at, by delaying my departure by one day ... just one day.... You
understand, don't you?..."

He was silent, rightly thinking that, if he answered the least word, she
would at once say something that he did not want to hear. And they no
longer knew how to stand opposite each other and they no longer dared
look each other in the face. But Philippe felt those small hands turn
warm at the touch of his and felt all the life rush once more through
that turbulent young being, like a source that is released and brings
back joy and strength and hope.

Steps were heard and a sound of voices rose in the hall outside.

"M. Morestal," Suzanne whispered.

And old Morestal shouted, long before entering the room:

"Where are you, Suzanne? Here's your father coming. Quick, Jorance, the
children are here. Yes, yes, your daughter, too.... I brought her back
with me from Saint-Elophe.... But how did you come? Through the woods?"

Suzanne slipped on a pair of long suede gloves and, at the moment when
the door opened, said, in a tone of implacable resolve and as though the
promise must needs fill Philippe's heart with delight:

"No one shall ever see my bare arms again.... No one, Philippe, I swear
to you.... No one shall ever stroke them...."

CHAPTER III

THE VIOLET PAMPHLET

Jorance was a heavy and rather unwieldy, pleasant-faced man. Twenty-five
years before, when secretary to the commissary at Noirmont, he had
married a girl of entrancing beauty, who used to teach the piano in a
boarding-school. One evening, after four years of marriage, four years
of torture, during which the unhappy man suffered every sort of
humiliation, Jorance came home to find the house empty. His wife had
gone without a word of explanation, taking their little girl, Suzanne,
with her.

The only thing that kept him from suicide was the hope of recovering the
child and saving her from the life which her mother's example would have
forced upon her in the future.

He did not have to look for her long. A month later, his wife sent back
the child, who was no doubt in her way. But the wound had cut deep and
lingered; and neither time nor the love which he bore his daughter could
wipe out the memory of that cruel story.

He buckled to his work, accepted the most burdensome tasks so as to
increase his income and give Suzanne a good education, was transferred
to the commissary's office at Luneville and, somewhat late in life, was
promoted to be spec