ened to meet her. As he advanced he recognised her, but he saw at
the same time that she was on the other bank of the river. She seemed at
first not to notice him, but when they had come to opposite places she
stopped and looked at him very gravely and pityingly. She made him no
sign that he must cross the stream, but he wished unutterably to stand
by her side. He knew the water was deep, and it seemed to him he knew
how he should have to breast it and how he feared that when he rose to
the surface she would have disappeared. Nevertheless he was going to
plunge when a boat turned into the current from above and came swiftly
toward them, guided by an oarsman who was sitting so that they couldn't
see his face. He brought the boat to the bank where Longmore stood;
the latter stepped in, and with a few strokes they touched the opposite
shore. Longmore got out and, though he was sure he had crossed the
stream, Madame de Mauves was not there. He turned with a kind of agony
and saw that now she was on the other bank--the one he had left. She
gave him a grave silent glance and walked away up the stream. The boat
and the boatman resumed their course, but after going a short distance
they stopped and the boatman turned back and looked at the still divided
couple. Then Longmore recognised him--just as he had recognised him a
few days before at the restaurant in the Bois de Boulogne.

VIII

He must have slept some time after he ceased dreaming for he had no
immediate memory of this vision. It came back to him later, after he
had roused himself and had walked nearly home. No great arrangement was
needed to make it seem a striking allegory, and it haunted and oppressed
him for the rest of the day. He took refuge, however, in his quickened
conviction that the only sound policy in life is to grasp unsparingly
at happiness; and it seemed no more than one of the vigorous measures
dictated by such a policy to return that evening to Madame de Mauves.
And yet when he had decided to do so and had carefully dressed himself
he felt an irresistible nervous tremor which made it easier to linger
at his open window, wondering with a strange mixture of dread and desire
whether Madame Clairin had repeated to her sister-in-law what she had
said to him. His presence now might be simply a gratuitous annoyance,
and yet his absence might seem to imply that it was in the power of
circumstances to make them ashamed to meet each other's eyes. He sat