It seemed now to Athénaïse that Montéclin was the only friend left to her in the world. Her father and mother had turned from her in what appeared to be her hour of need. Her friends laughed at her, and refused to take seriously the hints which she threw out,—feeling her way to discover if marriage were as distasteful to other women as to herself. Montéclin alone understood her. He alone had always been ready to act for her and with her, to comfort and her with his sympathy and his support. Her only hope for rescue from her hateful surroundings lay in Montéclin. Of herself she felt powerless to plan, to act, even to conceive a way out of this into which the whole world seemed to have to thrust her.  
She had a great desire to see her brother, and wrote asking him to come to her. But it better suited Montéclin’s spirit of adventure to appoint a meeting-place at the turn of the lane, 63where Athénaïse might appear to be walking for health and recreation, and where he might seem to be riding along, on some errand of business or pleasure.
 
There had been a shower, a sudden downpour, short as it was sudden, that had laid the dust in the road. It had freshened the leaves of the live-oaks, and brightened up the big fields of cotton on either side of the lane till they seemed carpeted with green, glittering .
 
Athénaïse walked along the edge of the road, lifting her crisp skirts with one hand, and with the other twirling a gay sunshade over her bare head. The of the fields after the rain was delicious. She long breaths of their freshness and perfume, that and quieted her for the moment. There were birds splashing and spluttering in the pools, themselves on the fence-*rails, and sending out little sharp cries, twitters, and rhapsodies of delight.
 
She saw Montéclin approaching from a great distance,—almost as far away as the turn of the woods. But she could not feel sure it was he; it appeared too tall for Montéclin, but 64that was because he was riding a large horse. She waved her parasol to him; she was so glad to see him. She had never been so glad to see Montéclin before; not even the day when he had taken her out of the convent, against her parents’ wishes, because she had expressed a desire to remain there no longer. He seemed to her, as he drew near, the embodiment of kindness, of bravery, of , even of wisdom; for she had never known Montéclin at a loss to himself from a disagreeable situation.
 
He dismounted, and, leading his horse by the , started to walk beside her, after he had kissed her affectionately and asked her what she was crying about. She protested that she was not crying, for she was laughing, though drying her eyes at the same time on her handkerchief, rolled in a soft mop for the purpose.
 
She took Montéclin’s arm, and they strolled slowly down the lane; they could not seat themselves for a comfortable chat, as they would have liked, with the grass all sparkling and wet.
 
65Yes, she was quite as wretched as ever, she told him. The week which had gone by since she saw him had in no wise lightened the burden of her discontent. There had even been some additional laid upon her, and she told Montéclin all about them,—about the keys, for instance, which in a fit of temper she had returned to Félicité’s keeping; and she told how Cazeau had brought them back to her as if they were something she had accidentally lost, and he had recovered; and how he had said, in that tone of his, that it was not the custom on river for the negro servants to carry the keys, when there was a mistress at the head of the household.
 
But Athénaïse could not tell Montéclin anything to increase the disrespect which he already entertained for his brother-in-law; and it was then he unfolded to her a plan which he had conceived and worked out for her deliverance from this matrimonial .
 
It was not a plan which met with instant favor, which she was at once ready to accept, for it involved and , hateful alternatives, both of them. But she was 66filled with for Montéclin’s resources and wonderful talent for contrivance. She accepted the plan; not with the determination to act upon it, rather with the intention to sleep and to dream upon it.
 
Three days later she wrote to Montéclin that she had abandoned herself to his counsel. as it might be to her sense of honesty, it would yet be less trying than to live on with a soul full of bitterness and revolt, as she had done for the past two months.