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 a long time with his head in his hands, lost in a painful confusion of hopes and ambiguities. He felt at moments as if he could throttle Madame Clairin, and yet couldn't help asking himself if it weren't possible she had done him a service. It was late when he left the hotel, and as he entered the gate of the other house his heart beat so fast that he was sure his voice would show it.
The servant ushered him into the drawing-room, which was empty and with
the lamp burning low. But the long windows were open and their light
curtains swaying in a soft warm wind, so that Longmore immediately
stepped out upon the terrace. There he found Madame de Mauves alone, slowly pacing its length. She was dressed in white, very simply, and her hair was arranged not as she usually wore it, but in a single loose coil and as if she were unprepared for company. She stopped when she saw her friend, showed some surprise, uttered an exclamation and stood waiting for him to speak. He tried, with his eyes on her, to say something, but found no words. He knew it was awkward, it was offensive, to stand gazing at her; but he couldn't say what was suitable and mightn't say what he wished. Her face was indistinct in the dim light, but he felt her eyes fixed on him and wondered what they expressed. Did they warn him, did they plead, or did they confess to a sense of provocation? For an instant his head swam; he was sure it would make all things clear to stride forward and fold her in his arms. But a moment later he was still dumb there before her; he hadn't moved; he knew she had spoken, but he hadn't understood.
"You were here this morning," she continued; and now, slowly, the
meaning of her words came to him. "I had a bad headache and had to shut
myself up." She spoke with her usual voice.
Longmore mastered his agitation and answered her without betraying
himself. "I hope you're better now."
"Yes, thank you, I'm better--much better."
He waited again and she moved away to a chair and seated herself. After
a pause he followed her and leaned closer to her, against the balustrade
of the terrace. "I hoped you might have been able to come out for the
morning into the forest. I went alone; it was a lovely day, and I took a
long walk."
"It was a lovely day," she said absently, and sat with her eyes lowered, slowly opening and closing her fan. Longmore, as he watched her, felt more and more assured her sister-in-law had seen her since her interview with him; that her attitude toward him was changed. It was this same something that hampered the desire with which he had come, or at least converted all his imagined freedom of speech about it to a final hush of wonder. No, certainly, he couldn't clasp her to his arms now, any more than some antique worshipper could have clasped the marble statue in his temple. But Longmore's statue spoke at last with a full human voice and even with a shade of human hesitation. She looked up, and it seemed to him her eyes shone through the dusk.
"I'm very glad you came this evening--and I've a particular reason for
being glad. I half-expected you, and yet I thought it possible you
mightn't come."
"As the case has been present to me," Longmore answered, "it was
impossible I shouldn't come. I've spent every minute of the day in
thinking of you."