George lived with his mother after Henriette had left his home.
He was wretchedly unhappy and lonely. He could find no interest in any of the things which had pleased him before. He was ashamed to meet any of his friends, because he imagined that everyone must have heard the dreadful story--or because he was not equal to making up explanations for his mournful state. He no longer cared much about his work. What was the use of making a reputation or earning large fees when one had nothing to spend them for?
All his thoughts were fixed upon the wife and child he had lost.
He was reminded of Henriette in a thousand ways, and each way brought him a separate pang of grief. He had never realized how much he had come to depend upon her in every little thing--until now, when her companionship was withdrawn from him, and everything seemed to be a blank. He would come home at night, and opposite to him at the dinner-table would be his mother, silent and spectral. How different from the days when Henriette was there, radiant and merry, eager to be told everything that had happened to him through the day!
There was also his worry about little Gervaise. He might no longer hear how she was doing, for he could not get up courage to ask his mother the news. Thus poor George was paying for his sins. He could make no complaints against the price, however high--only sometimes he wondered whether he would be able to pay it. There were times of such discouragement that he thought of different ways of killing himself.
A curious adventure befell him during this period. He was walking one day in the park, when he saw approaching a girl whose face struck him as familiar. At first he could not recollect where he had seen her. It was only when she was nearly opposite him that he realized--it was the girl who had been the cause of all his misery!
He tried to look away, but he was too late. Her eyes had caught his, and she nodded and then stopped, exclaiming, "Why, how do you do?"George had to face her. "How do you do?" he responded, weakly.
She held out her hand and he had to take it, but there was not much welcome in his clasp. "Where have you been keeping yourself?" she asked. Then, as he hesitated, she laughed good-naturedly, "What's the matter? You don't seem glad to see me."The girl--Therese was her name--had a little package under her arm, as if she had been shopping. She was not well dressed, as when George had met her before, and doubtless she thought that was the reason for his lack of cordiality. This made him rather ashamed, and so, only half realizing what he was doing, he began to stroll along with her.
"Why did you never come to see me again?" she asked.
George hesitated. "I--I--" he stammered--"I've been married since then."She laughed. "Oh! So that's it!" And then, as they came to a bench under some trees, "Won't you sit down a while?" There was allurement in her glance, but it made George shudder. It was incredible to him that he had ever been attracted by this crude girl. The spell was now broken completely.
She quickly saw that something was wrong. "You don't seem very cheerful," she said. "What's the matter?"And the man, staring at her, suddenly blurted out, "Don't you know what you did to me?""What I did to you?" Therese repeated wonderingly.
"You must know!" he insisted.
And then she tried to meet his gaze and could not. "Why--" she stammered.
There was silence between them. When George spoke again his voice was low and trembling. "You ruined my whole life," he said--"not only mine, but my family's. How could you do it?"She strove to laugh it off. "A cheerful topic for an afternoon stroll!"For a long while George did not answer. Then, almost in a whisper, he repeated, "How could you do it?""Some one did it to me first," was the response. "A man!""Yes," said George, "but he didn't know."
"How can you tell whether he knew or not?"
"You knew?" he inquired, wonderingly.
Therese hesitated. "Yes, I knew," she said at last, defiantly.
"I have known for years."
"And I'm not the only man."
She laughed. "I guess not!"
There followed a long pause. At last he resumed, "I don't want to blame you; there's nothing to be gained by that; it's done, and can't be undone. But sometimes I wonder about it. I should like to understand--why did you do it?""Why? That's easy enough. I did it because I have to live.""You live that way?" he exclaimed.
"Why of course. What did you think?"
"I thought you were a--a--" He hesitated.
"You thought I was respectable," laughed Therese. "Well, that's just a little game I was playing on you.""But I didn't give you any money!" he argued.
"Not that time," she said, "but I thought you would come back."He sat gazing at her. "And you earn your living that way still?"he asked. "When you know what's the matter with you! When you know--""What can I do? I have to live, don't I?"
