She had been rent by a desire that had
made her limbs shudder, or that had flushed her whole body with red,
and set her temples beating. The longing of heart and flesh had been
so vehement that it had seemed to her as if they must compel, or cease
to be. Now, again, she desired to compel Maurice to come to her from
his far, distant place, but in order that she might make him
understand what he had perhaps died misunderstanding; why she had left
him to go to Artois, exactly how she had felt, how desperately sad to
abandon the Garden of Paradise, how torn by fear lest the perfect days
were forever at an end, how intensely desirous to take him with her.
Perhaps he had felt cruelly jealous! Perhaps that was why he had not
offered to go with her at once. Yes, she believed that now. She saw
her action, she saw her preceding decision as others had seen it, as
no doubt Maurice had seen it, as perhaps even Artois had seen it. Why
had she instinctively felt that because her nature was as it was, and
because she was bravely following it, every one must understand her?
Oh, to be completely understood! If she could call Maurice back for
one moment, and just make him see her as she had been then; loyal to
her friend, and through and through passionately loyal to him! If she
could! If she could!
She had left Maurice, the one being who had utterly belonged to her,
to go to Artois.
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