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The sunlight fell on the frosted plane-trees of the Champs Elysees, and in the heart of the stony desert the Place de la Concorde opened out like a large oasis. He felt her arm on his, and yet he had the feeling as if she were supporting him. She talked of the presents which they were going to buy for the children, and he tried to force himself to take an interest in the subject. But all at once he interrupted her conversation and asked her, a-propos of nothing:

“Do you know the difference between vengeance and punishment?”

“No, I’ve never thought about it.”

“I wonder whether it isn’t this: When an anonymous journalist revenges himself, it is punishment; but when a well-known writer, who is not a pressman, fights with an open visor, meting out punishment, then it is revenge! Let us join the new prophets!”

She begged him not to spoil Christmas by talking of the newspapers.

“This festival,” he muttered, “on which peace and good-will….”

They passed through the arcades of the Rue de Rivoli, turned into the boulevards and made their purchases. They dined at the Grand Hotel. She was in a sunny frame of mind and tried to cheer him up. But he remained preoccupied. Suddenly he asked,

“How is it possible that one can have a bad conscience when one has acted rightly?”

She did not know.

“Is it because the upper classes have so trained us, that our conscience troubles us whenever we rebel against them? Probably it is so. Why shouldn’t he who has been hurt unjustly, have the right to attack injustice? Because only he who has been hurt will attack, and the upper classes hate being attacked. Why did I not strike at the upper classes in the past, when I belonged to them? Because, of course, I didn’t know them then. One must look at a picture from a distance in order to find the correct visual point!”

“One shouldn’t talk about such things on Christmas Eve!”

“True, it is Christmas. This festival of….”

They returned home. They lit the candles on the Christmas tree; it radiated peace and happiness; but its dark branches smelt of a funeral and looked sinister, like the Baron’s face. The nurse came in with the little ones. His face lighted up, for, he thought, when they are grown up they will reap in joy what we have sown in tears; then their conscience will only trouble them when they have sinned against the laws of nature; they won’t have to suffer from whims which have been caned into us at school, drummed into us by the parsons, invented by the upper classes for their own benefit.

The Baroness sat down at the piano when the maids and the footmen entered. She played melancholy old dances, dear to the heart of the people of the North, while the servants danced gravely with the children. It was very much like the penitential part of divine service.

After that the presents were distributed among the children, and the servants received their gifts. And then the children were put to bed.

The Baroness went into the drawing-room and sat down in an arm-chair. The Baron threw himself on a footstool at her feet. He rested his head on her knees. It was so heavy–so heavy. She silently stroked his forehead. “What! was he weeping?”

“Yes!”

She had never before seen a man weep. It was a terrible sight. His big strong frame shook, but he made no sound.

“Why was he weeping?”

“Because he was unhappy.”

“Unhappy with her?”

“No, no, not with her, but still, unhappy.”

“Had anybody treated him badly?”

“Yes!”

“Couldn’t he tell her all about it?”

“No, he only wanted to sit at her knees, as he used to sit long ago, at his mother’s.”

She talked to him as if he had been a child. She kissed his eyes and wiped his face with her handkerchief. She felt so proud, so strong, there were no tears in her eyes. The sight of her inspired him with new courage.

“How weak he had been! That he should have found the machine-made attacks of his opponents so hard to bear! Did his enemies really believe what they said?”

“Terrible thought! Probably they did. One often found stones firmly grown into pine-trees, why should not opinions grow into the brain in the same way? But she believed in him, she knew that he was fighting for a good cause?”

“Yes, she believed it! But–he must not be angry with her for asking him such a question–but–did he not miss his child, the first one?”

“Yes, certainly, but it could not be helped. At least, not yet! But he and the others who were working for the future would have to find a remedy for that, too. He did not know, yet, what form that remedy would take, but stronger brains than his, and many together, would surely one day solve this problem which at present seemed insolvable.”

“Yes, she hoped it would be so.”

“But their marriage? Was it a marriage in the true sense of the word, seeing that he couldn’t tell her what troubled him? Wasn’t it, too, pro…?”

“No, it was a true marriage, for they loved one another. There had been no love between him and his first wife. But he and she did love one another, could she deny it?”

“She couldn’t, he was her dear love.” Then their marriage was a true marriage before God and before Nature.