and explored, without restilt, the rocks where 
 a mishap is less likely to be perceived than on a snow- 
 covered slope. Finding not a trace, they made an ob- 
 lique toward the Aiguille du Velan. In spite of fatigue, 
 unwilling to relinquish their noble enterprise, they camped 
 for the night at a height of nearly three thousand metres. 
 
 " It was only on the morrow, Thursday, when again 
 they took up the search by way of the Col de Mouleina, 
 that while following the arete their efforts were at last 
 crowned with success. 
 
 FOUND AT LAST 
 
 " As they were following the arete. Father Sonnier 
 noticed a slight break caused by a recent slide of stones. 
 If the lost tourists had fallen over on the Italian side, 
 no doubt they would have rolled to the bottom of the 
 abyss; but as we have said, the slope on the Swiss side 
 is less steep; and, in fact, the monk leaning over, per- 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 65 
 
 ceived about two hundred metres below him, on a ledge 
 of rock, two human forms, one lying prone, the other, 
 that seemed to be kneeling, with uplifted hands in an 
 imploring gesture. The Brother shouted to inform them 
 that succor was at hand, but no sound came back in re- 
 sponse. 
 
 " The party was provided with long ropes. With 
 these, by prodigious efforts, for there were no outcrop- 
 ping ledges and they needed to be careful to avoid set- 
 ting the loose stones rolling, they could descend to the 
 two unfortunates. From the shelf that served them as a 
 refuge it was as impossible for them to descend as to 
 climb up. 
 
 " The man was already cold in death, but the woman 
 stiU lived. After three days and nights of atrocious 
 suffering and without food, one may judge of the state 
 of physical and moral depression to which she was re- 
 duced. Abbe Sonnier succeeded in reviving her a little, 
 with the aid of a few drops of rum and water, but she 
 could take no food. She was still attached to the body 
 of her fellow traveller. They detached her, and leav- 
 ing the corpse where it was, they devoted themselves to 
 the rescue of the survivor. There was no time to lose, 
 and it was a difficult task, for the rope gave her agon- 
 ising pain, and she was too feeble to render the slightest 
 assistance. At last they raised her up to the arete. 
 Then they had to find a sheltered place where they might 
 lay her to give her the first aid. Hardly had they begun 
 when she swooned away and they believed her to be dy- 
 ing. However, Father Sonnier succeeded in preparing 
 a cup of hot bouillon, of which she could take two or 
 three swallows. 
 
66 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 SHE SPEAKS 
 
 "Abbe Sonnier, whom we saw that evening at the 
 Eefuge, furnished us with the last details of our story. 
 But he refused to speak of the rescued woman. The fol- 
 lowing scene was therefore told us by a member of the 
 rescue party, whose name we withhold, though we certify 
 to the authenticity of his account: 
 
 "After having tried to drink the bouillon, the unfor- 
 tunate woman, still in a shattered condition, began to 
 weep; then she murmured faintly, — 
 
 " ' I am going to die,' or ' I want to die.' 
 
 "They comforted her, promising that she should be 
 saved. Then she asked plaintively: 
 
 " ' Where is he? ' 
 
 " No one knew what answer to give her ; she looked 
 at Abbe Sonnier, who was by her side, and addressed him 
 directly in broken words: 
 
 " ' My good Father, I am going to die. ... So he 
 must come ... to forgive me.' . . . 
 
 " The incoherence of her words made those about her 
 think she had gone insane; they tried to calm her, and 
 then began the descent of the mountain. It took five 
 hours to reach the Col de Mouleina: the bearers were 
 so weary that they feared they could go no farther, and 
 thought of camping out again that night. Happily the 
 customs oflScers who watch that pass, so frequently used 
 by smugglers, lent a strong arm to our exhausted life- 
 savers. At eleven that night they reached the Eefuge. 
 Here the unfortunate woman, who all along the way had 
 gone from one fainting fit to another, was laid upon an 
 improvised bed; she fell into a fit of fever and delirium. 
 Sometimes she would cry out: ' Stop us! ' as if she were 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 67 
 
 still falling, and again: 'Forgive me!' Then she would 
 call upon her late companion in a heartrending voice: 
 ' Andre, Andre . . . come with me ! ' Several times she 
 uttered the name ' Juliette.' They believed that the end 
 had come. 
 
 AT THE HOSPICE 
 
 " When morning came she was still breathing, and 
 even, in a quiet moment, she became conscious and asked 
 for the priest. Father Sonnier remained alone with her 
 for several moments and succeeded in giving her a lit- 
 tle hope and confidence. He made her comfortable in 
 the carriage of Mr. Marquet of Martingy, who had 
 generously offered to move her, and went on before 
 her to the Grand Saint Bernard hospice, so that on her 
 arrival there was a bed all ready prepared and the best 
 of care arranged for. A passing physician. Professor 
 Maurici of Turin, consented to postpone his journey to 
 Aosta to examine her. But his diagnosis leaves little 
 hope. The feeble pulse and feverish condition indicate 
 the exhaustion of an overtaxed organism, which must 
 have overcome only by a miracle both the violence of the 
 fall, and the three days' agony of hunger, cold and 
 moral anguish. Still, there is neither a broken bone nor 
 an internal lesion: simply bruises and cuts on the right 
 side of the face and on the right shoulder and hip, which 
 must have received the full force of the fall. 
 
 " A tragic detail : her clothes, frozen by the snow that 
 fell in the night between Tuesday and Wednesday, and 
 wet inside with the blood from her wounds, were stuck 
 to her flesh: it was necessary to tear them off bit by bit, 
 or cut them away. 
 
 " In the meantime another party returned to bring 
 
68 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 down the corpse in a bag: they must have spent last night 
 at the Cantine of Proz, and probably they will bring their 
 sad burden to Martingy to-day. 
 
 A MTSTBBY 
 
 " The two victims of this catastrophe carried on their 
 persons several articles that have served to identify 
 them. He was Andre Norans of 26 rue Cortambert, 
 Paris; she is Madame Romenay, without address. It is 
 said that word has been sent to the family of the de- 
 funct, by means of data furnished by the rescued woman 
 during the interval of lucidity which preceded a second 
 period of unconsciousness. 
 
 THE THEORY OP SUICIDE 
 
 " This mystery gives colour to a hypothesis which we 
 publish with all reservations, for we desire to give no 
 credit to it, not accepting it ourselves. 
 
 " According to this romantic theory, the two Alpine 
 climbers had voluntarily devoted themselves to death on 
 Mount Velan. The proprietor of the Amont Chalet, 
 where they passed their last evening, noted their pre- 
 occupied manner, long silences followed by whispered 
 words. In reply to his observation on the danger of go- 
 ing up the mountain without a guide, they answered with 
 a careless gesture, which seemed to signify: — 'Danger, 
 death, what is that to us ? ' 
 
 " Finally they took care to send away the little shep- 
 herd, who met them that Monday morning, who had of- 
 fered to accompany them without a fee. 
 
 " It is only too easy to reply to all these tales, ' Im- 
 probable ! ' for if they had wished to kill themselves 
 they had only to throw themselves down the perpendic- 
 
THE TRimiPH OF LOVE 69 
 
 ular Italian side of the mountain. It would have been 
 certain death. It is painful enough to be obliged to ac- 
 knowledge their irregular relations, without adding the 
 accusation of an attempt on their own lives. 
 
 LATEST NEWS. 
 
 " We have just telegraphed to the Grand Saint Ber- 
 nard hospice. As we go to press Madame Eomenay 
 still lives; but Professor Maurici did not hesitate to pro- 
 nounce her recovery impossible, and it is improbable that 
 she will survive the night. She had not spoken again, 
 and was already in a comatose state. If the religious 
 services — for the suicide story is considered untenable 
 — of Mr. Norans are held at Martigny on Sunday, the 
 public will desire to show their sympathy for this family 
 of strangers so cruelly tried." 
 
 Several times in the course of his reading, Mark 
 Romenay had been interrupted. 
 
 " I've had both honey and jam with ray break- 
 fast," Juliette observed. 
 
 " We are ready, now, sir," Madame Acher in- 
 formed him. 
 
 Finally the hotel manager, who had formerly 
 served in fine houses, officially proclaimed that Mon- 
 sieur's carriage was at the door. 
 
 Mark had motioned them all away without vouch- 
 safing a reply. Having read the last words of the 
 Petit Valaisan he arose and after settling the bill he 
 asked timidly, 
 
 " Will you let me keep this paper? " 
 
70 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 " Keep it, sir, keep it as a gift. It only costs a 
 cent and I have it free. The Velan affair interests 
 you.f A sad accident, is it not.'' Foreigners are so 
 imprudent, sir, on the mountains. It is unfair to us, 
 it injures our business." 
 
 To cut short this chatter, which so wounded him, 
 Mark had already helped his little girl and the gov- 
 erness into the carriage, an open landau, so old and 
 dilapidated that it would be impossible to close it in 
 case of rain. 
 
 " But it will not rain," asserted the confident ho- 
 tel keeper. 
 
 They set out, and beyond the bridge they en- 
 tered the narrow gorge encumbered by the refuse of 
 floods, at the bottom of which runs the Dranse, a 
 noisy torrent of dirty water, upheaved by great 
 eddies. It was still in shadow, like a reserved do- 
 main, and it seemed as they passed along as if the sun 
 could never enter it. Daylight might indeed touch 
 the summit and upper mountain sides, might over- 
 spread the Rhone valley, so wide in comparison ; but 
 how could it ever creep into this crack .'' Yet how 
 they longed for the sun's warm rays, that they might 
 be warmed by their touch, for it was cold in the 
 gorge. Juliette, wrapped to the shoulders in shawls' 
 and rugs, invoked them most familiarly. 
 
 " Sun, dear little sun, my hands are frozen. I 
 hold them out to you: why do you not come? You 
 stay away up there and never come down here at 
 all." 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 71 
 
 As her father, who usually entered indulgently 
 into her fancies, was silent, she added: 
 
 "What are you thinking about, papa? " 
 
 He seemed to come back from far away, as he re- 
 plied, not ungently, but in a detached manner that 
 seemed to add to the distance of years : 
 
 " About nothing. I was only gazing around." 
 
 " Where are we going? " 
 
 " To the Grand Saint Bernard. It is very far ; 
 the torrent makes too much noise for us to talk." 
 
 He drew back into a silence which the child did 
 not again attempt to interrupt, intuitively under- 
 standing the longing for quiet with which she felt 
 herself surrounded. 
 
 The free, minute account given by the Swiss paper, 
 with its mixture of utilitarian regrets and moral 
 reflections, had struck Mark with the chiU which is 
 always caused by a vivid revelation of life. He 
 felt it to be an accurate account of all the acts of the 
 two victims, — the two heroes ! He recognised the 
 inconsistencies of Andre Norans's character,- — ■ 
 lively at Bourg-Saint-Pierre, — taciturn at the 
 Amont chalet: the persistence of mother-love in 
 Therese's calling in her delirium for Juliette, after 
 naming her lover. But as it often happens when 
 hearing testimony, that one impassioned utterance 
 peculiarly true to nature dominates the whole, two 
 phrases, two pictures, recurring again and again to 
 his memory since their departure from Martigny, 
 tortured him like a horrible sight from which he 
 
72 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 could not avert his eyes. One was a vision : " Two 
 human forms, one lying prone, the other which 
 seemed to be kneeling with uplifted hands as if im- 
 ploring. . . ." The other, stUl more heart-rending, 
 was only one incident of her suffering : " Her 
 clothes, frozen by the snow and soaked with blood 
 from her wounds, were stuck to her flesh. They 
 were forced to tear them away or cut them off bit by 
 bit. ..." 
 
 Certainly, he had felt the rancour and rage of 
 the first days rise again, when he read in this 
 country paper, less discreet than that of Lausanne, 
 his own name, the good name that he had given 
 her to guard, and which now was thrown out for 
 the public to trample on: but this woman, on a 
 narrow ledge of rock, wounded, vanquished, dy- 
 ing of cold, hunger and pain, fastened to a corpse, 
 the corpse of her lover, was his wife. This bruised 
 and bleeding flesh, which they had had to lay 
 bare with torture to her, had been the beautiful flesh 
 of his own flesh. How could he refuse to have pity ? 
 Ah, how desolate was this narrow gorge through 
 which lay the way to her ! Would his j ourney never 
 end? Let him relieve, by the sight of Juliette, the 
 horror of a death described in such detail, and then 
 turn away from that Calvary — the Calvary that 
 she had endured for three long days, — the mere, 
 thought of which was more than he could bear. 
 
 " Faster ! " he called to the driver. 
 
 "Eh? It's steep." 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 73 
 
 After ruin-crowned Sambrancher, they entered the 
 vale of Entremont. At Orsieres they had to breathe 
 the horses and take luncheon. These are old towns 
 with grated windows, swelling balconies, and narrow, 
 badly paved streets, their overhung garrets sup- 
 ported by posts. The stone-roofed clock towers 
 have looked with equal calm upon the passing of 
 troops of sheep and of soldiers, of shepherds and 
 conquerors. It was already the peace-bringing soli- 
 tude of the mountain. 
 
 Mark Romenay hastened their departure. Be- 
 yond Orsieres, the driver pointed with the end of his 
 whip to a white dome towering above a high level with 
 steep sides : 
 
 " It is the Velan," he said ; adding, " You know 
 about the accident . . ." 
 
 But no one questioned him, and the conversation 
 went no farther. At Bourg-Saint-Pierre the driver 
 would have stopped at the Hotel Napoleon. From 
 there, Therese and Andre had set out gayly, only a 
 week ago ! 
 
 " Keep on," commanded Mark, in a tone that ad- 
 mitted of no reply. 
 
 At the end of the village a group of people barred 
 their way. Why this crowd? What were they wait- 
 ing for? What spectacle were they straining their 
 eyes to see? Why did they not move back to give 
 them room to pass? 
 
 " They are waiting for the funeral," was the 
 reply. 
 
74 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 " What funeral? " 
 
 " That of the deail gentleman." 
 
 A car passed bearing something covered with a 
 white sheet, with palms, and wild flowers from the 
 mountain. Thus Andre Norans crossed the path of 
 Mark Romenay for the last time, and Mark raised 
 his hat and saluted. 
 
 At sunset, he at last perceived, at the top of the 
 pass, in a circle of tragic-looking rocks, an enormous 
 rectangular building, high, ancient, massive; its 
 yellow walls caressed by the level rays of the dying 
 day. Mules were being unloaded before the door, 
 peasant women from the valley of Aosta, in striped 
 skirts, their heads covered with gay kerchiefs, tour- 
 ists, priests, were coming and going, arriving and 
 departing, and among them great dogs with white 
 coats touched with brown spots were walking about, 
 gentle and grave. This was the hospice that for 
 nearly ten centuries has guarded this passage of the 
 Alps. 
 
 " She is there," thought Mark. " In a few min- 
 utes I shaU see her. Will she be dead or living?" 
 
 Juliette had fallen asleep, they had to rouse her. 
 
IV 
 
 Accustomed to great hotels, or rather, palaces, 
 where at every arrival, footmen and porters rush to 
 meet the traveller, Mark Romenay was surprised at 
 being met by no one at tHe door of the hospice. 
 Crowds of people were indeed going in and out, 
 quite at home in the freedom of the quiet evening, 
 but they brushed by him, elbowed him, apparently 
 quite unaware of his presence. 
 
 " Ring twice and Father Clavandier will come," 
 suggested the driver. 
 
 " Father Clavandier " is he whose duty it is to re- 
 ceive strangers. He came to meet them with smil- 
 ing face, — a little abbe, wearing over his shoulders 
 the thin white cord of the canons of the Augustinian 
 order — and with a most engaging air, asked : 
 
 " You wish to pass the night here ? Come right 
 in, for the dinner-bell is about to ring. You ought 
 to ha.ve good appetites — this air creates a void." 
 
 He spoke volubly, with utmost cordiality, shed- 
 ding abroad an atmosphere of good humour, which, 
 however, met no response from Mark Romenay, who 
 coldly asked to see Father Dornaz at once. 
 
 "The Prior.'' Impossible. He is at this momedt 
 75 
 
76 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 receiving my lord the Provost, who has just arrived 
 from Martigny in a post carriage. He cannot be 
 interrupted." 
 
 " It must be done, nevertheless." 
 
 With all courtesy the abbe temporised: 
 
 " Listen, sir, the important thing just now is to 
 find places for the night. We have just heard of the 
 impending arrival of a young ladies' boarding- 
 school. Five minutes hence I may not have a place 
 fit for you. Not even a room for this dear little girl 
 and this respectable lady. As for you, I shall do my 
 best to reserve one for you, also: but you may have 
 to consent to a roommate, aU our rooms having two 
 beds. But ' In war time one must do as in war 
 time.' " 
 
 And his cheerful laugh resounded through the en- 
 trance hall. 
 
 The Grand-Saint-Bernard is not a hotel. It af- 
 fords hospitality without remuneration to the pass- 
 ing traveller, who at the moment of departure may 
 leave in an almsbox a voluntary offering. There 
 was nothing to do but accept the rule of the house. 
 Mark, thus disciplined, had no alternative but to sub- 
 mit, and the little procession followed " Father 
 Clavandier " up two pair of stairs, through a long 
 passage to the extreme end of the building. 
 
 " There," said he, addressing himself particularly 
 to Juliette, for he had a soft spot in his heart for 
 children, " you will be quite comfortable, I am sure." 
 
 It was a large chamber containing the most rudi- 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 77 
 
 mentary furniture, two wooden beds, a table and 
 some rush bottomed chairs, but all so clean, so neat, 
 that it had the peaceful atmosphere of a nun's cell. 
 The little girl, interested in all the details of their 
 journey, ran to the window. 
 
 " Oh, papa ! " she cried, " come quick and see." 
 
 The hospice was in shadow, but the fading day- 
 light still dwelt upon the heights. The rocky bar- 
 rier was touched with warm colour, a mixture of crim- 
 son and violet ; even the snow of the highest peak was 
 flushed by it, like a virginal cheek touched by emo- 
 tion. A cloud suddenly rising from behind the 
 mountain crowned it like a flaming tower. The bat- 
 tle between day and night was going on up there, 
 but the golden battalions of the sun held their own 
 for the moment, while from the distant valley dark- 
 ness was bringing up its reinforcements, sure of ulti- 
 mate victory. 
 
 " The Velan," said the priest ; " he has his cap on : 
 a bad sign for to-morrow's weather." 
 
 Mark recoiled from the scene as from an enemy. 
 He darted a piercing look at his host, who ran on 
 artlessly ; 
 
 " Two unfortunate tourists were lost there the 
 other night, — one of them is dead." 
 
 He stopped. Was it intentionally? Romenay 
 suspected as much and forced himself to play at in- 
 diff^erence, asking : — 
 
 " What became of the other one ? " 
 
 " The other one? I am not sure. It is a woman. 
 
78 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 They brought her here. This morning she was still 
 living, but I have had no news of her since. This 
 house is immense and each of us has his own wort." 
 
 Work was his natural excuse from satisfying the 
 traveller's curiosity. So near, and yet so ignorant! 
 He spoke calmly, in all good faith, guessing nothing. 
 To Mark the minutes were hastening by ; death, like 
 himself, was perhaps wandering through these halls, 
 seeking the door where he was expected. There was 
 no time to lose, and drawing near the religious, while 
 Madame Acher busied herself with unpacking, he 
 repeated his request : 
 
 " I must see Father Domaz at once." 
 
 He spoke in a low tone, but with such authority, 
 that the monk yielded. Secluded from the world by 
 the daily task, his one thought its proper accomplish- 
 ment, he did not attempt to understand, but he felt 
 himself in the presence of a controlling will. 
 
 " These ladies," he replied, " can go down to the 
 refectory; I shall be there and will show them their 
 places; yours, sir, wiU be reserved beside your 
 daughter. As to your room, it is on the other side, 
 looking toward Italy. Follow me, you will see it as 
 we go. I will take you to our Prior. You may try 
 for an audience with him ; I will not conceal from 
 you that it will be a difficult matter." 
 
 " You are wrong there, Father," replied Mark un- 
 daunted. 
 
 In fact, the Prior, though in conference with the 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 79 
 
 Provost, received him as soon as he was announced. 
 The rarefied mountain air had aged the priest before 
 his time. Thin, pale, slightly bent, with white hair, 
 he gave the impression at first of an exhausted travel- 
 ler, scant of breath and with spent strength. But 
 this impression did not last long. On the contrary, 
 it needed but a single glance of his limped blue eyes 
 so full of calm, to produce the impression of extraor- 
 dinary power as of the spirit of youth. It was not 
 the young, surprised candor that precedes knowl- 
 edge, but peace after struggle, the serenity of cer- 
 tainty. 
 
 Mark was already asking: 
 
 " Father Prior, I want to know — " 
 
 But he checked himself, as if he had spoken too 
 loudly, discourteously. In spite of himself he was 
 submitting to this quiet ascendency. 
 
 " Sir," began the Prior, with the gentleness that 
 pervaded his whole nature, " I have good news for 
 you. Our dear invalid will live, she is saved." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mark simply. 
 
 "After a bad night, a night of cruel suffering, 
 during which we many times thought that we must 
 lose her, her temperature went down, and the pulse 
 returned to normal. The crisis is now passed. 
 Professor MauricI of Turin, who devoted his entire 
 time to her care, left us after breakfast, reassured, 
 and even somewhat surprised by a tenacity of resist- 
 ance which he had not counted upon. To-morrow, 
 
80 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 Dr. Doret of Martigny will come to see her. More- 
 over the treatment is not at all complicated. Quiet 
 is the essential thing." 
 
 The Prior paused here, doubtless expecting a word 
 from his interlocutor, whom he continued to observe, 
 to study, to fathom, but Romenay kept silence, and 
 the Prior continued: 
 
 " Above all, quiet. She is still so weat. You 
 cannot imagine what awful anguish she has endured! 
 I will tell you. It is necessary that you should 
 know." 
 
 " I do know," murmured Mark. 
 
 " Plow do you know? " 
 
 " I have read ... in the newspaper." 
 
 "In the newspaper? Already! . . . They must 
 be in a great hurry ! After receiving your telegram, 
 only this morning, when under the seal of secrecy, 
 I told Professor Maurici of your coming, he advised, 
 or I should say, commanded me to spare her all emo- 
 tion, all fatigue. ' Let there be no interview this 
 evening,' he insisted, ' to-morrow, perhaps, but only 
 if she passes a good night.' She is now out of 
 danger, but the slightest relapse is to be feared." 
 
 The Prior paused, as if expecting a protest. 
 Somewhat surprised at hearing none, he went on. 
 
 " You cannot, therefore, see her this evening. Re- 
 sign yourself to wait until to-morrow. You must be 
 very weary, yourself; such a hurried journey, and in 
 a state of such anxiety, is very wearing. A night 
 of rest will do you good, then to-morrow, if the gain 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 81 
 
 is perceptible, I will inform her cautiously and will 
 take you to her." 
 
 Mark had not once interrupted him. How could 
 he order his thronging thoughts.'' He had come to 
 bring pardon to a dying woman ; during the inter- 
 minable journey he had been weak enough, generous 
 enough, to fear that he might arrive too late : now 
 that he was at last here, ready to fulfil his mission, 
 the mission that he had imposed on himself in spite 
 of his memories and all the pain of his past, to be 
 told that Therese was safe and sound, but that in 
 her condition she could not at once receive him ! 
 Well, since they put him off till the morrow, he 
 would think better of it, would deliberate more at 
 leisure. Pity took its flight, leaving behind the old 
 familiar pain. Still, the prior's words held him to 
 the present, and he could not speak his thought. 
 Therefore he continued silent and motionless. 
 
 The Prior was gently dismissing him. 
 
 " Go in peace, my child," he said, addressing him 
 as he would speak to a sinner after absolution. 
 " You will permit me to excuse myself. I have much 
 work to do this evening; but Father Clavandier will 
 look after your comfort. Rest quietly until to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow.? " repeated Romenay with no mo- 
 tion to retire ; " I do not know that I shall see her 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Father Dornaz looked inquiringly at him, a look 
 that at once tranquillised and dominated him. 
 
82 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 "Why not? You came to see her. She expects 
 you." 
 
 " She expects me? You have told her then.'' " 
 
 " I had received your telegram. This morning 
 she kept calling for you, so I told her that you were 
 on the way." 
 
 " She was calling for me? What did she say when 
 you told her? " 
 
 "Do you want to know? She was silent for a 
 long time. Then she said : ' I am surely going to 
 die, am I not? ' I protested. Then she said, 
 
 " ' If I am not dying, he will not come.' After 
 another period of silence, she said : ' And Juliette ? ' 
 I guessed that Juliette was your little daughter." 
 
 " Yes," murmured Mark ; " she is here." 
 
 The prior studied him intently. 
 
 " You brought her with you : that is well, I had 
 hardly hoped for that. The child's name, alone, 
 moves her to trembling and tears." 
 
 With an impulse of rebellion against an influence 
 that was dominating him against his will, Mark 
 Romenay replied : 
 
 " We shall not see her to-morrow — neither my 
 daughter nor I. It is impossible." 
 
 He said no more. The priest knew his secret, he 
 ought to understand. He did understand, and at 
 once plunged his probe into this suffering heart. 
 
 " Should you have preferred to find her dead ? " 
 
 As an unbeliever, called to make formal denial of 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 83 
 
 his former faith, refuses, from a sense of seemliness, 
 from respect for the past, or from an obscure con- 
 sciousness that something stUl abides beneath the 
 flow of time, Mark recoiled before the direct ques- 
 tion: 
 
 "Oh, no! What can you mean?" 
 
 But had not the prior formulated the unavowed 
 wish which had been tormenting him these twenty- 
 four hours past? 
 
 Her death, after a full pardon, would have re- 
 stored Therese to him; life would continue to part 
 them. Life was the impassable barrier. He recog- 
 nised it now, and after his first instinctive denial he 
 frankly confessed : 
 
 " Perhaps that would have been easier, in fact." 
 
 Father Dornaz, keeping his eyes upon him, had 
 followed the inward struggle. 
 
 " The ways of God," he replied, " are not known 
 to us. He requires more from you than you were 
 bringing." 
 
 But this time it was Mark who broke off the con- 
 versation, as if he could not permit another to enter 
 into his privacy. 
 
 " Listen, Father Prior, I do not yet know what I 
 shall do. The circumstances are so different from 
 what I expected: they require a new examination, a 
 new decision. In any case, I beg you, if you see her 
 before I do, not to tell her of my arrival nor that 
 my daughter is here." 
 
84 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 " You will see her then ? " 
 
 " I hardly know as yet. I will decide to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 The priest seemed to reflect and holding out his 
 hand to Mark, he repeated simply, almost affection- 
 ately : 
 
 " Until to-morrow then. Go in peace." 
 
 Mark went down to the refectory. It was a 
 great, dimly lighted room, and he had some little 
 trouble in finding the place reserved for him beside 
 his child, Juliette hardly noticed his arrival: she 
 was chattering and laughing with a little girl of her 
 own age in a seat near her, Sylvia Monestier, whom 
 she had met several times in Paris, full of delight 
 at the surprise of seeing her again at the Grand 
 Saint Bernard. The world is so small that it is 
 seldom, wherever one goes, that one does not find 
 acquaintances, and those least expected. 
 
 Sylvia's father, Michael Monestier, came up and 
 touched Mark on the shoulder: 
 
 "you here? What chance brought you? " 
 
 Mark, who found his presence awkward, tried to 
 explain. 
 
 " The mountain — the air has been ordered for 
 my daughter." 
 
 " For mine too. We have just come from Cour- 
 mayeur, and we are going on to Caux, above Lake 
 Leman. The air of Caux is mild and comfortable. 
 Why don't you come too? the two children will get 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 85 
 
 along together finely. It is tiresome for one alone ; 
 — if you only knew ! " 
 
 " I am undecided as to what we shall do." 
 
 He received coldly, almost haughtily, Monestier's 
 friendly advances. But as soon as the latter had 
 left him, he regretted having cut him off so short. 
 His appeal for help, — " It is tiresome, alone," fol- 
 lowed by the exclamation, " If you only knew ! " — 
 which might have been insolent and ironical, simply 
 revealed Monestier's preoccupation with his own af- 
 fairs. This man, who had lost an adored wife, had 
 since devoted himself to a solitary life, carrying his 
 love memories, his incurable sadness, into whatever 
 place promised to be advantageous to the health of 
 his only child. He evidently had no suspicion of 
 the chance that had suddenly called Mark Romenay 
 there. 
 
 Mark regretted his coldness. He knew of Mones- 
 tier's bereavement, and the absorption of his mind. 
 He saw him occupied in cutting up a chop on his 
 daughter's plate, and paying her other maternal at- 
 tentions, and he gave a friendly nod to mitigate the 
 effect of his cool reception of Monestier's advances. 
 And here, seated before a steaming dish, amid talk 
 and laughter, he perceived that his own life's 
 tragedy was of interest to no one, did not suspend 
 the regular course of events, — passed unnoticed in 
 the noisy tumult of a table d'hote dinner. 
 
 Forty or fifty tourists were assembled at the nar- 
 row horseshoe table. Father Clavandier, presiding 
 
86 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 in the centre, was watching to see that the waiters 
 did not neglect the late comers. The fare, though 
 simple, was plentiful. Among these guests of dif- 
 ferent tongues and lands there was an atmosphere 
 of cordiality, more friendly than at a hotel, due to 
 the reputation of the hospice and the kindly way of 
 the Brothers. Juliette and her little friend were 
 making advances to two little Italian girls of about 
 their own age sitting opposite. In their red caps 
 and blue gowns, their jolly brown faces lighted up by 
 dark eyes, — almost too large, — though plain, they 
 gave promise of future beauty. At one end of the 
 table a group of spectacled German students, blond 
 and loquacious, were rolling out the interminable 
 phrases of their native tongue. Near them a too 
 elegant couple were talking loudly — he in an im- 
 peccable dinner jacket, high white collar, black tie 
 and lustrous linen, hair carefully brushed, shining, 
 pomaded; she, in hunting costume, — both like fash- 
 ion plates, seven thousand five hundred feet above 
 the sea. A party of English Alpinists, tanned and 
 sunburned, were discussing an ascent, to judge from 
 their gestures. All this motley crowd, stimulated 
 by the fresh air, the free life, the exercise of walk- 
 ing, were eating voraciously, under the uncertain 
 light of the few lamps, which sometimes left the 
 faces in shadow and again touched them with vacil- 
 lating patches of light. 
 
 " I am having such a good time, papa ! " exclaimed 
 Juliette suddenly. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 87 
 
 The little sleepy-head of their arrival was trans- 
 figured with happiness. With the childish power of 
 utilising all that the present moment gives, she was 
 imagining all sorts of vacation parties, during which 
 they would live in impossible villas, like this place, so 
 hard to reach, somewhat vast and terrifying with its 
 endless passages, but occupied by such amusing peo- 
 ple, most of whom spoke an incomprehensible jargon 
 that reminded her of the confusion of tongues at 
 the tower of Babel, in her Bible story book. How 
 far the child was from guessing that her mother 
 ■ — that dear Mamma, who had disappeared so mys- 
 teriously six months ago, and about whom she had 
 come to understand from her father's silence and 
 Madame Acher's reserved manner, that it was wiser 
 not to speak — was here, under the same roof, 
 barely escaped from death, so feeble that she must 
 be carefully spared the slightest emotion. What 
 would the child say if she were told she would see 
 that mother to-morrow? But no, she should not see 
 her. Young minds should not be agitated, and as 
 for himself, what had he decided? 
 
 What had he decided? He put it away from his 
 thoughts. Physical needs had gained the ascend- 
 ency; the comfort of the present moment dulled 
 his pain and his will power; he felt a sort of 
 luxurious relaxation in repairing his strength after 
 the fatigue and strain of the journey. Indeed he 
 no longer remembered his anguish, he simply let 
 himself go. This roast beef with potatoes, though 
 
88 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 a bit tough, was savory, and this well cooled wine 
 was pleasant to the palate. Life's most cruel, most 
 hopeless hours have their moments of relief. And 
 the human machine, under reconstruction, is being 
 prepared to meet life's trials once again. 
 
 Mark's train of thought was interrupted by a 
 great clatter at the door. One might have supposed 
 that a regiment of soldiers were arriving at their 
 cantonment. The blare of trumpets, the roll of 
 drums, would not have surprised any one. 
 
 " It is my boarding-school," explained Father 
 Clavandier. 
 
 A crowd of girls, from fifteen to eighteen years 
 of age, wearing travelling cloaks and carrying Al- 
 penstocks, their long hair hanging down their backs, 
 their bright faces glowing with health, burst into 
 the refectory, laughing, chattering in shriU, high- 
 pitched voices. Two or three distracted teachers, 
 like sergeants with undisciplined recruits, were try- 
 ing to bring them into line. But already the lead- 
 ers of the party were seizing the empty places at 
 table, while the others watched such guests as had 
 arrived at cheese or fruit, giving them to understand 
 that they must make haste and give up their places. 
 With good or bad grace every one yielded, and 
 Juliette, the cup of her happiness quite filled by the 
 racket, smiled upon the crowd as she rose. 
 
 " How funny it is, papa, at Grand-Saint-Ber- 
 nard ! " she exclaimed, " and what a fine idea to leave 
 Paris and come here ! " 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 89 
 
 She clapped her hands, jumped up and down, 
 pulled Sylvia Monestier's hair. Sylvia, less easily 
 excited under her watchful father's eyes, appeared 
 scandalised by all these carryings-on. 
 
 Out in the hall Juliette spelled out the far-famed 
 inscription, in gilded letters on black marble: 
 
 NAPOLEON PMMO FEANCORUM IMPEEATOUI SEMPEE 
 AUGUSTO 
 
 " Napoleon got down here : " explained M. Mones- 
 tier to t'jj. two little girls. " He was a great Gen- 
 eral, always victorious." 
 
 But the excited Juliette hafl no use for a history 
 lesson just then. 
 
 " I know, I know all about it," she interposed. 
 " In the first place, he did not get down — he 
 climbed up. Besides, Madame Acher saw him." 
 
 " Madame Acher saw him.'' " 
 
 She replied as if reciting a lesson. 
 
 " Certainly ; he was mounted on a white mule, 
 carelessly holding the bridle with his finely formed 
 hand." 
 
 The old governess, just behind the little group, 
 blushed as if her early love passages were being re- 
 vealed. Mark beckoned to her. 
 
 " The child must be very tired : she must go to 
 bed at once." s 
 
 But Juliette protested, exclaimed, rebelled. 
 
 " Not yet ! not yet ! It is all so funny ; besides, 
 papa, you have not signed the big register." 
 
90 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 "What register?" 
 
 " That one there, in the hall." 
 
 There was a register in the entrance hall in which 
 travellers signed their names. M. Monestier's stood 
 last on the list. Sylvia had bragged about it to 
 Juliette while at table — children take pride in un- 
 expected things — and Juliette was anxious to gain a 
 like superiority. So Mark with paternal condescen- 
 sion sat down and took up the pen. But at the mo- 
 ment of writing, he changed colour. How was his 
 name compromised by the indiscreet account of the 
 Petit Valaysan! A woman bearing this honourable, 
 this well-known name had been found half dead on 
 the mountain, in the company of her dead lover. No, 
 no, he could not thus make public avowal that he 
 was the husband of the survivor. In fancy he al- 
 ready heard the sarcasms, the allusions, the ironical 
 remarks, and before the open book he was again 
 overwhelmed with a sense of outraged feeling. He 
 would go, he would quit the detested place to-mor- 
 row. 
 
 By way of calming himself he cast his eye over 
 the register. A little above that of Monestier, 
 among the morning's arrivals he saw that of Ed- 
 mund de Baulaine, one of his acquaintances — Mr. 
 and Mrs. Edmund de Baulaine. Now Edmund de 
 Baulaine was not married: he had run away with 
 Mme Durban, the pretty and captivating Manette 
 Durban, so frail, so delicate, so light, so frothy, so 
 evidently misunderstood by her countrified husband. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 91 
 
 — who, to crown all, refused to get a divorce on ac- 
 count of their two children, and also, it was said, be- 
 cause of the enduring love for her which ma'de him 
 an object of universal ridicule. Michael Monestier, 
 reading over Mark's shoulder, followed the direction 
 of his eyes: 
 
 " Baulaine ! He is here then? " 
 
 " You see for yourself." 
 
 " His departure from Paris made a pretty scandal. 
 How long ago it happened! It was before. . . ." 
 
 As people fall into the habit, somewhat surprising 
 to the rising generation, of dating events as before 
 or after the war, so Monestier had fallen into the 
 habit of dividing time, as before or after his wife's 
 death. He added: 
 
 " I am sure, however, that no one talks about 
 it any more." 
 
 " We are talking about it," observed Mark, with 
 some bitterness. He quickly signed the register, 
 but so illegibly that it looked more like Remy than 
 Romenay. 
 
 The boarding-school girls, having expeditiously 
 despatched the hospice dinner, were overflowing the 
 common haU, the passages, staircases and even the 
 door-steps. While their sleeping arrangements were 
 being made, they babbled, joked, sang, took posses- 
 sion of the entire building. Some who had left the 
 table before they were through were finishing their 
 biscuits or their oranges, showing their teeth like 
 young puppies. There were ugly ones among them 
 
92 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 whom the future would make pretty, there were 
 others who had not to wait for the future to be 
 pretty. Most of them, however, were at the awk- 
 ward age, with figure and manner more like a boy 
 than a girl. One of them went so far as to whistle. 
 Several, however, had passed beyond .this uncertain 
 period, were more careful of their manners, carried 
 themselves well, and instinctively looked about in 
 search of mirrors which were not there. 
 
 These girls had added to their alpine costumes 
 some little tasteful touch. Their open air excur- 
 sion had given them an incomparable charm of fresh- 
 ness and youth. Two of them, special bosom friends, 
 walking with their arms around each other's waists, 
 their hands concealed by the wealth of long light 
 hair rippling down their backs and overflowing their 
 shoulders, were exchanging secrets in English in 
 their musical voices. To Mark who could not help 
 observing them, their youthful prettiness seemed 
 a personal injury. 
 
 " Some day, very soon, to-morrow perhaps, or even 
 this evening," he thought miserably, " they, too, will 
 be loved. Some day, very soon, they will be faith- 
 less and cruel. . . •" 
 
 Juliette, quite taken by storm, wandered among 
 them, receiving here a smile and there a caress. Her 
 father with some irritation again called to Madame 
 Acher to take her to bed. Michael Monestier also 
 summoned the maid who accompanied his little 
 daughter on their travels, to perform a like oflSce. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 93 
 
 Returning, he seated himself beside Mark, with the 
 question : 
 
 " Did not Madame Romenay accompany you ? " 
 
 Mark gazed at him, and realising his candour and 
 innocence, answered truthfully: 
 
 " Yes, she is here." 
 
 " Tired out? " 
 
 " Very much so." 
 
 " Mountain sickness no doubt. Madame Mones- 
 tier was subject to it. The great altitude of the 
 Saint Bernard often causes an oppression, a diffi- 
 culty in breathing. But no one stays here long. 
 You are aware that the rule of the hospice prohibits 
 a longer sojourn than twenty-four hours. They 
 have been obliged to adopt this measure because of 
 the lack of consideration of certain guests who 
 would stay on indefinitely without putting any gift 
 in the box, as the Brothers make no charge. Caux 
 has only a thousand metres of altitude. My poor 
 wife was enchanted with Caux." 
 
 And with this thought, unable to contain his feel- 
 ings, Monestier rose to take leave. 
 
 " Excuse me, I always stay with Sylvia now when 
 she goes to bed. It is terrible for a child without a 
 mother. You do not realise your blessedness." 
 
 Monestier's acquaintance with the Romenay house- 
 hold dated from before: he was unaware both of the 
 separation and of the recent catastrophe. Every 
 one in this world pursues his own idea. 
 
 " You do not realise your blessedness." Mark 
 
94 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 stolidly accepted the statement, so pitiless in its 
 sarcasm — the sarcasm of life rather than of the 
 speaker. 
 
 He felt that he must leave the house, get outside, 
 where he could breathe, in the solitude of night. As 
 he was putting on his overcoat, for the air was 
 cold, he brushed against Edmund de Baulaine. The 
 latter was not ignorant of the separation ; perhaps he 
 had learned from the newspapers of the accident on 
 the Velan, and the names of the victims. But with 
 outstretched hand and smiling face, as if an unex- 
 pected and happy chance had surprised him, he 
 overflowed with joy in at last meeting a fellow- 
 countryman, almost a friend. Without losing an in- 
 stant, so long had he been deprived of a friendly ear, 
 he began to air his troubles. 
 
 " Yes, we are on our return from Italy, on our 
 way to Switzerland. Travelling bores one less than 
 staying in one place. Changing about gives less 
 time for thinking over the past. We are both here. 
 Manette is ill, of course. You don't know what it 
 means to have a woman about who is always ill. It is 
 truly awful. Never at liberty to do what you like, 
 never care free, no sort of fun. At times I simply 
 can't endure it ; I am seized with a wild desire to cut 
 the whole concern. . . ." 
 
 " The whole concern " — his mistress and his love. 
 He laughed lightly while telling these bitter truths, 
 not to a life-long friend, but to a mere club acquaint- 
 ance, lost from sight and met again by chance. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 95 
 
 Having little natural reticence, he simply spoke out 
 the selfish horror of physical suffering which is the 
 mark of the natural man, impossible to endure it 
 or to see it endured by those belonging to him. 
 Thus intimacy had killed the passion that had been 
 the talk of a Parisian winter. 
 
 " Illness," continued Baulaine, with lively hu- 
 mour, " ought to be reserved for couples legiti- 
 mately married." 
 
 He even dared to run on with the subject, so fam- 
 ished was he for some friendly listener. 
 
 " Ah ! if Manette would only go back to her hus- 
 band! It seems he is willing to take her back. He 
 is a good hearted fellow. I would willingly relin- 
 quish her to him." 
 
 At this he began to laugh, as if his remarks were 
 quite in Parisian vein. He spoke most familiarly of 
 Manette, as of a notorious woman, and avowed with 
 playful cynicism his weariness of the whole affair, 
 which had turned out such a failure. 
 
 " How fortunate to have met you here, to have 
 some one to talk to. To-morrow you shall meet 
 Manette." 
 
 Mark, still with his cool and distant air, bade him 
 good night. This man with his curiosity and in- 
 discretion was no more to be dreaded than Mones- 
 tier. Like Monestier, like every one, he was full 
 of his personal affairs. Every one on earth follows 
 his own ideas, is interested solely in his own trouble. 
 
96 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 And in suffering or pain, each man is alone, infinitely 
 alone. 
 
 The hall door stood wide open: Mark went in. 
 Things were now quieting down. The harmonium, 
 after having been punished by the boarding school 
 maidens, was silent at last. In the common hall 
 where guides, muleteers and peasants were in the 
 habit of congregating, the vague sound of their 
 voices was gradually dying away. The tired travel- 
 lers were gone to their rooms. Evenings are short, 
 here. 
 
 Mark went down the outer stair and set his face 
 toward the Italian side, as far as a little lake, the 
 smooth surface of which reflected the crescent moon's 
 quivering rays. The flying clouds, which from time 
 to time passed across it, made it seem as if bounding 
 along the sky. A dreamlike glamour overspread 
 the night landscape. The tragic circle of black 
 rocks and mountains seemed to approach threaten- 
 ingly and then recede, like so many fantastic shad- 
 ows. And then again the light, falling on a 
 glacier, would drop a necklace of glistening silver on 
 the snowy shoulders of mount Velan. 
 
 Here on the heights, the feeling of being quite 
 alone with the evening communicated a sort of 
 ecstasy to the jaded traveller. The fresh, unsullied 
 air was like a hasty kiss brushed across the lips. 
 The stars were more kindly, the silence, which like 
 a far-off^ orchestra, accompanied the deep voice of 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 97 
 
 the wind, took on a solemn impressiveness. Soothed 
 by these nocturnal forces, Mark made his way slowly 
 back to the hospice. Its black mass was brightened 
 here and there by a lighted window. He did not 
 realise how long he stood watching them till one by 
 one they disappeared. At last only two were left 
 in the main body of the building where visitors were 
 lodged; then one of these was extinguished. She 
 was there: he was sure of it; and because of the 
 night-lamp revealing her retreat, he felt as if she 
 were more alive, even though still suffering and in the 
 presence of death. She was there so near him, so 
 near and yet so far. 
 
 It might well move him to pity : yet not even with 
 the thought of Juliette, nor with the memory of 
 Monestier's despairing words : " When a girl has 
 no mother, it is terrible . . ." could he force him- 
 self to forgive the woman who was not going to die. 
 
 In memory he saw her on the threshold of the 
 home which he had forbidden her ever again to enter ; 
 he saw her on her return from her lover's apart- 
 ment, her lips still moist from his kisses ; she was 
 wearing an autumn suit, a gown of black velvet to 
 which her long sable stole and muff gave zebra-like 
 reflections, contrasting so harmoniously with her 
 hair, her magnificent waving hair, so luxuriantly 
 thick and long that she had doubtless had trouble 
 to twist it up under her toque after it had been 
 loosened. The clinging gown revealed the outline of 
 her tall lithe figure. What an ardent love of life 
 
96 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 was expressed in this young creature, who had 
 groveled despairing at his feet, when he drove her 
 away! 
 
 Another vision replaced this memory: On the 
 glacier that he had caught a glimpse of in the moon- 
 light, earlier in the evening, up there, two human 
 forms, one lying prone, the other that seemed to he 
 kneeling, her hands lifted in supplication. . . . 
 That was the attitude, final, known to the world, in 
 which he would always hereafter see her. Her life, 
 since she was to live, would be fixed in his mind in 
 that posture, as if carved in marble. When the 
 door of death has been opened to two beings of whom 
 only one is called to enter — they cannot thus be 
 divided. 
 
 Yes, death had erected to this guilty love, which 
 it alone — and not life — had interrupted, a 
 mausoleum of which Therese could henceforth be 
 nothing other than the guardian. 
 
 Mark felt two despairing tears roll slowly down 
 his cheeks in the cold night air. 
 
The next day was Sunday ; Mark had come to no 
 decision. He had sunk into sleep as into a bottom- 
 less sea which never gives back its victims. Yet on 
 awakening he found perplexity, rather than grief, 
 awaiting him. Since Therese's life was saved, she 
 had no longer need of his sorrowful pity. He had 
 no wish to see her again, yet he could not think of 
 going away without seeing her. 
 
 Accustomed to decide promptly, he scorned him- 
 self for his uncertainty. His decision was awaiting 
 the course of events — but what events .'' He had no 
 idea. 
 
 All the early morning he wandered idly about with 
 his disordered thoughts and still could come to no 
 decision. While Juliette and Madame Acher went to 
 Mass in the hospice chapel, he took a short stroll, 
 as far as the little lake on the Italian side of the 
 mountain, where he had gone the evening before. 
 As the driver had prophesied from the signs upon 
 the Velan, the weather was threatening. Though 
 the Col still stood out clear against the sky, fog en- 
 tirely covered the valley, and was rising up the 
 
 mountain. It came on so rapidly that Mark met it 
 
 99 
 
100 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 at the turn of the path, which seemed suddenly to 
 fall into an abyss. Soon he was entirely surrounded 
 with it, as by an invading army — this thick fog 
 that separated him from everything. He would 
 have believed himself cut off from all the world had 
 he not faintly heard, as if smothered in the clouds 
 and dimmed by distance, the ringing of cow bells 
 which now seemed below him, down in the pastures of 
 the Aosta Valley. This far-away sound, coming 
 from Italy, was the call of the inhabited country. 
 To his over-wrought feelings it was also the far-off 
 call of life, to one who has thought himself face to 
 face with death. 
 
 As always on the heights there were light spaces 
 between the rolling mists. Suddenly as he had been 
 surrounded by fog, so suddenly he was freed from 
 it. He leaned over in search of the herds that had 
 aroused him in his momentary solitude, but the plain 
 was still invisible, and he turned back to the path. 
 An old woman of the valleys, in a red and yellow 
 shawl, passed him, going down to her home. Her 
 mouth was full, yet she attempted to accost him, for 
 she had something to say. 
 
 " Eh ! " she began, her face contorted by the ef- 
 fort to swallow and talk at the same time. " Do you 
 know which is the finest palace in the world?" 
 
 " No, Madame," he answered indifferently. 
 
 " It is there. You may eat, you may drink, you 
 may sleep, and they pray for you, all for nothing! 
 Everywhere else you must always give money." 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 101 
 
 After this declaration, which had seemed to weigh 
 on her mind, she continued on her way unburdened, 
 laughing to herself, like a child. She had had a 
 good day, and she knew that at her age a good day 
 is a red letter day, and you must not let it pass too 
 rapidly. Mark followed her with his eyes, then 
 turning, looked with more kindly feeling on the 
 great building which thus gave joy to passing poor 
 folk, and also held the secret of his heart and 
 future. 
 
 He went in and joined his daughter in the chapel ; 
 the main part was filled with Italian women in bright 
 head-kerchiefs, steeped in the holiness of the place, 
 giving themselves over to acts of piety, as ardent in 
 prayer as in eating, or even as in love. In a corner 
 one was nursing her baby without losing anything 
 of the pious ecstasy or the prayers of her compan- 
 ions. When the boarding school girls sang a hymn, 
 all this music loving people rose and seemed uplifted 
 with holy enthusiasm. The priest was just finish- 
 ing the mass. As he pronounced the benediction, 
 Mark recognised the Prior in the chasuble, saw his 
 calm and luminous gaze resting on him, and felt that 
 the benediction was especially meant for him. In his 
 sensitive state of mind everything seemed to touch 
 upon his own tragedy, of which he shrank from 
 knowing the outcome. 
 
 In the refectory, to which he took Juliette and 
 Madame Acher, as they had not yet breakfasted, 
 Monestier, waiting upon his daughter with maternal 
 
102 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 tenderness, was pouring out a second cup of coffee 
 and milk for her. 
 
 " You would never believe how they gorge them- 
 selves here because it is all free ; I am not referring 
 to the school girls, they are young and are running 
 about the whole day long ; but every one does it. A 
 few minutes ago there was a German taking his sixth 
 bowl of coffee." 
 
 " With bread and butter," added Sylvia, atten- 
 tively listening. 
 
 She too was stuflBng herself, and Mark now un- 
 derstood better the distorted face of the old woman 
 he had met on the hill. Juliette, full of imagination, 
 was burning to communicate the information Ma- 
 dame Acher had given her. 
 
 " Papa, the country around here is full of 
 soldiers." 
 
 "Of soldiers.?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed : after Napoleon there came Char- 
 lemagne. And also that General Marin ... of 
 Marengo, who is buried in the church." 
 
 " General Desaix, you mean." 
 
 " Oh, yes, he died in the snow ; so they put up a 
 white monument over him." 
 
 A great hubbub in the halls made the children 
 hasten to finish their meal. 
 
 " It's the boarding-school girls. . . . The board- 
 ing school is going." 
 
 They ran to the porch; the teachers were desper- 
 ately trying to form into line their undiscipTineS 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 103 
 
 pupils, who at the top of their fresh voices were 
 singing an English hymn. It was intended as an 
 offering of gratitude for the hospitality of the Hos- 
 pice. Father Clavandier, on the doorstep, accepted 
 their music with a smile, after which all the young 
 people joined in a parting salute, and started on 
 their way, soon to be hidden by the rising fog. The 
 last to disappear were the two fair-haired bosom 
 friends who skipped along, their arms still around 
 each other's waists, at the end of the line. 
 
 " We too are about to leave," observed Mones- 
 tier. " Our carriage is ready. When do you go ? " 
 
 "We? oh, to-morrow," replied Mark, evasively. 
 
 " They permit you to remain, then, in spite of 
 the rules.'' On account of Madame Romenay's 
 health, doubtless." 
 
 " Yes, on account of her health." 
 
 " Give her my compliments, I beg. You should 
 come to Caux when she is able to be moved. It is 
 mild and comfortable, salubrious and well sheltered 
 from the winds. The children would be company for 
 each other." 
 
 In his desire to give Sylvia a pleasure he urged 
 their coming, he almost entreated it. 
 
 " Yes, perhaps I may come." 
 
 " That is fine, we shall expect you." 
 
 He carefully lifted his daughter into the landau 
 and as Juliette continued to bid her little friend the 
 most tender farewells, he stooped down and kissed 
 her: 
 
104 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 "Until we meet, then, my little girl; your papa 
 has promised to bring you to Caux where we are go- 
 ing to stay, when your mamma recovers from her 
 fatigue." 
 
 "Mamma?" she said, surprised. 
 
 That dear name was no longer mentioned before 
 her. She herself never spoke of the absent one, 
 rarely thought about her now. This mention 
 thrilled her through and through, as if she were 
 hearing a pathetic fairy tale. She flushed deeply. 
 
 " A mother is so good to little girls," added Mr. 
 Monestier. 
 
 And stepping into the carriage, he repeated : 
 
 " Till we meet again, good-bye." 
 
 They had gone out of sight, but Juliette still re- 
 mained motionless. Surprised at her attitude, 
 Mark, who had not heard Monestier's words, was still 
 more astonished at her expression. 
 
 "What is the matter.'' Do you miss Sylvia so 
 much.'' " 
 
 " Oh, no, but he spoke about Mamma." 
 
 "Who did.?" 
 
 " Sylvia's papa." 
 
 "What did he say.?" 
 
 " That she was resting, and that she was so 
 good." 
 
 The child, drawn by a new desire, lifted up her 
 little body as a flower lifts itself to the light. She 
 was apparently expecting to hear a promise, an an- 
 nouncement of a presence. Trembling, she fixed 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 105 
 
 upon him eyes full of entreaty. A feeling that 
 she could not explain took possession of her. Would 
 her father tell her nothing? All that he had planned 
 to say to her and had not yet said, in case he should 
 take the child to her who had been dying yesterday, 
 who was recovering to-day, was now miraculously 
 made easy. Juliette was waiting. And he was 
 silent. 
 
 She did not insist. She concluded that she had 
 been mistaken, and that ended the matter. With the 
 facility of childhood she was soon diverted. For a 
 moment, like a grown person, she had opened the 
 door of memory to a living mother ; in her mind she 
 had seen her own dear little mamma, her mamma of 
 other days, her mamma who had flown away, van- 
 ished, she did not know how or why. She had seen 
 her here, quite close, and it was not true. You can 
 dream then even when awake, but the dream passes 
 away so quick: there are so many queer things, es- 
 pecially at the Grand-Saint-Bemard, where people 
 come and go as in a mill. 
 
 Mark was relieved of the embarrassment into 
 which his own silence had plunged him by Edmund 
 de Baulaine, who was seeking him to ask for the re- 
 turn use of the carriage by which Mark's party had 
 come. 
 
 " Your driver tells me that you are to remain 
 longer at the hospice. Before engaging him I 
 wanted to make sure." 
 
 " He is free to go where he likes." 
 
106 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 " He is lucky," answered the young man with a 
 forced smile that was more like a grimace. " Free, 
 what a beautiful word! Don't you think so? 
 Really to live one must be free, but as for me, wher- 
 ever I am, everything bores me." 
 
 With a gesture he pointed to the mountains that 
 encircled the buildings, — Chenallette and Mont 
 Mort: 
 
 " Here especially, you cannot breathe, you suffo- 
 cate." 
 
 He would carry his boredom with him to the re- 
 motest corner of the world, however much he might 
 hope to be rid of it. Mark looked at him wonder- 
 ingly. Was this the handsome spendthrift, gay, 
 dapper, with the graceful manner that so naturally 
 goes with finely cut, regular features, and yet is so 
 often deceptive.? Now he was dejected, fretful, neg- 
 ligent of his person. Passion indulged to its bitter 
 end had sufSced to transform him thus. He dragged 
 love with him as a convict his ball and chain. 
 
 " I must let Manette know," he concluded ; " she 
 takes so long to get ready." 
 
 And like the most dependent and least resigned of 
 husbands, he disappeared. 
 
 A little later, Mark, wandering about like a lost 
 soul, from the inside of the house to the outside, saw 
 the couple set off. She with her invalid air, covered 
 with shawls and travelling rugs, showing under her 
 tied-down bonnet a faded little face, once pretty, 
 of the kind which pleases in Paris society, but which 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 107 
 
 here among the mountains seemed so childish and 
 yet at the same time so old, comedy and tragedy at 
 once ; the man, impatient at delay, annoyed by all 
 the hand luggage, affecting to be extremely polite, 
 and trying to hide the melancholy which overspread 
 his features, now so worn and drawn ; she full of 
 her airs and graces, he, forcing himself to play a 
 part. With their studied gestures, their powder 
 and their arts, they resembled a couple of actors 
 on the road in the provinces playing the parts of 
 man and wife. As they set off she once more showed 
 her sad, refined face, while he leaned back, making 
 himself comfortable. So the vision of love disap- 
 peared at the turn of the road. 
 
 Mark followed them with his eyes as far as he could 
 see them. Ah! had he come suddenly upon Therese 
 and her lover with such faces, what a revenge would 
 have been his ! But instead of that, death had made 
 them triumphant. , . . 
 
 At this moment. Father Clavendier, recruiting a 
 squad of non-paying travellers, that he might show 
 them the curiosities of the place as a good cicerone 
 should do, saw him, and drew him into the brigade. 
 They gathered in Juliette in the corridor, and 
 crossed the courtyard together. 
 
 " Where are you going.'' " 
 
 " To the kennels." 
 
 No one goes to the hospice of the Grand Saint 
 Bernard without paying a visit to the dogs. Their 
 celebrated breed, kept without cross, and their gene- 
 
108 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 alogy as carefully noted as that of the most princely 
 f-amily, goes back to the very foundation of the 
 hospice. Careful selection has strengthened and 
 toughened the breed; and they have become accli- 
 matised to the high mountain air. 
 
 In honour of their visitors, no doubt, the whole 
 pack received the crowd of strangers, like the school 
 girls singing in chorus, by all barking in unison. 
 The sound was like a chime of fine bells, full and re- 
 sounding, filling the space within the encircling rocks. 
 
 Juliette, somewhat startled by the noisy reception, 
 clung to her father's arm. 
 
 " Silence, Barry ! Pluto ! Lion ! be still," com- 
 manded the monk. 
 
 " Oh ! those are the names of the dogs Madame 
 Acher told me about," said the child, recalling her 
 lessons with her governess. 
 
 Nevertheless she hesitated about approaching the 
 great creatures with their thick russet and white 
 coats, lionlike heads, formidable chests, and stocky 
 legs. There were about ten of them. One very old 
 fellow, half bald, and slobbering, with two long teeth 
 projecting from his muzzle, somewhat like a mastiflF, 
 affected her painfully. 
 
 " Don't be afraid, little Miss Juliette," said 
 Father Clavandier, who seemed to look after her with 
 special care. " These dogs are as gentle as lambs ; 
 give them this piece of sugar from your little hand. 
 Barry, come here. Be nice to this little girl. There, 
 you see ! " 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 109 
 
 " He licked my hand," said Juliette ; " his tongue 
 is real warm ! " 
 
 And she ventured to stroke his heavy coat. The 
 monk, pleased with her conquest, began to praise 
 the fine animal : 
 
 " This Barry is the king of the pack. He has a 
 magnificent voice ; he is generous as well as cour- 
 ageous. He can dig his way through the winter 
 snows, and rescue lost travellers." 
 
 " Does he have a keg of wine hung around his 
 neck? " exclaimed Juliette, delighted to verify the 
 stories she had been told. 
 
 " I declare," exclaimed the good Father with sur- 
 prise, " this child is very well informed." 
 
 " Madame Acher told me all about it." 
 
 But the wonder-tale was not yet finished. 
 
 " Barry is the favourite of Father Sonnier, who 
 has special care of the education of Messrs. Doggy. 
 Every morning on the shore of the little lake they 
 practise their exercises in ambulance service. And 
 only a day or so ago it was Barry who helped to 
 save the life of the lady." 
 
 "What lady.''" came quickly from all sides. 
 
 Juliette, full of interest, leaned eagerly forward. 
 Pleased with the interest he had aroused, the monk 
 answered : 
 
 " The lady who fell over the precipice on Mount 
 Velan, and who barely missed death. We have her 
 in the hospital. She will recover." 
 
 Mark, intently listening, had been visibly uneasy 
 
110 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 for the past few moments. He now pressed for- 
 ward and took his daughter by the arm: 
 
 " Come, Juliette, we must go in." 
 
 " Oh ! papa, wait a minute ! I want to hear about 
 ■the accident." 
 
 " It is of no use. Come with me ! " 
 
 Could he let his child hear of her mother's acci- 
 dent in this crowd.? He led her away with authority, 
 in spite of the protest of the rebellious little face, 
 which expressed without words her surprise at his 
 unsympathetic act. It was borne in upon him that 
 he could remain here no longer. Everything brought 
 him back by abrupt turns to face the bitter question 
 which he was trying to evade. Three times already 
 that morning, when he had thought to escape it, 
 forget it, temporise with it, he had been brought 
 back to the same no-thoroughfare: Michael Mon- 
 estier had aroused in Juliette's childish heart the 
 sweet, half -forgotten memory ; Edmund de Baulaine, 
 symbol of love's irksome servitude, had excited by 
 contrast his jealousy of that too perfect love on 
 which heroic death had set its immovable seal, and 
 like a haunted deer he now must flee the place lest 
 the tale of his wife's fate should be poured into the 
 interested ears of his little daughter. No, no, he 
 must be done with this business at once ; and hardly 
 realising what he was about, he hurriedly knocked 
 at the Prior's door. 
 
 The Prior was taking lunch with the Provost. 
 There is nothing so maddening, to one who is passing 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 111 
 
 through a crisis, as the quiet continuity of regular 
 habits in the life of those around him. The Prior 
 gave him an appointment for two o'clock that after- 
 noon and it was now noon. He was obliged to go 
 down to the refectory and note again Juliette's 
 pleasure in the cosmopolitan visitors of Saint Ber- 
 nard. As for himself, he felt only impatient dis- 
 gust at the spectacle. No one among them all even 
 suspected the nightmare through which he was strug- 
 gling, and which he feared to betray by some slight 
 movement. But who, even among those most closely 
 in sympathy, most receptive to impressions, ever sus- 
 pects the inward agony of a friend .'' The blood 
 pulses so rapidly and strongly through the veins 
 that it seems as if it must burst through the skin 
 and no one sees it. Tom hearts do not recognise 
 one another! Even those who tear them do not 
 always deign to observe it. 
 
 " Papa," exclaimed the little girl pulling at his 
 sleeve, " what shall we do now.? It rained while we 
 were eating, but now the sun is shining again." 
 
 " You can take a walk with Madame Acher, out 
 towards the little lake, only not too close to it." 
 
 "Might I pick some flowers if there are any.? 
 Perhaps I may find some on the edge of the 
 snow. . . ," 
 
 When he returned the Prior was not alone: an- 
 other brother, younger, more robust, with high 
 colour, like one accustomed to the bite of frosty air, 
 was with him. 
 
lia FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 " Our invalid," began Father Dornaz without no- 
 ticing that this new presence seemed to paralyse 
 Mark Romenay, " continues her admirable recovery. 
 She slept the past night like a little child, and this 
 morning was able to take a good meal. The nurse 
 is delighted. There is no more trace of the fever. 
 You can see her now without danger; you may see 
 her as soon as you wish. I was expecting you this 
 morning but you did not come." 
 
 Mark made no reply. He was gazing fixedly, as 
 at an intruder, at this person in the corner, who 
 seemed embarrassed at Mark's gaze. The Prior un- 
 derstood the silent question, and introduced the man 
 as Father Sonnier, he who had discovered the two 
 victims on the mountain, and saved Madame Rome- 
 nay. Mark, still silent, bowed, but did not thank 
 him. The Prior continued, gently Imposing his 
 authority : 
 
 " Father Sonnier will give you all the facts. This 
 IS why I invited him to meet you here. You have 
 the right and above all, the duty, to know the de- 
 tails." 
 
 He made a sign ordering the Father to speak. 
 The latter made no demur ; he would probably have 
 preferred to battle with rocks and ice, to assault 
 the steep heights which defend the passes and hide 
 perfidious crevasses ; but since he had to speak, speak 
 he would : there is no disputing the chief's command. 
 His first words were practically a repetition of the 
 newspaper story, except that the words of a living 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 113 
 
 eye-witness are not like those of the dead printed 
 page; in them the past lives again. On the crest 
 of the Velan which he had climbed, followed by the 
 rescue party, he had noticed the recent fall of stones, 
 had bent over the steep slope and seen the two 
 unfortunates on that narrow shelf of rock, caught 
 as by a miracle halfway down the almost perpendicu- 
 lar descent. 
 
 " He was lying flat, she was kneeling," interrupted 
 Mark, who seemed greatly moved, " on her knees 
 with her hands upraised." 
 
 Father Sonnier, surprised, was silent but asked 
 no questions. 
 
 " That is precisely so," he said, approvingly, after 
 a slight hesitation. " She had seen us, she must 
 have cried out, but we could not hear her, her voice 
 was worn out, I shouted to reassure them, and 
 began to descend, my companions letting out the 
 rope." 
 
 He passed rapidly over the perilous descent and 
 came immediately to the meeting: 
 
 " When close to them I at last heard her cry, a 
 continued moaning, like the whine of a little dog 
 only a few days old. Quite exhausted she lay upon 
 the corpse of her companion. They seemed like a 
 single one." 
 
 " Stop ! " exclaimed Mark, hiding his face as if 
 he could not endure the vision. 
 
 The Brother, at this burst of feeling, begged 
 pardon. He was sweating in great drops, far more 
 
114 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 than if enduring the roughest and hardest physical 
 exercise. This humble Hercules of the mountain 
 had come up against the most difficult of all his 
 labours: that of finding words delicate enough to 
 portray the truth without reservation and yet make 
 it endurable. Little apt to circumlocution of speech, 
 he was naturally somewhat awkward; in his distress 
 he appealed to the Prior: 
 
 " Help me. Father, I do not know how to tell 
 these things, and you see how my words hurt 
 him," 
 
 Father Dornaz was about to intervene, when Mark, 
 commanding himself, checked him : 
 
 " No, no, I beg of you, keep nothing from me. 
 It was only a momentary weakness. It has passed, 
 I must know everything. You yourself have said 
 that it is my right and my duty." 
 
 Obedient, the rescuer continued his account, only 
 a little more slowly, like a loaded cart going up 
 hill: 
 
 " The body of the other was cold. She let herself 
 be raised and I gave her a drink. She wept and 
 laughed together. It was necessary to untie her, 
 for the rope that bound her to her companion had 
 not been broken by the fall. Then we carried her 
 away with every precaution. The corpse could 
 wait." 
 
 " Did she not protest against leaving it ? " asked 
 Mark. 
 
 " No, why should she ? I have been present at 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 115 
 
 many accidents ; and when the rope is unfastened, 
 freeing the survivors from the dead, even from their 
 dearest friends and relations, they never protest; 
 death separates. . . . We went on to the Refuge. 
 Not even for a minute did she lose consciousness, 
 except for a couple of swoons. At first, I believed 
 her to be delirious, because her words seemed inco- 
 herent, incomprehensible. She kept saying, ' He 
 must come ; ' and again, ' Send for him. Won't you 
 send for him to come before I die.-" She gave no 
 more thought to him up there on the mountain ; 
 that was what misled me. The next morning I 
 found her calmer. She explained the situation to 
 me, told me of your . . . separation. She gave me 
 your name and address, begging me to telegraph 
 you to come, that she might see you one last time 
 and obtain your forgiveness." 
 
 Mark, who had given passionate attention to this 
 narrative, repeated : 
 
 " It was she who asked you to let me know ? " 
 " She kept asking me to telegraph. On my prom- 
 ising to do so she seemed less restless. And in the 
 ambulance she fell asleep." 
 
 The good Father was silent, not without a feeling 
 of relief of having finished his painful duty at last. 
 But Mark after a short silence began to question 
 him: 
 
 " How did Madame Norans hear of the accident ? " 
 " The invalid (he dared not give her a name) gave 
 me the address of that lady, also." 
 
116 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 "Ah! And did she tell you nothing of those 
 three days of agony on the mountain side ? " 
 
 " Yes. . . . But what good would it do you to 
 hear? " 
 
 The poor Father, anxious to keep silence on this 
 point, turned to the Prior in appeal. 
 
 " Tell him the truth," said Father Dornaz author- 
 itatively : " The truth has virtues which we are not 
 always able to realise; but which sooner or later 
 make themselves felt." 
 
 " Well. ... It was she who first slipped, coming 
 down from the crest, and dragged him down with 
 her. They rolled down from a hundred and fifty 
 to two hundred metres. She does not know what 
 prevented them, in their bounding fall, from rolling 
 over the narrow shelf that caught them. It seemed 
 to her that the whole mountain-top went down with 
 them, on top of them. Even then she did not faint, 
 and though her whole body was cut and bruised, she 
 felt that none of her bones were broken, while her 
 companion, more badly hurt, was slow in coming 
 to his senses: his right leg was fractured in two 
 places, and I judge that a rock had broken his spine. 
 When he came to himself he suffered agonising pain. 
 Then began their Calvary. We must do them 
 justice. Sir. I know what courage in the face of 
 death means, for it is my business to be with those 
 that meet it. The mountain is a rude school, and 
 I have known many brave people. But those two! 
 . . . God saw them 1 " 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE IIT 
 
 And this testimony, given by a man so accustomed 
 to hardship, impressed one as authoritative. 
 
 " She, who could move a little, dragged herself 
 around their narrow prison, and learned that there 
 was no way out. Their only hope was in the help 
 that seemed unlikely indeed, or very slow, to come. 
 They had only a bit of bread and a little brandy 
 in a gourd that had not been broken in their fall. 
 He was the most injured, she offered them to him. 
 He insisted on dividing them, but could not swallow 
 the bread. 
 
 " The first night was not very cold, and the morn- 
 ing sun helped to warm them a bit. They were still 
 hoping for rescue. . . . She threw various things 
 down into the abyss, thinking that they might fall 
 where some one passing might see them, and so 
 serve as a signal. From time to time she shouted. 
 Then night fell for the second time. He was losing 
 strength, and in spite of his courage, he began to 
 moan with pain. This second night was full of hor- 
 ror. It seemed endless, and day brought ho relief. 
 From this time she lost count of hours and memories. 
 The weather changed and it began to snow, they 
 must have feared being buried alive in the snow, 
 which would also make search the more difficult, too. 
 Their clothes, by turns wet and frozen, and stiff 
 with blood from their wounds, were no protection 
 against the cold." 
 
 " Yes," added Mark, " it was necessary to cut 
 and tear them off, they were so stuck to her flesh." 
 
118 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 Father Sonnier looked at him with great pity. 
 The worst still remained to be told. 
 
 " You shall know all their anguish, sir. Alone, 
 starving and frozen, beside this unfortunate man 
 half broken to pieces, and howling with pain which 
 she was unable to ease, she came at last in her trouble 
 to lose faith in God. The abyss was there beneath 
 them. To roll down was easy, and would end their 
 troubles. She had only to pull him to the edge of 
 the gulf and both would roll down together. For 
 many hours — what day was it ? the second or the 
 third, Tuesday or Wednesday, she does not remem- 
 ber — this idea attracted and fascinated her. As 
 he moaned more and more, she tempted him with the 
 proposal that they should die together." 
 
 Mark, breathless, repeated the last phrase: 
 
 " She proposed that they should die together.'' 
 Who told you that?" 
 
 " She did, at the Refuge, in a state of excitement 
 in which she could not control her words. I was 
 not the only one who overheard. Perhaps I under- 
 stood her better than the others. That is why I 
 am giving you these details." 
 
 " Who else was there ? " 
 
 " The brothers Omer and Jules Menoud, of Bourg- 
 Saint-Pierre, who had come over by way of Valsorey, 
 and joined us in the search. And also Patrice, a 
 servant of this house, who accompanies me in my 
 excursions. You can question him If you like." 
 
 " That would be of no use ; go on with your story, 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 119 
 
 Father, I beg of you ; keep nothing from me. She 
 proposed to him to die together? " 
 
 " Yes. And then this man who was at the end 
 of his strength, who knew that life had nothing for 
 him but torture, put away this temptation with a 
 last effort of will. He encouraged her to try to 
 live : ' They will come, they will come,' he insisted ; 
 ' for me it will be too late, but for you, you will 
 live.' For my part I look upon this as a wonderful 
 act of faith. And he did better yet : You certainly 
 must know this. Not only did he tell her that she 
 would live, but that she would live for her husband 
 and little daughter, and that it would be better 
 thus." 
 
 " Enough ! " exclaimed Mark, who had risen. 
 
 But Father Sonnier would not give up his de- 
 fence of the dead: 
 
 " You asked for the truth, sir. It is enough for 
 me that he recognised his wrong doing, and re- 
 nounced it. He renounced it, when he felt death 
 approaching — when the true meaning of life 
 reveals itself. And he also pronounced his boy's 
 name." 
 
 Here the Prior gently intervened. 
 
 " Father Sonnier worships victims. He gives 
 them wonderful funeral services in his heart, espe- 
 cially those who show courage without weakness. 
 Finish your story, good Father." 
 
 " I have about finished. The third day, some time 
 in the afternoon, he ceased talking, and the last 
 
120 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 agony began. He was young and strong, and it 
 took some time for death to overcome him; he 
 breathed his last that evening. We found him with 
 his eyes closed. No doubt she herself had closed 
 them. She had to pass a night and another day 
 by his side. How can one imagine it.'' She could 
 not even pray for him, her teeth chattered so. She 
 suffered so much that she became almost indifferent. 
 Yet in spite of all, she struggled against sleep, 
 she told us, that she might not be overcome by the 
 cold. Sleep means the end, deatli. Her last agony 
 was to see us on the arete, and try in vain to call 
 us: She could not hear her own voice, and now she 
 wanted to live." 
 
 " No, no," protested Mark, " she wanted to die." 
 
 " Except for the passing temptation of which I 
 told you, and which will attest the truth of my 
 story, she wanted to live. Each of those sad, weary 
 evenings she wound up her watch. And the bread 
 that her companion could not swallow, she ate tO' 
 keep herself alive; she even gnawed at the edge of 
 the gourd. We are all liable to be tempted, and 
 I do not believe that any human being has survived 
 a worse martyrdom than hers." 
 
 The Father stopped for a moment, then, not 
 without effort in his natural modesty, he added with 
 some warmth: 
 
 " That is all. If I have hurt or grieved you, sir, 
 I beg you to excuse me. I have told only the truth, 
 and I have told aU. It is not for me to know what 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 121 
 
 has passed between you two. If she has wronged 
 you, she certainly expiated that wrong during those 
 terrible days, and you will have pity on her. You 
 cannot but have pity on her." 
 
 The Father was silent, relieved, and yet scared by 
 his own warm supplication. His task was accom- 
 plished, and all he now wished was to retire into the 
 shade. Made for helping and saving others, this 
 simple son of the mountains, whom no risk or dan- 
 ger could ever hold back, felt a great fear of emo- 
 tional passages, and had shown more true courage 
 and strength here, than upon the stones and ice of 
 Mt. Velan. He begged the Prior to allow him to 
 retire, and he was already on the threshold when 
 Mark joined him. 
 
 " My good Father, said he, " allow me to clasp 
 your hand." 
 
 " Oh, willingly, sir." 
 
 " I owe you her life." 
 
 " As soon as she could speak she called for you." 
 
 After Father Sonnier had left them, the Prior 
 simply repeated : 
 
 " As soon as she could speak, she called for you." 
 
 Mark, in great distress, looked at the monk, who 
 so naturally spread around him an atmosphere of 
 peace and bowing to his mysterious power, he asked 
 almost timidly: 
 
 "What ought I to do?" 
 
 " Forgive, forgive, not with the lips alone, but 
 from the heart." 
 
122 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 Mark drew himself up : 
 
 " Yes, forgive. You could give no other advice. 
 What is all this to you? You do not understand, 
 walled in here in your solitude, you cannot under- 
 stand." 
 
 "Who told you that I do not understand.''" re- 
 plied the priest, still losing none of his contagious 
 calmness. 
 
 " But to forgive, Father, is only a word, I should 
 pardon her out of compassion and because of her suf- 
 ferings. But afterwards? Afterwards, we should 
 have to live, should have to forget. How could we 
 forget, she and I, those awful days ? Do you not see 
 that their very tragedy must fix them imperishably in 
 our memory? She is bound to the dead far more 
 surely than by the rope which was not broken by their 
 fall. She belongs to him, he keeps her. Had they 
 been discovered there, forever joined in death's frozen 
 embrace, they would have been cited as a couple of 
 lovers. Because she survived him, is anything 
 changed ? " 
 
 " Everything is changed, my son, because she did 
 survive him. Father Sonnier showed you that. 
 After her temptation to commit suicide, she deter- 
 mined to live, and now you and her child are her life. 
 Will you throw her back into that other and far 
 worse death which is the rejection of a repent- 
 ant soul? You speak of her illicit love as if it 
 were something permitted, you seem to excuse her 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 123 
 
 " I do not excuse it, but I acknowledged its 
 power." 
 
 " An evil power from which she is now ifreed." 
 
 " Freed in the body. But as to her heart.'' " 
 
 " Her heart ? The first word she uttered on her 
 resurrection, was a cry for you. Is it for me to 
 teach you that women are more submissive than men 
 to life's forces, and do not falsely confuse what is 
 with what has been. God did not will that she 
 should die. He has given her back to you. Will 
 you reject her.'' Will you reject her because you 
 love her.? " 
 
 " How do you know that I love her.'' " 
 
 "How could I not know? I was watching you 
 while Father Sonnier was telling his story." 
 
 " Then it is because I do love her that I cannot 
 take her back." 
 
 He walked up and down in great agitation, then 
 suddenly exclaimed: 
 
 " But I cannot leave her without seeing her ; cost 
 what it will I must see her." 
 
 " What will you say to her.? " 
 
 " I do not know what I shall say to her. I only 
 know I must see her. Father, I beg you to take me 
 to her. Take me to her now, yourself." 
 
 The Prior scrutinised him comprehensively, as if 
 to read his mind, and answered simply, " Come." 
 
 " Here we are," said the Prior, stopping before 
 the door of a cell. 
 
lU FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 They had passed through the long passages of 
 the immense building without a word. Now, mo- 
 tionless behind the priest, Mark tried to still the 
 rapid beating of his heart: was it from walking too 
 fast, or was it the dread of recalling the past? 
 Father Dornaz added with gentle authority: 
 
 " Wait here a few moments until I prepare her." 
 
 He knocked and entered, leaving the door slightly 
 open, and after a few words concerning her health, 
 and the certainty of recovery, Mark heard the 
 Father say: 
 
 " You wanted to see your husband, Madame, he 
 has come. He Is here." 
 
 A voice that he well knew repeated distinctly, yet 
 as if frightened: 
 
 "He is here?" 
 
 "Yes, Madame. I have come from him. Shall 
 I call him.'' " continued the Prior. 
 
 " Oh, not yet ! not yet ! Give me time to pre- 
 pare ! " 
 
 " He is waiting to come in." 
 
 " Are you sure. Father ? He wants to see me ? " 
 
 " Certainly, since he has come. Take courage, 
 my child. God will support you. God never for- 
 sakes those who rely on his help." 
 
 There was silence, and then: 
 , " You are right. Father. Then if he wishes to 
 icome, call him in. Wait a minute, give me your 
 blessing." 
 
 It was a murmur rather than a human voice, and 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 125 
 
 yet, through the half -open door, Mark had not lost 
 a syllable. Even in her feebleness and alarm, the 
 invalid kept her distinct articulation, only it was a 
 bit husky and trembling. Other tones of that voice, 
 the last that had fallen on his ears, pathetic and full 
 of supplication, came back to his memory and min- 
 gled with these. Again he saw his wife at the door 
 from which he had driven her. He saw her again in 
 that clinging black velvet dress with the brown fur, 
 which revealed her slender figure. She had just re- 
 turned from a visit to her lover, with moist, blood 
 red lips. And" on the body of that lover, dead, up 
 there in the snow, they had found her lying prone, 
 bound to him, yes, bound to him forever. Hate an"3 
 humiliation that he had believed subdued rose up 
 within him in their first strength, merely at the sound 
 of that living voice. And hardly knowing how, 
 urged by he knew not what impulse, he took the few 
 steps that separated him from her, and found him- 
 self in the room, at the foot of her bed. A Sister 
 in charge was the first to see him, and went out, pass- 
 ing in front of him and closing the door behind her. 
 The Prior, surprised at Mark's abrupt entrance, 
 took a step forward, -as if to stop him. But he had 
 stopped of himself, his feet riveted to the floor, his 
 eyes staring at the figure upon the bed. And it 
 seemed as if between them lay an infinite desert of 
 silence. 
 
 " My children," said Father Dornaz at last, break- 
 ing the agonised silence, " God be with you." 
 
126 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 Then he, too, slowly moved away, and Mark and 
 Theresa were left alone together. Neither had yet 
 spoken. 
 
 How often we imagine what is before us, and when 
 it really happens we hardly recognise it, so different 
 is it from the foreseen complications. 
 
 He was expecting to meet a vanquished enemy to 
 whom he would dictate terms, and in the large white 
 bed he saw a poor little face, wasted and worn, 
 colorless, with parched lips, with nothing of the 
 charm of former days. A bandage that covered her 
 forehead and was tied behind her head did not hide 
 that her hair, her beautiful fair hair, curling at the 
 lightest breath, her magnificent hair of burnished 
 gold that fell almost to her feet, had been cut short 
 on account of the coagulated blood from her wounds. 
 She was nothing but a pitiful little thing, a heap of 
 bruised and suffering flesh, whose only trace of hu- 
 manity seemed to have retreated to her eyes, her 
 deep, dark imploring eyes, desperately imploring, 
 full of terror. 
 
 Without realising precisely what feeling domina- 
 ted him, he had brought with him the persistent ran- 
 cour of wounded love and pride, in which forgiveness 
 is either the solemn and scornful pardon that saves 
 pride and has no need of love, or else that other form 
 of forgiveness that is half physical feeling and de- 
 sire, and subordinates the life of the soul to carnal 
 instinct. He had brought all this with him, without 
 reflection, like an unwinnowed harvest, and yet, here. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 127 
 
 at this bedside, hardly knowing what he did, he fell 
 on his knees saying only: 
 
 " My little Therese, how you must have suffered ! " 
 
 Her eyes, those soft, dark, pleading eyes, filled 
 with tears, that rained down her faded cheeks. She 
 had not expected this, and it had the painful, but re- 
 viving strength of the drops of brandy that had been 
 forced between her lips after her agony in the snow. 
 "You . . ." she murmured, " thou.? . . . thou 
 here?" 
 
 He took the hand that lay helpless on the sheet. 
 
 "How should I not come.'' Thou wert calling 
 for me." 
 
 Irresolution, revulsion, were all forgotten. He 
 was simply helping some one in great distress who 
 had trusted herself to him. And he spoke gently, in 
 low tones, as one speaks to an invalid who must not 
 be agitated for fear of a return of fever. Rising 
 from his knees he bent over her. And half reas- 
 sured, desire for life reawakened, she again gave 
 proof of that courage which she had already shown ; 
 it was she and not he who spoke of the past : 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I did call thee. I called for 
 thee because I was near death. I could not die like 
 that, you know. But then I did not die. But it 
 was not my fault that I did not." 
 
 At the last words she tried to smile, a smile that 
 only emphasised the ravages of her poor face. He 
 had his answer ready: 
 
 " I was afraid during the journey here." 
 
128 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 "Afraid? ... of what?" 
 
 " Of not finding you alive." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 She closed her eyes. Now she did indeed fear to 
 go further. Hope made her tremble. The future 
 that was before her, and of whose possibilities she 
 caught a glimpse, held her in suspense. Still there 
 was one name that rose to her lips, that she kept re- 
 peating in her heart, that she did not yet dare to 
 speak aloud. 
 
 " Now," said Mark, " I know that your life is 
 saved. But you must have perfect rest and quiet. 
 You will see how we will nurse you, and everything 
 will go well." 
 
 " Yes, you are kind." 
 
 And then Michael Monestier's advice recurring to 
 his mind, he said almost involuntarily, 
 
 " I will arrange for both of you at Caux." 
 
 She was not sure that she understood, and timidly 
 asked : 
 
 "Both of us?" 
 
 " To be sure ; Juliette is here." 
 
 " Juliette ! " 
 
 It was the mother's cry of deliverance, as if her 
 child had been born again. She lifted to her lips 
 her husband's hand which was holding her own. 
 
 " My dear . . . Mark . . . Then, you have 
 really . . . forgiven me? " 
 
 " Hush ! " he commanded in a tone so tender and 
 yet so imperious that it surprised himself, as if he 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 129 
 
 had heard the voice of some one else, some one vested 
 with the power of remission — with sacerdotal 
 power. 
 
 He had withdrawn his hand, and now he placed his 
 finger on her lips to enforce his order for silence: 
 adding, 
 
 " Let us never speak of that again. Never, 
 never." 
 
 It was a final and sacred promise. He made it 
 with no previous intention, with a strong leading 
 from within that carried him on in spite of himself. 
 It seemed to him as if he were obliterating all 
 memory of the evil days. He had passed beyond the 
 region of trouble and doubt, of uncertainty, dis- 
 quietude of heart, and had attained the secret place 
 of inward calm and serenity ; as after a hard climb 
 in which the diflSculty of the last few steps is un- 
 noticed because of the nearness of the summit, a man 
 finds himself suddenly at the top, on a broad plateau 
 where the air is lighter and more reviving than any 
 ever breathed before. He was filled with a new joy, 
 radiant, infinite, that thrilled through his whole be- 
 ing, uplifting him yet leaving him quite sane — a 
 joy that quickened his sensations without shaking his 
 nerves. It was the repose of cool running water, 
 after the conflict of memory during that intermi- 
 nable journey, after the sadness of the evening be- 
 fore, when he had watched the last lighted window; 
 after the horror of the morning, the cruel ordeal of 
 the sad story. His first experience of love had not so 
 
ISO FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 filled him with happiness ; as a woman who hears 
 with exultation the first cry of the child that she has 
 borne in pain, so he felt the first thrill of the soul 
 he had redeemed, and in this unforgettable moment 
 he held cheap indeed all the preceding misery. 
 
 Of this peace which possessed and dilated his 
 whole being, he felt sure that he would see the re- 
 flection in his wife's eyes. Bending over her, he saw 
 only the poor ravaged face, without beauty or ex- 
 pression, for the lids were closed over her eyes. On 
 this poor, expressionless face, no longer beautiful, 
 he gazed with a peculiar delight; he longed to kiss 
 those wounds ; but when heart meets heart, caresses 
 can add nothing to their bliss. After waiting a 
 while, he began to wonder that her eyes jemained 
 closed, — then to fear that they might have closed 
 forever. 
 
 " Therese ! " he cried. 
 
 And then the eyes were opened, and he saw those 
 large eyes, but a short time before so tragically sad, 
 now peaceful in expression, as he had wished them to 
 be. Without a phrase, a word, a gesture, their 
 union was renewed on the farther side of love and 
 death. And so all was well. 
 
 Still she neither moved nor spoke. He realised 
 the violent shock to which in her weakness he had 
 subjected her, and he felt that he needed her for- 
 giveness, as if he had been cruel. 
 
 " How very tired you must be ! Would you like 
 me to leave you now and come back later.'' Or would 
 
THE TRIUMPH OP" LOVE 131 
 
 you like me to remain quietly near you in a corner of 
 the room? " 
 
 " Oh, no, my dear, it is not fatigue. I cannot ex- 
 plain it to you ... I am happy, I am so happy." 
 
 He contented himself with laying his hand on her 
 forehead above the bandage. 
 
 " They have cut off your hair, your beautiful 
 hair," he said. 
 
 " It was quite necessary." 
 
 Turning over in his mind what would best please 
 her, Mark asked: 
 
 " Would you like me to bring Juliette ? '' 
 
 " Oh ! yes, go for her . . . Juliette ... It has 
 been such a long time. . . . Has she grown?" 
 
 And in a lower tone. 
 
 "Does she still remember me?" 
 
 " She spoke of you only a little while ago." 
 
 " Did she ? Does she know that I am here ? " 
 
 " Not yet. I will go and tell her. She is 
 probably near the little lake with Madame Acher, 
 or near the kennels. She has always been fond of 
 dogs." 
 
 " I know. Go quickly." 
 
 " Should I recaU the Sister during my absence? " 
 
 " Oh ! I do not need anything, now that you are 
 here. Only to see my little girl." 
 
 At the thought of her little girl she reached out 
 her arms in longing. He saw her agitation. 
 
 " A little patience, Therese, I'll soon be back with 
 her." 
 
132 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 He left the room, and once in the passage he was 
 surprised at the lightness of his step, the pleasure 
 he found in mere walking and breathing. Joy car- 
 ried him as on wings. It was as if he had leaped 
 across life's boundaries, and found himself in a new 
 country where the laws of gravity are different, and 
 where reigns that happiness which is coveted by so 
 many, and is as yet unknown by man. He had 
 simply had to follow the leading of his heart to be 
 freed from all bitterness, to realise a condition like 
 that state of grace in which true believers feel them- 
 selves when in direct touch with God. 
 
 At the end of the passage he met Father Domaz, 
 who had remained within call, and who gave him a 
 look that seemed to read his heart. 
 
 " You are leaving our invalid soon," he said, half 
 smiling. 
 
 " She needs no one now ; she is waiting for me to 
 bring our little girl to her." 
 
 " That is right, go for her, my friend." 
 
 And the Father, withdrawing, let him pass. 
 
 The sun was shining again, inviting the tourists 
 to walk. The hospice was nearly empty, and Mark 
 found no one to show him the way ]\Iadame Acher 
 and her young charge had taken. At a guess he 
 chose the path towards the Italian side, that he had 
 followed that morning. At the lakeside Juliette, 
 under the eyes of her governess, was watching 
 Father Sonnier's lesson to the dogs. There were five 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 133 
 
 or six russet and white coated canine pupils, with up- 
 lifted muzzles, attentive to the slightest motion of 
 their teacher, who, with his monk's cap on his head, 
 was explaining a difficult task. The surface of the 
 lake, usually dark, was now overspread with spangles 
 of light, heightening the clearness of the sky, bring- 
 ing out the brilliant patches of snow that covered 
 the rocky side of the circus-like enclosure, and mak- 
 ing a charming setting for the lesson. The child 
 found this open-air class a far more delightful 
 manner of instruction than that of her schoolroom in 
 the villa at La Muette. She was clinging with both 
 hands to the largest of the dogs, who had probably 
 already received his diploma, and so was excused 
 from lessons. Her tiny fingers were quite lost in his 
 thick coat. From time to time, she hugged his great 
 head, and as Mark advanced he saw her stoop down 
 (while Madame Acher was not looking), and im- 
 print a kiss on the huge creature's muzzle. The dog 
 did not draw away, stood motionless, let her do what 
 she pleased with him, as with a defenceless creature, 
 lest he might scare, by ever so slight a movement, 
 his new little friend; but when her attention wan- 
 dered and she relaxed her hold, the dog would come 
 closer to her, would rub against her, as if asking for 
 a caress. 
 
 After watching the pretty scene for an instant, 
 Mark called his daughter, who protested : 
 
 " Oh ! papa, the lesson is not yet finished." 
 
134 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 But here Father Sonnier showed a perspicacity 
 unexpected in one of his rough exterior and colossal 
 frame, by calling his dogs together: 
 
 " We are going back to the kennels, Miss Juliette. 
 It is time for these gentlemen to have their soup." 
 
 " So soon ! Then I must kiss Barry once more." 
 
 " No one should kiss animals," observed Madame 
 Acher, trying to prevent the little girl's demonstra- 
 tions of affection. 
 
 But the child had already pressed her Eps to the 
 white spot between two brown patches, 'on the dog's 
 forehead. 
 
 " I've done it anyway." 
 
 " Why did you not mind Madame Acher .'' " asked 
 Mark, weakly. 
 
 She pointed to the dog, which was joining his 
 brothers : 
 
 " Because he saved the lady's life." 
 
 "What lady.?" 
 
 " The lady of the accident." 
 
 Thus, unconsciously the child had in her own way 
 showed her gratitude for her mother's rescue. Mark 
 led her quickly away, and while the governess fol- 
 lowed her, short breathed, losing ground, and soon 
 out of hearing of their lowered voices, he bent to- 
 wards Juliette, so as to be quite near her and said: 
 
 " Do you want to see Mamma again.'' " 
 
 Perhaps he might have broken the news less ab- 
 ruptly to one so responsive and whose delicate sensi- 
 bility yielded to the slightest touch, as a reed bends 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 135 
 
 before the wind. Already Mark was reproaching 
 himself, but the child gave no sign of surprise, 
 showed no emotion, but simply answered with a know- 
 ing air: 
 
 " I knew we should find her here." 
 
 " Ah," said Mark, in surprise. " What made you 
 think so? " 
 
 " Oh! bringing me with you on such a long jour- 
 ney. And then Sylvia's papa spoke of her to me. 
 So I told Madame Acher what I thought about it." 
 
 Then the eight year old imagination had been at 
 work since the day before, putting things together, 
 and had instinctively rushed to the truth! And 
 loosing her hold of her father's hand, as proud of 
 having guessed right as joyful over the great event, 
 Juliette turned triumphantly to the governess : 
 
 " Madame, Madame, mamma is here ! " 
 
 She announced the good news as if crowned with 
 an aureola of infallibility. Why not make the most 
 of it.? 
 
 Mark would rather have kept the secret to them- 
 selves for a little while, but poor Madame Acher, not 
 at all prepared for it, hastened her steps, in the ef- 
 fort to join them. There was nothing for it but to 
 explain. 
 
 Mark gave her a brief, somewhat vague, summary 
 of the facts. Madame Romenay had been hurt in a 
 mountain accident, her life was no longer in dan- 
 ger, and she longed to see her child. The old lady 
 listened to it all with no pleasure. Though noth- 
 
136 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 ing had been told her, she had guessed at what had 
 happened to break up the married life of her em- 
 ployers, and after the departure of her mistress had 
 doubled her zeal in caring for her master's house- 
 hold, and for the welfare of the child confined to 
 her. Her position in the household, which had be- 
 come more important. Its duties heavier but also 
 more brilliant, would now inevitably be reduced to a 
 lower plane. She foresaw the lessening of her influ- 
 ence ; what would be that of Madame Romenay, after 
 the equivocal events of the past year? How could 
 any one dare to confide to a person so irresponsible 
 the education of an impressionable child? But men 
 are so weak before the arts of any creature who ap- 
 peals to their pity! All these thoughts rushed 
 through her mind, like bees humming about her, and 
 as she listened without enthusiasm to Mark's ac- 
 count, she found them formulated in Juliette's re- 
 mark: 
 
 " Why, Madame, you do not seem very glad ! " 
 
 " Indeed I am, but so surprised." 
 
 In spite of her age she blushed, for she was 
 ashamed of her feelings. By way of expiation she 
 tried to encourage Juliette: 
 
 " Go now to your mother, and be a good little 
 girl ; the least noise will tire her, you know." 
 
 "Won't you come too.? " asked Juliette. 
 
 " Madame Acher will come later," interposed 
 Mark. He drew away his daughter, who was not at 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 137 
 
 all averse to getting ahead of the governess. For a 
 mamma is a mamma, and when you are little she be- 
 longs entirely to you : later, when you are bigger, is 
 it not quite the same? 
 
 As they passed through the long halls of the hos- 
 pice she lost her air of bravado. Her father, who 
 had hold of her little hand, felt it tremble, and tried 
 to calm her: 
 
 " Listen, go quietly and gently, I have much to 
 tell you ; mamma has been very ill." 
 
 " Poor Mamma ! " 
 
 " You will find her very much changed." 
 
 " Oh ! that makes no diflference, no difference at 
 all." 
 
 " You will see : she will soon be quite well again. 
 And I will take you both over to Caux to stay 
 awhile." 
 
 " Where Sylvia Monestier is .'' " 
 
 They had reached the door of the cell. Her 
 father stopped. 
 
 " Is she here ? " asked the child. 
 
 Mark had expected to go in first, to prepare 
 Therese. But from the room a feeble voice called 
 Juliette. 
 
 " Mamma ! " cried the child. 
 
 And rushing like a spring of water she burst into 
 the room. For a second, only, she hesitated, for the 
 foot of the bed hid the invalid: but led by a second 
 call, she flew over to the occupant, who had barely 
 
168 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 escaped from death, with bound forehead, her scarred 
 face unrecognisable, yet whom the child recognised 
 by her voice. 
 
 " Mamma ! mamma ! " 
 
 Much the child cared whether her mother was 
 beautiful or ugly, young or old, whole or wounded! 
 It was so long that she had been parted from her, so 
 long, that she had even thought that she no longer 
 had a mother, that she would never again have one ! 
 And she had even — could it be possible ! — been 
 happy without her, had played and laughed without 
 her, had become used to her absence ! But now to 
 find her ! The child was lifted out of herself, bliss- 
 ful, yet fearful of something mysterious that had 
 happened during her absence: her mamma was alive, 
 but she might have been dead where no one could see 
 her, and so forgotten. There passed through the 
 mind of the child a mixture of feelings that filled her 
 with happiness yet with somewhat of a mysterious 
 confusion. Not understanding, not able to under- 
 stand, she wept. Tears explain everything, make 
 explanations unnecessary. 
 
 Mark, as he contemplated the interlaced forms, 
 entered into their joy without claiming his share. 
 Was it not all his doing? and now he had his re- 
 ward. Nothing could change the peace in his heart. 
 He was still living outside of the common life. No 
 cloud rose on his clear horizon, and the happiness of 
 others seemed enough for him. About the bed of 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 139 
 
 this invalid, but yesterday about to die, the scattered 
 family was united again. 
 
 " Mark," Therese said at last, putting her child 
 from her, " how good you are to me ! " 
 
 The child, somewhat overexcited, began to talk 
 rapidly and incessantly, telling all sorts of unrelated 
 things, mixing together her geography and history 
 lessons, Sylvia Monestier, the Saint Bernard dogs. 
 Napoleon and Madame Acher. Her father tried in 
 vain to stop her, fearing to weary the convalescent. 
 
 " Let her talk," said Therese, " I am thirsty for 
 the sound of her voice, it seems as if I could drink 
 it." 
 
 But Juliette herself grew weary, and was sent 
 back to Madame Acher. After she went out, silence 
 followed her chatter. Mark and Therese, happy to 
 be together again, found nothing to say, except a 
 few insignificant remarks. Would not words inevi- 
 tably bring up that past which they had blotted out.? 
 Here, face to face, they were afraid to speak. This 
 embarrassment was the first token that the past could 
 not be blotted out. At the moment it seemed to 
 matter little. Still they regretted that the child 
 was no longer with them, and when the Prior came in 
 for his evening visit, they welcomed him as if his 
 presence were a relief. 
 
 " Now," said Father Dornaz with his persuasive 
 tone, " it is time for conversation to stop. Madame 
 will take some broth, and then rest. She has had 
 
140 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 enough excitement for to-day. She needs to be 
 alone." 
 
 No man, even when most in love, is anxious to re- 
 main longer than necessary by the bedside of the 
 sick. Only a woman has the patience that never 
 wearies. Mark yielded, unresisting, to the Prior's 
 order. He touched with his lips that part of her 
 forehead that was not covered by the bandage, 
 wished his newly recovered wife good night, and went 
 away. But he turned back at the door, — saw her 
 large dark eyes following him, and their expression 
 was so tender, that he stopped. 
 
 " My dear," murmured Therese, " is it possible ? " 
 
 " Sleep peacefully until to-morrow," he answered. 
 
 " You will come again.? " 
 
 " Of course I shall not leave you." 
 
 Outside the door Mark became pleasantly aware 
 of the movement, the noise, the coming and going of 
 travellers. They came from Aosta or Martigny, in 
 carriages, on mule back, on foot. Father Clavan- 
 dier was allotting their lodgings. The hospice was 
 already in shadow, but the setting sun fired the 
 snowy summits, as on the preceding evening. It 
 was a gentle ending of the day, the pure air still 
 giving promise of continued fine weather. 
 
 Among the different groups he saw his little girl 
 
 ^walking about with as much ease, here at the Grand 
 
 Saint Bernard, as in their little garden at La Muette. 
 
 She had found the dog she most admired, Barry, 
 
 who seemed to recognise her from the first as a 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 141 
 
 friend, and was showering caresses upon him. 
 " You know that Madame Acher told you not to kiss 
 the dog [ " he said. 
 
 She answered with unheard-of audacity, defying 
 displeasure, fearlessly disobedient, proclaiming, 
 
 " Oh ! I don't mind that, I am going to kiss him, 
 anyway." 
 
 " Juliette ! " he commanded. 
 
 " He saved mamma's life." 
 
 All by herself she had come to this conclusion ; the 
 story of the accident had struck her as relating to 
 her mother's changed appearance ; and her faith and 
 love made her father respect her wishes in spite of 
 himself. 
 
 " But you should mind your governess." 
 
 " She is not here to see." 
 
 Both of them laughed at their complicity. The 
 excited child had a surplus of aiFection to expend, 
 and since Barry put up his great head . . . 
 
 As they were going in to dinner, Mark overheard 
 the conversation of two guides who had come up 
 from the valley. They were speaking of the funeral 
 service of the victim of the mountain, which seemed 
 to have taken place that morning, at Martigny. 
 
 " After mass," said one of them, " they carried 
 the corpse to the station." 
 
 And Mark, remembering the dead, lost his confi- 
 dence, and his new happiness. 
 
VI 
 
 Theeese's wounds healed with wonderful rapidity. 
 Her rich and healthy blood aided her young organi- 
 sation to recovery. The fever which at first had 
 threatened her life soon ceded to watchful care. 
 Appetite and strength returned. Soon she would 
 be able to leave the hospice. 
 
 Mark had watched over the rapid cure, with feel- 
 ings which he did not care to analyse. The trium- 
 phant youth which by degrees restored the outline 
 and colour of that dear face brought to him only a 
 half-hearted joy. He would have been satisfied with 
 the beauty of those dark eyes that had expressed so 
 much gratitude and confidence, but the sight of that 
 short hair where once had been the golden mass of 
 former days always gave him the same discomfort 
 that he had felt at first. And now the invalid, leav- 
 ing her bed, was resuming the acts and habits of 
 every-day life. 
 
 With Juliette, the present had so completely been 
 
 ' merged into one with the past, before the break 
 
 of the mother's absence, that the joining would soon 
 
 be hidden from her memory. But how would it be 
 
 with Meirk? Both he and Therlse tried too hard 
 
 143 
 
THE TRIUMPH OE LOVE 143 
 
 to be natural, for entire success. With each new 
 day they sought with one accord for a way to draw 
 nearer to one another. But the newness of each new 
 day is made up of comparison of what is with what 
 has been. 
 
 Where should he take the convalescent.? For he 
 could not continue much longer to take advantage 
 of the hospitality of the monks of St. Bernard- 
 He decided on Caux, high above Montreux and 
 Lake Leman. That strong still air would complete 
 his wife's cure and the high altitude had been recom- 
 mended for his child's health. 
 
 " You will find it very comfortable," he assured 
 Therese while speaking of their future plans. 
 
 " And what shall you do.!" " 
 
 " I shall go with you." 
 
 But as the plan took form, he explained one day. 
 with some reserve, that he would come and go between 
 Caux and Paris. 
 
 " It is a long journey." 
 
 " Nothing is long now-a-days." 
 
 She dropped the subject. She never disagreed 
 with him in any way now. Formerly she would have 
 argued, insisted prettily on having her way. Now 
 she no longer dared to do so. Did he not under- 
 stand the reason? 
 
 He went first to make arrangements for their re- 
 ception ; she was to follow with Juliette and the 
 governess. 
 
 The physician pronounced her strong enough, 
 
144 • FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 now, to bear the long drive from the Grand Saint 
 Bernard to Martigny. 
 
 " She has much endurance and there is no internal 
 injury," he had said. 
 
 Furthermore the trip is far from tiresome: there 
 is a funicular railway that climbs the hillside from 
 Montreaux to the Caux station. 
 
 When Mark called on the Prior to tell him of their 
 approaching departure and thank him for the de- 
 voted care that had been given his wife, he begged 
 that Father Sonnier might be allowed to accompany 
 him. 
 
 " I wish to pass the night at the Refuge, or at the 
 Proz Cantine, and to-morrow climb to the place 
 where the accident occurred. Father Sonnier will 
 guide me." 
 
 " Why do you make that pilgrimage ? It is bet- 
 ter not to look back." 
 
 " My good father, I have made a promise to my- 
 self to go over that path. I have made all prepara- 
 tions, and have been in training for it the past few 
 days. If I take a regular guide his talk and the 
 stories that he will tell me, as stranger to whom 
 all is unknown, will be more than I can bear. With 
 Father Sonnier I shall be sure of silence. I beg 
 you to permit him to go with me." 
 
 In the face of these alternatives the Prior yielded. 
 But he added in a serious tone: 
 
 " Take care, my friend. You are at the begin- 
 ning of a new life. I approve of and admire what 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 14.5 
 
 you have done. But never forget that it is not we 
 who have the power to remit sin." 
 
 " I have forgiven. That is all past," interrupted 
 Mark, wishing to cut short the interview. 
 
 But the monk, to his great surprise, replied: 
 
 " You are mistaken. Forgiveness proceeds from 
 what is divine in us. True forgiveness comes from 
 God alone. Ponder on this sometimes. There is no 
 ending of anything but in Him." 
 
 Long afterward Mark had cause to remember this 
 warning. 
 
 After sending forward his luggage by the post, he 
 left that afternoon, almost happy, on foot with 
 Father Sonnier, Barry bounding ahead of them. 
 Only the monk perfectly understood his plan. But 
 Juliette had a suspicion that they were making an 
 expedition, and wanted to go with them, especially 
 since the dog, her new playmate was going along, 
 and she imagined all sorts of perilous adventures : 
 
 " Papa, please take me with you. Last year I 
 learned to take long walks. And besides, if I fall 
 into the snow Barry will rescue me also." 
 
 She was longing to play a tragic part, that she 
 might overwhelm her little friends with a story of 
 wonderful adventures. What a picture she could 
 give ! You would disappear in a crevasse, and a dog 
 would pull you out of it ; you would be wrapped 
 warmly in a rug, would be given drink and food. 
 That is more exciting and interesting, than to be 
 hit by an automobile or to fall from a bicycle ! 
 
146 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 " Mamma needs you to take care of her," the 
 father reminded her. 
 
 " That is so." 
 
 It was quite evident that her mother, who could 
 barely drag herself across her room, really did need 
 her. She had not the least doubt of her usefulness. 
 
 All the same a tramp over the mountains was very 
 tempting. Thus Juliette was torn by contrary de- 
 sires. 
 
 As he went down the path leading from the hos- 
 pice, Mark suddenly turned and stopped. He 
 wished to embrace in one last look this wild land- 
 scape, its ruinlike rocks encircling the dwelling of 
 peace. He bade adieu to the hospice, with its porch 
 and its high windows, — that window that he had 
 watched one night with its single light amid the dark- 
 ness. There all strangers and travellers would find 
 help and rest. There, in the great catastrophe of 
 his life, he had been welcomed and comforted. What 
 the future had in store for him he did not know. 
 But it was there that he had experienced his hour of 
 greatest exaltation, the highest point of all hours 
 of his life, had an hour lifted above them all, as on 
 the high summit of a mountain chain, when, his man- 
 hood's pride all bitterness, and his memories all 
 hatred, he had knelt beside the bed where lay the 
 poor sinner in her pain, and could only say to her: 
 " My little Therese, how you must liave suffered! " 
 
 " We shall see it again," Father Sonnier assured 
 
THE TRIUMPH DE LOVE 147 
 
 him, for he understood the meaning of his gaze. 
 " From Velan side we overlook this pass." 
 
 So they continued on their way. They hardly 
 spoke during the walk. Instead, of choosing the Proz 
 Cantine for their night's shelter the monk preferred 
 to lead Mark to the chalets of the Plan-du-Jeu. It 
 is a group of two or three little cabins of rough 
 boards at the edge of a ravine. The shepherds who 
 keep their flocks on the neighbouring grassy hill- 
 sides take shelter in them. But they often prefer 
 other cantonments, and these huts are apt to be va- 
 cant. The two travellers found no one there when 
 they arrived at the close of the day. They took 
 possession of the most habitable of the huts, and 
 Father Sonnier without loss of time began to get 
 their beds ready and prepare for supper. A little 
 straw under their travelling rugs served for beds, 
 and their knapsacks contained the necessary food. 
 He took out a small alcohol lamp, which he lighted, 
 and a can which he filled with water and put on to 
 heat, and a little later poured it over a capsule of 
 concentrated soup; then followed slices of ham, 
 bread and fruit, and a bottle of wine. 
 
 " We keep what is left for to-morrow," he said, 
 fastening the knapsack. 
 
 Mark watched him as he went about absorbed in 
 his preparations and with the perfect content of 
 those who trust to active service to drive away use- 
 less and unwholesome thoughts. Martha's part, as 
 
148 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 described in the Gospel, promises inward security, 
 but demands forgetfulness of self. 
 
 This meal in a forgotten comer, above a torrent, 
 far from any village, with the evening quiet sur- 
 rounding them, brought to Mark a refreshing joy. 
 His companion's presence soothed him as old and 
 tried warriors encourage young recruits. And was 
 not this the eve of a battle.? From time to time, he 
 tried to make out Mount Velan, which, however, was 
 hidden by the lesser chains of hills between them. 
 To-morrow he would meet the giant. But he did not 
 dwell upon the dangers of crevasses and rolling 
 stones. It was a departed spirit that he wished to 
 summon up. 
 
 Little by little the spirit of the night, mysterious 
 and sure, overtook them, enveloped them, and passed 
 on beyond. On the mountain height, one sees that 
 darkness rises from the earth, and not from the sky, 
 from below, not from above. The valleys are the 
 first to fall under its sway and along all their 
 boundaries, whether slowly or rapidly, the shadows 
 rise like a stealthy army. For a time the summits 
 are still victorious, the brilliant colours of the snow 
 become still more vivid at sunset, resplendent, as if 
 the day would never end. Then the light wavers, 
 and suddenly night is over all. 
 
 " Let us go to bed," said Father Sonnier when his 
 pipe was out. 
 
 " Not so soon," begged Mark. 
 
 " I must awaken you to-morrow at three in the 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 149 
 
 morning. We must climb the mountain before the 
 heat comes on. A good night's sleep is a good prep- 
 aration. You had better come along." 
 
 " I am not a bit sleepy." 
 
 " Good night, then." 
 
 And the monk rose from the sward where he had 
 been seated, to enter their barrack. Mark did not 
 move from his seat. He might have guessed that 
 his comrade had left him, if only by the uneasiness 
 that invaded him as he sat alone outside. Was the 
 presence of the monk necessary to keep peace in his 
 heart ? 
 
 It was the hour of stars on the mountain. Here 
 they do not seem so far off as over the plain or the 
 sea. In the limited space between sky and mountain 
 top they seem more friendly, almost more human. 
 They smile, they invite to repose, to calm. They are 
 like flowers in the solitude of the great silence that 
 nothing disturbs, not even the monotonous song of 
 the torrent falling over the rocks. They give myste- 
 rious, pure caresses to eyes that gaze long on them. 
 And while elsewhere they are so numerous that the 
 eye loses count of them, and they evoke, in the 
 thought of other worlds far beyond their luminous 
 groups, our craving for the infinite, our yearning 
 to know and understand things beyond us ; in the 
 nearer distance of this narrow sky, framed about 
 with mountain peaks, they seem to put away all 
 confusion, separation and doubt from our thoughts, 
 and restore to them the fervour of a simple emotion. 
 
150 rOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 They are content to say that God Is there. Starlit 
 nights on the mountain are filled with religious fer- 
 vour. 
 
 For a long time Mark remained quietly gazing, 
 neglectful of the growing chill in the air, yielding 
 himself to the serenity of the night. The lozenge- 
 shaped constellation of the Swan, like a great bird 
 of which the body and the spread of the wings are 
 equal, attracted him, because she had pointed it out 
 to him from the Riffelalp. Turning in the direction 
 of the hospice, he dedicated to her who had been re- 
 stored to him the newly found sweetness of his 
 love. And now it began to appear to him that the 
 pilgrimage on which he was bound was nothing but 
 treason to that love. When one has forgiven, he 
 has no longer a right to demand new sensations from 
 the obliterated past. Was he indeed destroying 
 with his own hands that house of happiness which 
 he had tried to repair? He felt like rising and 
 calling to Father Sonnier, " Awake, let us leave this, 
 what have we come here for? Let us not arouse the 
 remembrance of what we should forget." And yet 
 he did not stir. That eternal uncertainty which is 
 at the foundation of human love constrained him to 
 this dangerous journey. And all the immense 
 peace of the stars no longer suflSced to fill his 
 heart. 
 
 He was in a deep sleep when Father Sonnier shook 
 him. The clear cold air outside the cabin renewed 
 his energy and his fierce desire for this under- 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 151 
 
 taking. It was still night, but the stars were fewer 
 in number, and over the edge of the mountain circle 
 a small crescent moon was slowly dropping like a thin, 
 trembling blade. No light warned of approaching 
 day, and yet all space seemed to be awaiting it. 
 
 As ■ the two companions reached the moraine of 
 the Proz glacier, Mount Velan stood out from the 
 darkness, like an adversary, with its dizzy steeps 
 and formidable abutments, like a fortress to be 
 taken by assault. While the monk was unwinding 
 the rope he had brought with him, fastening one of 
 its ends about Mark Romenay's breast, the latter, 
 turning around, could not restrain an exclamation of 
 surprise. The first rays of the morning had begun 
 to tint the mountain chain of Mount Blanc. The 
 virgin snow took on a rosy tint, the colour of peach 
 blossoms in early spring, and the shaded outlines 
 of domes and cupolas had that silky evenness of tex- 
 ture in their rounded forms, that is the beauty of 
 woman. Under this morning light the landscape 
 awoke like flesh in which life is coursing. But this 
 attractive power of the mountains, so dangerously 
 subtle that no one ever escapes who has once come 
 under its sway, was repulsive to Mark. Jealousy 
 awoke anew. " They yielded to it, here, to- 
 gether. . . ." 
 
 Following his guide who advanced slowly along 
 the arete, — the arete that the rescue party had had 
 to descend carrying its victim, he realised- better 
 the immense courage, skill and endurance involved 
 
152 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 in life-saving in the mountains. Already several 
 hours had passed in making the ascent. Mark 
 struggled against growing fatigue: sometimes his 
 breath failed, and he was obliged to pull the rope, 
 as a sign to go more slowly. 
 
 Father Sonnier seemed to be looking over the 
 ground with care and also with some surprise. 
 
 " It ought to be there," he said, at last. " But 
 since the accident there has been a fall of snow 
 that has covered over the traces ; there are no longer 
 any landmarks. I do not see the narrow ledge that 
 caught them in their fall. If you only knew how 
 hard it is to find any place in the mountains when 
 covered with snow! It so quickly covers up the 
 footprints." 
 
 Mark looked and saw only a uniform slope. 
 
 " I am sure I am not mistaken," said the monk ; 
 " look over there : that blue shadow in the snow 
 shows that there must be a projecting rock under- 
 neath." 
 
 And he added, as his fighting instinct took hold 
 of him : " The wall here is almost vertical. It 
 was a miracle that caused them to strike that 
 ledge." 
 
 " I want to climb down there," said Mark, fasci- 
 nated by the sight of the barely visible shelf. 
 
 " Impossible ! We have not enough rope ; be- 
 sides it would be running into needless danger." 
 
 " But you went down ? " 
 
 " To rescue a wounded person, to bury the dead 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 153 
 
 in consecrated ground: that is a diiFerent thing. 
 But simply for a — whim, no, a thousand times 
 no." 
 
 Mark could not dream of attempting the perilous 
 feat alone. There was nothing to do but to leave 
 the place. Was this defeat what he had come so far 
 to seek? The fatigue caused by physical effort 
 for the moment paralysed the imagination that 
 longed to reconstruct the events that had taken 
 place on that steep mountain side. 
 
 " Do you want to climb up to the summit of the 
 Velan? " asked Father Sonnier. "It is not very 
 far from here, and the view is very extensive. We 
 can descend afterwards by way of the Valsorey gla- 
 cier to Bourg-Saint-Pierre. 
 
 He sang the praises of his mountain, as if ad- 
 dressing a tourist. 
 
 " No," answered Mark, " I want to remain here 
 a while." 
 
 And then as if begging for a favour: 
 
 " Might I remain here alone for a few minutes. 
 Father.? » 
 
 His guide, who felt responsible, thoughtfully 
 measured the difficulty, then consented to a brief 
 separation. 
 
 " Wait, I will untie the rope, and then I will go 
 down the path for a few yards ; a little lower down 
 there is a sort of cornice that is a good place to take 
 breakfast. I will get our provisions ready, and 
 you can join me there, but be very careful to watch 
 
154 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 out for good footing. Before I go take a good 
 drink." 
 
 He untied the rope that held them together, gave 
 him a little rum and left him. 
 
 Mark watched him walk away, and when a rock 
 had hidden the monk from his sight, he summoned 
 suffering to meet him. It obeyed; it is always 
 prompt in coming, even without being beckoned. 
 During the reign of forgiveness it had disappeared, 
 but now there was only he and it, alone, in this vast 
 solitude of the mountain. 
 
 The sun's rays fell hot on the snow. The ether 
 about the peaks vibrated with heat. At times a 
 wind seemed to pass by, like a fast-moving wild 
 creature. Down below, the sole vestige of human 
 life, stood the hospice, like an eagle's nest, hardly 
 distinguishable from the rocky walls that surround 
 it. 
 
 From the place where he now sat, the rescuing band 
 had first caught sight of the two victims, her and him, 
 the man lying prone, already rigid in death, the 
 woman kneeling, her arms uplifted as if in suppli- 
 cation, her mouth distorted with the efforts of a voice 
 that had become so weak that she could no longer 
 hear her own cries. Down there on that narrow shelf 
 of rock, barely marked now by a mere shadow under 
 the snow, they had lived through the last three days 
 of their love. No ; the snow had covered nothing ; 
 they were there, still; he saw them. 
 
 Why had she not died with him? had she not pro- 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE 155 
 
 posed it? Why that strange refusal, that weak- 
 ness? In the eternal night they might have joined 
 those happy couples who represent all human 
 felicity, because death has only the more definitively 
 fixed their love. Lovers, joined in one tomb, — noth- 
 ing can diminish aught of their ideal felicity. 
 
 Thus, even in the despair which filled his entire 
 world and reached out to the four corners of the sky, 
 Mark felt the necessity of magnifying the perfect 
 love of those two, as if they had been heroes of legend. 
 In his morbid desire to drink to the dregs his cup of 
 woe, he put away from him the remembrance of 
 Therese who could have forgotten it all, her wish to 
 begin anew a life that now seemed impossible, — 
 Therese, whom he had never loved so dearly as at 
 this moment. How could she dare forget those hours 
 she had spent down there, watching him, him, dying 
 — dead? 
 
 Yes, one can forgive, can restore a child to its 
 mother — one can do such things as these. But 
 one can never reconquer what Love had made his own. 
 
 When he returned to Father Sonnier, who had al- 
 ready set out their breakfast, the latter seemed 
 greatly relieved. 
 
 " Hurry, hurry, you must be hungry." 
 
 " No, I am not," Mark protested. 
 
 But in spite of his words he ate and drank raven- 
 ously, for he had suffered much on the glacier. 
 
 " Love alone speaks in this silence," had been his 
 
156 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 bitter conclusion, while he was alone. As if reply- 
 ing to his thought, the monk, happy in the hour, the 
 food, and the splendour around them, expressed his 
 feelings in the simple words: 
 
 " Let me tell you ; here a man begins to understand 
 life." 
 
BOOK II 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 
 
As soon as she was apprised of her son's return 
 to Paris the elder Madame Romenay hastened to the 
 house in the rue de Franqueville. Without allowing 
 the servant to announce her, she went into his study. 
 Mark, seated at his desk, was busy opening letters. 
 The table was littered with an accumulation of un- 
 classified matter, which apparently he had not had 
 time, or was too weary, to reduce to the methodical 
 order to which he had vainly sought to subject 
 his thoughts and actions. On seeing his visitor, he 
 started as if surprised in a wrong action, and his 
 first movement was to cram into a drawer the letters 
 he was reading. 
 
 " I learned that you had returned, my dear," said 
 his mother timidly, fearing to seem importunate, 
 " so I came." 
 
 Mark looked long into his mother's sweet face, 
 softened by her white hair, as if he would fain have 
 acquired some of its peace, the infinite peace of even- 
 ing, after duty-filled days. Would not her dear 
 presence bring him help in the disorder which had 
 suddenly followed the dizzy hours in which he had 
 
 been conscious neither of his heart nor of his reason, 
 
 159 
 
160 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 as if walking on the heights without caring whether 
 or not his feet were on solid ground. 
 
 " Mamma," he exclaimed. The word sounded like 
 the plaintive call of a child. 
 
 But after this first outburst, he composed himself. 
 Not even to her could he open his troubled heart. 
 She was obliged to question him: 
 
 " Your letter from Saint Bernard was so very 
 short, it told me nothing. She . . . she will live, 
 will she not.? " 
 
 She seemed so full of emotion, that he could not 
 refrain from saying, 
 
 ," Were you so very fond of her? " 
 y^-Under his breath he added: " yow too! " but these 
 '^lastVords did not pass his lips. 
 
 A slight blush suflFused the pale cheeks of Madame 
 Romenay, more than is usual to see at her age, in 
 one of such delicate health. 
 
 " She had become my daughter. Indeed, I loved 
 her." 
 
 " Yes, she knew how to make every one love her ; 
 — but now.'' " 
 
 " Now, since you have forgiven her, I love her as 
 before." 
 
 He made a sign of uncertainty as if to say that 
 he hardly knew whether he had surely forgiven or 
 not, adding: 
 
 " But you, you are a saint." 
 
 More impetuously than the filial words of praise 
 justified,, she protested: 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF, LIFE 161 
 
 " No, indeed no. Ah if you knew ! , , ." 
 
 He checked her modest protest, and told her what 
 she had come to learn. Therese, rescued from death, 
 had been able to endure, without too much fatigue, 
 the journey from the hospice to Caux. There he 
 had comfortably installed her with Juliette and 
 Madame Acher. It was a large modern hotel, 
 where they could easily be private. Groves of pines 
 surrounded it. The Rocks of Naye overlooked the 
 place. Lake Leman a few hundred metres below 
 was visible from the terraced grounds of the hotel. 
 From her balcony the convalescent could enjoy the 
 hourly changes of the sunlight. The child would 
 gain strength in the health-giving mountain air, 
 which had been ordered for her. Thus mother and 
 child would spend the summer under the finest aus- 
 pices. 
 
 " How about yourself? " she asked when he had 
 finished. 
 
 " Oh, as for me, I shall remain here, in Paris." 
 
 " Even during the hot weather? " 
 
 " Yes, even during the hot weather. You see how 
 comfortable it is here : it is not worth the trouble of 
 looking for a country home when a man has a house 
 like this." 
 
 He pointed toward the open bay window through 
 which could be seen La Muette park, its heavy fo- 
 liage hanging over the iron grating and shading the 
 street. Back of these, a vista through the woods, 
 long green undulations as far as the eye could see. 
 
162 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 Here and there, a house was half revealed like an 
 island in the greenery. August, in this privileged 
 corner of Paris, still kept somewhat of the light 
 tones of spring. 
 
 " You have never spent August and September 
 here before," observed Mme. Romenay. 
 
 " Very true. It will be a new experience. . . . 
 From time to time I'll pay them a visit to make sure 
 that all is going on well; just the time between two 
 trains, nothing could be easier." 
 
 " Between two trains ? " 
 
 " Yes. If I take the Simplon night express in 
 the evening, I shall arrive at Caux some time before 
 breakfast the following morning, and I can leave 
 that same night and be in Paris the morning after." 
 
 " That is a foolish plan. Why not stay a while 
 with her and rest ? " 
 
 Mark evaded aU reply, as if he never needed rest. 
 He was full of new plans for enlarging his business, 
 confiding them to his mother to protect his pride 
 and hide his sorrow. It was not a successful move. 
 She understood him only too well. 
 
 " But you, mother, you might go to them ... if 
 you feel no repugnance to ... to seeing Therese 
 again." 
 
 "Oh! Mark!" 
 
 " It would be better for Juliette." 
 
 " No, no, I want to remain near you." 
 
 " Thank you, mother ; but this solitude suits me." 
 
 Thus with a word he drew away from her; and 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 163 
 
 there was silence between them, one of those silences 
 in which conversation seems to go on without words. 
 She attempted to reach out to him in this suffering 
 which still evaded her. 
 
 "And afterwards?" she asked. 
 
 "Afterwards? " 
 
 " Yes. When the stormy season comes on, shall 
 you not bring Therese back to Paris? " 
 
 " I have not looked so far ahead as that. Yes, 
 perhaps; yes, no doubt, unless her health requires 
 another climate to finish her cure. You know that 
 I shall be absent from Paris all winter? " 
 
 " You? going away? " 
 
 " Yes. I must go to Russia. A whole new quar- 
 ter of Saint Petersburg is to be built. I am to have 
 an office there on the spot where I can make my plans 
 and elevations. I have had amazing offers, — such 
 offers as cannot be refused. Did I not tell you 
 about it?" 
 
 " Yes, you did, last month, but then you thought 
 best to refuse on Juliette's account." 
 
 " I have changed my mind since." 
 
 "Do you take your wife with you?" 
 
 " I could not take her with me. The winter there 
 would be too bleak for her. If she returns here I 
 shall ask you to come and live in the house with her. 
 Your reputation will be a safeguard to her on her 
 return home, and this home-coming, without me, will 
 prepare for our reconciliation in the eyes of the 
 world. Yes, that will be best." 
 
164 footpMnTs beneath the snow 
 
 His mother did not approve of this plan, but he 
 warded off her objections by beginning on another 
 subject. 
 
 " Did the newspapers say anything about the ac- 
 cident on Mount Velan? Did they mention the 
 names of the victims or give initials only? " 
 
 She tried to evade the reply: 
 
 " I do not know, I read the newspapers so little." 
 
 But she was a stranger to dissimulation. He was 
 looking for something on the table among his scat- 
 tered papers, while she murmured: 
 
 "What is the use, Mark, I beg of you?" 
 
 " After the duel someone sent me clippings marked 
 with blue or red pencil. They will not have spared 
 me this time either. No one is spared now-a-days, no 
 one at aU known, not even those who are already down 
 and have only to be made an end of. . . . Here: 
 this is one . . . perfidious allusions such as a man 
 has no right to take to himself, which he can- 
 not take to himself without making himself ridicu- 
 lous. Cowards ! " Wearily rather than indignantly, 
 he pushed the clippings away, adding in his most 
 scornful tone, the tone he used when asserting his will, 
 or when he wished to be let alone : 
 
 " When a man has suffered to a certain degree he 
 treats such things with indifference. As for other 
 people's opinions, I care nothing for them." 
 
 Then, returning to his former proposal: 
 
 " Mother, would you consent to spend the winter 
 here with Ther^se and Juliette?" 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 165 
 
 Instead of replying, Madame Romenay drew 
 nearer and took a chair by her son's side. Though 
 he intimidated her, she so sorely felt his distress of 
 mind that she would have brushed away any impedi- 
 ment in order to help him. 
 
 " Mark, my dear Mark, do you remember when 
 you were a little fellow.'' If you were hurt or ill, I 
 was there to help you." 
 
 " Not always, mother." 
 
 " Oh! Mark. Not always .^ " she asked, surprised 
 and a little shocked. 
 
 " No, not at the beginning. You had too fine 
 clothes on and too much powder. You used to hold 
 me oiF when I tried to come too near. And then, all 
 at once, neither fine dresses nor powder mattered, I 
 was the only thing you cared for, mamma, I remem- 
 ber well." 
 
 He was not looking at her, or he would have no- 
 ticed that she coloured. 
 
 " What a good memory you have ! Well then, tell 
 me your trouble as you used to do." 
 
 He stiH hardened himself against consolation 
 from this poor woman who offered him her mother 
 heart. 
 
 " I have no trouble. You are mistaken." 
 
 She insisted, though trembling somewhat, yet more 
 gently, too. 
 
 " Mark, my dear son, I do not understand what 
 has happened." 
 
 " You could not understand it." 
 
166 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 " I thought your happiness had returned, that you 
 had truly forgiven all." 
 
 He replied shortly, almost roughly: 
 
 "Yes, I have forgiven. And what then? What 
 does it signify? It is not a question of forgiving, 
 but of how to live together." 
 
 His mother was seated close to him and with a 
 natural impulse he bowed his head on her breast, the 
 breast that had nourished him in infancy: 
 
 " Mamma, if you could only Icnow ! " 
 
 " My boy ! " she murmured, folding him in her 
 arms. 
 
 And mother and son remained for some moments 
 in loving embrace. The strong man's agony which 
 for days like a restless wave had been seeking its 
 home had at last found its resting place. 
 
 He lost himself in this sense of perfect repose, as 
 on the arete of the Velan he had forgotten himself in 
 the wine and bread brought by Father Sonnier ; then 
 half raising his head, as if about to confide in her, 
 he stopped again, saying: 
 
 " No, no, you will never be able to understand." 
 
 " How do you know that, Mark? Does not a 
 mother always understand? " 
 
 For a moment he sought where to begin his story 
 and then decided: 
 
 " Before leaving home I had reread her letter, the 
 one in which she spoke of the child. For that reason I 
 took Juliette with me. Up there, as soon as we ar- 
 rived, they told me that they hoped to save her, but 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 167 
 
 I could not see her immediately. I was expecting 
 to find a dying woman. It would have been better 
 for me, truly, had she died," 
 
 "Oh! Mark, but for her.? and for Juliette.? and 
 even for yourself, later ? " 
 
 " If you had seen her, mother, with her bandages, 
 her poor face all wounds and pain, and her short 
 hair — you know, they had to cut off her magnificent 
 hair! — What could I do.? " 
 
 " Forgive her, of course. Did you not do that? " 
 
 " Oh ! if it had been only a question of forgive- 
 ness ! I felt all at once how frightfully she had suf- 
 fered out there on the mountain, I longed to gather 
 her up, to comfort and cure her, to mend her like a 
 toy that has been broken. There in her bed she 
 looked such a little suffering thing ! I was happy, I 
 was full of joy that she was there, alive, and that I 
 was able to make her happy." 
 
 " You see ! " 
 
 " But wait. I loved her — how shall I tell you ? 
 I loved, not as one usually loves: Love has always 
 seemed to me a mixture of what is best and worst in 
 us, the greatest devotion, and the worst selfishness ; 
 but in my love then there was only the best that was 
 in me. It was as if a miracle had taken place within 
 me. It was divine." 
 
 " You see, Mark. Happiness has returned to 
 you." 
 
 " Only wait. I knew what peace was. It was too 
 wonderful, too beautiful to last. Ah! in the tale of 
 
168 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 the accident there had been awful details, and little 
 by little, they came back to my memory. When the 
 monks came to their aid, he was dead, she was lying 
 prone on the corpse. They were like one person: 
 do you understand? They were like one person. I 
 see them always like that." 
 
 And raising himself up, he seemed to be gazing at 
 the atrocious vision. His mother tried to calm him, 
 to soothe and divert his mind: 
 
 "That is all past. That is dead. Don't look 
 backward, Mark, I entreat you." 
 
 " And I went and visited the scene of their agony." 
 
 "Why did you do that?" 
 
 " That I might remember it better — suffer 
 more." 
 
 " Ah, Mark, one should never invite suffering. It 
 is wrong. Why torture her, make her live her re- 
 morse over again ? " 
 
 " I have not tortured her, mother. Do you know 
 me so little ? We have never spoken of the past. We 
 never shall speak of it. I have forbidden her to do 
 so." 
 
 "Never? You could do that? Yes, that is best 
 — much best." 
 
 " But we have not been able to blot it out. At 
 least, I cannot. As for her, I do not know — But 
 she — how can she forget ? " 
 
 " One abandons one's sins, Mark." 
 
 " I have come to wonder if it was a sin. I have 
 the feeling that she belongs forever to him, that I 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 169 
 
 have profaned a sacred tomb — their love. I have 
 not kissed her. I simply touched her bandaged fore- 
 head with my lips — once. She is no longer beauti- 
 ful: her hair has been cut off. I love her thus. 
 Some day, very soon, she will recover the beauty of 
 former days. Then, oh, then, how will it be with 
 us .'' You see, it is impossible. But no, mamma, you 
 cannot understand. You ought not to be mixed up 
 in these miseries. Yes, you — you are a saint. 
 You cannot understand the things that agitate us. 
 How could you understand all the dark things that 
 inhere in love? " 
 
 Pierced to the heart with his distress, Mrae Ro- 
 menay rose, took her son's head in her hands as hei 
 sat before her, as if to prevent his seeing her, and 
 softly whispered, 
 
 " You are mistaken about me, Mark — I assure 
 you that you are mistaken." 
 
 He could not see her, but the aged woman's voice 
 was so changed that for a moment he felt stunned 
 into silence, then, freeing himself from the restraint 
 of her hands, he stood upright before her, filled with 
 strange excitement, 
 
 " Ah, no, mamma, not that, not that ! I have all 
 I can bear with the other. I shall never forgive 
 her, never, if because of her I lose my faith in you." 
 
 She did not flinch before the storm. 
 
 " What are you thinking, Mark.? " 
 
 " I ought to think nothing, ought I not, mamma ? 
 You were going to push your charity for Therese so 
 
170 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 far as to accuse yourself — you! I felt it in your 
 voice. But you could not — It was absurd. I 
 blush now for the suspicion that flashed across me." 
 
 For a few moments she hid her face in her hands, 
 and he appreciated all the gravity of her act and her 
 silence ; but when she let fall her hands he saw again 
 the serene peace of those dear frank eyes that he 
 loved. She said simply, 
 
 " Listen to me." 
 
 Again he rebelled. 
 
 " I do not want to listen." 
 
 And to reduce her to silence, cut short a confes- 
 sion which he felt sure could only be a sacrifice of 
 herself, he used, he dared to use, the precise word, the 
 brutal word, which he felt sure would make her re- 
 coil. 
 
 " Never, never ! You are spotless. You have 
 never been any one's mistress. No more of this, I 
 entreat you." 
 
 She did indeed recoil in spite of herself, horrified 
 by the word which she had not anticipated. 
 
 " Oh, Mark, never ! I assure you, never ! " 
 
 But her delayed protest produced an unexpected 
 result. Mark at once applied it to his own tragedy. 
 
 " You see ! You are indignant at the mere idea. 
 And your indignation is Therese's condemnation. 
 There is an abyss between her and you that nothing 
 can fill. Did I not say that you could not under- 
 stand.? " 
 
 " My God, my God ! inspire me ! " she prayed. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 171 
 
 " He will not listen to me and he does not know that 
 if he absolves me he may well absolve his wife also." 
 
 Thus praying, she turned to him. 
 
 " A little while ago you hurt me much, without 
 meaning it ; I was recalling your childhood, and you 
 remembered that I kept you at a distance when you 
 were little. It is true: I was not always a good 
 mother." 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! " 
 
 "When one is young — 3o you see? — one ile- 
 mands too much happiness, one never has enough." 
 
 " No, no, you were very unhappy ; I know that. 
 Ah, if you needed excuses! But you needed none. 
 My father — " 
 
 " Don't let us speak of your father. His weak- 
 ness, even, is no excuse. One is not freed from one's 
 vow. I have no wish to diminish, make light of, my 
 wrong doing." 
 
 She spoke of herself as if she had been a criminal. 
 Her conscience magnified the wound her wrong doing 
 had inflicted upon her heart. 
 
 While Philiberl Romenay, the fashionable archi- 
 tect, organiser of all the public festivals, all the art 
 exhibits, was triumphantly boasting of his conquests 
 to all Paris, and not satisfied with neglecting her, 
 mocked at her in public, a young man connected with 
 the family had come to love her for her premature 
 melancholy, her manner as of a young girl who may 
 not dance because she is in mourning, for all her 
 
172 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 lovely childlike ardor, too early and without reason 
 crushed. With infinite precaution, as if he feared 
 to wound those pure eyes, that evident candour, he 
 had accustomed her to his presence, his sympathy, a 
 sort of complicity in interests, tastes, preferences, 
 and by degrees indirectly, then one day openly, he 
 had spoken to her of love. Neither on that day nor 
 any other had she met him with the slightest avowal. 
 She simply listened, smiled, believed, and when he 
 spoke of going detained him. She hoped that he 
 would be content with these sentimental relations. 
 She thought that fondness needs nothing more. She 
 did not know that if love does not increase it dimin- 
 ishes. And then — then her adorer married. If he 
 had told her of it in advance, her surprise, her sad- 
 ness, would perhaps have betrayed her. But no one 
 has the patience to fathom a too delicate heart: in 
 these days no one has the time. For a long time 
 she had been unable to forget him. It had needed 
 years, and the friendship of God, and maternal affec- 
 tion, to restore her to calmness. Yes, in thought 
 she had given herself to him, and when thought has 
 yielded, what signifies the consent of the flesh? This 
 fear that she had had of herself, that mute passion 
 which she had over-lived, had all unconsciously to 
 herself transformed and protected her. She who 
 • knows her own frailty can never condemn love with- 
 out understanding it. . . . 
 
 In timid words which shielded her husband, con- 
 demned only herself, and how awkwardly ! — she told 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF. LIFE 173 
 
 her son the story of her temptation. Thus she had 
 preceded Theresa in the path of error and had been 
 ransomed at far less a price. She sought to hu- 
 miliate herself, abase herself, before her who was 
 absent, and with so much of unstudied nobility, that 
 her son took her in his arms. 
 
 " Dear mother, don't accuse yourself any more. 
 You do not even see that all that you say acts against 
 your purpose. You were the most seductive of 
 women — look at your portrait, there before you — 
 and most unjustly unhappy. You were brought 
 face to face with a hot trial and came off triumphant. 
 And you are determined to make yourself out guilty." 
 
 "Evil is in us." 
 
 " There is no trace of it in you. For all that you 
 have revealed to me, for the pity, the gracious tend- 
 erness which you showed in revealing it to me, I 
 ought to go on my knees before you, mother." 
 
 " Do not speak so." 
 
 " You were taking Therese by the hand to bring 
 her back here to me." 
 
 " Will you not let her come? " 
 
 " Oh ! my house is hers : but I shall always be look- 
 ing for her love for Mm, now." 
 
 " Ah, Mark, you think more of her fault than she 
 does." 
 
 " I think only of her love." 
 
 Turning toward the table he added with intense 
 excitement ; 
 
 " She is so full of youth. Just now, when you 
 
174. FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 came, I was reading over her letters. I had not 
 sense enough to keep her mine. Speaking of Andre 
 Norans after our duel she said that his death would 
 not have separated us so much as his life. Dead or 
 living, he keeps her." 
 
 Again he repeated, 
 
 " Yes, I am thinking only of their love." 
 
 " But she," said Mme Romenay, " are you sure 
 that in her absence she was not thinking of you, of 
 her daughter, her home, much more than of her love ? 
 Distance transforms passions to us. Near at hand, 
 they do not give the happiness that we imagine. 
 Yes, we easily deceive ourselves about them. To a 
 woman, nothing is worth so much as an ordered life 
 and the peace of home. They do not know it at first, 
 they are weak, they are pursued, but believe me, it is 
 so." 
 
 And finding in her mother-heart that which the 
 Prior of Saint Bernard found in faith and the knowl- 
 edge of men, she added, 
 
 "Have you not told me of your joy in finding 
 Theresa alive.'' Mark, you must, you must pass be- 
 yond the evil love they had for one another. You 
 must bestow a better love upon the poor child who 
 has treated you so ill, love her with all that is best 
 in yourself. To what purpose is suffering if not to 
 make us better and nobler? Learn to make use of 
 yours. Listen to God within you." 
 
 Struck by her words he seemed to hesitate, seek 
 for a direction, then, discouraged, he whispered. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 175 
 
 " I am only a man. I shall never be able." 
 
 " Try ! Forgiveness lays a heavier obligation 
 upon him who forgives than upon the guilty one. 
 Otherwise, it would very soon abase them both, in- 
 stead of lifting them up. At least I think so, Mark. 
 I do not know much about it." 
 
 By this reservation she meant to suppress all allu- 
 sion to her own past. She who had so often for- 
 given now put aside her personal case, though but 
 now she had offered it as a sacrifice. Again he 
 waited a little before replying; then he said: 
 
 " I will try. It would be salvation — yes, sur- 
 pass them, surpass their love." 
 
 Pride would sustain him. In this struggle he 
 would make appeal to pride. Had he not always 
 been able to count upon himself not to give way to 
 weakness .'' 
 
 When his mother, believing him calmed, had 
 quitted him, full of hope — his mother who had come 
 to accuse herself, lower herself, to ransom Therese, 
 and whom he saw depart with a new tenderness, — as 
 he was returning to his occupations, looking over his 
 neglected mail, by way of again taking up the life 
 which henceforth he would try to accept, he was 
 surprised to find a letter from Mrae Norans, asking 
 for an interview. 
 
II 
 
 Re-eeading the letters written to Therese by her 
 lover was a strange preparation for a visit from 
 Mme Norans. 
 
 Those letters, which had long kept Mark Ro- 
 
 menay's hate hot, though his sense of honour had 
 
 never permitted him to read them without inward 
 
 shame — shame over which hatred was not always 
 
 victorious, and which more than once had impelled 
 
 him to throw the stolen witnesses into the bottom of 
 
 a drawer — now had for him a different attraction. 
 
 He was no longer breathing out vengeance against 
 
 the couple who had blasted his home. Why 
 
 be unjust to them.? When, before the reconciliation 
 
 at Saint Bernard, he had pronounced an absolute 
 
 condemnation of his wife, had he not struck a blow 
 
 at his own heart, and even more, at all his past? 
 
 No, he had not loved an unworthy creature. He 
 
 had not been deceived in her whom he had met that 
 
 luminous summer day in a chestnut avenue before an 
 
 old mansion, above a lake; he had been separated 
 
 from her by a power which he understood the better 
 
 now that he had learned to respect that dead man 
 
 whose courage Father Sonnier had not feared to 
 
 J76 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 177 
 
 praise in his presence, at the hospice, and whose at- 
 tractions he too, still braver, was now willing to 
 acknowledge. 
 
 His letters were full of youth, not of that first 
 youth, awkward and artlessly absurd, the slave of 
 imagination and romance, impelled to exaggeration, 
 and striking false notes with its amorous hyper- 
 boles. With a few added years the young man is 
 not so anxious to transform the world, for he un- 
 derstands it better, and has discovered the heart's 
 infinite capacity for joy and sorrow, those twin sis- 
 ters, ever ready to strengthen each other. He still 
 keeps his fresh enthusiasm, but his better sense bends 
 it to self -analysis, or to the search for more effective, 
 because more direct, modes of self-expression. 
 
 Thus Andre Norans had come to explain to him 
 Therese's heart, torn by its conflict. Mark, him- 
 self, had never taken the trouble to fathom her in- 
 definable charm, whether because his conquest had 
 been too rapid and easy — the young girl to whom 
 coquetry was unknown had been so astonished at his 
 offer, and in her emotion had so spontaneously 
 promised herself to him — or whether, being of an 
 active race, he had never felt the need of such an in- 
 vestigation, of a deeper understanding of her na- 
 ture ; but now he found that delicate charm, — so 
 simple as almost to escape notice — revealed and as 
 it were laid bare in passages of the earlier letters, 
 in which " Madame " and " Therese " recurred bj' 
 turns, and in which the sweetness of a sentiment which 
 
178 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 doubted whether it was shared sought to hide itself 
 under a graceful playfulness, as one takes refuge 
 from the light behind a screen of scattered trees. 
 
 " What pleases me in you, Madame, is that, irv- 
 voluntarUy, you are like no one else. Ah, how ill 
 such words express a fact so true! In these days 
 women, disguised, decorated, festooned, as it were, 
 with literature and art, are nevertheless all alike. 
 They compose themselves like poems, with no econ- 
 omy of effort. They are ' made up ' every morn- 
 ing for the whole day; while you, — you are made 
 as you go along, by each act and motion, each word 
 and emotion. Listen to them; there is always some 
 pretty little sentiment ready to escape from their 
 painted lips, — couplets about the sea and the moun- 
 tain, church bells and Italy, the wind and the road, 
 the season, society, love, — all offered like little cakes 
 on a salver, in the most perfect manner. The im- 
 portant thing with them is to disarrange neither 
 their dress, their faces, nor their attitudes. They 
 are like stone goddesses in a park — only they 
 are goddesses equipped with the phonograph. They 
 will talk as long as you like, according to the pre- 
 scribed rites, but they are motionless, and never 
 change — except their loves, and is even that worth 
 the trouble? But you — you never seek for har- 
 mony and yet you are miraculously harmonious. 
 Nothing in you is prepared, — life itself moves you. 
 The words in which you express what you feel are 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 179 
 
 no great things in themselves, but when one listens 
 one hears a rhythm at once flexible and melodious — 
 your own rhythm, of which you are unaware. One 
 might suppose you a mere ordinary person, and that 
 is what delights m£. I am sure there are people who 
 do not know that you are beautiful, nor that you are 
 always attuned to the beauty of the world, from the 
 caresses of the morning to those of yowr little daugh- 
 ter. I would fain be the only one who knows all 
 your worth. Then, perhaps, I should dare to say 
 what I dare not say to you, because — is it not so? 
 — it is really necessary in this world to eocist for 
 some one; and if one's heart is not understood it is 
 as if one existed for no one, and that is sad indeed. 
 And I think that this is how I live . . ." 
 
 Therese had not answered these letters, as was evi- 
 dent from the more imploring ones which followed. 
 She had not answered them, but she had received 
 them and kept them. Why indeed should such 
 well-considered homage not secretly have touched 
 her? 
 
 It was after the days in the Riffelalp, where they 
 had climbed the mountain together, together endured 
 the bite of cold, the violence of the wind, the dazzle 
 of sunshine on the snow, fatigue, and danger. On 
 rock and glacier the rope had united them, subjected 
 their lives to an equal fate. Allusions to this com- 
 mon past were multiplied in his letters. They 
 created a sort of complicity between them, trans- 
 
180 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 formed their comradeship into friendship, and 
 friendship into dawning love. Thus by degrees the 
 past, changed in character by memory, takes pos- 
 session of one. 
 
 Mark perfectly recognised the Therfese evoked 
 by these pages at once warm and timid. He had 
 first seen her in the chestnut avenue. Yes, it was 
 entirely she, natural and unaffected, elusive as those 
 fabrics which take whatever form the air or the hand 
 chooses to give them, and always attuned to the 
 beauty of the world. She had not a very determined 
 will, she yielded easily to influences, and this was 
 why he ought to have exerted a happy influence over 
 her. Kindliness is never enough for natures of this 
 sort. But when has kindliness been enough.'' Crea- 
 tures like her should be cultivated like flowers, to 
 which one gives sunshine and water because they need 
 to laugh and to weep. 
 
 In her home Therese had enjoyed too much liberty. 
 She had come and gone as she chose, no one had con- 
 trolled her thoughts. She had been free to bestow 
 them as she liked. No doubt he had taken some in- 
 terest in her clothes, her visits, her walks. But little 
 by little intimacy had given place to things of with- 
 out, and the reign of habit had set in. He was busy 
 building houses, and his own house was going to 
 pieces. He was bringing order into everything, into 
 the apartments he built, the decorations he planned, 
 leaving nothing for fancy, for the slow action of time 
 or sudden human caprice. Everything was orderly 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 181 
 
 determined. Ah, if she had but disarranged his 
 plans a little, introduced some irregularity into his 
 working hours — even into his too rigid buildings, 
 too confident of their utility — brought a little re- 
 pose to his feverish activity, his professional pride! 
 It was her right ; before he had met her, his arid heart 
 had been content with those sudden ecstasies which 
 one may despise, and which on the whole are easier to 
 control than passion. How many too easily won 
 women's hearts had he trampled underfoot, hearts 
 which he had attracted by that in him which was 
 hard and imperious, but also noble and strong. She, 
 for a little while, had reconciled him with the peace 
 and the sweetness of life. But Paris had again 
 seized upon him, Paris whose yoke he detested while 
 he could not shake it off, Paris to whose laws he 
 submitted without believing in them; and Paris 
 may make of a too simple and sensitive woman like 
 Therese, if one is not careful, a little misunderstood 
 or lost creature. 
 
 Accessible as she was to influences, so long as they 
 were natural, influences of the time, the season, to 
 the music of voices, to sincere words which reach the 
 truth by the shortest road, why should not Therese 
 have yielded to the influence of the man who so fer- 
 vently dedicated his youth to her, who revealed her 
 to herself merely by understanding her, and who, to 
 crown all, was not happy. Not that he descended to 
 complaint — complaint is wearisome and always 
 somewhat lowers a man. 
 
182 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 But like water which must wear away the rock to 
 make an outlet for itself, his enthusiasm had that ex- 
 uberance — that bewildered desire of happiness — 
 which gives evidence of long effort to overcome the 
 obstacles of life. She could believe that she herself 
 was everything in Andre Norans' life. And that is 
 madness. 
 
 What is all else when one loves as I love you? he 
 had murmured at last. He reminded her of their 
 solitary walks, with the universe at their feet. 
 
 Do you remember, my friend? — let me at least 
 call you by this name, by which I can call no other 
 woman — do you remember our ascent of the 
 Breithorn? At the last, the guide who was at the 
 head, before you, was obliged to cut steps in the ice, 
 and your feet passed so lightly over them that you 
 ashed me why we took so much time? You thought 
 we should never arrive, when suddenly your feet 
 found themselves upon the summit, as if it had in- 
 clined a little, to give you pleasure at the last mo- 
 ment. On the mountains it is almost always that 
 way. And perhaps love that is hard to win may as 
 suddenly give up its self-defence. You were victori- 
 ous, and so quick to realise your victory that your 
 eyes filled with tears. You were not hardened like 
 the women one generally meets upon the ice, and who 
 are worse than men. Oh, how happy those tears 
 made me! You were victorious with humility, as one 
 who is vanquished. Others, when they triumph, 
 utter shouts of joy, but you wept. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 183 
 
 When you saw under the blue sky that great up- 
 tossed sea of the Alps you said: " It is too beauti- 
 ful." And I replied: " It will pass," I was think- 
 ing of your fatigue, and you had already forgotten 
 it. But you did not smile. Were you thinking, my 
 friend, as I was, that what would pass would be we, 
 who would fain have gathered up with our eyes all 
 that beauty of the world? The world will last with- 
 out us. Some day we shall no longer be here to taste 
 the joy of seeing and feeling. We shall no longer 
 be here, and it will make no difference. And when 
 one thinks of this, on a day of happiness like that, 
 one would seize upon each second, to enjoy it apart 
 from the next one, that each one may be transformed 
 into eternity. 
 
 But no, you were giving yourself up to the 
 pleasure of the moment, asking for nothing more. 
 You never complicate things, amd that is best. Then 
 I undertook to show you my erudition, point out to 
 you one by one the summits which surrounded us. 
 I cannot, like you, call the stars by their names, their 
 mysterious and somewhat uncouth names, but I do 
 know a bit of geography. " See," I said, " that one 
 is Great Paradise." " Well," you said: but you 
 were looking elsewhere. I did not go on with my 
 list of names. It was so useless. But don't think 
 that I was displeased with your indifference. I, too, 
 I especially, was seeing the great Paradise every- 
 where. 
 
 You reddened a little, Madame; your blood, all set 
 
184 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 in motion by the climb, reached to your cheeks. 
 Their carnation was, as it were, your aroused sensi- 
 tiveness revealing itself. It was your living soul. 
 It drew me. And to be near to that soul — forgive 
 me, oh forgive me! — / longed to kiss you. It is 
 still the only way — 
 
 And then we went down. One always ends by 
 going down. 
 
 For a moment, Mark ceased to read. Those 
 tokens of physical love which formerly he had sought 
 for, that he might tear his heart upon them, — now 
 that the lips of Andre Norans were stiU in death, 
 attracted him less than the expressions which re- 
 vealed Therese's heart. By this blood-marked path 
 he was sure to reach the despair to which their per- 
 fect love always brought him. The more deeply to 
 immerse himself in it, he turned the pages and 
 paused at a sort of cantilena which he well knew, 
 and which must have been written shortly before the 
 tragedy of the rupture. In it, with an almost 
 pained admiration, the lover celebrated his timid, 
 trembling mistress. 
 
 For your hair, powdered by the bronzed light of 
 evening, surrounding your face with a halo like the 
 nimbus of a Madonna, for your too long hair, which 
 is a trouble to you, of which you are more weary 
 than proud, and of which you are the only one who 
 does not know its splendour — / love you. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 185 
 
 For your hands, which are neither perfumed nor 
 polished and which yet have an odour as of flowers 
 
 — for your nervous, always alert hands, more alive 
 than yourself — / love you. 
 
 For your eyes, which are gentle to all things, never 
 seeking to change them, which believe in the truth of 
 objects — and of faces — for your eyes which when 
 they rest on one are always a little sad and fright- 
 ened — / love you. 
 
 For your mouth, with its sad smiles since I have 
 constrained it to deceive, for your mouth which, 
 since us, has taken on a line of bitterness which I 
 can not efface — / love you. 
 
 For the resistance which you have opposed to my 
 love and also to your own — I love you. 
 
 For the fear which you have vf our meetings, for 
 the fear with which my love-filled heart Inspires you 
 
 — / love you. 
 
 For your uprightness, your love of goodness, for 
 your pity and your delicacy, for all that forbids 
 you to give yourself entirely to me, for all that for- 
 bids me ever to make you entirely happy, — I who, 
 for your happiness would joyfully give every drop 
 of blood in my veins, — I love you, my love. 
 
 And this man who knew all the power of love, 
 of his own love, had nevertheless consented to the 
 separation of death. 
 
 On the Proz glacier Therese in her fall had 
 dragged him down. The rope which bound them had 
 
186 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 not given way. The abyss summoned them. 
 Frightful physical torture pushed him by the shoul- 
 ders. He had only to let himself slide with her — 
 with her who tempted him to do it, with her who 
 offered him that last and eternal embrace. And 
 with his last strength he had repelled all these 
 united assaults upon his enfeebled wiU. 
 
 Yes, Father Sonnier was right in his funeral 
 eulogy. That was indeed a man. And Mark, for- 
 getting that hatred which he had now left behind him, 
 I envied him in his love and yet more in the solitude of 
 ■•jhis death. One always ends hy going down again; 
 happy those who have fixed high their dream of life, 
 have attained to it, and have not gone down again. 
 
 It was a bad preparation for a visit from Mme 
 Norans. When she was announced, Mark Romenay 
 had long ceased to read but not to dream. Before 
 admitting her he enclosed in a large envelope, as in 
 a tomb, these letters which he would never read again, 
 which he had no longer the right to read, since a new 
 sentiment of respect bowed him before the fatal 
 greatness of the love of which they were the living 
 evidence. 
 
 Simone Norans was incontestably more beautiful 
 than Therese. When on entering she threw back her 
 widow's veil, no doubt that she might talk more 
 easily, her milk-white face, of that resplendent 
 pallor which brunettes sometimes have, and which 
 makes brilliant amends for the absence of colour, 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 187 
 
 stood out against her black like a triumphant marble, 
 her mouth making a blood-red line across her face. 
 Her entire costume, in all its severity, Implied a care- 
 ful elegance. Mourning served as an ensign of her 
 youth. 
 
 She seemed to hesitate to seat herself at his invita- 
 tion, as if she preferred to keep the advantage of 
 her height, upon which his eyes might not rest with 
 impunity, or as if she remembered the insulting re- 
 ception in this same room seven months before. The 
 catastrophe which she had then precipitated had but 
 now had its epilogue. But the event which had over- 
 taken her had not struck her down. She was still at 
 creature of luxury, strength, and conquest. She 
 was still rebellious against her part, that of a be- 
 trayed, abandoned wife, so cruel to the pride of a 
 woman of the world. And Mark, studying her, was 
 surprised to find her just the same, so little affected 
 by misfortune. Was he, himself, then changed so 
 much? 
 
 What was it that she wanted? Why had she re- 
 quested this interview? She made no haste to ex- 
 plain — she even seemed a little overcome. Was she 
 imposing upon herself the too cruel law of hiding 
 her emotion? Face to face with one another after 
 their last meeting, both felt some embarrassment. 
 
 "You wanted to see me, Madame?" inquired 
 Mark, since she kept silence. 
 
 In spite of the coldness of his tone she felt en- 
 couraged, and spoke in short breathless sentences. 
 
188 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 She was precisely one of those women who can speak 
 charmingly on subjects of the passing moment, but 
 whose artifices ill prepare them for direct contact 
 with life. 
 
 " Yes, I had to. ... I was informed, like you, of 
 the accident. You saw me in the Simplon train that 
 evening, that sad evening. I was informed at Mar- 
 tigny. Notwithstanding my grief I was obliged to 
 attend to the formalities of the removal. And then 
 I returned at once to Paris. I have been able to 
 make no inquiries. I only know the second hand 
 details which the priest gave me. You have had 
 more time, since death spared you. I know that 
 you went to Mme Romenay, that you are reconciled 
 with her. Perhaps you can give me some details. 
 In a trial like this, one wishes to know all. YoiJ 
 will therefore excuse my coming to you." 
 
 How — from whom — had she learned of their 
 reconciliation.? Or had she taken it for granted, 
 simply because he went to the Grand Saint Bernard? 
 
 He signified that he found her coming quite 
 natural — though in fact it greatly surprised him. 
 Then he considered how he could satisfy her. It 
 surprised him that he could utter the name of Andre 
 Norans without either anger or hatred, as if he had 
 been an indiff'erent person whose tragic end could 
 not but be a matter of general compassion. But 
 from what he said one might have supposed that 
 Andre Norans had been alone on Mount Velan. 
 There was no word about Ther^se. Concerning 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 189 
 
 Therese's returning to her family no one had a right 
 to make the slightest allusion. 
 
 Mme Norans scarcely interrupted him. The con- 
 versation soon began to languish. As she neverthe- 
 less did not appear to intend to break it off, he 
 handed her the number of the Petit Valaisan from 
 which he had received his first information. While 
 she was reading he watched her, astounded at her 
 calmness. Not once could he discover a quiver on 
 that beautiful, motionless face, nor any sign of in- 
 ward emotion. She returned the paper to him with 
 a remark referring to the theory of suicide with 
 which the long narrative had closed. 
 
 " Oh, no, they had no wish to kill themselves. 
 How absurd ! " 
 
 The blood-red mouth disdainfully rejected the ro- 
 mantic hypothesis. Those who have given up all 
 for love do not think of death. But when one lover 
 must die, and the other survives? 
 
 Mark made no reply. A vast distance separated 
 him from this woman to whom the tragedy of Mount 
 Velan appeared too much like any other bit of for- 
 eign news. But why had she come? 
 
 " Is that all? " she asked finally. 
 
 He would have liked to show her to the door, to 
 rid himself of her importunate presence. But he 
 recalled to mind Father Sonnier's testimony, which 
 his conscience did not permit him to hold back. And 
 briefly, in that imperious voice which permitted no 
 contradiction, he told of the sufferings of Andre Nor- 
 
190 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 ans during the three days of his lingering death; 
 and with that desire of self-immolation, of almost 
 sickly generosity, which takes possession of greatly 
 tried souls who are not yet sure whether they shall 
 emerge from the test strengthened or weakened, he 
 even told of his courageous refusal when he had been 
 offered a way to end his sufferings, and in his turn 
 unhesitatingly paid tribute to him who had now 
 ceased to be his enemy. 
 
 " He also pronounced his son's name," added 
 Mark. 
 
 Mme Norans had been listening with an emotion 
 which she had not attempted to hide, as if she had 
 been more touched to hear him speak thus, than agi- 
 tated by what he said. At the reference to her son 
 she turned away her head. 
 
 " You quoted that Father Sonnier," she made bold 
 to say, resuming the offensive. " But he could only 
 have received these confidences from Mme Romenay." 
 
 Mark tried to check her. But she went on, pro- 
 nouncing a second time the name of her rival. 
 
 " Has Mme Romenay said nothing else to you 
 about him ? " 
 
 He controlled his irritation and replied very sim- 
 
 " We never speak of the past. We shall never 
 speak of it." 
 
 He rose, to signify to her that the interview was 
 not to be prolonged. But at once she made a reply 
 that struck him to the heart. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 191 
 
 " Of what can you talk then, when you are to- 
 gether ? " 
 
 He started as if he acknowledged the blow. In- 
 wardly he repeated to himself the too evident, the 
 viperous question. Of what can you talk then when 
 you are together? It was because they could talk 
 of nothing else that he had left his wife at Caux and 
 had decided not to return to her. He had banished 
 from their new conjugal life those vulgar, indelicate 
 dialogues, those degrading questions, which mar for- 
 giveness, corrupt reconciliation, by mingling it with 
 horrid curiosity, torturing confidences ; and now by 
 an unexpected trick their new conjugal life had be- 
 come impossible. A single utterance of Mme Norans 
 had convinced him of it. 
 
 She was watching the bleeding of the wound which 
 she herself had made. To deepen it she added : 
 
 "Is Theresehere?" 
 
 The audacity of using her first name, which ought 
 to have burned her lips ! 
 
 " No, she is not here," said Mark. 
 
 " You see, yourself! " 
 
 When she had come to the rue de Franqueville she 
 had known nothing that had happened, she had sim- 
 ply imagined it, and now, with two replies, she had 
 become certain. But what could the Romenay 
 household be to her.? Was not bitter regret for her 
 husband, who in death had not thought of her but 
 had uttered the name of their son — enough to 
 fill the solitude of her life.? Hers was the worst 
 
192 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 sorrow, sorrow born of the irreparable, and instead 
 of yielding to it she was seeking some incompre- 
 hensible revenge. Her inward distress was like a 
 revolt. 
 
 Mark, shaken by her attack, yet controlled him- 
 self, and was gazing penetratingly upon her, seeking 
 to discover the dark purpose which animated her. 
 In spite of himself his glance rested admiringly upon 
 her upright, slender figure, so slender in her black 
 gown, and upon her marble face with its blood-red, 
 dangerous mouth. 
 
 Suddenly she threw aside the mask, so suddenly 
 as to forestall all interruption. 
 
 " Yes, you thought you had forgiven Therese, but 
 you have not been able to bring her home. No more 
 than I have you forgotten the injury, the scandal, the 
 ridicule. Who can forget such things? And now 
 this catastrophe, which has attacked us publicly, of 
 which everybody has been talking and still talks ! 
 You and I, whom every one envied, sought for, ad- 
 mired, and whom they have made a mock of! Oh, 
 it is in vain that I have fought against myself, ex- 
 cited myself to pity in the face of death, always, al- 
 ways, I feel that I detest them ! And do not you 
 feel so too ? " 
 
 She treated him like an accomplice, assumed that 
 he felt the same vanity, the same preoccupation with 
 public opinion, the same pettiness of resentment. 
 Seven months earlier, urged by rancour, she had in- 
 stinctively come to him, counting upon him to avenge 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 193 
 
 her. Had she made up this present scene in ad- 
 vance? Other indications gave him reason to think 
 so. Before her marriage had she not attracted 
 Mark's attention, sought to be seen in public with 
 him? And later, at Zermatt, how could he have 
 been mistaken in the advances which she made to him ? 
 Thus for a few moments he was asking himself, 
 hardly listening to her, making no reply to her pas- 
 sionate questioning, but watching with a too inter- 
 ested curiosity her movements, as of a wild beast in 
 a cage. But she seemed to him too much under the 
 dominance of her own nature for such a design, such 
 premeditation to be attributed to her. Above all, 
 she seemed to him too beautiful. She had always 
 felt an attraction toward him which in a time of 
 unhappiness spontaneously revealed itself. He ex- 
 cused her for it, he even felt almost proud of it. In 
 the distress which he had experienced since his return 
 from Saint Bernard he had lost his sureness of judg- 
 ment, his strength of character, and his aching body 
 was all the more sensitive to the appeal of the flesh. 
 
 With more gentleness than she had expected of 
 him, instead of repelling her summarily he simply re- 
 plied : 
 
 " No, I do not understand you." 
 
 She made a discouraged gesture, and standing be- 
 fore him as she had been, she suddenly sank down 
 into the chair she had quitted, as if crushed by 
 despair, and folding her arms upon the table buried 
 her face in them. 
 
194 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 It was a burning August day, and notwithstand- 
 ing the protection of the trees, the small study was 
 oppressively warm. While speaking Mme Norans 
 had mechanically slipped down one of her gloves, 
 exposing her forearm. Mark could not but observe 
 its whiteness with its network of blue veins. 
 Crouched over as she was she could not see him, but 
 he felt sure that if he were to touch the bare elbow she 
 would not repel him. The veil thrown back revealed 
 the nape of her neck, emerging from the square cut 
 gown, luminous under the mass of black hair and 
 beaded with tiny drops of perspiration. He felt 
 that she shivered — as if she expected, longed for, 
 the touch of his hand. 
 
 Those are the victors, the fortunate men who re- 
 main masters of themselves in every circumstance of 
 life, who keep the faculty of choice. They smile 
 upon women, but though they please, they put them 
 from them. Discouraged, overcome, humiliated men 
 have not this liberty, they do not react against cir- 
 cumstances, they yield, give way to them. For to 
 yield is to forget. 
 
 The beautiful Simone did not raise her head. 
 What was the expression of her hidden face.? Mark 
 felt a temptation to lift it up, take it in his hands, 
 risk a rough assertion of his power. Without ex^ 
 plaining it to himself he felt no doubt that he had 
 power. It would be his revenge for the derision of 
 fate, betrayal, ridicule, the tragic end, the return 
 to all the baseness of existence. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 195 
 
 " Lift up your head, Madame," he suddenly said, 
 his voice at first somewhat agitated, but at once be- 
 coming firm, and relieving the equivocal character 
 of the too long continued silence, " lift up your 
 head, I beg." 
 
 As she did not move he added: 
 
 " You must put down this hatred which gives you 
 so much pain. We have had our own part in our 
 misfortunes, we also have our own responsibilities. 
 For your son's sake you should shield Ms memory." 
 
 She was on her feet in an instant. Was it he who 
 spoke, bringing both of them into accusation, giving 
 this unexpected advice.? She looked at him to make 
 sure and saw him calm and unmoved. Shame over- 
 whelmed her, and she drew her veil over her face as 
 if she had suffered an outrage. She retreated to- 
 ward the door. 
 
 " Adieu, sir," she said in a low voice. 
 
 But recovering assurance on the threshold, she 
 shot her last arrow: 
 
 " It will be enough if Mme Romenay shields his 
 memory." 
 
 He politely summoned the servant to escort her. 
 The last arrow seemed not to have struck him. 
 
 Nothing had passed between Mme Norans and 
 himself. And yet this woman with her too white 
 face and too red lips, whose mourning brought into 
 relief her youthful figure, had attracted him bale- 
 fully, and he did not understand how he had resisted 
 her. Overwhelmed by her fate, or too much wounded 
 
196 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 by it, she had not concealed her own emotion, if 
 indeed she had not purposely assumed it. Many 
 irregular connections, passions, adventures, have had 
 no other cause than an avowed clash of desires, have 
 needed no more formal consent. How had he es- 
 caped the offered temptation, which whether from 
 lassitude or a morbid impulse of vengeance he him- 
 self had almost welcomed? He had not thought of 
 Therese. It was not his sad tenderness for The- 
 rese which had held him back. Possessed by the 
 memory of Andre Norans he had suddenly beheld 
 him, fixed upon his rock like a martyr bound to 
 the stake, refusing a self-inflicted death, sparing her 
 who had proposed it, assuring her that she would 
 live, that she would live without him and apart from 
 him. And not to lag behind him, by the imperious 
 necessity of not proving himself unworthy of such 
 an adversary, he had repelled the beautiful Simone, 
 had even cruelly recalled her to her duty. 
 
 On the other side of Orsieres a funeral car covered 
 with bunches of wild flowers had met his carriage. 
 " Whose funeral is that ? " he had asked. 
 And being told, he had saluted. 
 
 Here, as there on the Grand Saint Bernard road, 
 he had bowed before the dead, with a sentiment of 
 respect and even of desire to be equal to him. A 
 sense of honour is a good support. And he again 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 197 
 
 experienced that feeling of exaltation which he had 
 known beside the bed of his broken Therese, that 
 state in which everything appears to be simple, easy, 
 pleasant. 
 
Ill 
 
 The Palace Hotel of Caux, with its immense main 
 building, its open rotunda, its three or four hundred 
 rooms and the endless ribbon of red tiles which is 
 its roof, is a castle of these modem days with indus- 
 trial towers and commercial bastions. Everything 
 is arranged for comfort and pleasure, — everything 
 but its architecture. It stands half way up between 
 Lake Leman and the Rocks of Naye. Groves of 
 pine and larch, modifying the steepness of the slope, 
 surround it but leave an open space for its lawns. 
 It is the new mountain burg, as Swiss fashions and 
 cosmopolitan requirements have perfected it, bind- 
 ing nature to serve the pleasures of society, and con- 
 verting the most beautiful landscape into a luxuri- 
 ous accessory. 
 
 One may at choice lead the gayest society life or 
 remain isolated. Its dimensions lend themselves to 
 independence. It is equally easy to appear in a dif- 
 ferent dress three or four times a day, to flirt, play, 
 dance, shine, carry on gallant adventures, or to en- 
 joy a commonplace family life, or to shut oneself up 
 in one's own room. The hall is so vast that four 
 
 hundred teas may be served in it at one time and 
 
 198 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 199 
 
 from all the neighbouring resorts pleasure parties 
 come hither; in summer when the heat lessens, and in 
 winter when the night comes down and interrupts 
 ski or snow-shoe excursions. All is then movement, 
 animation, that physical joy which the open air and 
 exercise add to the beauty of faces and the sound of 
 conversation. 
 
 And yet that Elizabeth of Austria, to whom a poet 
 gave the title, " Empress of Solitude," could remain 
 there a long time and no one suspect her presence. 
 She enjoyed Caux almost as much as the shores of 
 the Adriatic and the terraces of Corfu. She excelled 
 in creating a silence around herself, and in the most 
 frequented places knew how to be far away. It was 
 from Caux, one morning, that she set out to be as- 
 sassinated at Geneva. 
 
 Therese Romenay was one of the guests whom no 
 one noticed. She seldom left her room, whether be- 
 cause she was not yet recovered from her fall or be- 
 cause she wished to avoid indiscreet curiosity. 
 Many a saunterer had lost his time seeking to fathom 
 from a distance the mystery of the woman who like 
 a prisoner spent long hours on her balcony, some- 
 times seated, like an invalid, in a wicker arm chair, 
 sometimes standing and watching the play of light 
 and shade. More than one, irritated by their igno- 
 rance, had even gone so far as to question the little 
 girl who was known to be her daughter, and who, 
 with fussy Mme Acher in her train, was already en- 
 
SO0 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 joying, as she did everywhere, a pretty popularity. 
 In the group of hotel children, most of them English 
 or German, high coloured like new Nuremberg toys, 
 Juliette was distinguished by her amber pallor, her 
 lighter grace, a livelier turn of mind. 
 
 " Who is that lady? " some one asked her. 
 
 " Mamma." 
 
 For her " mamma " signified everything, but to 
 strangers it meant nothing. And if any one insisted, 
 she would lift her large, too intelligent eyes, almost 
 embarrassing to them who were overstepping their 
 rights, and would be silent. 
 
 " Have you no father ? " asked one of them one 
 <Jay. 
 
 No father! She burst out laughing at the idea. 
 No father! How could any one be so stupid? The 
 matter was quite worth telling to her great friend, 
 Sylvia Monestier, who had reached Caux before her. 
 But Sylvia did not find it so amusing. One might 
 very easily have no father since she, herself, had no 
 mamma. And what is the use of a papa whom one 
 never sees? 
 
 On her return from the walk during which this 
 dialogue had taken place, Juliette rushed to her 
 mother's room. 
 
 " Mamma, why do we never see papa? " 
 
 Somewhat surprised at her excitement Therese 
 Romenay took her darling upon her knee, not only 
 to calm her but to conceal her own sadness. 
 
 " He is coming, very soon." 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 201 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " To-morrow or the iday after." 
 
 " No ! I want him to come right away. A papa 
 whom one never sees is not a papa." 
 
 " There, there, hush ! He is working, building 
 beautiful houses, — and he is on the way here." 
 
 But Juliette, quite disturbed, was not so easily 
 quieted, and her next question was a cruel one. 
 
 " Will he stay away as long as you did, mamma.'' " 
 
 Surprised at herself for having asked it, fearing 
 that she had acted badly, or done some forbidden 
 thing, or worse still, been naughty, she threw her 
 arms about her mother's neck, and on the verge of 
 tears exclaimed: 
 
 " But you will not go away again, now." 
 
 Notwithstanding present happiness, she could 
 recollect the time when her mamma was like dead per- 
 sons whom one never sees, and whom one forgets. 
 Why did she never see her father and mother both 
 at the same time, like all the other children, except 
 Sylvia Monestier — but Mr. Monestier — and The- 
 rese Romenay, distressed and almost trembling, still 
 endeavouring to console her, heard her laugh in spite 
 of herself. Happy age, when feelings thus have 
 wings and seldom light for more than a moment ! 
 
 "What is it, little one.?" 
 
 " Mr, Monestier " — And following up her 
 thought, repeating remarks that had been made in 
 her presence, she explained that Mr. Monestier was 
 acting as Sylvia's nurse. At once she began to 
 
203 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 amuse herself by imitating him. It was " You will 
 take cold," and " You are too warm," a shawl for her 
 shoulders, a handkerchief to wipe off her face — he 
 never left Sylvia alone for a moment, and everybody 
 laughed at him, even Mile Irma, the German lady 
 who was learning French. 
 
 "What German lady?" 
 
 " Mr. Monestier's German lady, of course. They 
 gather flowers together in a great tin box. And 
 Sylvia sticks out her tongue behind their backs." 
 
 " Sylvia isn't a good little girl." 
 
 " Oh, she has reason enough for doing it. Mile 
 Irma is taking her papa away from her." 
 
 And Juliette immediately imitated the hoarse 
 voice, the doctoral tone and the brusque gestures of 
 the foreign lady. 
 
 " ' Children should be accustomed to cold, heat, 
 weariness.' " 
 
 " Juliette ! Juliette ! I shall scold you." 
 
 Her little girl's stories and reflections and Mr. 
 Monestier's calls were Therese Romenay's sole con- 
 tact with the inmates of the hotel. And even 
 Sylvia's father's visits became less frequent as they 
 prolonged their stay. No doubt he was absorbed in 
 the flowers brought home from their walks in a great 
 tin box, — or else in Mile Irma. 
 
 This isolation suited the convalescent. Her 
 bruised body, which in the beginning felt pain at 
 every motion, was by degrees recovering. During 
 the first days she had given herself up to an almost 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 
 
 animal existence. When one has touched death so 
 nearly, life takes on a physical charm which one is 
 surprised into enjoying for its own sake. One feels 
 it throbbing drop by drop through one's veins, hears 
 it course through one with the regular tic-tac of a 
 watch — it is a continual delight. One thinks of it in 
 detail ; it is an occupation so absorbing that nothing 
 else is needed to occupy the thoughts. Sometimes 
 Therese reproached herself for the torpor to which 
 she owed the gradual recovery of her strength. She 
 tried to throw it off, only to sink back into it again. 
 Later she would try to reduce to order the chaos of 
 sufferings and hopes which she had brought from 
 her cell in Saint-Bernard. For the moment she was 
 incapable of it. They must have patience with her, 
 as with a poor, much suffering, much exhausted in- 
 valid, who could only recover slowly. 
 
 At first Mark's absence did not surprise her. No 
 doubt his business demanded him. Besides, a woman 
 who lies all day on a sofa is not an agreeable object, 
 hardly endurable, even, for an active man who soon 
 discovers the inutility of his compassion to work a 
 cure. Much better for him not to be there. Be- 
 sides, it was surely out of consideration that he left 
 it to succeeding days to cement their reconciliation. 
 The music of his unexpected words still rang in her 
 ears, the first he had said : " My little Therese " — 
 and they moved her to pity for him and for herself. 
 
 How luxuriously he had established her at Caux — 
 too luxuriously! but in material things had he not 
 
204 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 always spoiled her? The corner apartment which 
 she occupied in the hotel was composed of a sitting- 
 room separated by a glass partition from an ante- 
 chamber which had been easily converted into a din- 
 ing-room, with two large chambers, one on either side 
 of the sitting-room. Mme Acher and Juliette oc- 
 cupied one, the other was reserved for her own use. 
 As soon as she had been able to stand without fatigue, 
 she had dragged herself to the glass doors which 
 opened upon the balcony, whence there was a view 
 on both sides ; one looked down a vista to the Ober- 
 land, with its pine-covered hills, its green prairies and 
 the Rocks of Jaman; the other showed the lake in 
 its entire length from the mouth of the Rhine to the 
 Point d'Yvoire, and along the horizon, the Alps of 
 Savoy and of Le Valais. 
 
 This last perspective fascinated her. She would 
 remain for hours watching its changes with the 
 changing shadows. No country in the world has so 
 soothing an influence upon restless nerves. Sky, 
 water, and all the forms of things blend with one an- 
 other to invite to rest and calm, to encourage one 
 to consent to live. 
 
 Her past was fixed before her eyes. After the bay 
 of Villeneuve, where the lake gradually expands, be- 
 yond the seven-peaked Dent du Midi, she could dis- 
 tinguish in clear weather the glaciers of the Trient, 
 and at a still greater distance, was not that the di- 
 rection of the mountain which she could not see, but 
 could imagine, the mountain of her agony? She 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 205 
 
 would turn away in terror, then seek for it again. 
 But on the declivities of Savoy, she thought she saw, 
 — there was often a slight mist, and there was al- 
 ways the distance and the bend of the lake, but did 
 she not see — her childhood's home among the chest- 
 nuts signalling to her? She tried to determine its 
 site from various marks, church towers and villages. 
 And soon, letting herself go, she was back in the 
 days when, a too sensitive little girl, she was reach- 
 ing out her arms, without knowing for what, toward 
 those enervating shores, waiting for the love which 
 should fill her too hungry heart. Like so many 
 women she had always lived to love. One sets out 
 thus, not knowing whither one goes. Now she was 
 afraid of love, whose delight and cruelty she well 
 knew. 
 
 Was its cruelty yet exhausted? Was love not yet 
 weary of pursuing her? Was he stiU grasping her 
 heart like a captive whom he would not consent to set 
 free? Why, now, instead of following up the Rhone 
 Valley or turning in the direction of Savoy, did 
 she fix her eyes upon the road across the lawns below 
 the hotel, tracing it down to the station of the little 
 electric road? Her balcony is perched too high for 
 her easily to recognise a figure, but that does not 
 prevent her trying. And the men walking below 
 have observed her gaze, flattering themselves that 
 their glances have had an effect. 
 
 TherSse, weak Therese, of what are you thinking? 
 Your lover is dead upon the mountain, and you have 
 
206 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 seen how he bore pain. He repelled you when you 
 offered to follow or to precede him to the land from 
 which no one returns. He repelled you because he 
 loved you with that greatest of all loves, the love 
 that forgets self. Every night you say a prayer 
 for the repose of his soul, and while you are saying 
 it you hide your face, because you are again with 
 him on that martyr-place of Proz, or because you 
 consider your love a guilty one. Yes, doubtless 
 there are all the generations of good women from 
 whom you have issued, resting in the consecrated 
 ground of the little village cemetery which you long 
 to discern. Your grandmother is there and your 
 dear mother, who would not have understood you, 
 whom you would have put to shame, and who are call- 
 ing you. And here is your adored little Juliette who 
 needs her mamma, — her fugitive little mamma whose 
 sin she will never know. And here is all the order 
 of your home, all the sweetness of every-day peace, 
 all these daily blessings, lost and found again. And 
 finally here is God to whom you pray and who has 
 pardoned you because you have repented. But can 
 she be faithless to the thought of her love? No one 
 knows her thoughts. They do no harm to any one, 
 and she may direct them to whom she will. One can- 
 not always command one's thoughts — they fly away 
 like birds that laugh at the bird-catcher. They are 
 imperceptible parcels of our being. They are also 
 the very truth of us. Therese, toward whom are 
 your thoughts going? 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 207 
 
 Her lover died upon the mountain, and she is liv- 
 ing. 
 
 It is more than a month since she was brought from 
 Grand Saint Bernard. A month and more, and 
 Mark has not yet come. Burning August, which on 
 these heights is tempered, is drawing to a close, and 
 he has not yet come. His letters give plausible rea- 
 sons for his prolonged absence, but reasons are never 
 anything more than reasons. And his letters are 
 written in so large a hand, as if he was afraid of not 
 filling the sheet. Yes, they breathe confidence, 
 strong manly tenderness, they have even that tone 
 of esteem and respect which puts away the past, re- 
 habilitates her, lifts her up in her own eyes ; but 
 she longs for more spontaneity. Mark is no doubt 
 a man who disdains effusiveness, who keeps his feel- 
 ings to himself. But she is ill, he ought not to for- 
 get that. His are such letters as a husband writes 
 his wife after years of marriage, when he relies upon 
 her absolutely. Years of marriage, yes, very true ; 
 only she had left him and he has forgiven her. 
 
 How differently she would write as soon as she 
 should be in a condition to write ! A wounded hand 
 had prevented. She had had to dictate to Juliette, 
 slowly, and dictating is not the same thing. 
 
 When her wound was healed, for several days she 
 made as if her hand was still painful. She did try ' 
 — composed a rough draft, her temples throbbing, 
 her fingers trembling, her words refusing to obey, 
 she not knowing how to say what she felt. She had 
 
208 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 thought it would be so simple! Everything had 
 ceased to be simple. And her letters were as awk- 
 ward, as embarrassed, as those of her husband. 
 
 But let him come and all would be well, all would 
 be bright as at Saint Bernard, in the cell where they 
 had found one another. Then suddenly the fear 
 seized her that he would not come. He had felt pity 
 for her, but he no longer loved her. 
 
 He no longer loved her. Her beautiful hair had 
 been cut off and it was growing slowly, a little less 
 golden, a little darker than before. Evidently it 
 would never be so long, nor so soft and silky. She 
 looked like a young boy, especially those first days, 
 while her skin was still bronzed and her features 
 hardened. Still, she was now not bad to look at. 
 Her mirror, when she asked of it, at first hesitatingly, 
 was now helping to reassure her. The bruises had 
 disappeared, her nose had recovered its pure outline 
 and her cheeks the rosy tint that went and came with 
 the ebb and flow of her emotions. A line at the cor- 
 ner of the lips, another under the eyes, spoke of 
 sufferings endured, but these chiseUings of life have 
 their own charm : they give the face a deeper expres- 
 sion. And her slender form had all its suppleness, 
 its alert motions. Why did not Mark come to see 
 her.? 
 
 He came at last. It was some little time after the 
 visit of Mme de Norans. He had not written that he 
 was coming. He was not more expected on that day 
 than on other days, not more or not less. He 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 209 
 
 knocked at the door, as if the apartment were not in- 
 scribed with his own name, and as no one answered 
 he was obliged to knock several times. Early as was 
 the hour she was already on the balcony, gazing 
 down the road. He had come by it, but she had not 
 distinguished him. And she was obliged to come to 
 the ante-chamber in order to say " Come in," loud 
 enough for him to hear. 
 
 He had meant to fly to her and kiss her. She 
 longed to throw herself into his arras. And there 
 they were face to face, embarrassed, motionless, she 
 paling with surprise, and he mistaking the meaning 
 of her pallor. First misunderstandings are hard to 
 rectify. 
 
 " It is I, Therese, I should have let you know. 
 You were frightened, I think." 
 
 " Frightened ! Oh, no, Mark, I am glad to see you." 
 
 " It has been a good while." 
 
 "So long!" 
 
 He took her hand and kissed it ceremoniously. 
 She dared not offer her cheek, and her cheek with its 
 returning colour allured him. He noticed its lovely 
 curve, its delicacy. Both had by a natural impulse 
 proscribed the " thee and thou " of intimacy. As at 
 Grand Saint Bernard, nothing happened as they had 
 pictured it, but by a strange revulsion they found 
 themselves farther apart than before their separa- 
 tion. They tried to keep up the languishing conver- 
 sation by not talking about themselves. 
 
 " My mother sends her love," he said. 
 
210 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 " Thank you, she has always been good to me." 
 
 She tried to answer as he would like to have her, 
 and she feared she was not succeeding. He asked 
 about Juliette, who was wonderfully well, out walking 
 with Mme Acher, but sure to return soon. 
 
 " You are very much alone here," he remarked. 
 " You ought not to be alone." 
 
 " I am not lonely." 
 
 Had she made friends with strangers he could not 
 have been more disturbed. She explained that 
 Sylvia Monestier was a good little friend for their 
 daughter, and that Mr. Monestier sometimes came to 
 see her, but more and more seldom. He was said to 
 be engaged to Mile Irma Waldheim, a German girl, 
 whose family was staying at Caux. Michael Mones- 
 tier engaged! He was astounded. So this was 
 the end of that fine posthumous passion which he had 
 so complacently displayed to universal admiration! 
 How easily people change and forget! They had 
 reached this point in their reflections upon Mr. Mon- 
 estier when they suddenly checked themselves — per- 
 ceiving the abyss into which they were plunging. 
 How easily people change and forget! This was the 
 enclosed ground upon which they might not trespass. 
 
 Thrown back upon themselves, what could they 
 find to say.'' She cast about a moment in her mind, 
 blushing like a timid girl, and at last inquired as to 
 his luggage. 
 
 " Here it is," he replied, pointing to a dressing 
 case, a serviette and a rug, bound together by a 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 211 
 
 shawl strap. She uttered an exclamation of sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " But they will bring up your trunks. You will 
 stay a good while, will you not? " 
 
 " No, Therese, I cannot. I must complete my 
 plans for Russia." 
 
 " A few days, at least? Shall you not take a va- 
 cation? " 
 
 " I return to-night." 
 
 "So soon?" 
 
 In her pained surprise she could say no more. 
 And he with aching heart thought how little she 
 cared to keep him with her. Thus the misunder- 
 standing between them increased. Everything hurt 
 them, every word was a new wound. 
 
 After a pained silence she tried to bring up other 
 subjects, but each fell flat, like stones thrown into 
 the water and disappearing. She led him out upon 
 the balcony, did him the honours of the view. It had 
 rained toward morning, but the clouds had disap- 
 peared. Sky and water are never so limpid as after 
 a shower. A bluish haze, a fine-weather haze, lightly 
 veiled the forms of the hills and mountains. 
 
 " And down there," she said pointing, " don't you 
 see something? Down there? Yes, it is my old 
 home." 
 
 " It can't be seen from here, it is too far away, be- 
 yond the bend of the lake." 
 
 " Very likely," she said gently, " but I know it is 
 there and it makes me happy." 
 
212 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 To please her, he too searched for the hill of Pub- 
 lier among the trees. There he had first seen 
 Therese, and from their first meeting he had felt her 
 charm, the charm that only Andre Norans had 
 found words to describe. After he had turned her 
 out of his house — so brutally ! — perhaps she had 
 taken refuge in the old home. Perhaps she had 
 taken refuge there with her love. Then what would 
 become of his memories of their betrothal? In her 
 turn she had turned him out of her house. 
 
 He could not ask her " Did you go there with 
 him ? " He had forbidden himself to return to the 
 past. He could never know, but with this doubt he 
 now lost all the happiness that had been left to him. 
 Unable to endure it, he turned away from the view 
 and went back into the sitting-room. 
 
 She was thinking, " He no longer loves me. He 
 would not recognise the house where I gave him my 
 faith." For the moment she had forgotten that she 
 had betrayed her faith. And he was thinking of the 
 man whom she was forgetting. 
 
 She went back to him, and suddenly exclaimed, 
 
 " I am not pretty any longer, Mark, with my 
 short hair. Haven't I grown ugly? And I have 
 wrinkles, here and there, — see ! I am afraid I look 
 old." 
 
 She had drawn close to him, the better to show 
 him, with an artless and confiding grace which 
 was not coquetry but simply the natural desire to 
 please, of a young wife to whom her husband pays 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 213 
 
 no compliments. He looked at her, infinitely 
 sad: 
 
 " You are mistaken, Therese. You are more 
 beautiful than you used to be." 
 
 Her face, chiselled by experience, appeared to him 
 most touching. Or else he better understood her 
 strong, undefinable attraction. Far from being 
 flattered by a verdict pronounced with a gravity 
 which was like a warrant of its accuracy, she was 
 frightened by it. She would have preferred a smile 
 or a kiss — the kiss of greeting which she had ex- 
 pected and had not received. She dimly wondered 
 if Mark was not regretting the pitiful, ravaged 
 face he had seen at Saint Bernard, and was not of- 
 fended by her innocent question. 
 
 During one of the too frequent pauses in their 
 conversation he unfastened the shawl strap, and tak- 
 ing an envelope from the serviette he handed it to 
 his wife, with the words : 
 
 " These letters are yours : I return them to you. 
 I had no right to keep them." 
 
 At first she did not understand; she was not pre- 
 pared to understand. Quite unembarrassed, she ac- 
 cepted the mysterious parcel, and even asked, 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " Open it after I am gone — this evening or to- 
 morrow. Perhaps it would be best to destroy them. 
 You alone can do that." 
 
 He was not assuming a chivalrous part. Andre 
 Norans' letters did not belong to him. He, himself, 
 
214 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 in his study at La Muette had been about to burn 
 them, but this duty it was for Therese alone to per- 
 form. He would not usurp her place. Would she 
 wish to read over once again these impassioned 
 words .f" Or, perhaps, she would refuse to do so, 
 freely, before him, and that would be a proof of her 
 renewed love for him. He was stiU seeking to un- 
 derstand the emotions of that past which he assured 
 himself he had obliterated. 
 
 At last she understood, and her whole face was 
 crimsoned in a moment, as a beach is instantaneously 
 covered by the rising tide. 
 
 " Oh," she protested, almost indignantly, " why 
 did you not burn them.'' It was wrong " — and with- 
 out hesitating she met his thought ; " I wiU burn 
 them myself, now, in your presence." 
 
 He could not misapprehend her quick impulse; 
 he even thought it almost cruel to Andre Norans. 
 Thus set free Therese would the more surely return 
 to him. Yet, not wishing to embarrass her by his 
 presence, willing to leave her alone at a moment 
 that must be so painful and crowded with memories, 
 he turned away and went out upon the balcony. 
 
 The blower of the fireplace was drawn down, and 
 she found it heavy to lift. In these modern hotels 
 the most elementary objects are lacking. What 
 with electricity and steam heat there are never any 
 matches. She had to go to her bedroom to look for 
 some. And from the balcony he thought that she 
 had gone to read over her lover's letters. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 215 
 
 She made haste to deliver to the flames what had 
 once filled her heart and life. The dried sheets 
 curled, writhed, shrivelled, fluttered. Leaning over 
 them, she might have read by the light of the flame 
 whole passages, written in those large, upright 
 characters that she knew so well. Then all was 
 black and turned to ashes. She had not leaned over, 
 she had more than once hastened the fire, but when 
 there remained nothing but ashes she wept. 
 
 For what was she weeping.'' She herself could 
 not quite have told. Perhaps the reaction of nerves 
 sorely tried and still weak. She was weeping over 
 herself, over the pain of her husband's hostility, over 
 the latent sadness which she could not fathom and 
 which, like her wounds, was being scarred over, 
 healing without being touched. That sadness was 
 named Andre Norans, but she had ceased to give it 
 a name, except in her prayers. Like all convales- 
 cents, she was longing to live, absorbed in the pres- 
 ent. 
 
 Mark had returned to the room, though she was 
 not aware of it, and he was watching her weep. He 
 thought she was weeping for the other, and he ad- 
 mitted that she had the right ; a second time she 
 was closing the eyes of the dead. 
 
 He was about to retire, to leave her to her regrets, 
 and give himself up to jealous distress, but she had 
 perceived him. They looked at one another, and find- 
 ing nothing to say they suffered silently, she because 
 of him, and he because of the past. 
 
IV, 
 
 Juliette's entrance was a reprieve. 
 
 She came in like a little queen, followed by her 
 court and not in the least concerned with formalities, 
 calling from the antechamber, 
 
 " Mamma, mamma, here is Mr. Monestier, who 
 asks if you will receive him." 
 
 But when, opening the door, she saw her father 
 and mother together, she uttered an exclamation of 
 surprise, followed by a shout of joy. Little she 
 asked whether they were sad or gay, it was enough 
 that they were together. After caresses repeatedly 
 bestowed upon both, she turned in triumph to the 
 group, discreetly withdrawn into the background, 
 formed by Mme Acher, Mr. Monestier and little 
 Sylvia, as if to prove to them that one could very 
 well have a father and a mother both at once. She 
 had even a mind to overwhelm, with the weight of 
 this fact, the little friend who really deserved a les- 
 son for harbouring such injurious doubts. But she 
 had a kind heart and knew it — and checked herself 
 in her triumph. Sylvia had only a papa to exhibit, 
 — and yet — and yet — as if she hadn't seen what 
 
 was going on among the Monestiers and unmasked 
 
 316 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 21T 
 
 the tricks of that grasping German young lady! 
 She didn't keep her eyes in her pocket, and you may 
 believe that one needs to be mighty sharp ! 
 
 Every one was crowding around Mme Romenay. 
 Mark observed how naturally she had become the 
 object of the attentions, preferences, confidences, of 
 each. Mme Acher, who had once condemned her 
 without pity, now vanquished, reduced to mercy, ap- 
 proving in advance all her acts ; Sylvia stealing to 
 her side like a second daughter — though Juliette 
 was on the watch to put her back in her place — and 
 Mr. Monestier deferring to her judgment, appealing 
 to her wisdom. What invisible charm radiated from 
 this woman who never sought for empire, was desti- 
 tute of artifice, who continually turned to him as if 
 appealing to him and placing herself under his pro- 
 tection .'' 
 
 When the governess had taken the children out 
 upon the balcony, Mr. Monestier explained his early 
 visit. He had become betrothed the previous even- 
 ing to Mile Irma Waldheim, whose parents oc- 
 cupied an excellent position in Leipzig ; he had come 
 to inform his friends and especially to beg Mme 
 Romenay to inform Sylvia. 
 
 " I am afraid of giving her pain, myself," he ex- 
 plained. " You, madame, will know better than I 
 what to say. Your words are as gentle as the hands 
 of a sick-nurse, that touch without hurting." 
 
 The better to deserve her help, he felt called upon 
 to explain the reason of his engagement : 
 
218 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 " These last years I have hardly lived except for 
 my daughter. I should like to live for myself, a lit- 
 tle. I had no thought of ever marrying again 
 
 — but life is strong. Race, religion, tastes, every- 
 thing separated me from Mile Waldheim, and yet, — 
 you see ! She has so much energy, so much ardour ; 
 she is vigorous, fresh, and frank, afraid of nothing. 
 She is magnificent when she climbs the hills, scales 
 the rocks ; she should never be ill, never die. The 
 mere sight of her gives health." 
 
 After herself it was the turn of her family. 
 
 " All these Germans are somewhat noisy, some- 
 what vain, somewhat heavy, but full of frankness 
 and good humour. Now and then they make an in- 
 delicate allusion to the war, to their military or com- 
 mercial superiority, but I show my teeth and they 
 soon make haste to pacify me. They are enchanted 
 with their little Irma's conquest — they are think- 
 ing to annex me like Alsace. But once married I 
 shall not be likely to be much in Leipzig." 
 
 Then alleging the hour — time to meet his fiancee 
 
 — he took his leave, reminding Mme Romenay of the 
 mission he had entrusted to her. Mark, going with 
 him to the door, invited him to lunch. He dreaded 
 to be alone with Therese and would fain make sure 
 of a third party. 
 
 " The Waldheims will not like it — but my faith ! 
 I accept all the same. It is well to make oneself de- 
 sired. Here, or at the restaurant.'' " 
 
 Mark turned to his wife and repeated the question. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 219 
 
 Juliette, coining in, at once understood what was 
 under consideration and threw herself into the dis- 
 cussion. 
 
 " The restaurant ! the restaurant ! There are so 
 many people there, and here it is always the same. 
 Papa, we haven't been down to the restaurant a 
 single time ! And there is a great window looking 
 out upon the lake." 
 
 " I have nothing to wear," Therese timidly ob- 
 jected, lifting her hand at the same time to her short 
 hair with the graceful gesture of an amphora bearer. 
 In the restaurant she would be an object of general 
 curiosity, and perhaps every one would know her 
 for the pitiful heroine of the mountain tragedy. 
 Why inflict the darts of so many eyes upon her 
 scarcely healed face.'' But if she should appear too 
 anxious to remain in her apartment, would not her 
 husband believe that she was taking refuge in her 
 secret sorrow, resolved not to emerge from it? She 
 dared not insist and waited, almost trembling, for 
 Mark's decision. 
 
 He was thinking of losing himself in the crowd, 
 avoiding intimate conversation at any cost ; of pass- 
 ing in Michael Monestier's commonplace society that 
 day in which he had hoped to find happiness and 
 which from the very first moment had disappointed 
 him — betrayed him, like Therese. 
 
 " Your gown is very elegant, I assure you," he 
 said. " You are so much alone ! It will amuse 
 you" 
 
220 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 She made no objection, and was already thinking 
 of a little gown which with a slight change, easy to 
 effect before lunch, would be more becoming. 
 
 Mr. Monestier having departed, while her husband 
 was listening to the chatter of Juliette, always over- 
 flowing with things to tell, she took Sylvia aside, 
 and before breaking the news, looked at her long 
 and sorrowfully. She had never wished to give any- 
 one pain, and here she was charged to torture a 
 child's heart. 
 
 " Would you not like a mamma, my darling? " 
 
 " Papa is enough for me." 
 
 " A papa is not always enough." 
 
 " Oh, but my papa is just like a mamma." 
 
 Yet she was not too sure of that now. Her 
 father no longer bundled her up in shawls that were 
 too heavy, no longer called her in from the evening 
 air ; no longer was present when she was being put to 
 bed. A wave of regret for those bygone days sud- 
 denly swept over her, and after that assurance of 
 her satisfaction she threw herself into Mme Rom- 
 enay's arms, who petted and consoled her, adding, 
 
 " They tell me that she is fair and rosy-cheeked. 
 She will love you well, I am certain," 
 
 "Who.?" 
 
 " Irma Waldheim." 
 
 " Ah, that German ! For my part I don't love 
 her." 
 
 "Why not.?" 
 
 " She pricks." 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 221 
 
 "Pricks?" 
 
 " Yes, the first time she kissed me, her brooch 
 pricked me." 
 
 There had been other pricks besides those of the 
 symbolic brooch. Therese was silently indignant, 
 with the best faith in the world, at the barbarity, the 
 infidelity, of Mr. Monestier, who, forgetting the much 
 wept-for dead, was inflicting a step-mother upon this 
 child. 
 
 " Promise me to love her," she said, by way of re- 
 lieving her conscience, kissing the little girl. 
 
 " I never can." 
 
 " Try ! " 
 
 " Ah. Juliette is the lucky one ! " 
 
 "Why.?" 
 
 " She has both a papa and a mamma, — ever since 
 she was born, perhaps." 
 
 When Mme Romenay made her appearance in the 
 vast dining-room of the hotel, passing through to 
 the table reserved for them near the open bay win- 
 dow, she felt herself stared at from all sides, and it 
 seemed to her that she was enduring the tortures of 
 those martyrs who used to be exposed, naked, in the 
 circus. From the shadow in which, till now, she had 
 been living, she had suddenly come out into blind- 
 ing light. Her short hair, her air as of a young 
 boy, made it impossible for her to pass unperceived. 
 She knew nothing of the current legends of " the 
 lady of the balcony," but she divined offensive com- 
 ments. Her very simple white serge gown was al- 
 
222 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 most the dress of a young girl. But her very sim- 
 plicity, her blushes, her embarrassment, at once 
 awoke sympathy. And such was her charm, more 
 powerful than beauty, that the curiosity of which 
 she was the object soon ceased to be hostile. She 
 seemed to be gently saying, " Forget me, do not look 
 at me. I am only a woman, a poor woman, who has 
 suffered much and perhaps has not yet finished." 
 
 Mark, who followed her with Mr. Monestier, re- 
 gretting his decision, felt the insolence of the specta- 
 tors, which he could have been glad to punish, then 
 perceived with surprise their courteous surrender. 
 This day which he had so wished to spend alone with 
 her, he had himself laid waste like a garden of 
 flowers. And now, behold, the sense of exaltation 
 which Therese gave him, was being felt by these 
 others, but without the bitterness and sadness, with- 
 out all the pain with which for him it was mingled. 
 Sylvia and Juliette, radiant, upright in their chairs, 
 playing they were ladies, were delighted to be per- 
 mitted to choose their own Jiors-d'asuvres. From a 
 distance Michael Monestier bowed to the Waldheims 
 whom he covertly pointed out to his hosts, that the 
 latter might admire the opulent Mile Irma and her 
 robust appetite. He explained that he was in bond- 
 age for the afternoon ; an expedition that the whole 
 party had organised for the Dent de Jaman: the 
 children were to be with them. 
 
 " Trust Juliette to me, it is a small climb — noth- 
 ing at all. We take the electric railway, get down 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 223 
 
 at Combe d'Amont and from there reach the summit 
 in three quarters of an hour. From it there is a 
 very extensive view." 
 
 Turning to Mark, he sought to enlist him, partly 
 from politeness, and also that he might not feel him- 
 self lost among all those Germans. 
 
 " Accompany your little girl. The open air will 
 do you good." 
 
 " I am leaving this evening." 
 
 " Oh, we shall be back in time for your train, even 
 if we come down on foot." 
 
 Mark resisted, for he longed to remain with 
 Therese, to be alone with her, though it tore his heart 
 in twain. He tried to read in his wife's eyes, and 
 she thought he was refusing on her account, though 
 desiring to accept. When confidence is gone, every- 
 thing becomes misunderstanding. She also longed 
 for a little time alone with him, that she might try to 
 understand his thought, recover his affection as at 
 Saint Bernard; but to please him, she encouraged 
 him to make the excursion. 
 
 " It will do you good after Paris." 
 
 He imagined that she did not care for his com- 
 pany. " Very well," he said, " I will go." 
 
 And at once she regretted having urged him 
 against her own wishes. 
 
 They set out after luncheon with all those Ger- 
 mans, all in climbing costumes, and all, even the old- 
 est and the fattest, assuming a warlike air. 
 Gaitered, armed with staves, their breasts crossed 
 
224s FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 with the straps of their field glasses and map-cases, 
 they put on airs as if they were in uniform; their 
 feet were enormous in their nailed shoes. 
 
 Michael Monestier and Mark Romenay, who had 
 not so much as turned up their trousers, and who 
 dared to wear their boots and carry their canes, were 
 objects of sarcasm in the electric car. One of the 
 ladies ironically observed: 
 
 " They are going to Versailles." 
 
 On alighting from the train, Mile Irma placed 
 herself at the head of the caravan. With her 
 casque of blond hair, her tall, robust figure, her fine 
 carnation, she resembled a Walkyrie of the moun- 
 tains. She seemed actually to dispense health 
 merely by showing herself. Mark understood the 
 infatuation of his companion, who fell into line be- 
 hind the young lady, and to make sure of being un- 
 derstood paid her the grossest compliments, such as 
 in France are reserved for actresses and literary 
 women. Behind them came Sylvia, melancholy, 
 hanging her head like a whipped dog. When the 
 path narrowed, the German girl took the child's hand 
 and dragged her along with authority. 
 
 The short climb is only an amusement. But on 
 the summit, instead of enjoying the charming view, 
 on one side over the lake and the Alps of Savoy and 
 Le Valais, on the other over the hiUs and pastures of 
 La Gruyere, all those Tartars of the North, by way 
 of making the most of their costumes and their stock 
 of courage, amused themselves with braving vertigo 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 225 
 
 by passing in turn along a narrow ledge above a 
 precipice. Mile Waldheim had inaugurated the' 
 game and MUe Waldheim was not to be disobeyed. 
 
 Mark glanced at Juliette, whom he had placed be- 
 hind him, and saw her braving the undertaking with 
 great delight. 
 
 " At Saint Bernard," she observed, by way of 
 maintaining her superiority, " it was quite another 
 thing." 
 
 He deemed it useless to disturb her tranquillity. 
 She made a bow forward — all the same it was some- 
 what risky, but he was there to snatch her — then 
 a dancing step, and the adventure was over for her. 
 
 There was still Sylvia, who had stepped to the rear 
 of the battalion. She had no love for such exercises. 
 
 " Be very careful," cried her father, and that 
 completed her terror. She refused to make the at- 
 tempt, and wanted to go back. Mile Waldheim 
 burst into a laugh. 
 
 "Ah, ah, you are dizzy." And seizing her, she 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " I'll soon cure you of that, little goose ! " 
 
 She carried her up to a rock which she had before 
 observed at a still more dizzy height, and leaned over 
 with her in her arms. 
 
 The child screamed and struggled, great tears 
 gushing from her eyes. 
 
 " You see ! It is nothing, little French coward ! " 
 
 The whole company were looking on, sneering, 
 when Michael Monestier appeared behind the young 
 
k26 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 woman. He snatched Sylvia from her, saying 
 roughly, 
 
 " Let her alone." 
 
 The child stopped crying. The betrothed pair 
 confronted one another like two enemies. 
 
 " You are crazy ! I didn't hurt her." 
 
 " You saw that she was frightened." 
 
 " Precisely. She must get over her fears." 
 
 Without replying, Michael drew his little girl to 
 the edge of the precipice. 
 
 "Are you afraid now.-* " 
 
 " Not with you, papa." 
 
 " And if I should ask you to let go of my hand ? " 
 
 " See me do it ! " 
 
 Sylvia stood upright on the very edge, motionless, 
 her lips pressed together. She was trembling a lit- 
 tle, but what did she care.? She knew that something 
 serious was going on, and that it would be best that 
 she should not cry, nor draw back. Without know- 
 ing it, she was at that moment under the influence of 
 her mother's memory. 
 
 While Mark Romenay and Juliette applauded, 
 her father lifted her and held her arm out at arm's 
 length. 
 
 " You are a brave little girl," he said. 
 
 Then turning to Irma Waldheim he added severely. 
 
 " You did not know her. You understand noth- 
 ing about her." 
 
 This threw a coldness over the company. Instead 
 of lunching on the grass, they went down the hill 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 227 
 
 again. Before they reached the foot, Michael 
 Monestier and Irma Waldheim were no longer en- 
 gaged. One act had sufficed to show them what they 
 really were to one another — strangers. 
 
 Juliette, excited by the incident, hastened to her 
 mother, exclaiming, " Sylvia's father struck that 
 naughty German lady, who wanted to throw her over 
 the precipice." 
 
 Mark explained the true state of the case, and 
 now it was time for him to go. The day to which he 
 had so looked forward was ending, like one of these 
 Autumn days when from hour to hour we expect the 
 sun to pierce the fog that covers all the landscape, 
 and night comes before it has once appeared. 
 
 "When will you come again?" Therese asked, 
 timidly. 
 
 Ah ! if she had but said, " Why do you go.? " But 
 she made no attempt to detain him. Henceforth she 
 would submit to the future as to a thralldom. 
 
 " I do not know when I shall come again. Soon, 
 probably." 
 
 " And what are your plans for us ? " 
 
 As she asked the simple question she felt the wave 
 of colour that swept over her cheeks to the lobes of 
 her ears. She so longed to know when she could re- 
 turn to her home. Until then it seemed to her that 
 her undefined future would be precarious. 
 
 " Well," said Mark, " you may remain here for 
 some time yet." 
 
 " I am well enough to travel." 
 
228 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 " When the bad weather comes, you can return to 
 Paris." 
 
 " To Paris ! " she murmured tenderly. 
 
 " Yes, my mother will keep you company during 
 my absence." 
 
 " You are going away, then ? " 
 
 " I shall spend the winter in Russia." 
 
 "And not take me?" 
 
 " Consider, Therese, the winter is too severe 
 there," 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 She made no attempt to resist, but she at last un- 
 derstood — what she had not been willing to admit 
 — that the forgiveness at Saint Bernard was a dead 
 letter. And as on the Proz glacier, after the death 
 of her companion, she knew the infinite terror of 
 solitude. With a passionate cry which rent his very 
 heart, she called Juliette who was playing on the 
 balcony, and clasped her in her arms as if some one 
 had threatened to take her from her. Scarcely had 
 she relaxed her clasp when Mark in his turn, draw- 
 ing the child to him, was seeking on her cheeks the 
 kisses that Therese had given her. 
 
 In their mutual distress each clung to the living 
 link, the enduring link of their former love. 
 
 A child had sufficed to break Michael Monestier's 
 engagement. Would Juliette suffice to win for their 
 hearts the victory over the memories that were 
 separating them? 
 
5^ 
 
 The Waldheim family left the hotel the second! 
 day after the famous quarrel. 
 
 From his window Michael Monestier watched the 
 disappearance of the beautiful Irma. He thought 
 that she would look back from the garden, and per- 
 haps if she had the act would have softened him. 
 But the pride of race sustained her, and shortly af- 
 ter the train started and it was over — so soon and 
 so sadly over. 
 
 He immediately sought Mme Romenay's room, 
 
 and with much agitation talked with her of Sylvia's 
 
 mother, whom he had lost and whom he would never 
 
 again consent to replace. The new rent in his heart 
 
 reopened the old wound, and his fiancee being gone 
 
 he felt himself nearer the dead wife, more ardently 
 
 remembering her. Therese tried to comfort him with 
 
 tactful words. He formed the habit of going to her 
 
 almost daily, to speak out his grief to her. He had 
 
 at last come to know — everything gets known 
 
 sooner or later — what a tragedy she had passed 
 
 through, and unconsciously he felt an unconscious 
 
 comfort in confiding his love sorrows to a woman 
 
 who had been so greatly tortured by love. She 
 
 229 
 
230 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 herself, too easily aroused to sentimental exaltation, 
 unconsciously enjoyed leaning over the past as 
 Juliette over the precipice, and Mark was not there 
 to hold her hand. Never, indeed, did she permit the 
 slightest allusion to the tragedy of her own life, hut 
 there were times when her silences were dangerously 
 long. While her companion was reciting the litany 
 of his regrets, she was hearing, like forbidden music, 
 Andre Norans' cantilena. When alone she lamented 
 her own weakness. Thus by degrees her emotions 
 carried with them her uncertain thoughts and she 
 was struggling between two opposing forces ; she was 
 longing for peace, sighing for the repose of her own 
 home, and yet, simply because of the tender confi- 
 dences that were poured into her ear she was con- 
 tinually agitated. Ah, why was not he there for 
 whose support she longed, he who had rescued her, 
 all wounded and trembling in the embrace of death, 
 — why was he not there? 
 
 Another presence came to increase her bewilder- 
 ment and wretchedness. One day a carriage from 
 the direction of the Oberland brought Edmund de 
 Baulaine and Manette Durban to Caux. They were 
 not dressed like travellers, but seemed rather like two 
 fugitives, who had packed and departed in haste. 
 They had been staying at Avants when IManette's 
 husband and family had arrived. To meet in that 
 mountain hotel ! They immediately decided upon 
 flight. Caux was not very distant, so they chose 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 231 
 
 Caux. Caux is vast and without distinctive charac- 
 ter, aU the easier to remain unknown there. And 
 had not the unhappy woman, at the moment of her 
 departure, seen, only a few steps from her, her 
 youngest son, grown, healthy and happy, who also 
 looked at her — looked at her and did not know 
 her! 
 
 They were playing at being lovers, playing to 
 themselves, and also to the public. Apart, each of 
 them expressed a lassitude that amounted almost to 
 horror. Therese, who met the young woman in the 
 passage, was surprised at the weariness of her step, 
 the change in her piquante little face. 
 
 Formerly, without being intimate with her, she 
 had known her in society, and she still remembered 
 the scandal caused by her flight. " What, that little 
 Manette undertakes a grand love affair ! " " Who 
 could have imagined it ? " " What affectation ! " 
 " She must be romantic, where everything may be so 
 easily arranged in Paris — so comfortably ! " "I 
 thought her husband was so indulgent ! " " You will 
 see, he will take her back." " Within six months all 
 will be as before." " And the handsome Edmund 
 will lay siege elsewhere." " Every besieged fortress 
 surrenders sooner or later. It's inevitable." 
 
 How many such remarks she had heard, relative to 
 one or another Parisian adventure, as a general thing 
 particularly severe upon any sincere, awkward or 
 tragic outcome, as if social safety required that re- 
 spect for hypocrisy which is the true support of so- 
 
232 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 ciety ! And a little later — what must have they not 
 have said about herself! She also must have served 
 as the target for comments and sarcasm, all the more 
 because in her directness she had so often blamed the 
 actors of dramas of passion, before she had herself 
 become the victim of love. Until that moment she 
 had hardly thought of this, for passion isolates, and 
 now, meeting a guilty woman who had preceded her 
 in wrong doing, she felt retrospectively the shame of 
 publicity, and blushed. 
 
 Manette had not ceased to feel an emotion of re- 
 pulsion at her own audacity, attaching a dreadful 
 importance to public opinion. She turned away, as 
 if she knew that she was not fit company for her, and 
 when Therese bowed to her she hung her head, bowed 
 her shoulders and fled. 
 
 Edmund de Baulaine learned from Slichael 
 Monestier of Therese's presence. 
 
 " You are in love with her, I see," he remarked 
 after having patiently listened to Monestier's end- 
 less eulogies of Mme Romenay. 
 
 " How absurd ! " protested Michael in all good 
 faith. " I am the man of one woman and she is 
 dead." 
 
 " It is a serious inferiority," observed the other. 
 
 Nevertheless, Baulaine, absorbed in his own case, 
 could not refrain from questioning him as to 
 Therese's return to the fold. 
 
 " It's a fine example. If Manette would only imi- 
 tate it! Well, the ladies are acquainted with one 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 233 
 
 another. Why should not Manette call upon her? " 
 
 " Don't think of it ! Mme Romenay would not re- 
 ceive her." 
 
 " Well, upon my word ! Didn't both of them go 
 off with a lover ? " 
 
 "It is not the same thing. Mme Romenay is ir- 
 reproachable now. And her husband is not the man 
 to be Indifferent to her associates." 
 
 Michael Mone^'tier was bold to speak almost se- 
 verely to his interlocutor,' as if the position of the 
 two women was not to be compared, and as if he 
 had Therese's honour in charge. Baulaine, indif- 
 ferent, appeared not in the least wounded, but con- 
 tented himself with giving another turn to the con- 
 versation. 
 
 " So it is all right between them? Why doesn't 
 Romenay take his wife back to Paris ? " 
 
 " She has been through so much. She is recov- 
 ering very slowly." 
 
 "Doesn't he come to see her?" 
 
 " He came the last of August, and twice in Sep- 
 tember." 
 
 " You keep strict account. It isn't often. Does 
 he stay several days at a time?" 
 
 " He goes back the same night." 
 
 " The same night ! A day-time husband ! Bad 
 sign ! My dear Monestier your chances are good. 
 One who has drunk will drink again." 
 
 His pleasantries were not appreciated. Michael 
 Monestier received them with such bad grace that 
 
234 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 Baulaine begged his pardon in a way that grated 
 upon him; he had not intended to speak lightly of 
 Mme Romenay, whose sufferings and bereavement 
 he respected as much as her recent virtue. 
 
 He did not fail to laud her recent virtue to Ma- 
 nette as soon as he was alone with her. 
 
 One morning Mme Romenay, taking the eleva- 
 tor to go down to the hall, met Manette whose room 
 was on the first floor. The latter was already low- 
 ering her veil when Therese held out her hand. Ma- 
 nette's " Oh, Madame ! " was as grateful as if love 
 had not bowed them both alike beneath his yoke. 
 
 Still, they found it very difficult to keep up a 
 conversation. After a few meaningless remarks, 
 they were about to part, when suddenly Edmund 
 de Baulaine's mistress murmured in a beseeching 
 tone, 
 
 " I wish I might speak to you, Madame. Will 
 you let me ? Don't repel me ! " 
 
 ", Why should I repel you.''" 
 
 They were in the hall, often deserted in the morn- 
 ing, and they moved to the bay window. A fine, 
 persistent rain was falling, and the mountains were 
 gradually disappearing in fog, while the dull waters 
 of the lake seemed to fill the entire landscape and 
 rise up to meet the low sky. Manette's energy 
 seemed to have been exhausted by the first advance, 
 and Mme Romenay kindly smoothed the way to her 
 confidence. 
 
 " You are not happy." 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 235 
 
 " Ah, Madame, if you knew ! " Manette exclaimed, 
 then, suddenly, " I have seen my youngest little boy, 
 Rene." 
 
 She described the scene at Avants, the little 
 boy playing close to her, whom she had not dared 
 to kiss, who had looked at her and had not recog- 
 nised her. She added timidly, almost admiringly, 
 
 " How did you have the courage to do what you 
 have done? " 
 
 " You are mistaken ; I did not have the cour- 
 age." 
 
 In a lower voice, as if confessing a cowardice, 
 Therese said, bowing her head, 
 
 " He was dead and I thought to die." 
 
 The recollection froze her. 
 
 " It is worse with me," said Manette after a pause : 
 " My love is dead." 
 
 " Why do you not leave him.'' Your husband — " 
 
 " He has written to me, I have his letter here. 
 It burns me. He learned that we had been at 
 Avants, he knows that we are at Caux. He calls 
 me. He will never reproach me." 
 
 " Then why do you stay.'' " 
 
 " Because of Edmund. He loves me. He will 
 love me always." 
 
 Therese, hearing these words, could not repress 
 a doubtful smile. Through Michael Monestier's in- 
 discretion she knew of Edmund de Baulaine's disen- 
 chantment, his incurable weariness of it all, and his 
 indelicate complaints of his bondage. 
 
296 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 How little people know one another, though living 
 side by side! How easily they are satisfied with 
 the most superficial appearances, the most common- 
 place protestations, the grossest falsehoods ! How 
 small an external pretence suffices to enable them to 
 deceive themselves, to spread an apparent calmness 
 over the tragic intimacy ! She herself, at least, had 
 always been sincere, had always inspired sincerity 
 in those around her, and yet when in those days she 
 used to return, confused and agitated, from her 
 meetings with Andre Norans, neither her brow, nor 
 her eyes, nor her lips had betrayed her. She alone 
 had distinguished in the glass the image of a false 
 and guilty woman, and perhaps this image, which 
 she alone could see — perhaps it did not exist. 
 
 Her weakness came to the succour of Manette's 
 weakness. People began to come and go in the hall. 
 Young men and girls, eager to get out into the air, 
 to play tennis, were studying the weather. Mark 
 would not have liked that she should be noticed in 
 company with a compromised woman. Quite natu- 
 rally, with no useless care for logic, the modesty of 
 former days came back to her. 
 
 " Will you listen to me ? " she asked Manette in 
 a slight tone of authority, which surprised herself. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I am willing to obey you, I do not 
 know why. You speak, and one gives you her heart." 
 
 She also was submitting to Therese's indefinable 
 charm, and Therese, who did not believe in it, under- 
 took to make use of it at once. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 237 
 
 " Go ; go at once without looking back." 
 
 "Impossible!" 
 
 "Why? It is not a two hours' walk to Avants." 
 
 " I cannot walk. I should be afraid. And my 
 baggage.'' " 
 
 " I will send it after you." 
 
 " See, it is raining." 
 
 " All the better : your going will not be noticed." 
 
 " One cannot go away on a rainy day. It must 
 be a day of fine weather, for the sun gives joy, and 
 a little audacity." 
 
 " I will go part of the way with you." 
 
 " You would do that for me? Are you quite well, 
 now? " 
 
 "Yes. Let us go. Will you?" 
 
 At the last moment, about to quit the hotel, Ma- 
 nette would have resisted. 
 
 " It is impossible. He loves me." 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 "Oh, me? I don't know." 
 
 Therese made a gesture of infinite sadness. 
 
 " One forgets. I assure you that one forgets." 
 
 And the two women, together under one umbrella, 
 took the road to the Oberland, by way of the wooded 
 ravine of the Chauderon. Great drops fell upon 
 them from the pines and beeches. The landscape 
 around them was hidden by the fog. Neither the 
 Dent de Jaman nor the Rocks of Naye were visible. 
 Thus lost to sight, they went on like a little bark 
 upon the sea. 
 
238 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 They had ceased to talk. The decision once 
 taken there was nothing more to say. The sound of 
 the wind in the branches carried back the thoughts of 
 both of them, Manette's to her handsome lover who 
 would be so angry, so vexed, so pained, Therese's 
 to the Proz glacier where Andre Norans had died, 
 Andre whom living she would never have left. She 
 would never have been able to leave him, and yet she 
 had not wept for him — but what could she do 
 against life? She did not well understand anything 
 that she had done, since she had lived, against her 
 will, and since death had cured her of her guilty love. 
 They must be drawing near to Avants though they 
 could not distinguish it. Therese stopped. 
 
 " Here, Madame, let us bid one another good-bye." 
 " Do not leave me alone, I implore you ! " 
 " I must indeed be thinking of my return, Caux 
 is a long way off, and I shall arrive too late for 
 luncheon." 
 
 " I shall not be easy, all alone." 
 " You will arrive in less than half an hour." 
 " Fortunately. I am tired to death." 
 At the moment of separation Manette melted into 
 tears. 
 
 " It is terrible ! I shall never see him again ! 
 Tell him — " 
 
 "What shall I tell him." " 
 " Whatever you think best." 
 
 While her companion held the umbrella over her 
 she mechanically searched in her reticule for her 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF. LIFE 239 
 
 vanity box, to make up her face a little. Then she 
 asked, 
 
 " Just to give me courage — will you kiss me, 
 Madame?" 
 
 " I will indeed." 
 
 " And you will watch me until I am out of sight ? " 
 
 " Do not turn back." 
 
 " I promise, if you will stay there." 
 
 She set out, but in a moment turned back to say, 
 mischievously : 
 
 " It is not very gay — going back." 
 
 Therese thought — " nor going away " — but she 
 made no answer. And the erring little woman who 
 was returning to her hearth by the mountain road 
 soon became in the fog a little grey shadow which 
 lost its form, melted away, like a smoke. Yet she did 
 not once turn back. In all docility, she accepted. 
 There close by, when she should arrive half terrified, 
 very weary and wet through, she would find a mature 
 and indulgent husband, who had never ceased to 
 cherish her and to suifer for her absence. Above all, 
 she would find her two children. And most assuredly, 
 to make a suitable entrance she would take out her 
 vanity box before showing herself. It is very im- 
 portant, and in the gravest situations not to be 
 omitted. 
 
 " She gets on faster than I," Therese sadly re- 
 flected as she stood motionless where Manette had left 
 her. That very day volatile little Manette would 
 resume her own place and no one would reprove her. 
 
240 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 She would not bruise herself against Mark's proud, 
 fierce pain, the pain that says nothing and grows 
 deeper in silence. 
 
 When at last she could distinguish through the 
 fog the high walls of the Palace Hotel, like an enor- 
 mous phantom ship, she rejoiced, for it had been a 
 long time that she had hardly been able to drag one 
 foot after the other. This two or three hours' walk, 
 — she did not precisely know how long — had ex- 
 hausted her. Convalescence had not yet restored all 
 her strength, and her fall had left her a little more 
 frail and less resistent. Edmund de Baulaine was 
 at the door, watching for her, and ran to meet her. 
 
 " I have been looking everywhere for Manette. 
 Haven't you seen Manette? Where is Manette.?" 
 
 He had never come into her presence since his ar- 
 rival at Caux, and now he spoke brusquely to her, 
 without even saluting her. How was it possible that 
 anxiety could thus transform so well bred a man, one 
 who attached such importance to good manners ! 
 Therese supported the shock and with her natural 
 truthfulness she loyally replied: 
 
 " She is with her husband." 
 
 " She is ! She has left me — left me forever ? It 
 is not possible ! " 
 
 He still doubted. She went on without haste. 
 
 " You must send her baggage after her. To the 
 Grand Hotel at Avants." 
 
 He had never been a favourite of hers, and she 
 felt no desire to soften the news of the rupture. She 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 241 
 
 was not ignorant of his desire for liberation, and she 
 thought he was making a pretence of grief. 
 
 " It was you," he asked, " who counselled her to 
 do this? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 And as he so perfectly assumed the appearance of 
 idespair, she added, not without some contempt. 
 
 " Is it not what you wanted.'' " 
 
 " Oh, not now." 
 
 Somewhat surprised, she looked more closely at 
 him. His uncared for moustaches with their lament- 
 able droop, his unshaven cheeks, his discomfited and 
 humiliated air, made him a spectacle at once afflict- 
 ing and ridiculous. His careless appearance offered 
 a proof of his sincerity. She was touched by it, but 
 she thought " People forget." 
 
 She was going in, but he stopped her, " Did she 
 send no word to me? " 
 
 " She dreaded too much to give you pain." 
 
 " Did she weep much? " 
 
 " Much, no. She is courageous." 
 
 He could have wished that at least she had wept 
 much. But on this reply he controlled himself bet- 
 ter. Therese was already leaving him to go to her 
 apartment. She found Juliette there, greatly ex- 
 cited. 
 
 "Mamma, mamma, why are you so late?" 
 
 " It is not late, my darling." 
 
 " It is after luncheon. If you only knew ! " 
 
 " What happened while I was gone? " 
 
242 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 " Papa came and went awaj again." 
 
 " Went away again ? " 
 
 "Yes. He looked everywhere for you. Couldn't 
 find you anywhere. He is at Montreux for a villa 
 that he is building. He will come back again. Per- 
 haps to-morrow, perhaps day after. Perhaps every 
 day." 
 
 " Why did he not wait for me? " 
 
 " He did wait a long time. But he got tired at 
 last. Oh, Mamma, you are all wet! And your 
 boots are covered with mud." 
 
 Therese went to her room to change her clothes. 
 There, at Avants the repentant Manette, Manette 
 whom she had guided and saved, had no doubt found 
 her home, while she — he had not deigned to wait 
 for her a few hours ! And it seemed to her as if life 
 was like that interminable walk in the rain and fog, 
 an interminable walk with no certainty of ever reach- 
 ing home. 
 
yi 
 
 The brilliant conversationalist is to be found at 
 every fashionable watering place, in every Alpine 
 hotel. He is especially in evidence at tea time, or 
 in the evening when the terrace is crowded with lis- 
 teners. He may be heard artfully balancing his an- 
 ecdotes, adjusting his paradoxes, developing his sys- 
 tems, pronouncing judgment upon political, literary, 
 or historical subjects. He has his mission, which is 
 to ward off the too deep sense of the influence of na- 
 ture, whose voice can be heard only when man is 
 silent. 
 
 The season at the Palace Hotel in Caux was rather 
 far advanced for a brilliant conversationalist. A 
 few rainy days at the end of September had been 
 enough to put tourists to flight. On the mountains 
 rain is cold. Fires must be built, winter wraps 
 brought out, and the cloudy sky darkens everything 
 for those who have no eye for cloud movements, mist- 
 veiled trees, all that half-hiding of things which re- 
 sembles the half-hiding of thought and will by the 
 slow succession of minutes and hours. Then Oc- 
 tober had come, bright and glorious, giving new life 
 to the weary landscape and turning the forest into 
 
 an immense gardei). The hillsides that slope down 
 
 243 
 
r24.4.^ FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 to the lake were like terraces of red or golden flowers, 
 bringing out the values of the darker foliage. The 
 dull green of pines served as buffers for the striking 
 tones of maples and beeches; their mingled masses 
 would have been like the heavy tones of tapestry but 
 for the vibrations of the caressing light, stirring 
 them with a thousand vivid thrills. With the first 
 high wind these leaves would be scattered over the 
 ground, leaving bare the black tree-tops, the fine 
 nerving of branches, like beautiful half-nude bodies. 
 One felt that they hardly kept their hold, that al- 
 ready they were falling, that they were like bouquets 
 which one enj oys gazing upon, not more because they 
 are beautiful than because the moment is near when 
 they must be thrown away. And the constant 
 menace of that moment gives to the softness of au- 
 tumn the touching charm of things that are soon to 
 end. 
 
 Both sky and water had taken on that pale blue 
 shade unknown to lands of sun and heat, which tells 
 of the North and of approaching snowstorms. And 
 above the horizon the spreading ruddy vapours were 
 dimming the outlines of things. 
 
 On the terrace Mark Romenay and his wife, side 
 by side at a tea table, appeared to be enjoying the 
 lovely fleeting hour. Now and again Juliette, play- 
 ing with Sylvia Monestier, all the more freely at 
 ease because there were no other children and they 
 had the whole place to themselves, would run up to 
 them, but never for long at a time. If she went too 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 245 
 
 far away Therese would call her back, partly for 
 care of her, but stiU more for fear of the silence. 
 Mark often came up to Caux for the day from Mon- 
 treux, where he was settled. And every day that 
 he spent there was a disappointment to them both. 
 She was always gentle and yielding, he always tried 
 to be tender. The memory that both were deter- 
 mined to put down condemned their conversation to 
 the commonplace, or started up whenever they be- 
 gan to exchange their deeper thoughts. Mark, dis- 
 couraged, vainly made appeal to his pride. Therese 
 was no longer his wife, the wife of the days be- 
 fore her forgiven fault, but a widow of whom he 
 had become the melancholy, timid, and awkward 
 betrothed. 
 
 She was telling him of Manette Durham's flight, 
 which she had encouraged. 
 
 " They no longer loved one another," Mark de- 
 clared ; " and her husband is so weak." 
 
 Neither could go farther: each word would have 
 contained an allusion. He envied the weakness of 
 Manette's husband, since it kept him from thinking. 
 And Therese despised it, yet asked herself what 
 strength could take its place. 
 
 A group took possession of a neighbouring table ; 
 two very elegant young women, two young men, and 
 an elderly gentleman, who at once began to perorate. 
 They were French. Then the brilliant conversation- 
 alist had not taken his departure, he must still 
 be endured. Through the open windows — the 
 
246 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 weather was so mild — floated the mournful chords 
 of a piano, the passionate song of the Death of 
 Yseult. The old gentleman, inspired by the music, 
 began a dissertation upon life. Mark and Therese 
 at first paid no attention, but by degrees, in spite 
 of themselves, their attention was attracted. He was 
 not the commonplace talker, who pitilessly imposes 
 his harangues as a merchant imposes his wares, in 
 spite of everything : he had certainly read much, had 
 also evidently experienced much, and what he said 
 did not disparage the immortal close of Tristan, al- 
 though he denied its truth. From time to time one 
 of the young women would interrupt, dispute his po- 
 sitions, utter a protest in the very name of love. As 
 for the two youths, sporting men, they sucked their 
 cocktails through their straws and took no part in 
 the psychological match, which had little interest 
 for them. 
 
 " Yes," replied the old gentleman to one of these 
 interruptions, " like all our fine romantic girls of 
 to-day you enjoy this 'wild poem, all rocked by the 
 sea and surrounded by the forest.' Tristan and 
 Yseult represent to you the inevitability, the omnipo- 
 tence of love, and why? Because each dies by the 
 other, he by her and she by him. But if one of them 
 had survived.'' " 
 
 " Impossible ! " 
 
 "Why? Do we never outlive our sentiments, 
 then?" 
 
 " Not such sentiments." 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE Ml 
 
 "What do you know about it? Fortunately you 
 know nothing about it. But you have perhaps met, 
 without knowing it, men and women whose hearts 
 have been thus ravaged, who have been silent, and 
 have been able to live on." 
 
 "But what a life!" 
 
 " How young you are, my little friend ! They 
 might have lived, and lived happily." 
 
 " Then they never loved." 
 
 " They had loved. They too had drunk the fatal 
 draught. Do you remember what Tristan said after 
 he had drunk, — not the philosophic Tristan of 
 Wagner, but the Tristan of the Cornish legend, as a 
 great artist has recalled him to life. Yseult, what 
 is it that gives you pain? And Yseult replies. 
 Ah, ail that I am gives me pain, and all that I see — 
 the sky and this ocean and my body and my life! 
 And when Tristan repeats the question she sighs. 
 The love of you. And they forget the world as the 
 world forgets them and there is only they in life, and 
 later in the Forest of Morois." 
 
 " There ! you see ! You are thinking only of 
 Tristan." 
 
 " I am thinking also of Romeo and Juliet, who also 
 united themselves in death. You remember what 
 Juliet said. After casting away the empty cup, the 
 poisoned cup which Romeo had drained, Let me kiss 
 thy lips; perhaps they retain a drop of poison, that 
 I may drink and die happy. How warm they are — 
 thy lips! " 
 
248 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 He was becoming impassioned and they exclaimed 
 in triumph. 
 
 " You see ! You see ! Tristan and Romeo — 
 there is nothing more noble than they." 
 
 " There is the truth," he replied calmly. " Only 
 men will not endure it. They have no eyes to see 
 that it is the noblest thing for no other reason than 
 that it is. That is why poets try to make us take 
 for audacity what is in reality only the evidence of 
 their weakness. When Tristan is about to fight the 
 giant Morhalt on the Island, he pushes back his bark 
 as he lands, for he wishes to take his risk. And 
 Yseult, when she has received the magic bell whose 
 music will chase away her grief, throws it into the 
 sea that she may keep her grief. But the flood of 
 life brings back both bark and beU. Only those 
 realists, the Greeks, refused to recognise the parallel- 
 ism of fate. It is fate which binds up destinies, but 
 fate also that unbinds them. No heroine of love let 
 loose so many ills as Helen. And Helen, of all the 
 heroines of love, is perhaps the only true one, for 
 Helen alone is the Survivor." 
 
 "The Survivor?" 
 
 " Certainly. Only incompetent tragic authors 
 end their dramas with death. It is too facile a 
 method. Troy is razed to the earth, and nothing is 
 left but ruins. Paris, beautiful Paris, is no more. 
 And Helen returns to her tome. After so many 
 storms it is n,ot without satisfaction that she returns 
 to peace, to regular duty. See her as she comes 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 249 
 
 down to the banquet hall with all the majesty of a 
 Diana armed with her golden bow. No one dares 
 speak in her presence of the calamitous war. But 
 with the most natural simplicity she is not afraid to 
 remind the banqueters of the time when Venus up- 
 held her in her power after having snatched her from 
 her native land, her palace, her daughter, and her 
 husband so worthy of her love." 
 
 " How horrible ! " exclaimed one of the two young 
 women. 
 
 " On the contrary, how wonderful ! She had sub- 
 mitted to order. Leave those romantic visions that 
 picture love as a desire for which there is no cure. 
 Love, like all things else, is subordinate to the laws 
 of life. It cannot evade them. Thus Helen is to 
 me more touching than Juliet, that unabashed board- 
 ing school miss, and than Yseult, that incurable en- 
 chantress. Helen is never in a state of revolt 
 against life. Helen forgets when it is necessary to 
 forget. Helen is a woman." 
 
 Upon this allusion to the usefulness of forgetful- 
 ness, one of the two young women, whether she felt 
 thrown back upon herself, whether from a wish to 
 display a bit of poetic erudition, repeated the plain- 
 tive and melancholy lines of a contemporary: 
 
 " Vous m'ouhlieres, helas! car il est d'autres soirs 
 D'autres huts, d'autres pleurs et bien d'autres espoirs, 
 Surtout pour la raison simple, triste, infinie. 
 Que I'on ne peut se souvenir toute sa vie." * 
 *"You will forget me alas I for there are other eveminga. 
 
250 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 Hereupon, the orator, to resume the upper hand, 
 completed his ode to Helen by a final strophe : 
 
 " Nevertheless these same Greeks, for whom love 
 was a sacred ill, an inevitable and temporary ill, cele- 
 brated the immortality of conjugal fidelity in Pen- 
 elope and Alkestis. For the enduring nature of 
 conjugal fidelity rests upon all the forces of the 
 community and the family, and upon that heart- 
 peace which is so dear to a well-born woman of normal 
 health." 
 
 But the final eulogy of marriage met with no 
 response. 
 
 The brilliant conversationalist shortly rose and de- 
 parted, followed by his court. Mark had recog- 
 nised him as a writer whose limited renown was not 
 equal to his merit, a disciple and almost a rival of 
 Gaston Paris. He had formerly met him in Rome, 
 preaching that renaissance of classicism of which the 
 manifestations abound in the art of to-day. 
 
 During his long monologue neither Therese nor 
 he had uttered a word, and they still kept silence long 
 after the departure of the group. The autumn 
 landscape, still gilded by the sun, enfolded them in 
 its loveliness, its dying charm. 
 
 He recalled to mind his ascent of the Proz glacier, 
 and all his jealous pain in the face of the narrow 
 ledge where the two lovers had agonised for three 
 
 Other purposes, other tears, and many other hopes. 
 Most of all for the simple, sad, infinite reason 
 That one cannot remember all one's life long." 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 261 
 
 days, the narrow ledge which the snow left hardly vis- 
 ible upon the precipice, the snow which had covered 
 up every vestige of the tragedy. 
 
 Had they been found together upon the slope, 
 forever frozen in that embrace, they would have been 
 cited as a pair of lovers. Because she had survived 
 him, was anything changed? Yseult or Juliet may 
 die in legend, the better to poetise their passions. 
 Surviving, would they have ceased to belong to the 
 dead? He repelled the reply of the Prior of Saint 
 Bernard : — All is changed because she did surmve 
 him. 
 
 Like him, even more spontaneously than he, 
 Therese was applying to her own case the remarks 
 which she had just heard. She had not contracted 
 the dangerous habit of undirected self-observation, 
 and the glance that she now directed within filled her 
 with surprise and almost with terror. " Yes," she 
 thought, " Helen simply resumed her natural life, 
 and I have done nothing different. She did not know 
 why she had loved, and neither do I know. I am not 
 a very complicated woman and Mark does not wish 
 to understand me. And if I seek to understand my- 
 self, I feel my heart pierced in all directions. I 
 lost my dear lover on the mountain and yet I have 
 since then thought only of Juliette, of my desire for 
 my home, of my husband who will not believe in my 
 love. Helen dared to speak of the past. If I could 
 venture to do so, perhaps I should break the unhappy 
 spell which divides us. Everything might be so 
 
252 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 simple, and yet every day increases our discomfort, 
 our distress." 
 
 Thus she saw in the truth a means of drawing 
 nearer to one another, while Mark's pride declared 
 reconciliation impossible. Their financial condition, 
 he mentally concluded, could at least lend itself to 
 that sort of separation which is in harmony with the 
 simulation of a common existence. He would soon 
 be setting out for Russia. The entire winter would 
 elapse and would prepare them for such a solution. 
 The one thing to be avoided at any cost was the de- 
 grading solicitation of caresses, the enthralment of 
 the flesh, the inheritance of him who was dead. 
 
 Was this silence to last forever.? At the close 
 of their reflections, they looked at one another. She 
 was wearing one of those white woollen mantles which 
 are so much In vogue in the Alps for evenings and 
 for the autumn. Under her white cap her hair, once 
 so long and beautiful, now darker than formerly, 
 was beginning to curl a little. Casting about for 
 words with which to open the conversation, she sud- 
 denly felt ashamed of what she must reveal, the im^ 
 possibility of explaining how her guilty love was re- 
 ceding into the background, and becoming a painful 
 memory. Her whole face flushed. Her neck and 
 even her shoulders must have blushed, to judge from 
 the warm tint of her throat. Yseult, what is it that 
 pains you^ Everything pains me, tlie sky, and my 
 body, and my life. But if he had repeated What w 
 it that pains you? She would not have dared to re- 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 253 
 
 ply: Love for you. And yet that was what she 
 wanted to say. And entirely gained over by that 
 unaffected grace, that indefinable charm, of such 
 sure persuasion, which was felt by little Sylvia as 
 well as by any indifferent passer-by, Mark recog- 
 nised the senselessness of his plan. 
 
 " She is a creature made for love," he said to him- 
 self, attracted and yet discouraged. " It is impos- 
 sible not to love her. I do love her, and yet, if I 
 am not a scoundrel, she will never again be mine." 
 
 And she, overcome, terrified, by the audacity of 
 what she had in mind, full of confusion, thought to 
 herself : " He is too proud, I could never say it to 
 him — with my short hair, I am no longer pretty. 
 He has ceased to love me." 
 
 Michael Monestier and Edmund de Baulaine 
 joined them on the terrace. By degrees they had 
 become Therese's daily companions. Was it not be- 
 cause of her that they indefinitely prolonged their 
 stay at Caux, one pleading his little daughter's 
 health, and the other Manette's flight, which had left 
 him nerveless.'' She was called upon to receive their 
 confidences by turns. In vain had she sought to 
 check them, to avoid them. They pursued her with 
 their sorrowful tales. And beneath their high- 
 strung complaints she dreaded to discover another 
 sentiment, growing under the shelter of these ener- 
 vating conversations as a strong shrub grows under 
 a parasitic plant. As she had no vestige of coquetry 
 she had sought to reassure herself. Mark had ad- 
 
254) FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 vised her not to be much alone, and she did not care 
 for the hotel society. Why did not he remain with 
 her? Ought he not to protect her? Had he no- 
 ticed their advances, or was she indeed self -deceived? 
 
 In his recent visits to Caux, he had seen their ar- 
 rival without displeasure and even with some satis- 
 faction, as if he hoped they would prevent too pain- 
 ful interviews with his wife. But whether he had 
 in fact perceived their unavowed designs, or whether 
 he, himself, now hoped to put an end to what was 
 beginning to be an intolerable situation, he received 
 them coldly and was evidently uncomfortable in their 
 society. He could not bear that any one should be 
 near Therese ; even Juliette's presence annoyed him. 
 And yet when they were alone he gained nothing by 
 it, except to be desperately wounded by their long 
 silences. 
 
 It was the golden hour that precedes the swift- 
 falling October night. The sun was bending to the 
 mountain chain, reflected in the lake as a long pillar 
 of fire, trembling, lengthening, then suddenly dimin- 
 ishing until it is only the reflection of a star, resting 
 on the shoulder of the mountain ; a star which shines 
 for one moment with a loud cry of adieu and then 
 vanishes. Shadows, still mingled with rays of light, 
 rise from the water, reach the village and vineyards 
 of the shore, invade the slopes, where but now the 
 red maples were all aflame, and suddenly descend 
 upon the terrace of the hotel. In vain do the high 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 255 
 
 summits, the Dent du Midi, the Trient, still defend 
 themselves. Their delicate rosy tones, their tints as 
 of flowers, or of living flesh, are growing dark. In 
 their nohle sadness it seems as if they, like men, felt 
 in advance their defeat. 
 
 " Let us go in," says Therese, who is cold not- 
 withstanding her woollen mantle. 
 
 " Will they follow her ? " Mark asks himself almost 
 disdainfully, and the three men follow, enter her 
 sitting-room, while Mme Acher takes Juliette and 
 Sylvia away. 
 
 The hours pass and nothing happens. By and 
 by, very soon, it will be time for dinner, and then it 
 will be time to go to the station for the last train. 
 Mark has no heart to pretend an interest in the lan- 
 guishing conversation. And when Edmund de Bau- 
 laine and Michel Monestier, accustomed to make in- 
 terminable visits, have at last taken their leisurely 
 leave, he tells himself that it is too late to begin to 
 talk, to explain anything. Another time it will be 
 the same thing. 
 
 " They interest you.? " he asks his wife, almost 
 timidly. 
 
 " Oh, no," she replies. 
 
 " Then why do you let them come ? " 
 
 " They are your friends. Ought I to tell them 
 not to come.? " 
 
 "Why, no, why?" 
 
 They are setting the table in the ante-chamber 
 
256 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 which serves as dining-room. An intimate conversa- 
 tion has become entirely impossible with the waiter 
 so near, and the clinking of china. 
 
 Dinner is served and Juliette returns upon the 
 scene, with her everlasting governess. Fortunately 
 Juliette enlivens the meal a ifttle, with her chatter, 
 her absurd questions, her insistence upon an answer. 
 
 Immediately after dessert, Therese sends the child 
 to bed in spite of her protestations. Is Therese 
 also seeking to come to an understanding? Now it 
 is he who does not lend himself to the attempt, who 
 avoids every occasion of intimacy, regretting it all 
 the time. 
 
 Well, it is over! Pitiless time has kept on its 
 way ; he must go. And as they are saying good-bye, 
 blushing, she uses the " thou " of the dear old days. 
 
 "When wilt thou come again .^ Soon.-"' 
 
 He is surprised. With nothing but a word she 
 has found the way to his heart. Before he leaves 
 he will give her a gentle kiss. My faith, how small 
 a thing is a man's pride! Shall he yield thus, just 
 for a tender word which really alters nothing, and 
 which she must have used with the other one, and 
 with more of truth? He has already got himself in 
 hand and almost rudely he replies. 
 
 " I do not know yet — I will let you know." 
 
 It is over. He is going down stairs. How hard 
 he was to her and what a heart-broken expression 
 he had read in her face ! Why did he hurt her so ! — 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 257 
 
 when she was so kind to him. And in the entrance 
 hall, ascertaining that he still had a quarter of an 
 hour to spare, he raa to the elevator as if he had 
 forgotten something and went up again. He would 
 have just the time to repair his unkindness, to leave 
 her less brutally, to carry away with him a less dis- 
 couraged expression on her face. 
 
 The elevator stopped at her floor and he hastened 
 down the corridor. She was not expecting his re- 
 turn, she would be surprised, pleased, perhaps, and 
 the thought made him happy. He would say, " I 
 didn't half bid you good-bye," would touch her 
 cheek, and hasten back. Should he, like her, say, 
 thou instead of you? Should he go so far as to kiss 
 her? He was not quite sure, but he hoped so. 
 
 At the end of the passage, before the well-known 
 door, a man was knocking, awaiting an invitation to 
 go in — going in. It was Therese's room ; he could 
 not be mistaken. Who wanted to see her at this late 
 hour ? Ah ! of course Edmund de Baulaine or 
 Michael Monestier had been watching for him to go, 
 was taking advantage of his absence! She was re- 
 ceiving him, perhaps she herself had planned with 
 him this hideous new treachery. In a moment he 
 charged her with deceit, heaped ignominy upon her. 
 She had had one lover, had he forgotten that, when 
 he showed her such respect and confidence? All the 
 shame of his own love swept over him, measured by 
 the suffering it was causing him. 
 
258 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 Hastening after the unknown, he entered : the door 
 was unfastened. Therese's terrified voice reached 
 him in the ante-chamber: 
 
 " Go ! go ! or I shaU caU for help ! " 
 
 She was defending herself with violence: she was 
 afraid. 
 
 " Will you not let me," — protested Baulaine, for 
 it was he. "Do you not understand.''" 
 
 But Mark was confronting him : 
 
 " Mme Romenay has requested you to leave the 
 room, sir. I invite you to leave the hotel." 
 
 " Thou ! " exclaimed Therese. 
 
 Her exclamation, even more than Mark's attitude, 
 put Edmund de Baulaine to flight. 
 
 To see her thus distressed, reaching out to him as 
 to a saviour, made Mark giddy, and he clasped her 
 in his arms. She did not defend herself, she yielded 
 to his caress, murmuring timidly: 
 
 " Mark, my dear." 
 
 Her sweet face, framed in short hair, with the 
 marks of suffering and the delicate skin so quick to 
 change colour, revealed an inward distress. He 
 could not mistake it. The eyes which she fixed upon 
 him were full of dread. Not thus had she imagined 
 their reconciliation. She was like one newly be- 
 trothed, alarmed by rudeness yet not struggling 
 against it, who yields in advance to her impatient and 
 ungentle master. She could not, would not resist, 
 she had no wish to resist. And while he bore her, 
 captive and consenting, into her room, lavishing 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 259 
 
 caresses upon her, she uttered a faint moan, a con- 
 tinuous moan like a little child. In spite of himself 
 he recalled the words of Father Sonnier, who had 
 rescued her from the glacier : A whine, a mocm, like 
 a little dog a few days old. Was she now enduring 
 the same distress? 
 
 He was possessed by desire, even to violence, to 
 cruelty, but not to total forgetfulness and happi- 
 ness. 
 
 The obstacle which had separated them had 
 crumbled away like a wall. Breast to breast theyl 
 could hear their hearts beat. This was pardon, all 
 was blotted out for ever. And yet she was weeping. 
 Over herself or over her past.'' She did not know 
 which. She had never fathomed herself deeply, but 
 she could not refrain from weeping. And while he, 
 again overcome by doubt, was asking himself if he 
 had not profaned the past, and his pride, and his 
 very love, she was reproaching herself for not more 
 perfectly showing her affection. She had become 
 once more a bride, awkward and ignorant, her lips 
 mute, and her hands like ice. 
 
 By degrees she fell asleep from weariness or weak- 
 ness. By the glimmer of the night-light, he gazed 
 upon her closed eyes, her pallid cheeks, her moist 
 lips, with their regular breathing. Gently, not to 
 awaken her, he freed himself from her embrace. In 
 her sleep she seemed still to continue that soft 
 lament, and he recalled to mind the despairing moan 
 which could only be heard close at hand, down there 
 
260 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 on that martyr-place of Proz. With awful cer- 
 tainty he distinctly saw the vision which one impru- 
 dent word had graven for him in marble : 
 
 She was lying upon the corpse. They seemed to 
 he one. 
 
 He had scarcely presence of mind to suppress an 
 outburst of despair. Hastily, noiselessly, he put on 
 his clothes, and like a thief, — like one who had 
 robbed a corpse, he fled down the midnight road, un- 
 der the stars that he saw not. 
 
ivn 
 
 Caux, October. 
 
 " Why did you go, Mark? why did you leave me? 
 This morning when I did not find you, I was cold, as 
 if in winter, and it is indeed winter in me, since you 
 no longer love me. Your wife was all your own and 
 was not able to keep you. I felt a presentiment of it 
 last night when your hand touched my short hair and 
 I felt you draw it back as if involuntarily. I fear 
 you will never again feel anything but aversion for 
 me. I have such need of calm, of happiness, and I 
 see now that I shall never have any again, 
 
 " I had Juliette dressed quickly and we went down 
 to Montreux together to find you; I did not know 
 how you would greet me, but if little Sylvia has been 
 able all alone to keep her father's love, I thought that 
 you would not repel me when I was with our child. 
 At your hotel I learned that you had taken the train 
 for Lausanne on the way to Parist Then it is in- 
 deed true — after last night you want nothing more 
 of me. Then at Saint Bernard, it was only a touch 
 of pity that you had for me, and I thought it was 
 love. Before you arrived I had confessed, and the 
 priest had said to me: ' Go in peace.' When you 
 came to my bedside, when you called me ' My little 
 
262 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 Therhe ' — / felt the divine absolution sink into my 
 heart and from you also I heard the word of ■peace. 
 I was happy, that day. Perhaps it was that that 
 made me get well. Don't you see, that what gives one 
 strength to live is to believe that there is still some- 
 thing in life? I had suffered so much that I detested 
 
 pain. And you brought me, with Juliette, all my 
 hope. Was it that you might leave me agam with 
 my empty life, my pitiful hotel life, without horrw, 
 without family, idthout love, without thy love? 
 Thou hast given me back my child, but thou hast not 
 given me back thy heart. Thou didst not come to 
 me as I came to thee. I went to thee without a sec- 
 ond thought, indeed I went to thee — ah how hard 
 it is to write as I think and feel! I fear that my 
 words will only wound thee. I am suffering for not 
 seeing thee, for not being loved by thee. Dost thou 
 9iot understand that thou art my life? 
 
 " Thy uttle Therese." 
 
 Caux, October. 
 " Each of your telegrams brings me the same dis- 
 appointment. You ask after our health, you tell 
 me of your own, you say nothing of your return. 
 And not even a letter from you. A telegram contains 
 indifferent words, it is brief and without individual- 
 ity, it can have nothing of oneself. And that is 
 quite good enough for me, is it not? Ah, let me 
 complain, let me tell you my sorrow and humiliation! 
 I am utterly discouraged. 1 am not like you, hard 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE £63 
 
 and contemptuous. I am only a simple, sorrowing, 
 heart which you have crushed. 
 
 " Yesterday I left Juliette with Mme Acher and 
 went early in the morning to the shore of the lake. 
 It was hardly daylight. The season is already late 
 and there is no one but us in the hotel. After M. 
 de Baulaime, who must have left the same day as you, 
 for we have not seen him since, the Monestiers left 
 us. And when the autumn weather grows dark and 
 foggy, I feel sad and almost old. I am dependent 
 upon seasons and days and upon my poor heart. I 
 crossed the lake to Evian and took a carriage to my 
 house in Publier. I would indeed say ' our house,' 
 hut you never came hack there. Yet it was there 
 that we became engaged, and I was so surprised that 
 you wanted me for your wife. You were to me such 
 a grand personage and so intimidating. You never 
 ceased to intimidate me a little, and now I am afraid 
 of you. At the foot of the chestnut avenue I left 
 the carriage and walked alone where we used to walk 
 together. My dear trees had lost nearly all their 
 leaves; they rustled under my steps, or they flew up 
 and fluttered in circles, for there was a good deal of 
 wind. The wind blew so hard that I might have 
 sobbed without hearing myself. There was no one 
 there, and thinking of you, I could weep my fill. 
 
 " My house said to me: ' You have been long in 
 coming back and what have you done with your 
 life? ' But it did not reprove me too much, because 
 it loves me. It has its same high sloping roof and 
 
264 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 its tired look that you used to compare with a grand- 
 mother's face. But certamly it cannot change. 
 Nor have I changed much — much less than you 
 think. I have the same timid heart, which you were 
 the first to take possession of. Long ago I planted 
 a Bengal rose bush in a corner of a wall. All the 
 roses had been cut, the very last must have been 
 taken. There was only one, quite wide open, which 
 had been left behind. It had not been worth cutting, 
 and all by itself it was living itself away. I pressed 
 it with my hand as if to warm it, but I did not gather 
 it. Poor little thing, it seemed to me that it was I. 
 
 " Since you are not coming back to Caux, since you 
 are not calling me back to your house in Paris, 
 whence you have — ah, no, whence I deserved to be 
 sent away, let me come and live here. We have no 
 longer ' our house,' but then I shall have ' my 
 house.' Here everything reminds me of you. And 
 besides I shall be protected, here, by all the holy 
 women who preceded me here. I promise you that I 
 will teach Juliette to be like them. Ah, may she 
 never be like too-sensitive, too-imprudent me! May 
 she be carefully surrounded and protected! Some- 
 times I am afraid of her becatbse of myself, and I 
 ask God to help me. A mother who is ready to 
 blush before her daughter — that is very cruel, and 
 I so greatly need to be reassured. 
 
 " I am in frightful distress, my friend, since you 
 have disdained me. I had need of your support for 
 my woful weakness. You were so generous, so 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 265 
 
 great, so far above me. You held out your hand to 
 me at Saint Bernard, and I resolved to kneel before 
 you as soon as I was able. Now it seems to me as if 
 you had withdrawn your hand, anA as if I were fall- 
 ing down a steep like that one on the Proz glacier, — 
 that I am rolling into the abyss and cannot even cry 
 out. You forbade me to speak of it, but then you 
 should not have abandoned me. 
 
 " Tell Tne that I may leave this deserted hotel and 
 go to live at Publier. Have pity, and send me a lit- 
 tle strength. I am so discouraged. 
 
 « Therese." 
 
 Paris, October. 
 
 " Thou hast not understood my leaving thee, 
 Therese, and I cannot endure to hear thee speak thus 
 of thy hwmiliation and my disdain. Ah, how far you 
 are from suspecting the truth! You think me 
 strong because pride forced me to be silent. But all 
 my pride was broken that night at Caux, and I offer 
 it to thee with my misunderstood love. It is what I 
 hold most dear in the world, except thee. 
 
 " Never speak to me again of pardon, for it is I 
 who should accuse myself of not having been careful 
 enough of thy daily happiness, of our intimacy, of 
 that so easily touched heart, that was weary of my ' 
 discipline and of my reason, that was athirst for 
 tenderness. Blame me for not having better under- 
 stood thee, for having attributed to thee vanity and 
 worldly traits which were not thine, for not having 
 
^6 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 given a better object to thy too acute sensitiveness, 
 for not having better enjoyed thy gentleness in the 
 aridity of my life. Blame me again for my too hasty 
 desires, my too imperious temper, my too contemptu- 
 ous spirit — contemptuous because it had too early 
 measured human falsehood and baseness, and re- 
 tained a bitterness from which you ought not to have 
 been made to suffer, — you so new and simple, you 
 so naturally aloof from all perversity and falsehood. 
 Blame me too, for I deserve it, for those brief and 
 shameful betrayals into indulgence to which we men 
 attach little importance because our senses alone 
 take part in them, but which non^heless leave us 
 with no right to judge as from above and to con- 
 demn without hearing. 
 
 " I ought not to speak thus. I am the head of 
 the family and it is not for me to abase myself even 
 to raise thee up. But I lost control of myself, and 
 my sole honour now is frankness. Ah, since I am 
 now taking the dark path of truth, let me now 
 tell thee all my wretchedness, and see which of us 
 is most to be pitied. How can you think that I 
 love thee no longer, or that I love thee less 
 than in the old days? Now that I know thee bet- 
 ter, Therise, I love thee more, and — it is a fright- 
 ful thvng to say — I love in thee even thy cruel love. 
 Ah, you see now that you can never again be mine — 
 never! Ah, that other one whom I no longer hate, 
 who understood thee better than I, who loved thee 
 better than I, though not more than I, — 7 wanted 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 267 
 
 to surpass hhn, and he has conquered me. I am con- 
 fessing defeat because I have no longer any hope. 
 The other evenmg, when I carried thee off in my arms 
 like a prey, I took no pity on thy sorromfid face, 
 on thy moaning, on thy memories. I did thee a 
 wrong, — pardon me. He has been well avenged! 
 That night I saw him open his dead eyes, he gazed 
 at us, he took thee to himself and I could not but 
 leave thee to him. You belong to him. He is jeal- 
 ously guarding you against me. He will always be 
 between us. We cam/not speak of the past without 
 torturing ourselves, and yet I am in agony for not 
 speaking of it. It has almost been a relief to me to 
 have said these things which must ■finally separate us. 
 Having said them I come out of the darkness and 
 doubt in which I was struggling. What the future 
 will be for us, I cannot as yet even imagine. For 
 Juliette's sake, who is the bond between us, and who 
 is already too clear sighted, we must act the comedy 
 of a home. You will return to Paris, to your own 
 home. When you have settled the date of your re- 
 turn, I will arrange for my journey to Russia and 
 will set the time, and distance will perhaps give us a 
 little calmness and make it possible for us to endure 
 the semblance of a life in common. 
 
 " Ah, if you had experienced an unworthy love, I 
 sometimes ask myself, if it would not have been easier 
 to forget! But your love will always be stronger 
 than we, whether we will or no. Neither of us can 
 ever forget it, I no more than you, nor you than I. 
 
268 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 In your touching letters you lament my affection 
 which you think you have lost, ignorant that you are! 
 But you do not tell me, you cannot tell me, that you 
 love me, and I care only for that. 
 
 " Now you know my wretchedness — greater than 
 your own. Now there is no more hypocrisy between 
 us. If I would not debase myself in my own eyes, 
 if I would once more become worthy of that moment 
 when I found thee at Saint Bernard, when I felt the 
 infinite joy of finding thee, I must never see thee 
 agavn, or at least not until I have got the better of 
 my weakness. 
 
 " My mother will go to Caux for you as soon as 
 you wish: the season is growing late: you should 
 come back before winter. She mil bring you to 
 Paris. I have asked it of her, that you may return, 
 accompanied by her, to your own home, which, even 
 without me will give you a hearty welcome. This is 
 my desire. 
 
 " Adieu my friend, my beloved, till a later day. 
 May Juliette help thee to endure solitude. 
 
 " Mark." 
 
 " Oh, mamma, your eyes are full of tears ! " 
 " Why no, Juliette, you don't see clearly." 
 " See ! there is one just fallen on your letter." 
 " Then it is because I am very happy." 
 " Well, it is not when I am happy that I cry." 
 " Run away to your lessons, and leave me." 
 " I will go if you are not unhappy." 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 269 
 
 " I am not unhappy, little one." 
 
 " Surely not, mamma? " 
 
 " Look at me ; I am laughing." 
 
 " Yes, you look like a rainbow." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 " Why, rainbows come when it rains. And you 
 are laughing and crying at the same time." 
 
 Therese Romenay hardly knew what she was feel- 
 ing while reading her letter. She was always led 
 by her emotions, and this time, though she hardly 
 knew why, her emotions were not devoid of sweetness. 
 She knew that Mark was severe to himself and re- 
 bellious against complaint, as rebellious against com- 
 plaint as Andre Norans, wounded unto death on the 
 glacier of Proz. She had always admired in him that 
 very imperious and intimidating temper for which 
 he was now reproaching himself, and when a man of 
 such a temperament is willing to admit that he is 
 suffering, he must be really touched. She would 
 never have dreamed that he would ever acknowledge 
 what he was now acknowledging — she was even dis- 
 concerted by it. And that suffering, accompanied 
 by so much generosity, at once tortured her and 
 filled her with tender pity. 
 
 And yet, more powerful than compassion, another 
 sentiment took possession of her, overspread her 
 with a wave of happiness. After that night at Caux 
 she had thought herself no longer loved. She knew 
 nothing of her power, and this was in fact her charm. 
 Mark had repelled her short hair, her guilty body. 
 
270 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 But he had repelled her not because he despised, but 
 because he loved her. Now she could no longer 
 doubt, he loved her even to the abandonment of his 
 pride, even to abase, humiliate himself before her, 
 — her, the repentant one whom once he had turned 
 out of his house. 
 
 Might she not have hope in the future, since the 
 future now depended upon herself alone.'' She did 
 not perceive the strange irony of this complete 
 change in their reciprocal situations. She was too 
 much under the power of her own heart for that. 
 Forgiveness must come from him, but forgetfulness 
 would come from her. Why had she been false to 
 her husband when she was not unhappy .^ She did 
 not know, because she loved. And why was she faith- 
 less to the memory of the lover whom she had lost? 
 How could she know, seeing she still loved? Her 
 guilty love had possessed and yet had tortured her. 
 She had not ceased to love her home when she left it. 
 Her conjugal love had been reinforced by the in- 
 vincible desire of woman for the peace of her own 
 home. The cruel, inexorable and inexplicable domi- 
 nance of love was something she could not analyse 
 in itself. 
 
 Was she not Mark's wife? She had given herself, 
 a maiden, to him. They had been happy in the home 
 where Juliette was born. A cruel fate had parted 
 them. But he had succoured her, dying, and she had 
 quite naturally become once more his companion. 
 The past was blotted out — why recall it? Was 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 271 
 
 not that past like a disease of which she had been 
 cured? The dead are dead. 
 
 The dead ! — She crossed herself and said a prayer 
 for the repose of Andre Norans' soul. Could she 
 not serve him better by praying for him than by 
 losing herself in memory of him? On that torture 
 place of Proz where she had sustained him with all 
 her courage, she had gently closed his eyes, and she 
 now saw in memory only those closed eyes, and upon 
 his face that serenity which had overspread his 
 features after the dreadful expiation : it was at sun- 
 set on that third evening, and his last sigh had not 
 overwhelmed her, she had so long expected it in his 
 lingering agony, so insensible was she herself in her 
 distress. 
 
 But what must be the dominance of life, that, her- 
 self scarcely rescued from the abyss, she could have 
 called upon her husband and her child, and caught 
 a glimpse, as if she had been free, of the possibility 
 of her return? Even her lover, who for all his love 
 could not make her entirely happy because of the 
 irregularity which was so hard for her to bear, her 
 lover who would joyfully have poured out for her 
 all the blood in his veins, even he had perceived this, 
 in the second-sight of death. And yet she had of- 
 fered to die with him. 
 
 Yes, she was consoled in reading the letter. Since 
 Mark loved her to this point she could take courage 
 again. For her, love was everything. 
 
 Toward love she reached out, she lifted herself, 
 
272 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 as a plant which the night damps have laid low, up- 
 lifts itself with the first rays of the morning. 
 
 Juliette, who had made the deserted hotel her 
 palace, and who, evading the pursuit of the leisurely 
 Mme Acher was delightedly exploring the passages 
 under the indulgent oversight of chamber-maids glad 
 to be for a moment disturbed in their idleness, was 
 suddenly surprised by the discovery of her grand- 
 mother. She showered kisses upon her, and then led 
 her in her train like a distinguished captive : 
 
 " Come quick ! come quick ! How pleased mamma 
 will be!" 
 
 She rushed into the room with a cry like that of a 
 herald at arms, announcing some great personage 
 with the blast of a trumpet. 
 
 " Mamma, mamma, a visitor — guess who ! " 
 
 " Your father," whispered Therese with beating 
 heart. 
 
 " No : — grandma." 
 
 Madame Romenay followed the child into the room. 
 Before the majesty which virtue lends to age Therese 
 blushed, suddenly felt all the burden of her sin, and 
 dared not move forward to meet her visitor. 
 
 "Oh, Madame!"— 
 
 " My daughter ! " Mark's mother said simply, 
 and took her into her arms. 
 
 She received her back with a peculiar tenderness, 
 as if after a long absence or a long illness, and by 
 this welcome made all embarrassing explanations un- 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 273 
 
 necessary. Theresa found her own place in this 
 maternal heart, just where she had left it. A swift 
 rush of gratitude impelled her to the elder woman, 
 who with one act had taken her back into her esteem, 
 had given her back her love, and with so much dig- 
 nity as to forbid anything like a confession, and to 
 impose silence upon the past. 
 
 Madame Romenay had come to take them back to 
 Paris. 
 
 " I am troubled about Mark," she said when 
 Juliette had left them. " He is melancholy and 
 nervous. You ought to be there." 
 
 " He has spoken to you? " asked Therese, drop- 
 ping her eyes, the tell-tale blood, quick to take alarm, 
 flushing her cheeks. 
 
 " No, but I clearly see, when I am with him, that 
 his thoughts are far away, with you." 
 
 " Did he send you ? " 
 
 " He wanted me to come, but waited for you to ask 
 for me. I came without letting him know." 
 
 They passed the day in intimate converse which 
 each was secretly surprised to find so easy. With 
 that marvellous capacity of the woman's heart to re- 
 veal its inmost sympathies under the ordinary mean- 
 ing of words, they found themselves in harmony as if 
 one were simply informing the other of changes that 
 had taken place in the house. In returning to the 
 rue de Franqueville Therese would not find herself a 
 stranger: she would know about Mark's work, his 
 new plans, his ambitions. Without being taught she 
 
274 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 would know all that it was important for her to know. 
 But by degrees as the hours passed she began to show 
 signs of apprehension. The trunks were quite 
 ready when she whispered, leaning coaxingly on 
 Mme Romenay's shoulder. 
 
 " Listen, mother, listen to me but do not look at 
 me." 
 
 "What is it? TeUme!" 
 
 " I cannot go back so." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " When I find myself at the door — at the door of 
 the house — I shall be ashamed, I shall run away. 
 The last time — " 
 
 "Oh, hush, Therese; he has—" 
 
 Unwilling to wound her she checked herself before 
 the word " forgiven." 
 
 " Not entirely." 
 
 " You are frightened at nothing." 
 
 " No, no, I assure you. Take Juliette. She is 
 my surety. I cannot part with her without weeping. 
 Then, if he wants to give her back to me he will come, 
 himself, for me." 
 
 " And you will stay here? " 
 
 " Not here, no. But to-morrow I will go to my 
 little house at Publier." 
 
 " It is so long since you left it." 
 
 " Oh, I shall easily find some good woman in the 
 village who will keep house for me. I shall not need 
 much. The luxury of this place overwhelms me. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF. LIFE 275 
 
 Down there I shall wait for him. I shall wait for 
 him until he comes. Tell him, mother, that I am 
 waiting for him." 
 
 She added with a confident smile, 
 " Let him not be too long in coming ! " 
 Mme Romenay did not insist, although she found 
 it hard to understand her desire, dimly perceiving in 
 her daughter-in-law a mysterious spring, an ardour 
 for life, which she herself had never known. 
 
 Between two generations there are always unoc- 
 cupied spaces which no one, or almost no one, ever 
 crosses. Therese could no longer be satisfied with 
 returning to her home: she wanted to be brought 
 back by her husband. Why this unexpected condi- 
 tion? For what reason was she thus exacting? 
 She did not think about it, she did not excuse her- 
 self, she was without vanity, but she expected every- 
 thing of love. 
 
 The parting was painful. Juliette refused to 
 leave her mother, plaintively begged that she might 
 remain with her, and both melted into tears. The 
 former separation, already becoming dim in her lit- 
 tle memory, suddenly recurred to her mind with all 
 its pain and mystery. One evening her mamma had 
 not come home, and a great while after, when she had 
 ceased to think about her, they had found her on the 
 Grand Saint Bernard. No, no, she would not again 
 run such a risk. She threw her arms about her 
 mother's neck and clung to her with obstinate vio- 
 
276 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 lence. And from her eyes poured those big tears 
 which, on the little face of a child, are as revolting 
 as an injustice, 
 
 Therfese, almost ready to yield, suddenly con- 
 ceived the idea of speaking to her as to a grown 
 person, appealing to her reason, giving her a part 
 to perform. She charged her to inform her father 
 that she was not able to undertake so long a journey 
 without him. 
 
 " I am still too weak. You will tell him so, will 
 you not? You will tell him, and if you do he will 
 come. And we then will never part again." 
 
 " Is that really true, mamma ? " 
 
 "I have never deceived you." 
 
 No sooner had she uttered the words than she felt 
 her face overspread with the flush which was so 
 prompt to reveal her reserves and her emotions. 
 Mme Romenay observed it and turned away to give 
 her time to recover herself. 
 
 Juliette, calmed at last, was promising to be good. 
 
 "Papa will come for you and you will never go 
 away again." 
 
 " Oh, no, my darling." 
 
 Therese went with them to the station, which is 
 close by. When she returned the hotel was deserted, 
 her chamber empty, and she began to be frightened 
 at the solitude that surrounded her. 
 
 Solitude is too favourable to the invisible forces 
 of memory. Therese was disquieted, agitated. 
 What could be the matter with her? She turned on 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 277 
 
 all the electric lights; light is a refuge from fear. 
 Light drives away nightmares and dispels phan- 
 toms. 
 
 What phantom was there to dread in this comfort- 
 able hotel? Andre Norans is sleeping in the snow. 
 He cannot awake. She used to say to him, " My 
 dear love." His only happiness was in her. The 
 rest of the world was either indifferent to him or 
 wounded him. He used to speak in radiant words. 
 He was at once so good and so tender. Why was 
 she thinking so much of him? Ah, Juliette was not 
 there, close beside her, to protect her from herself. 
 She was alone, — too dreadfully alone. She must 
 never be left alone again. 
 
 And so Andre Norans comes back. He is at the 
 door, about to enter. He is there, but she does not 
 see him. She is expecting him : is she not glad to be 
 expecting him ? She holds behind her the hands that 
 he used to love so much, her hands, more alive than 
 herself. She is all fever and chills, as in the old days 
 when she used to go to meet him, — all fever and 
 chills — are they of desire, or of fear? She shrinks 
 back, back to the farthest corner of the room. Ah, 
 God ! he is there ! He claims her, he wiU take her, 
 he demands her heart ! 
 
 Had she not closed his eyes? And yet he is look- 
 ing at her. Oh, that look of love and reproach! 
 Of eternal love and reproach for her forgetfulness ! 
 She cannot endure it, she struggles, and in the silence 
 she cries out, in a voice which she herself does not 
 
S78 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 hear, as she had cried out up there, on the glacier. 
 She cries out, and whose name does she call? 
 
 " Mark ! Mark ! " 
 
 It is Mark's name that comes spontaneously to 
 her lips, and not Andre's. For he represents the 
 protection of her days, the serenity of her life, the 
 good order of her passionate heart. 
 
 Her involuntary cry dispels the vision. The dead 
 are dead. And reassured she can now weep over 
 her dear love, her forgetfulness, her darkened heart. 
 
 She must never be alone, never any more. She is 
 so weak! But will Mark come for her? She is his 
 wife, he has taken her back. And when he took 
 her back, so fiercely, she perhaps felt frightened, as 
 on her marriage night. Yet it was not for that that 
 she suffered the next day, as he thought it was, but 
 because he had left her in the night. 
 
 If Mark does not come, what will become of her? 
 
VIII 
 
 "' PuBLiER, the last day of October. 
 
 " / am all alone in the house where we were be- 
 trothed, Mark, expecting you at any moment. Do 
 not wait too long. It is all so sad, — the low clouds 
 that threaten snow, the chestnut walk, down which 
 I go to see if you are coming. Its leaves are falling, 
 and my heart most of all, 
 
 " Come for vie, I implore you. I cannot enter 
 our home except with you. Then it will seem as if 
 the old days had come back. Does not my little 
 Juliette ask for me? And you — if you love me, 
 come soon. I love thee and am waiting for thee. 
 
 " Theeese." 
 
 Every day, and many times a day, Therese leaves 
 the house and goes down the avenue to the road. It 
 is one of those old places, which having no other in- 
 closure than a ruinous and useless fence, seems to 
 have confidence in all comers and welcomes them with- 
 out asking for their credentials. From the road one 
 can see far — very far, even. The village of 
 Publier, a combination of hamlets, villas, and isolated 
 farms, from its terrace of broad fields and glorious 
 woods overlooks Lake Leman, which here describes 
 
280 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 a long curve. In sunny days it is a scene of delight. 
 But the mists of late autumn overshadow all the 
 landscape, and the lake seems like the sea, for the 
 Swiss shore and the Jura mountains, as grey as 
 the water, seem to prolong it to the very hori- 
 zon. 
 
 Therese looks only at the road. It is not much 
 travelled, few carriages pass by, only oxcarts with 
 their solemn progress. But some one might come 
 from Evian on foot ; it is not a long walk, and the 
 surprise would be aJl the greater. Yet she feels the 
 influence of the sad decline of autumn, that veils 
 colours, softens sounds, and diminishes hope. 
 
 Therese is sensitive to times and seasons, to the 
 impulses of her own heart! Wrapped in her white 
 woollen mantle she is as cold as if it were winter. At 
 the end of the avenue she grows impatient — turns 
 back, returns again, like one expectant. She can 
 make up her mind neither to go or stay. 
 
 Sometimes she walks on as far as the cemetery, 
 which is beside the road, and which in these November 
 days seems like an ancestral home, full of relatives 
 and adorned with flowers. Just beyond is the church, 
 its tapering spire seeming to pierce the sky. If she 
 stays there long, she almost flies back to the house, 
 and has hardly given the old peasant woman who 
 keeps house for her time to answer the bell, when she 
 asks: 
 
 " Did anyone come while I was out ? " 
 
 " No one, Mademoiselle Therese." 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 281 
 
 She is Mademoiselle Therese for the whole village. 
 To be sure sJie was married, but no one has seen her 
 since then, and she looks so like a girl, especially with 
 that short hair! She appears so disappointed that 
 old Annette inquires with interest, — 
 
 "You expected some one?" 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 "Who, then?" 
 
 "My husband." 
 
 Her husband! None too respectfully Annette 
 bursts out laughing! Every wrinkle in her pippin 
 face shines with her hearty laugh. Like all Savoy- 
 ard peasants she loves a joke. 
 
 The idea! A pretty lady like Mademoiselle 
 Therese eating her heart out, and able to settle to 
 nothing, just because her husband doesn't come! 
 Ah! if her husband, who drinks and has a heavy 
 hand, should stay away, she wouldn't bother her head 
 to ask when he was coming back ! A husband always 
 turns up sometime: he can no more be lost than a 
 field, or a chest of drawers. 
 
 " Husbands don't get lost. Mademoiselle Therese." 
 
 " You are sure, Annette ? " 
 
 " Sure as anything." 
 
 In her secret heart the good woman was not sorry 
 to be herself reassured. She was too clever not to 
 have observed the tricks and manners of summer visi- 
 tors who come from Evian for secret meetings in the 
 neighbourhood, and whose conduct is far from 
 Catholic! A pretty woman who is married, yet al- 
 
28a FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 ways without her man — there is some mystery, 
 surely. But so long as it was only her husband that 
 her mistress was expecting there was nothing to be 
 said. All these comings and goings that had so puz- 
 zled her proceeded from the best of motives. 
 
 The postman is another object of solicitude. 
 Therese goes to meet him, asks him prettily for her 
 mail. Usually there is nothing. 
 
 "Ah! a letter from Paris, Madame." 
 
 It is from Juliette, who awkwardly, but gaily — 
 the dear, naughty child ! — tells of her arrival in the 
 rue de Franqueville. How easily children are 
 amused! How soon they forget! And how right 
 they are! If one would live must not one forget.!" 
 Juliette makes no mention of her father's departure. 
 She only says that he does not yet know whether he 
 shall go to Russia for the winter. 
 
 Therese reads and rereads the artless letter and is 
 none the happier. Why did she part with her little 
 girl.'' She ought never to have thought of such a 
 thing. She had hoped that the separation would 
 hasten Mark's coming and Mark does not come. 
 Her heart calls out to him from afar, and he does 
 not hear her. 
 
 One afternoon as she was going out for her lonely 
 walk Annette tried to dissuade her. 
 
 "Mademoiselle Therese, this is weather for stay- 
 ing inside." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " The sky is falling on our heads. It is going to 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 283 
 
 rain. And in this cold the rain is likely to turn to 
 snow." 
 
 " It is all one to me." 
 
 She explored the chestnut avenue. The night 
 blasts had detached the last leaves, which indeed had 
 only remained on the branches as by a miracle. The 
 naked trees stood out black against the almost white 
 sky, which hung so low that she felt as if in a prison. 
 The mountains were visible and the stiU lake seemed 
 like a dead pool. A flock of crows rose up from a 
 field, and flew above her with ill-omened croaks. She 
 is superstitious and these croaks freeze her blood 
 in her veins. Yes, the snow is coming, and the win- 
 ter, and her heart is cold. 
 
 She has reached the last chestnut tree, on the edge 
 of the highway. It has a -large trunk and its roots 
 have upheaved the ground. She leans against it 
 with all the weight of her body. It is a friend, she 
 knows it well. It wiU help her to wait. But she 
 cannot remain quiet, she wrings her hands, they 
 tremble, reveal all her anguish. Those hands more 
 alive than herself. The prolonged waiting has ex- 
 hausted her nervous strength. All her heart is in 
 her eyes which search the road, questioning. Dis- 
 couraged, she is tempted to crouch at the foot of the 
 tree, not to move again, weep her heart out, and re- 
 main there, a little lost thing, till some one comes to 
 gather her up. 
 
 Putting a force upon herself she leaves her refuge 
 and searches farther, farther, and farther yet. She 
 
2&i FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 rushes to meet him with flying steps. He will come 
 to-day or he will never come. She says that to her- 
 self every day. But when she returns weary and de- 
 spairing, there is Annette beckoning to her from the 
 door step. 
 
 " Eh, eh, Mademoiselle — Madame Theresa, he 
 has come ! " 
 
 "Who.?" 
 
 Has she lost her confidence, that she asks such a 
 question.'' 
 
 " Why your husband, to be sure." 
 
 "Mark!" 
 
 She hastens in spite of weariness, and is in the 
 vestibule, the old woman pursuing her with her re- 
 marks, 
 
 " Didn't I tell you? Husbands always turn up." 
 
 He had come by another road, and she was disap- 
 pointed that he had not seen her watching for him. 
 She had persuaded herself that their meeting would 
 be in the avenue, where they had been betrothed, that 
 the chestnut trees would protect her, bless her. 
 
 Where was he? Why did he not show himself? 
 Had he not heard her, recognised her step and her 
 voice? Then the door of the little parlor opened, 
 and he was there. 
 
 They were face to face, and she had so quickly 
 reached up for his kiss that he had had no time for 
 hesitation. The disappointing meeting at Caux 
 would not repeat itself. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 285 
 
 He was the first to speak : " I have come for you, 
 Ther&se." 
 
 " How I have waited for you ! " 
 
 They dropped their arms and gazed into one 
 another's faces, not with the gaze of those who go 
 from love to acquaintanceship, nor with that which 
 veils acquaintanceship with love. Their faces were 
 not new to one another, but they were seeking in 
 them the love that lasts through acquaintanceship. 
 
 Might she not exult, since he had returned? She 
 had waited for him long, but he had come. Her de- 
 sire was granted. She would go back with him to 
 the home whence he had driven her away. Together 
 they would cross the threshold which had been for- 
 bidden her. With her short hair she is less beauti- 
 ful than formerly, but she knows now her woman's 
 power. And yet she does not exult. She is trem- 
 bling and blushing before him who is there, close be- 
 side her. Twice she had measured his strength: 
 when he sent her away, and when, in the cell on 
 Saint Bernard, he forgave her. It is terrible and 
 sweet, contemptuous and tender, imperious and sub- 
 ject to the desires of the flesh. She wonders how 
 she had dared to be unfaithful, and she becomes sud- 
 denly aware of the extent of her guilt, for she no 
 longer feels the tug of that mysterious and fatal 
 impulse which had led her away. And because she 
 is freed from that yoke she can no longer understand 
 the past. 
 
286 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 She could no longer understand that dear past, 
 but Mark understood it better. She had not with- 
 drawn the hand that she had laid upon his shoulder 
 and her cheeks were still crimson, from the slowly 
 retreating blush. She was timid, like one newly be- 
 trothed, frightened by caresses, and yet hoping for 
 them. And he remembered what she had written of 
 Andre Norans: That happened and it gave me no 
 joy. ... 7 loved him in terror. Again he heard 
 the sad appeal of her lover. For your fear of your 
 own heart, — for your resistance to my love and also 
 to your own — for the impossibility that I can ever 
 give you perfect happiness — I love you. Yes, this 
 slight, delicate creature, so simple and so alive, 
 whose whole thought is to win him back, whose whole 
 interest is in her home, who had consumed herself in 
 expecting him — she had been faithless to him, and 
 he loved her. She had been faithless because her 
 soul and her body tortured her and he had not 
 watched over her carefully enough, had not expected 
 enough of her ; and he loved her more than ever and 
 had had the weakness to confess it. 
 
 She was the first to turn away, troubled by the 
 silence. 
 
 " See," she said, " it is snowing." 
 
 They crossed over to the window. The narrowed 
 landscape included only the chestnut avenue. 
 Flakes of snow were falling like a rain of flowers 
 upon the branches, upon their smallest twigs; the 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 287 
 
 ground was already white, its surface made irregular 
 by heaps of fallen leaves. 
 
 She had passed a long night on the Proz glacier, 
 face to face with the horror of being buried alive with 
 Andre Norans. Yet she was not thinking of that, 
 while he was living over again his pilgrimage with 
 Father Sonnier, searching vainly for the traces, of 
 them which the snow had covered. Material things 
 may be modified, landscapes may change with the 
 seasons and the weather, but of human existence the 
 memory remains, memory which is existence fixed, 
 rendered motionless, final, — memory which nothing 
 can blot out. How was it that she did not know this ? 
 How could she forget ? Could it be true that, as the 
 Prior had said, women " are more subject than we 
 to the forces of life, and do not confuse what is with 
 what has been ".'' 
 
 She could not quite divine his thought, but she felt 
 the direction in which thought was again leading him 
 astray. To dispel the painful dream she spoke of 
 Juliette, but even this magic word was powerless to 
 bring them together. For a moment she fixed her 
 eyes upon his closed lips, trembling with one single 
 question, which yet they refused to utter. His kiss 
 would never be sincere until those lips had been un- 
 sealed. 
 
 She saw that the moment had come when it was for 
 her to speak. Softly sighing, yet at once brave and 
 pleading, she leaned against him and whispered, 
 
 " Listen." 
 
£88 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 The word warned him, and he tried to stop her. 
 
 " No, no, Therfese. On the Saint Bernard I made 
 a vow that we would never speak of it again." 
 
 " You did, but not I." 
 
 " Do not speak, I beg you." 
 
 Instinctively she went on in the face of his en- 
 treaty. 
 
 " I must, Mark, because I want to be happy with 
 you. I have never been happy without you," 
 
 What would she say next? This was denial. She 
 hardly perceived it, and yet she was overcome by a 
 dim terror of what she had dared. It was denial, 
 and he was ashamed for her. 
 
 " Do not speak. Keep that love intact. I do not 
 ask such a sacrifice of you. I shall love you truly 
 all the same." 
 
 She was disconcerted by his generosity, fearing it 
 to be a sign that he did not love her. For love is not 
 generous. She had come to him with unfettered 
 hands ; why did he put on her shackles again ? She 
 could not quite understand herself, since he excused 
 her for having loved, while she was accusing herself 
 of having done wrong. She only understood when 
 Mark, who in pride, or with false disinterestedness, 
 had thought to raise himself above human feeling, 
 without perceiving that so doing he was losing his 
 headship, and his honour as head, fell back again into 
 an agony of envy. 
 
 " Ah, you cannot love me better than him ! " 
 
 She sought for the means to convince him. If 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 289 
 
 necessary she would go to the very depths of the 
 truth. The present and the future took entire pos- 
 session of her, to them she was ready to make any 
 sacrifice. Gently, almost unconsciously, she began: 
 
 " Mark, I always loved you better. Listen, you 
 must hear me. Up there on the glacier where we 
 were lost, I saw him die and I closed his eyes." 
 
 " I know, I know, do not go on." 
 
 " No, you do not know what I did then." 
 
 Mark started, gazed at her in surprise, then as if 
 greedy for further torture, repeated : 
 
 "What you did then?" 
 
 Now it was she who hesitated, tried to shut out the 
 vision : " Ah, it is horrible ! " 
 
 But he insisted : " What you did then? " 
 
 She gathered herself together, with knitted brows, 
 her shoulders convulsed with a long shudder. 
 
 " I searched for the bit of bread that he had not 
 eaten. It was hard, my teeth were chattering, but 
 there beside him, I ate it. I wanted to live." 
 
 Both were silent, like accomplices in a crime. 
 Finally she went on: 
 
 " That night, that fearful night, I called for you. 
 I called for Juliette." 
 
 Exhausted by her effort, she bowed her head and 
 gave utterance to a long moan, like that which 
 Father Sonnier had faintly heard as he descended 
 from Proz to rescue her. 
 
 Would not Mark rescue her? He laid his hand 
 upon that bowed head, no longer protected by its 
 
FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 mass of hair. He had fathomed, as it had been a 
 deep abyss, the cruelty of love, — the cruelty which 
 had been visited upon himself without ever ceasing 
 to deplore his suffering, and which now was visited 
 upon the dead with no thought of belittling the past, 
 — the cruelty which he felt only because he was a 
 man, more burdened than a woman with futile logic, 
 less gifted than she with vital instincts. Henceforth 
 he would know how to guard Theresa's too tender and 
 spontaneous, too dangerous heart. It was a treas- 
 ure not to be entrusted to her weakness and his flat- 
 tery; he claimed the right of keeping a permanent 
 and armed guard over her. 
 
 At Saint Bernard, with a mighty impulse he had 
 attained to the truth. The forgiveness which had 
 transported him with an unknown j oy had come from 
 that in him which was divine. But because of the 
 infirmity of human nature, the forgiveness that ran- 
 soms may also debase. Deformed, it soon becomes 
 either cowardice or compliance. He had felt this at 
 Caux, in his shattered pride, the savage violence of 
 his desire. Perhaps that humiliation had been neces- 
 sary to restore him to humility and to consideration 
 for her. It was not his own happiness nor even the 
 happiness of Therese that love demanded, — not that, 
 but that power of inward perfection by which 
 life is enriched, enlarged, until the end; far beyond 
 the overlived, lost days of youth. Happiness — he 
 would never again know that happiness to which one 
 abandons himself, in which he feels himself immersed 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 291 
 
 as in a limpid flood. But had he known it even when 
 she brought to him her freshness and her trust? 
 Henceforth that was not the essential thing. Let 
 her, so bowed down under the weight of memory, be 
 forevermore set free! She, better than he, had 
 found herself, better than he she had accepted with 
 all her will. She might even know happiness 
 through him, if at last he could be strong enough not 
 to seek it in the past, to keep his own secret of sor- 
 row, should sorrow, in which he had lost the right to 
 indulge, inevitably return. 
 
 Thus he discovered the road-chart of his future; 
 thus for her and for himself, he learned the pathway 
 to peace. 
 
 " Ther^se," he said, with authority, " lift up your 
 head. I want to see your face. Now, yes, now we 
 have buried the past with our own hands. I give you 
 again the forgiveness of Saint Bernard, and this time 
 more freely. I believe in you. You are my wife." 
 
 His wife ! Uplifted, confident, she raised her eyes 
 to him, then lowered them, awkward and timid as one 
 newly betrothed, so grand he seemed to her, so imperi- 
 ous and generous, so deeply she felt him the master 
 of himself and of her, so clearly she recognised and 
 was proud to recognise in him her head. Only a 
 moment ago she was weeping over her sin. Now the 
 grace of love and the strength of life had restored 
 her to her early purity. Yet one thought stirred her 
 and made her blush, for she was beginning a new life. 
 
 " At Caux," she whispered, " I could not have 
 
292 FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 given myself to you if I had not been yours 
 already." 
 
 The next morning he was surprised not to find 
 her beside him, nor anywhere in the house. 
 
 " Where is she? " he asked old Annette. 
 
 " In church, to be sure. She took her prayer 
 book." 
 
 In church. Just as she had found it natural to 
 bring Manette Durban back to the fold when she her- 
 self had returned to it, so Therese had found it nat- 
 ural to resume her habits of religion. Everything in 
 that old family home lent itself to this. It is not for 
 nothing that one breathes the atmosphere created by 
 a long hne of good, pious women. 
 
 Mark hastened after her. It had snowed the pre- 
 vious evening and a part of the night, but the sun 
 was shining and without as well as within him all was 
 lightness, enchantment. The blue of the sky and 
 the blue of the lake, somewhat paled by autumn, were 
 wedded with the white brilliance that overspread the 
 plain, the mountains, and the shore. The frosted 
 trees bore numberless flowers, as in good years ap- 
 ple and almond trees bear their flowers in spring, and 
 these white snow-flowers, touched by the sun's rays, 
 took on faint tints of gold and rose. The spread- 
 ing chestnuts of the avenue bore their wealth with 
 majesty. 
 
 Mark spent only a moment looking from the porch 
 upon the fairy spectacle. The print of a little shoe 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE 
 
 on the earth was far more important in his eyes. 
 He followed the tracks that led him to the church 
 in Publier. A bell struck as he arrived, it was the 
 end of the Mass. Therese, in her white woollen 
 mantle and her hat with gull's wings, appeared in the 
 doorway. She blushed on perceiving him, and he 
 thought of the white snow-flowers, tinged with the 
 sunlight. The new forms of things seemed in har- 
 mony with his renewed youth. 
 
 Before quitting the altar, the priest had uttered 
 the sacred words : " Go in Peace." And she bore 
 that peace with her. 
 
 Mark, gazing with admiration upon her face, her 
 springing step, thought that the Prior of Saint Ber- 
 nard was right when he said that the human will has 
 power to remit sin only when it leans upon divine 
 strength. 
 
 They returned together slowly, notwithstanding 
 the sharp cold, the better to realise in themselves the 
 regular and orderly emotions of their hearts. A lit- 
 tle way from the door they paused, and turning back 
 they saw along the avenue the mingled imprints of 
 their footsteps. " We were engaged there, do you 
 remember ? " she said. 
 
 They had been walking in the footsteps of other 
 days. Yet he recalled to mind, he would often still 
 remember, his pilgrimage to the Proz glacier, and 
 Father Sonnier seeking for traces of the accident, 
 and not finding them, because the snow had covered 
 them. Thus forgiveness and forgetfulness, his for- 
 
FOOTPRINTS BENEATH THE SNOW 
 
 giveness and Therese's forgetfulness, were effacing 
 the past as snow effaces footprints. 
 
 " My little Therese ! " he said, as he had said at 
 Saint Bernard. 
 
 The tender words, as to a little child — these were 
 what she loved hest to hear. They reminded her of 
 her weakness, her need of guidance and self-renun- 
 ciation. 
 
 She might have replied, " My love " — so fully 
 was she possessed by the present. She might have 
 used those same words without thinking of evil. 
 But other words, never spoken by her before, came 
 instinctively to her lips. 
 
 " My life ! " she breathed. 
 
 On that martyr place of Proz, he had thought in 
 his despair, " There is nothing in all the world but 
 love." And the monk, as if replying to his thought, 
 had said, " There is life." 
 
 There was life, always in action, severe and de- 
 termined as a marching army, ma-king use even of the 
 past as material for its reconstructions — life with 
 its need of order and its natural aloofness from aU 
 that disturbs order, its possibilities of greatness and 
 perfection, its eternal pursuit of peace through war, 
 its unsatisfied desires, its foundation of bitterness 
 and anxiety; life which leads to God or to nothing- 
 ness ; — life, stronger than love that is a part of it. 
 
 THE END