eral's wife came and sat by Helene.
She took her hands and said to her in a sentimental tone, "Do you
remember how often we used to play duets at school?"

"We must confess that we played very badly," answered Helene with a
smile.

"Yes, but the recollection is a delightful one. Do you remember the
venerable Father who used to come to listen to us? Do you know I was
quite in love with him! But pardon me; I forgot that before you.... Ah,
you are quite removed from all that to-day, happy woman!"

"But are not you happy?"

"Non. Life is not what it appeared to us through the rose-coloured
curtains of the school. I do not complain of my husband, but he is quite
incapable of letting himself go or of becoming enthusiastic."

For a moment or two she shed tears, which she wiped away as Sacha struck
her first notes.

Helene listened as though in a trance. God only knew how much the music
recalled to her of that past which she thought had been blotted out. She
saw once more her country, whose soil she would never tread again; she
heard the murmurs of the plane-trees, the low warbling of the brooks; a
more brilliant sun glowed in a deeper sky; she closed her eyes and would
have liked to withdraw into herself, and see no more of her
surroundings. The unutterable yearning and burning passion of the sonata
struck painfully and without cessation on her suffering heart. For a
long time she had believed that a day would come when the old story
which she had confided to no one would be finally forgotten, when she
would be able to look at her past with the same indifference with which
one contemplates the mists of autumn or the snows of winter; then she
would return to her own people content and serene; they would receive
her with joy, not guessing what she had sacrificed for them. To-day,
alas! she understood that it would be vain to seek to bury that past; it
would always rise again as vivid and sad as ever. No, she would never be
able to see her country again. Moreover time, solitude and mental
sufferings would not be long in putting an end to her physical life. A
few more years, and she would rest in her coffin with a visage as
immovable as that of the Sister dead yesterday in the convent, who also
had known suffering. But those happy people down there, happy in the
country she loved so well, did they still remember her? Perhaps they
had forgotten her or thought her already dead.

Under the stress of these thoughts her heavy b