time. Whatever of
spirituality, whatever of youthful foolish _espieglerie_ the face had
held, had vanished. The visage was like a mask--and a mask of death.
There was a splash of purplish crimson beneath either eyelid, but for
the rest the face was of the yellow of a week-old bone; the eyelids
were puffy, and the lips were lax. The whole face quivered like a shaken
jelly as she looked at him.

'Paul,' she said--' Paul, Paul!'

And with that she cast herself upon his breast in a very storm of tears.

For a moment he stood helpless and confused, and then a sudden flux of
pity came upon him, and he held her steadily and firmly in answer to the
hysteric grip with which her arms encircled him, now tightening and now
relaxing. She fawned upon him piteously from the very beginning of this
embrace, and at the last she fell, both knees thudding upon the carpet,
and abased her head between his ankles, crying bitterly the while. And
at this whatever manhood was within the man fled for the time being, and
he, kneeling to raise her from her self-abasement, also lifted up his
voice and wept bitterly.

Before things had quite reached this melancholy pass Laurent had stolen
from the room, and had closed both doors behind him, so that husband and
wife were alone.

'Dearest,' said Paul, 'what can I do to help you?'

The word was not wholly sincere, but it held more than the average ounce
of sincerity to the ton which keeps human speech a possibility. At least
his desire was to help her, if it were only a way of helping himself.
But the whole thing was so miserable that to analyze emotions at such
a moment was surely to mount the very Appenines of folly. Annette cried
and cried, with her yet young and supple figure clinging to him, and, in
spite of the debauched, melancholy face, what could he do but stroke her
hair and kiss her cheek, and promise kindness and encouragement? Most
of the time he was inwardly murmuring, 'Poor devil!' and was assuring
himself that he had taken up a most hopeless handful; but the whole
wretched tangle of feeling was too intricate to be unravelled by so
much as a straight inch. What could he do? He asked the question
despairingly; he asked it in genuine pity of Annette; he asked it in a
yet more genuine pity of himself. The man who deals professionally with
the emotions of other people cannot preserve the simplicity of his own;
it would be out of nature to believe it.

There was a reconciliation of a s