perhaps he oughtn't to save the man's life, and that's wrong-purposed.
There's no crime in either. Let's go and hear Monsieur Barouche."

He did not see the flush which suddenly filled her face; and, if he had,
he would not have understood. For her a long twenty-seven years rolled
back to the day when she was a young neglected wife, full of life's
vitalities, out on a junction of the river and the wild woods, with
Barode Barouche's fishing-camp near by. She shivered now as she thought
of it. It was all so strange, and heart-breaking. For long years she
had paid the price of her mistake. She knew how eloquent Barode Barouche
could be; she knew how his voice had all the ravishment of silver bells
to the unsuspecting. How well she knew him; how deeply she realized the
darkness of his nature! Once she had said to him:

"Sometimes I think that for duty's sake you would cling like a leech."

It was true. For thirty long years he had been in one sense homeless,
his wife having lost her reason three years after they were married. In
that time he had faithfully visited the place of her confinement every
month of his life, sobered, chastened, at first hopeful, defiant. At the
bottom of his heart Barode Barouche did not want marital freedom. He had
loved the mad woman. He remembered her in the glory of her youth, in the
splendour of her beauty. The insane asylum did not destroy his memory.

Mrs. Grier remembered too, but in a different way. Her relations with
him had been one swift, absorbing fever--a mad dream, a moment of rash
impulse, a yielding to the natural feeling which her own husband had
aroused: the husband who now neglected her while Barode Barouche treated
her so well, until a day when under his beguilement a stormy impulse
gave--Carnac. Then the end came, instant and final; she bolted, barred