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Machine Learning Algorithms for Signal and Image Processing
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Machine Learning Algorithms for Signal and Image Processing

Meghnad Saha Institute of Technology, IN

Lovely Professional University, IN

Lovely Professional University, IN

Lovely Professional University, IN

Charles Darwin University, AS

Suman Lata Tripathi

Mamoun Alazab
Manash Chanda
Sobhit Saxena
Deepika Ghai
Edited by
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v

Contents

Editor Biography xix

List of Contributors xxi
Preface xxix
Acknowledgments xxxi

Section I Machine Learning and Deep Learning Techniques for Image Processing 1

1 Image Features in Machine Learning 3

Anterpreet K. Bedi and Ramesh K. Sunkaria
1.1 Introduction 3
1.2 Feature Vector 4
1.3 Lower-Level Image Features 5
1.3.1 Color 5
1.3.1.1 Color Histogram 5
1.3.1.2 Color Moments 6
1.3.1.3 Color Coherence Vector 6
1.3.1.4 Color Correlogram 6
1.3.2 Texture 6
1.3.2.1 Signal Processing-Based Features 6
1.3.2.2 Structural Features 7
1.3.2.3 Model-Based Features 7
1.3.2.4 Statistical Features 7
1.3.3 Shape 15
1.3.3.1 Shape Features Based on Boundary 15
1.3.3.2 Shape Features Based on Region 16
1.4 Conclusion 16
References 16

2 Image Segmentation and Classification Using Deep Learning 19

Abhisek Ray and Maheshkumar H. Kolekar
2.1 Introduction 19
2.2 Image Segmentation 20
2.2.1 Types of DL-Based Segmentation 20
2.2.1.1 Instance Segmentation Using Deep Learning 20
2.2.1.2 Semantic Segmentation Using Deep Learning 20
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vi Contents

2.2.2 Advantages and Applications of DL-Based Segmentation 21

2.2.3 Types and Literature Survey Related to DL-Based Segmentation 21
2.2.3.1 Fully Convolution Model 21
2.2.3.2 CNN with Graphical Model 21
2.2.3.3 Dilated Convolution Model 22
2.2.3.4 Encoder–Decoder Model 22
2.2.3.5 R-CNN Based Model 23
2.2.3.6 Multiscale Pyramid Based Model 24
2.2.3.7 RNN Based Model 25
2.2.3.8 Generative Adversarial Network (GAN) Based Model 25
2.2.3.9 Segmentation Model Based on Attention Mechanism 26
2.3 Image Classification 27
2.3.1 Types and Schemes in Image Classification 27
2.3.2 Types and Literature Survey Related to DL-Based Image Classification 28
2.3.2.1 CNN Based Image Classification 28
2.3.2.2 CNN–RNN Based Image Classification 30
2.3.2.3 Auto-encoder Based Image Classification 31
2.3.2.4 GAN Based Image Classification 31
2.4 Conclusion 32
References 32

3 Deep Learning Based Synthetic Aperture Radar Image Classification 37

J. Anil Raj and Sumam M. Idicula
3.1 Introduction 37
3.2 Literature Review 38
3.3 Dataset Description 38
3.4 Methodology 39
3.5 Experimental Results and Discussions 41
3.6 Conclusion 43
References 43

4 Design Perspectives of Multi-task Deep-Learning Models and Applications 45

Yeshwant Singh, Anupam Biswas, Angshuman Bora, Debashish Malakar, Subham Chakraborty, and
Suman Bera
4.1 Introduction 45
4.2 Deep Learning 46
4.2.1 Feed-Forward Neural Network 47
4.2.2 Convolution Neural Network 47
4.2.2.1 Convolution Layer 47
4.2.2.2 Pooling Layer 48
4.2.3 Recurrent Neural Network 48
4.3 Multi-task Deep-Learning Models 48
4.3.1 Classification Models 48
4.3.1.1 Multi-attribute Recognition Models Using Joint Learning of Features 48
4.3.1.2 Multi-task Facial Attributes Classification Model Using Feature Fusion 50
4.3.2 Prediction Models 50
4.3.2.1 Multi-tasking on Time-Series Data 50
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Contents vii

4.3.2.2 Multi-step Forecasting on Multivariate Time Series Using Split Layers 51

4.3.3 Mixed Models 52
4.4 Design and Implementation 52
4.4.1 Multi-task Learning Methods used for Deep Learning 52
4.4.1.1 Hard Parameter Sharing 52
4.4.1.2 Soft Parameter Sharing 53
4.4.2 Various Design of Multi-task Learning 53
4.4.2.1 Deep Relationship Networks 53
4.4.2.2 Fully Adaptive Feature Sharing 54
4.4.2.3 Cross-stitch Networks 54
4.4.2.4 Weighting Losses with Uncertainty 54
4.4.2.5 Tensor Factorization for MTL – Sluice Networks 54
4.4.2.6 Joint Many-Task Model 55
4.4.3 Common Problems with Design and Implementation 55
4.4.3.1 Combining Losses 55
4.4.3.2 Tuning Learning Rates 57
4.4.3.3 Using Estimates as Features 57
4.5 Applications 57
4.5.1 Image Domain 57
4.5.2 Text Domain 58
4.5.3 Others 59
4.6 Evaluation of Multi-task Models 59
4.7 Conclusion and Future Directions 60
Acknowledgment 61
References 61

5 Image Reconstruction Using Deep Learning 65

Aneeta Christopher, R. Hari Kishan, and P.V. Sudeep
5.1 Introduction 65
5.2 DL-IR Methods 67
5.2.1 DL-MMSE Methods for IR Tasks 67
5.2.1.1 DL-MMSE Methods Using AEs 67
5.2.1.2 DL-MMSE Methods Using CNNs 68
5.2.2 MAP Based DL-IR Methods 72
5.2.3 Other DL-SR Methods 75
5.2.3.1 Supervised SR Techniques 75
5.2.3.2 Unsupervised SR Techniques 77
5.2.4 Other DL-IR Tasks 77
5.3 DL-Based Medical Image Reconstruction 78
5.4 Conclusion 81
Acknowledgment 81
References 81

6 Machine and Deep-Learning Techniques for Image Super-Resolution 89

Ashish Kumar, Sachin Srivastava, and Pratik Chattopadhyay
6.1 Introduction 89
6.1.1 Motivation 90
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viii Contents

6.1.2 Applications of Image Super-Resolution 90

6.1.2.1 Satellite Imaging 91
6.1.2.2 Medical Diagnosis 91
6.1.2.3 Surveillance 92
6.1.2.4 Video Enhancement 92
6.1.3 Major Contributions and Organization of the Chapter 92
6.2 Traditional Upsampling Approaches 93
6.2.1 Nearest Neighbor Interpolation 93
6.2.2 Bilinear Interpolation 93
6.2.3 Bicubic Interpolation 93
6.3 Primitive Machine-Learning-Based Approaches 94
6.3.1 Frequency Domain 94
6.3.1.1 Fast Fourier Transform 95
6.3.1.2 Wavelet Transform 95
6.3.2 Spatial Domain 96
6.3.2.1 Iterative Back Projection 96
6.3.2.2 Maximum Likelihood Estimation 96
6.3.2.3 Maximum A Posteriori (MAP) Estimation 97
6.3.2.4 Self-Similarity-Based Approach 98
6.3.2.5 Learning-Based Approach 98
6.3.2.6 Sparse-Based Approach 98
6.4 Modern Deep-Learning-Based Approaches 98
6.4.1 Upsampling-Based Classification 98
6.4.2 Network-Based Classification 100
6.4.2.1 Linear Networks 100
6.4.2.2 Residual Networks 100
6.4.2.3 Recursive Networks 101
6.4.2.4 Progressive Reconstruction Networks 102
6.4.2.5 Densely Connected Networks 103
6.4.2.6 Attention-Based Networks 103
6.4.2.7 GAN-Based Networks 104
6.4.3 Discussion on Different Types of Loss Functions 105
6.4.3.1 Pixel Loss 105
6.4.3.2 Content Loss 106
6.4.3.3 Texture Loss 106
6.4.3.4 Adversarial Loss 106
6.5 Performance Metrics and Comparative Study of Existing Techniques 107
6.5.1 Objective Evaluation 107
6.5.1.1 Peak Signal-to-Noise Ratio (PSNR) 107
6.5.1.2 Structural Similarity Index Measure (SSIM) 108
6.5.2 Subjective Evaluation 108
6.5.3 Datasets 108
6.5.3.1 Training Dataset 108
6.5.3.2 Testing Dataset 109
6.5.4 Evaluation Results 109
6.6 Summary and Discussions 110
References 111
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Contents ix

Section II Machine Learning and Deep Learning Techniques for Text and Speech
Processing 115

7 Machine and Deep-Learning Techniques for Text and Speech Processing 117
Dasari L. Prasanna and Suman Lata Tripathi
7.1 Text Processing 117
7.1.1 Automatic Text to Image Generation or Vice-Versa Using Machine and Deep Learning 117
7.1.2 Automatic Image Caption Generation Using Machine and Deep Learning 118
7.1.3 Manipuri Handwritten Script Recognition Using Machine and Deep Learning 119
7.1.4 Natural Language Processing Using Machine and Deep Learning 122
7.2 Speech Processing 122
7.2.1 Smart Sign Language Recognition System for Deaf People Using Deep Learning 122
7.2.2 Smart Text Reader for Blind People Using Machine and Deep Learning 123
7.2.3 The Role of Deep Learning Paradigm in Building the Acoustic Components of an Automatic Speech
Recognition System 125
7.3 Conclusion 126
References 126

8 Manipuri Handwritten Script Recognition Using Machine and Deep Learning 129
Palungbam R. Chanu
8.1 Introduction 129
8.2 Literature Survey 130
8.3 Proposed Work 131
8.4 Experimental Results and Discussions 132
8.5 Conclusion 136
References 136

9 Comparison of Different Text Extraction Techniques for Complex Color Images 139
Deepika Ghai and Neelu Jain
9.1 Introduction 139
9.2 Related Work 140
9.3 Edge-Based and CC-Based Methods 143
9.3.1 Edge-Based Method Introduced by Liu and Samarabandu [17] 143
9.3.2 CC-Based Method Formulated by Gllavata et al. [36] 143
9.4 Proposed Methodology 146
9.5 Experimental Results and Discussion 150
9.5.1 Sample Test Results 151
9.5.2 Comparison of Proposed Method with Existing State-of-the-Art Methods 153
9.6 Conclusions 157
Acknowledgment 157
References 157

10 Smart Text Reader System for People who are Blind Using Machine and Deep Learning 161
Zobeir Raisi, Mohamed A. Naiel, Georges Younes, Paul Fieguth, and John Zelek
10.1 Introduction 161
10.2 Literature Review 163
10.2.1 Smart Text Reader System for Blind People 163
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x Contents

10.2.1.1 Text Detection 164

10.2.1.2 Text Recognition 168
10.3 Experimental Results 173
10.3.1 Datasets 174
10.3.1.1 MJSynth 174
10.3.1.2 SynthText 175
10.3.1.3 ICDAR03 175
10.3.1.4 ICDAR13 175
10.3.1.5 ICDAR15 175
10.3.1.6 COCO-Text 176
10.3.1.7 SVT 176
10.3.1.8 SVT-P 176
10.3.1.9 IIIT 5K-Words 176
10.3.1.10 CUT80 176
10.3.2 Evaluation Metrics 176
10.3.2.1 Detection 176
10.3.2.2 Recognition 177
10.3.3 Evaluation of Text Detection Techniques 177
10.3.3.1 Quantitative Results 177
10.3.3.2 Qualitative Results 177
10.3.3.3 Discussion 179
10.3.4 Evaluation of Text Recognition Techniques 181
10.3.4.1 Quantitative Results 181
10.3.4.2 Qualitative Results 181
10.3.4.3 Discussion 184
10.3.5 Open Investigations for Scene Text Detection and Recognition 186
10.3.5.1 Training Datasets 186
10.3.5.2 Richer Annotations 186
10.3.5.3 Novel Feature Extractors 188
10.3.5.4 Occlusion Handling 188
10.3.5.5 Complex Fonts and Special Characters 188
10.4 Conclusions and Recommended Future Work 188
Acknowledgments 189
References 189

11 Machine-Learning Techniques for Deaf People 201

Yogini D. Borole and Roshani Raut
11.1 Introduction 201
11.2 Literature Survey 202
11.3 Objectives 203
11.4 Proposed Calculation Depiction 203
11.4.1 Reference System 203
11.5 Resources and Strategies 206
11.5.1 Equipment/Programming 206
11.5.2 Topics 206
11.5.3 Handling Conditions and Improvements 207
11.5.4 Utilized Convention 207
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Contents xi

11.6 Assessment 207

11.7 Outcomes and Conversations 208
11.8 Discourse Coherence 208
11.9 Conclusion 214
References 214

12 Design and Development of Chatbot Based on Reinforcement Learning 219

Hemlata M. Jadhav, Altaf Mulani, and Makarand M. Jadhav
12.1 Introduction 219
12.2 Student Guide Using Chatbot 221
12.3 Implementation of Chatbot System 221
12.3.1 Data-Flow Diagram 222
12.3.2 Use-Case Diagram 222
12.3.2.1 At the Admin End 223
12.3.2.2 At User End for Student/Parent 223
12.3.3 Class Diagram 223
12.3.4 Sequence Diagram 224
12.3.5 Activity Diagram 224
12.3.6 State Diagram 225
12.4 Development of Algorithms Used in Chatbot System 226
12.4.1 Stop Word Removal Algorithm 226
12.4.2 String Similarity Algorithm 226
12.4.3 Q-Learning Algorithm 227
12.5 Conclusion 227
References 228

13 DNN Based Speech Quality Enhancement and Multi-speaker Separation for Automatic
Speech Recognition System 231
Ramya and Siva Sakthi
13.1 Introduction 231
13.2 Deep Learning 231
13.2.1 Recurrent Neural Network 232
13.2.2 Long Short-Term Memory (LSTM) Networks 233
13.2.3 Convolutional Neural Network 233
13.3 Speech Enhancement and Separation 234
13.4 Speech Enhancement Algorithms 234
13.4.1 Basic Principles of Spectral Subtraction 234
13.4.1.1 Spectral Subtraction Using Over-Subtraction 235
13.4.1.2 Nonlinear Spectral Subtraction 235
13.4.2 Statistical Model Based Methods 236
13.4.2.1 Maximum-Likelihood Estimators 236
13.4.2.2 Minimum Mean Square Error (MMSE) Estimator 236
13.4.3 Subspace Algorithms 237
13.4.3.1 Definition of SVD 237
13.4.3.2 Subspace Decomposition Method 238
13.4.3.3 Eigen Value Decomposition 238
13.5 Speech Separation Algorithms 238
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xii Contents

13.5.1 Classical Speech Separation Algorithms 238

13.5.2 Harmonic Models 239
13.5.3 Computational Auditory Scene Analysis 239
13.5.4 Non-negative Matrix Factorization (NMF) 240
13.5.5 Generative Models 240
13.6 Deep Learning Based Speech Enhancement 240
13.6.1 Mask Approximation 241
13.6.1.1 Complex Ideal Ratio Mask 241
13.6.1.2 Ideal Binary Mask 242
13.6.2 Signal Approximation 242
13.7 Deep Learning Based Speech Separation 242
13.7.1 Label Permutation Problem (LPP) 243
13.7.2 Deep Clustering 243
13.8 Results and Discussions 243
13.9 Conclusion 244
References 244

14 Design and Development of Real-Time Music Transcription Using Digital Signal

Processing 247
Thummala Reddychakradhar Goud, Koneti Chandra Sekhar, Gannamani Sriram, Gadamsetti Narasimha
Deva, Vuyyuru Prashanth, Deepika Ghai, and Sandeep Kumar
14.1 Introduction 247
14.2 Related Work 247
14.3 Motivation of the Proposed Work 248
14.4 Mathematical Expressions of Signal Processing 249
14.5 Proposed Methodology 250
14.5.1 Reading and Visualization 250
14.5.2 Signal Processing 250
14.5.3 MIDI Conversion 250
14.5.4 Feature Extraction 253
14.5.5 Image Processing 254
14.5.6 Key Extraction 256
14.6 Experimental Results and Discussions 257
14.6.1 Benchmark Database 257
14.6.2 Evaluation Parameters 257
14.6.3 Performance Evaluation 258
14.7 Conclusion 260
References 261

Section III Applications of Signal and Image Processing with Machine Learning and Deep
Learning Techniques 263

15 Role of Machine Learning in Wrist Pulse Analysis 265

Sachin Kumar, Pooja, Sanjeev Kumar, and Karan Veer
15.1 Introduction 265
15.2 Machine-Learning Techniques 267
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Contents xiii

15.2.1 Regression 268

15.2.2 Classification 268
15.2.3 Clustering 268
15.2.4 Dimensionality Reduction 269
15.2.5 Ensemble Methods 269
15.2.6 Artificial Neural Networks and Deep Learning 269
15.2.7 Reinforcement Learning 269
15.3 Performance Analysis of ML Algorithms 270
15.4 Role of the Machine and Deep Learning in Wrist Pulse Signal Analysis (WPA) 270
15.4.1 Supervised Machine Learning in WPA 270
15.4.2 Unsupervised Machine Learning and Reinforcement Machine Learning in WPA 271
15.4.3 Deep Learning in WPA 271
15.5 Discussion and Conclusion 272
References 274

16 An Explainable Convolutional Neural Network-Based Method for Skin-Lesion Classification

from Dermoscopic Images 279
Biswarup Ganguly, Debangshu Dey, and Sugata Munshi
16.1 Introduction 279
16.1.1 Background, Motivation, and Literature 279
16.1.2 Major Contributions 281
16.2 Methods and Materials 282
16.2.1 Pixel-Wise Decomposition 282
16.2.2 Layer-Wise Relevance Back-Propagation 282
16.3 Explainable Deep-Learning (x-DL) Framework for Dermoscopic Image Classification 283
16.3.1 Datasets and Image Preprocessing 283
16.3.2 Structure of Convolutional Neural Network (CNN) 283
16.3.3 Training Details and System Implementation 285
16.4 Experimental Results and Discussion 285
16.4.1 Analysis of Learnt Skin-Lesion Patterns from x-DL 285
16.4.2 Ablation Analysis Considering Regularization Factor 286
16.4.3 Comparative Study with Other CNN Modules 287
16.4.4 Discussion 289
16.5 Conclusion 289
Acknowledgments 289
References 289

17 Future of Machine Learning (ML) and Deep Learning (DL) in Healthcare Monitoring
System 293
Kanak Kumar, Kaustav Chaudhury, and Suman Lata Tripathi
17.1 Introduction 293
17.1.1 ML/DL Algorithms for Optimization 294
17.1.2 Pre-processing Methods 295
17.2 Performance Analysis Parameters 299
17.3 Objectives and Motivation 300
17.4 Existing ML/DL Techniques for Healthcare Monitoring and Disease Diagnosis 300
17.5 Proposed Model/Methods for Healthcare Monitoring System Using ML/DL 303
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xiv Contents

17.5.1 Case Study-I: Breast Cancer 304

17.6 Experimental Results and Discussion 305
17.6.1 Case Study-II: Diabetes 306
17.7 Conclusions 310
17.8 Future Scope 310
References 311

18 Usage of AI and Wearable IoT Devices for Healthcare Data: A Study 315
Swarup Nandi, Madhusudhan Mishra, and Swanirbhar Majumder
18.1 Introduction 315
18.2 Literature Review 315
18.3 AI-Based Wearable Devices 316
18.3.1 Cloud-Assisted Agent-Based Smart Environment 317
18.3.2 Improved Bayesian Convolution Network 317
18.3.3 EDL 317
18.4 Activities of Wearable Devices in Healthcare System 320
18.4.1 Women’s Health focused AVA Sensor 320
18.4.2 AliveCor – Personal EKG 320
18.4.3 TempTraq 321
18.4.4 BioScarf 322
18.4.5 Blinq – Wearable Rings 322
18.4.6 SmartSleep Wearable 323
18.4.7 BioPatch 323
18.4.8 Smart Glasses 324
18.4.9 Smart Hearing Aids 324
18.4.10 Wireless Patient Monitoring 325
18.4.11 Wearable Fitness Tracker 325
18.4.12 Smart Health Watch 326
18.4.13 Wearable ECG Monitors 326
18.4.14 Wearable Blood Pressure Monitors 327
18.4.15 Biosensors 327
18.5 Barriers to Wearable’s Adoption 329
18.5.1 Cost 329
18.5.2 Designation 329
18.5.3 Absence of Initiative Use Case 329
18.5.4 Lack of a Killer App 329
18.5.5 Limited Functionality 329
18.6 Wearable Devices Consumers 329
18.7 Recent Trends in Wearable Technology 334
18.7.1 Wearables in Healthcare 334
18.7.2 Wearables in Industry 335
18.7.3 Wearables in Robotics 335
18.7.4 Wearables in Defense 335
18.7.5 Wearables in Sport 335
18.7.6 Wearable in CPS 336
18.8 Conclusion 336
References 336
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 CHAPTER II
BROTHER AND SISTER
In the friendship between brother and sister there is a frank and
simple sweetness that makes it a sentiment apart from all others. In
its nature it is free from the violent outbursts of love and those
passionate transports which are too intoxicating to be lasting. It is
distinguished, however, from ordinary friendship between persons of
the same sex, by the element of modest discretion and tenderness
introduced into it by the woman. What makes it still more singular is
the marvellous ability of the two parties to such a friendship to think
and to feel alike, this springing from a common origin and a
childhood spent together. The two can then understand a half-
uttered word, can call back memories at the same moment, can live
again together the days of old and inhale again the perfume of the
past. Even love itself lacks this quality and may well envy its
possession.
Seated in two basket-chairs in the garden of Le Maupas, Marcel
and Paule Guibert, with no waste of useless confidences, realised the
joy of discovering that during their separation life had ripened and
molded their souls alike even though a great distance had separated
them. They thought otherwise than in former days, but they still
thought together.
“I am so happy here,” said the young man, “that I want to do
nothing all day long.”
Marcel was tired and needed rest. In spite of his robust health,
he showed some traces of his life in the colonies. He still had attacks
of fever, though they grew rarer and rarer. He looked to the health-
bringing air of Savoy to put new life into him.
 It was one of those calm summer afternoons in the country,
when it seems that one can almost feel the vibration of the
sunshine. Not a breath of air fanned their faces. Only in the tree-
tops a lazy breeze stirred the delicate leaves of the lime-trees, which
trembled and showed by turn the dark green of their upper and the
pale green of their lower surfaces.
On the rustic table, its round top cut from a single slate, were
scattered papers and letters. Paule set herself to open the mail to
which her brother paid so little heed.
“More articles about you,” she cried, “in the Clarion des Alpes and
La Savoie Républicaine. Do you want to read them?”
“No, please not,” begged the captain.
“Some invitations,” Paule went on. “The men of your year are
giving a dinner in your honor. A season-ticket for the Aix-les-Bains
Casino. Another for the Villa des Fleurs. The Baroness de Vittoz is at
home on Tuesdays.”
“What is all this to me? I want to see nobody, absolutely nobody.”
“You have become fashionable! You must play your part. They
are disposing of your liberty. That’s one way of sharing in your
laurels.”
“Let’s agree not to talk about it, Paule dear.”
“But everyone is talking about it. Glory is the rage to-day. Some
day soon the Dulaurenses will call upon us, and other people too
whom we have not seen since the story of our ruin got about.”
Her smooth forehead, overshadowed by dark hair, still wore the
furrow which testified to the bitterness of that time of trial.
Marcel said nothing. He let himself be carried away by the
multitudinous memories connected with the land which was his
forefathers’. In his mind’s eye he could see the shadows of the past
springing up from the ground about him and hovering round him like
a flock of birds. Only the members of large families can know the
happy exaltation of spirit which has its birth in an environment that
is fresh, gay, and frank. This blessing, which changes childhood with
a stroke of the wand into fairyland and is able to shed its sweetness
throughout middle life right down to old age, is the reward of those
who have had the courage to live and to perpetuate life. So Marcel
now smiled upon another tiny Marcel, whom he could see distinctly
scampering over the neighboring fields with a merry little troop of
brothers and sisters. Then began with Paule the series of “Do you
remembers.” He plunged back into the far away years when the soul
is still wrapped in mystery, and finally he said:
“Do you remember.... But no, you were not born then. We were
lying on the grass. They were our first holidays, I think. Father used
to tell us about the “Iliad” and the “Odyssey,” and we straightway
translated the stories into action. I was in turn Hector and the
cunning Ulysses. But at that time I preferred Hector, for he is
generous and of that tragic courage which impresses a child’s mind.
Since then reading Homer has been to me like visiting a friend. Who
can tell whether or not I owe to these influences my taste for
adventure?”
“But you are not thinking of going back?” enquired Paule
anxiously. “Mother has aged greatly. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, she is a little bent now, and her cheeks are sometimes pale.
You are watching over her for us. You are our security, Paule, the
comfort of all the rest of us, who are scattered over the world.”
The girl did not reply. Marcel regretted his remark, for he felt its
selfishness. Of all Dr. Guibert’s children Paule had suffered most
directly from the blow of the financial disaster which had crushed
the whole family through the misfortunes of an uncle. She had lost
her dowry and thereby many a chance of marriage. Her brothers
depended on her devotion to cherish their mother’s old age, as if she
must always forget her own life and feel in vain the tender beating
of her young heart.
 Marcel gazed at her a long time. With affectionate admiration he
regarded her graceful figure, so supple and so full of the promise of
future strength; the pure tint of her complexion, accentuated by the
black of her dress; her deep, sombre eyes, so sweet withal, the eyes
of a woman who has tasted life and knows it, without fearing it; he
saw the whole charming picture of a maiden both proud and
virtuous. Why should she not inspire love?
He noticed the dark hair overhanging her troubled brow, and
sought to make her smile.
“I love that black hair of yours,” he said. “I have never seen any
so black. How proudly you carry the weight of it. Do you remember,
when you were little and wore it down your back, there was so much
of it that the peasant women coming back from market used to stop
to look at you and say, ‘What a shame to put a false plait upon the
poor child!’ And your nurse was very angry, ‘A false plait, is it! Come
and pull it and you’ll see if it comes off in your hands.’ So they
actually tested the genuineness of your hair, and you wept because
you were too beautiful!”
Slowly, leaning on the iron balustrade and setting each foot in
turn on every step, Madame Guibert was coming down to her
children. As an autumn flower blooms in a deserted garden, so a
feeble smile had lighted up her face since Marcel’s arrival. He came
now to meet her and set her chair in a sheltered spot.
“Are you comfortable, Mother?” he asked. The smile on the old
face deepened.
“My dear big boy, you are so like him.”
Marcel’s face grew grave. “It is eighteen months now since he
passed on,” he said. “I shall never forget that night at Ambato! I
wandered round the camp. I called to him. I called to you all. I felt
death coming to me....”
There was a sorrowful silence for a moment, and then Madame
Guibert spoke again.
 “Eighteen months! Is it possible? ... Yet I have lived through
them, thanks to Paule. While the breath of life is in me, I shall thank
God for giving me such a husband, such sons and daughters.”
She wiped the tears from her eyes and began the painful recital
for which her son was waiting.
“Your Uncle Marc’s misfortune was the beginning of all our
sorrows. We were too happy, Marcel. Your father was the
embodiment of strength, self-reliance, and hard work. After the most
wearying days he always came home happy. And you all succeeded
in your careers.”
“Some were jealous of you,” said Paule.
“It is better to be envied than pitied,” added her brother, who
was as proud as she.
“Your uncle’s bank at Annecy prospered, until a confidential clerk
absconded with title deeds and deposits, and Marc, unable to bear
the temporary storm aroused by this flight, and stunned by the
shock, committed suicide. God grant that he has been permitted to
repent! Your father left directly. He understood the situation. All was
paid, both capital and interest—but we had to sacrifice the greater
part of our fortune. However, we were able to save Le Maupas,
which belongs to the family.”
“Le Maupas is to all of us the living picture of our childhood
days,” said Marcel.
Madame Guibert continued, “Before disposing of his fortune your
father asked the consent of all of you.”
“Yes, I remember. It was at the beginning of the campaign. But
father’s conduct seemed to me an excess of punctiliousness. These
money matters are quite strange and indifferent to me.”
“Paule was consulted, too.”
“There was our name,” said Paule, “and our honor.”
 “Your marriage portion was involved, my child.... After his
brother’s tragic end,” the mother went on, “your father was so
affected that he never recovered his gaiety. But his energy and
capacity for work were doubled. When the epidemic broke out at
Cognin he did not take sufficient care of himself. He was the last to
be attacked by the disease, and at a time when he was exhausted
and worn out. From the first he knew that he was lost, but he never
admitted it. I understood at the last. He studied the progress of his
illness himself. One day he said to me, ‘Don’t be unhappy, God will
help you.’ ‘He will help us,’ I said. He made no reply. He thought of
his death fearlessly. He died in our arms, conscious to the last.”
“Only I was not there,” said Marcel.
“There at the bedside were Étienne, just back from Tonkin,
François, Paule, and Étienne’s fiancée, too, Louise Saudet.”
“Where was Marguerite?”
“She could not come,” answered Madame Guibert sadly, but with
no bitterness in her voice. “They would not allow her. She belongs to
God. We have not seen her since she entered the convent.”
All three were silent, lost in memories. The thought of death was
in their hearts, but all about them the world of living things vibrated
in the sunshine. A leaf already shrivelled, forerunner of autumn,
dropped from a branch and floated slowly down through the warm
air. Paule pointed a finger at it, calling her brother’s attention. To
Marcel, plunged in sorrowful reflection, it seemed a symbol.
“It has lived to the summer. Others go in the springtime,” he
said.
He was thinking of the premature end of his sister Thérèse, and
of death which had threatened him more than once. But soon he
shook oil this gloomy foreboding. “Short or long,” he exclaimed, “life
must be lived with full courage. That was father’s way. His memory
comforts me; it doesn’t dishearten me.”
“And Étienne left soon after for Tonkin again?” he continued.
 “Yes,” said Madame Guibert. “You remember his first trip with the
Lyons Exploration Company’s mission? He was struck by the wealth
of the mines and the soil there, and told us also of the wild beauty
of the country. He has settled with his wife at Along Bay. Isn’t that
the name, Paule?”
The girl assented, and her mother went on:
“He is in charge of the coal-mines there. At the same time he is
quite a farmer, and is growing rice and tomatoes. François has gone
out to him, and also your cousin Charles, Marc’s son. They are doing
well, with the blessing of God. Étienne helps us to live.”
“Was his wife quite willing to go?”
“Louise is as brave as she is quiet. They sailed eight days after
their wedding. They have a boy now. I have never seen him, but yet
I love him.”
“When Louise was married,” Paule added, “there was quite an
outcry at Chambéry. All the women pitied her mother. ‘How can you
let your daughter go?’ they asked, and they accused her of an
unpardonable lack of affection. Madame Saudet saw that Louise was
happy, and that was enough for her. The others only thought about
themselves and their own peace of mind. As M. Dulaurens says,
‘calm is the all-important thing.’”
A name casually introduced into a conversation often seems to
attract the person mentioned. Such chance coincidences have
passed into a proverb. A carriage at this moment was passing
through the open gate into the chestnut avenue, and Paule
recognised the Dulaurens livery.
“They had quite given us up,” observed Madame Guibert, turning
very red. Brave as she was in her attitude towards life, she was timid
towards society.
“It is on account of our hero,” said Paule with a mocking glance
at her brother.
 But they all rose and went to meet the visitors. The carriage had
already emerged from the avenue and was crushing the gravel of
the courtyard. Madame Dulaurens was the first to get out and began
at once with an allusion to the Captain. She greeted Madame
Guibert and said:
“How proud you must be to have such a son!”
Madame Dulaurens was by birth a De Vélincourt and never forgot
the fact. On the strength of this she looked upon all her actions as
great condescensions, and even deigned to bestow a kind of
benevolent patronage on those meritorious exploits which it should
be the privilege of the aristocracy to perform; or, if not, the
aristocracy could at least claim the credit for them, by applauding
them enthusiastically.
Hidden behind his wife, M. Dulaurens was bowing with
unnecessary frequency. He was dressed in grey from head to foot.
Instinctively he had found the right protective coloring for himself.
He lived in a state of timid admiration of the woman who, despite his
lowly origin, on account of his great fortune, had married him, and
who gave him to understand on every possible occasion the extent
of her sacrifice. This marriage, the foundation alike of his self-
respect and his political opinions, had endowed him with a deep
respect for the nobility, of whom the type to him was his wife’s
handsome person, stately and massive, commanding of feature,
imperious and with a voice both authoritative and disagreeable. Alice
stepped out last. She was wearing a pale blue dress, the delicate
shade of which suited her very well. She came forward with a
languid grace, which suggested that with her beauty frail health was
combined. Marcel had eyes henceforward for no one but the girl.
There was no pleasure expressed in his replies to the compliments
heaped upon him, against which indeed his modesty and his
soldierly sense of honor revolted.
There was no doubt that this visit was paid to him, and that he
was the aim and object of it. Although she treated Madame Guibert
and Paule with politeness and even with kindness—with a haughty
and condescending kindness which did not deceive the daughter,
who was more acute, or better versed in the ways of the world, than
her mother—still it was to Marcel that Madame Dulaurens, née de
Vélincourt, kept turning, as if she desired to capture for herself his
new-born celebrity and bear him away in the carriage with her.
Finally she spoke out quite frankly: “Well, young man, you have
been home several days and you are never seen anywhere. One
would think you were in hiding. That is not like you, as the enemy
well knows.”
“The enemy” was a conveniently vague name for the distant
tribes whose complicated names she could not trouble to keep in her
memory.
M. Dulaurens, who had a sincere admiration for action and
courage in other people, hastened to emphasize his wife’s allusion.
“Yes, it was a hard campaign,” he said. “The Government’s lack of
foresight.... You had few calm moments.”
Paule with difficulty suppressed a hearty laugh as she heard the
fatal adjective. So often was the word “calm” on M. Dulaurens’s lips
that he had been nicknamed Sir Calm by those who tried to find a
single phrase to express both his aristocratic pretensions and his
love of peace.
“All our friends wish to make your acquaintance,” his wife
continued. “Please make my house your own, if you care to come.”
And then, as though suddenly noticing Paule’s presence, she added,
“With your sister, of course.”
They would put up with the sister for the sake of entertaining the
brother. The slight pause had shown how the case stood. It was
Paule who replied:
“Thank you very much, Madame Dulaurens, but we are still in
mourning.”
“Oh, only half-mourning! It is eighteen months now.” She turned
again to the Captain. “We are going on Sunday to the Battle of
Flowers at Aix. Do come with us. It will be an excuse for an
excursion. And in the evening we are to dine at the Club with a few
friends, quite a small party. You will meet some comrades there—
Count de Marthenay, who is in the dragoons, and Lieutenant Berlier,
your friend, is he not? You have heard that they are talking of his
marriage with Isabelle Orlandi, the beauty.”
She gave out the falsehood, which she had invented on the spur
of the moment, for the purpose of wounding the proud Paule who
dared to cross her wishes. Woman can see, it is hard to say how, by
some method of divination of which both the desire to please and
the desire to injure make her mistress, those affinities which cause
the hearts, souls, and bodies of men and women to seek and find
one another. How excellent a plan it is, for instance, to make a
dinner-party go off well by placing the guests according to one’s
ideas of their sympathies—the very way, perhaps to bring those
sympathies into being. Again, the evil-speaking that there is in the
world bears witness to remarkable intuition and marvellous powers
of analysis. In the majority of cases the libel rests on no positive
evidence, and yet there is all the appearance of truth. The persons
concerned are sketched with a natural touch, cruelly of course, but
always with due regard to probability.
Madame Dulaurens gained nothing tangible by the exercise of
her inventive faculty, for the young girl gave no sign; whether it was
because she had learnt self-restraint so early or because the news
was really indifferent to her.
“Then we can count on you?” she demanded, pretending to be
waiting for the answer from Marcel’s own lips.
Alice glanced at the young officer with her eyes pale as the
Savoy skies; while Paule also had her eye on him, but her look was
serious. He understood perfectly that Madame Dulaurens was trying
to separate him from his sister; and, listening to the guidance of that
family loyalty which Dr. Guibert had instilled into each of his children,
he refused the invitation.
 “Thank you, Madame, but my homecoming has revived so many
recent sorrows that I do not wish to leave Le Maupas.”
There was a flash of joy in the dark eyes, while long quivering
lashes veiled the downcast blue ones.
“He is in need of rest,” put in Madame Guibert.
Alice was looking over the graveled courtyard. She spoke now
with a slight blush.
“It was your father who cured me. Once you used to come to La
Chênaie very often. Paule was my dearest friend. You must not give
us up.”
When at last she raised her pale blue eyes she met Marcel’s
glance and smiled. Then she blushed again, for her color was
influenced by the secret workings of her heart.
“They shall certainly call upon you, Mademoiselle Dulaurens,”
said Madame Guibert, rather surprised at Paule’s silence.
“Mademoiselle Dulaurens! You used to call me Alice!”
“A long time ago,” said the old lady. “You were a little girl then.”
“Am I not so now? At least, not very big,” Alice replied.
Madame Dulaurens could ill support the failure of her schemes.
She was thinking about the fame of her At Homes. With the help of
this hero from Madagascar she would have been able to crush her
rival, the Baroness de Vittoz, who had captured a gouty explorer
engaged in a course of the waters at Aix. She had satisfied herself of
the truth of Jean Berber’s words. Young Captain Guibert’s career, she
found, had been most brilliant. His resolution and bravery were
greatly responsible for the success of the expedition. Honorable
mention for gallantry, the Legion of Honour, another stripe, all bore
witness to his deserts. He was a lion to be proud of. And celebrity of
this kind was more alluring to the militant Madame Dulaurens than
that of literary men or scientists. Besides, was not a spur wanted to
encourage the languid pretensions of the Count de Marthenay to
Alice’s hand?
“I cannot accept a refusal,” she said, as she gave the signal for
departure. “We shall expect you at Aix on Sunday.” And then,
returning mechanically to her opening remark to Madame Guibert,
she said to her, in honeyed tones which were a very inapt expression
of her soul, “Madame, every mother envies you your son.”
Alice was particularly gracious to Paule as she said good-bye. But
Paule did not unbend. When the carriage had driven away Marcel
stood looking across the deserted courtyard. So lost in thought was
he that he did not notice his sister gazing at him with an expression
of mingled sadness and affection.
“What are you thinking of?” she asked.
He turned round and gave a rather melancholy smile, as though
aware of his own weakness. “We must go and see them, mustn’t
we?” he said.
He was surprised at the effect of his question, for Paule’s face
clouded and her eyes were veiled. “So you already find us
insufficient for you?” she murmured.
She mastered herself quickly and added determinedly. “I at least
shall not go. I was not asked.”
“Yes, you were,” said Marcel.
“Yes, as an afterthought, and Madame Dulaurens made me feel
that.”
“My darling Paule, you know that I shall not go without you.”
“Well, then, don’t let us go, will you? Let us stay here. Mother
and I love you so much. We are so happy to have you with us and to
look after you. Stay with us! The house has been silent as the grave
so long, but you have brought the sunshine back to it.”
Madame Guibert joined in, “Marcel, stay with us.”
 Marcel’s brow darkened. He did not care to feel that he was
deprived of freedom even by his nearest and dearest, and above all
he was very much out of sympathy with himself. He had come home
quite determined to shut himself up at Le Maupas, to plunge himself
in the fragrance of his native air and the memories of those whom
he had lost, and also to restore a little happiness to his mother and
sister—and now it had taken but one visit from a mere girl to upset
all his ideas and to shatter his pride and his strength of will.
The gentle pleading of mother and sister left him silent. But
Paule could not bear to see her brother sad for long. “Marcel,” she
said, “you must go to La Chênaie. But I cannot go with you. I have
nothing to wear.”
Marcel’s reply came too quickly and betrayed the vehemence of
his desire.
“I will buy you some clothes, dear. I have saved some money.”
“But you have helped so often,” asserted Madame Guibert, with a
loving glance at her son, whose close presence she did not even yet
seem to realise.
Late in the evening, while Madame Guibert was slowly making
her invariable round to see that the house was safely locked up,
Paule, sitting in the drawing-room with Marcel saw him lost in
thought again. She went up to him and laid her hand gently on his
shoulder.
“Are you dreaming of the fair Alice?” she asked.
So kind was her tone that he could only smile, as he denied his
weakness. But immediately afterwards he admitted the truth,
adding, “She certainly is fair, isn’t she? Is she a friend of yours?”
“We were at the Sacred Heart Convent together. She is the same
age as I, perhaps a little younger. At the Convent she was like a little
sister in her affection for me. She is sweet, gentle, and timid, and
likes to be led rather than to lead.”
“A very good thing in a woman,” said Marcel approvingly.
 He had no hesitancy in admitting the superiority of his own sex.
Paule stroked her brother’s forehead with her soft hand.
“Alice is not the right wife for you,” she said.
“I never thought of marrying her,” was his brusque answer.
But his sister did not abandon her purpose. “She is deficient in
courage,” she said. “And besides we are not in the same set.”
“Not in the same set! Because the Dulaurenses have more money
than we have? In France, thank God, it is not yet the case that
wealth determines social position.”
Paule was sorry she had provoked this outburst. “That is not
what I meant to say,” she explained. “The people we are speaking of
have a totally different outlook on life. They make a show and
cannot distinguish between worthless things and those of
importance. I don’t know how to make it clear to you, but I did not
wish to make you cross.”
“Are you going to preach to me about the ways of the world?”
asked her brother. “Before you have even seen it you pretend to
judge it!”
Paule was hurt by the tone of his voice and turned away. Pouring
out all the pent-up bitterness of her heart, she cried: “Do you think I
cannot see behind the outward smile and the lie on the lips? These
people hate us and would like to treat us with contempt. They run
after you—you only—just to flatter their own vanity, and they want
to have nothing to do with mother and me; we are only two poor
women. But Alice is intended for Count de Marthenay, not for you!”
Even without its closing sentence this indignant speech would
have had its effect. What Paule told him now bluntly, Marcel had
already gathered, though not in so clear a fashion. His pride and the
affection which he had for his mother and sister would have been a
check upon him. But the end of Paule’s speech blotted out all that
went before. The very thought of this drawing-room soldier, who had
come so unexpectedly across his path, held up to him as a rival sure
of victory over him, roused all his instincts as a fighter and a
conqueror. He was jealous before he was even in love.
 CHAPTER III
THE BATTLE OF FLOWERS
“Here they come, here they come!” shouted Jean Berlier, pointing
to the end of the race-course.
The course at Marlioz is less than two miles from Aix-les-Bains,
on the road to Chambéry. The view from the stands, which occupy
one of the slopes facing Mont Revard is fine and picturesque.
Beyond a foreground of green fields, separated by screens of poplar-
trees, the eyes light suddenly on the craggy escarpments of the
mountain-chain, resembling some old fortress. By day there is little
grace or beauty in the scene, but at eventide the setting sun lends
to it a wonderful attractiveness.
“Here they come,” repeated Isabelle Orlandi, clapping her hands.
The flower-decked carriages had indeed reached the edge of the
green sward, ready to file past the stands filled with a brilliant
crowd. The spectators stamped enthusiastically and, swarming about
like a lot of mad people or a hive of bees, tore flowers from the
baskets of the passing vendors, spread their ammunition in front of
them, and preluded the coming battle with the excited and useless
shouts of soldiers on the point of assault. Under the light of a
cloudless sky the fairy-like procession advanced, radiant in the
sunshine. From afar all that was to be seen of it was a succession of
bright patches and at intervals the rapid flashes reflected from the
polished harness of the horses and the dazzling carriage-wheels as
they caught the sun’s rays. It grew bigger and bigger, and outlined
against the golden horizon, it brought to mind in its splendor and
richness the procession of the Magi painted by some Venetian artist
who adored color.
 The Dulaurens family and their party filled the first row of the
grand stand, Jean Berlier next to Isabelle, Marcel Guibert between
Madame Dulaurens and Alice. Paule had refused to come with her
brother, who sat quite silent, thinking of the sad faces of the women
at home and regretting the peace and sweetness of Le Maupas,
while beginning to experience the first humiliating inner symptoms
of love.
The band began to play dance music, and to the strains of its
light rhythm, almost drowned by laughter and shouting, the battle
opened. Late arrivals, hurrying across the race course eager to take
part in the fun, were mingled in a distracted mass of gay parasols
and dresses on the lawn.
It was at the little ones that the first bouquets were thrown,
gently tossed by delicate hands. The children opened the flowery
procession like harbingers of spring, delicious buds of humanity.
Rosy babies with bare arms, riding donkeys which carried them
triumphantly in big red baskets; small sailor boys proudly wielding
their pasteboard oars in long canoes decked with reeds, drawn by
Arab horses whose tails and flowing manes served as angry waves;
tiny girls dressed in pink, peeping out from green nests like
wonderful birds; all this little company, guarded by an escort of
careful nurses, was mad with applause and sunshine, with music
and gaiety. It was like the youthful Bacchus in his triumph.
Slowly the carriages following them came up one after another
and took their part in the gentle strife. They bore the very grace of
the earth, the beauty of women and the scent of flowers. The soul
of the plundered gardens still pervaded these moving flower-beds.
English dog-carts, tilburies, victorias, phaetons, landaus, all were
smothered in flowers of a thousand hues—heavy moon-daisies,
purple as an autumn sunset; while marguerites, the lover’s fortune-
teller; gladioles with their red bells merrily a-ring; cyclamens the
color of the lees of wine, the rare and precious jewels of Mont
Revard’s crown; hydrangeas with their pink and pale blue globes;
orchids of varying hue, splendid in their triumphant leaflessness, or
still more glorious in a setting of exotic palm-branches or of red
forest-heather, whose tiny branches are so slender and sensitive that
the heat of the day is sufficient to stir them.
Half outstretched among these sumptuous spoils of the
ransacked gardens, the young women of the procession smiled in
quiet confidence. They relied on the pleasure stirred by their
irreproachable forms to complete their own success in the contest
against the beautiful blossoms of mother earth. For they knew full
well that they themselves were the sovereign flowers, more
seductive and intoxicating than all others, since they could
supplement the still unconscious grace of nature with the harmony
of motion and the wonder of the intelligent mind. On the splendid,
supple stem of a woman’s perfect form, is not the face set as though
it were the divine calyx of beauty?
The enthusiasm of the crowd made no distinction between the
charm of earth and the charm of woman. The incessant stream of
flying bouquets was a link between the occupants of the stands and
the beauties of the procession, who bent before the tributes paid to
them and, amid the perfume that invaded earth and air alike, made
their wondrous progress over a carpet of flowers, under a rain of
flowers. The popular excitement grew still greater as the spectators
saw the Allegory of Summer approaching. On a chariot with golden
wheels drawn by white horses, ears of wheat were bound in sheaves
whose gold was enhanced by the red and blue of the poppies and
cornflowers, the rubies and sapphires of the fields. Young girls,
whose flowing robes were the color of straw, whose unbound hair
streamed in fair waves, veritable types of the supple maidens of
Botticelli’s Primavera, symbolised, like the ripe grain itself, prosperity
and happiness.
“Bravo!” cried the crowd, designating this golden car to the jury
for the first prize. Isabelle Orlandi and Jean Berlier emptied their
baskets with joyful gaiety. The girl was wearing a white dress, and
her bodice, half covered by a bolero, was trimmed with pleated satin
of the color of mother-of-pearl. Pleasure intoxicated her, and her
flushed brown cheeks betrayed her quickened pulses. The two
young people reserved their hardest shots for the arrival of a few
ancient crones who were not afraid to dishonor this procession of
youth by their presence. They are to be met with at all fashionable
promenades at Nice, at Monte Carlo, at Aix. In fact, they are
apparently the same at all these functions. They try to forget or to
cheat death, and their very faces adjure us to make the best of life
or remind us of the threats of time. One of them was at last hit, and
kept on her hat and head-dress with difficulty under the shocks of
the missiles. Isabelle and Jean could no longer restrain their
laughter.
Beside Alice Dulaurens, whose mauve dress trimmed with white
lace enhanced her ethereal grace, Marcel felt his will weakening and
his melancholy disappearing. A cloud of colors and scents
surrounded and enervated him. He could see nothing but flowers on
the path of his future life. At intervals, however, a strange vision
would come back to his memory, some vivid landscape of his
childhood, or some dark valley in the Colonies, and he regretted
these pictures of his old enthusiasms which he tried in vain to keep
fresh. But why seek to bring back the past when the present had so
many charms? He gazed, not without that sadness which
accompanies a growing desire, at the dazzling white neck of the girl
as she bent forward to get a better view of the course of her
awkwardly thrown bouquet and he could not but admire the bloom
of her pale skin.
Alice turned to her companion, whose silence troubled her, and
one look from her blue eyes was purification to the young man’s
thoughts. With her little ungloved hand she pointed to the basket
which was rapidly emptying itself.
“Here are some flowers,” she cried. “Aren’t you going to throw
any?”
She blushed as she uttered these simple words, and her extreme
shyness made her look the lovelier.
 The allegorical chariot of Summer passed on, and, following a
carriage covered with vervain and roses, came the regimental break
of the dragoons quartered at Chambéry, artistically decorated with
brilliant sunflowers and big bunches of jonquils. Among the officers
in uniform the only one standing was Lieutenant de Marthenay,
whose elegance was of the rather cumbersome kind which evidences
the passing of youth. He carried a bouquet of rare and lovely
orchids. It was very evident that he was looking for someone on the
stands. When he saw Mademoiselle Dulaurens, he smiled, bowed,
and made as if he would throw the bouquet to her. This bold
impertinence, drawing the public gaze upon the young girl, vexed
Marcel Guibert, who dived into Alice’s basket and with a very
efficacious zeal was the first to begin the fight with his rival. His aim
was well-calculated, but not so the strength. He struck the Dragoon
full in the face, thereby extinguishing the bright smile. De
Marthenay, taken aback, let the precious orchids fall on the ground
where they were picked up at once by a watchful collector of
flowers.
Furious at this, he swept the stand with his glance, only to see
Isabelle Orlandi, who was clapping her hands and crying:
“Well hit! Three cheers for the Tirailleurs!”
Jean Berlier backed her up, amused at her exuberant spirits. De
Marthenay, however, paid no attention to their raillery. At last he
noticed Marcel Guibert’s strong, contemptuous face a little behind
Alice. But while his anger and malice grew stronger and stronger, the
Dragoon’s chariot passed on.
At every turn which brought him in front of the Dulaurens party,
he saw Alice, forgetful of the battle, talking to his rival; she seemed
a changed, absorbed, and less retiring Alice. And, every time,
Isabelle and her admirer took a spiteful joy in interrupting his
observations by incessantly bombarding him. They had the
advantage of the position, and they kept at it all the afternoon.
 In the meantime an unexpected carriage had appeared in the
procession. Entirely decorated with scarlet, copper red, and orange
cannas, flame-like in shape and color, Clément Dulaurens’ motor
puffed past snorting and panting. In the brilliant daylight it looked
like a raging fire.
It was the first motor car allowed to take part in the show, and it
was by no means welcome. Its abominable smell overwhelmed the
scent of the flowers, and the horrible noise which accompanied its
quivering progress brought down upon it the wrath of the crowd, in
spite of indignant protests from some lovers of the sport.
Shouts of “Poisonous monster!” “Go to the ‘devil’” were heard.
“Fire! fire!” cried others at this wizard of the flaming flowers.
In the face of all this outcry, the young man did not try to force
public favor. He was clever enough to leave the procession and on
reaching the deserted race-course he let his swift obedient machine
go. Across the lawn he went at full speed in his flaming car like a
dazzling rocket and disappeared in the direction of the sun, but not
too soon to hear the far-off cheers which at last greeted the
matchless power of the machine and its meteor-like beauty.
Either from satiety or fatigue the battle was dying down. In vain
the flower-sellers offered their flowers at a reduction. Cradled on
their donkeys, the happy babies were the only ones who took much
interest in the show. Foreseeing that people would soon be tired of it
the jury began to distribute the prizes.
The sun was already setting on the Marlioz plain. Delicate shades
of pink, violet, gold, and mauve were dusted over the horizon like
some impalpable powder. And as the sun set, keeping to themselves
all its vanishing glory the rocks of Mount Revard spread themselves
with a robe of brilliant red, under which they seemed to quiver with
joy as in a bath of light. As he was leaving the stand after Alice,
Marcel stopped to admire this rapturous display of nature; the girl
turned round to call him and wondered at the joy in his face. He had
felt in himself a similar exaltation of all his vital forces.
 The Dulaurens and their guests got into the coach awaiting them
on the road and drove back to Aix-les-Bains.
On the evening of the Battle of Flowers it is the custom to dine in
the open air, either at the Club or at the Villa, weather permitting.
The restaurants encroach upon the gardens and on the well-worn
lawns; Rows of little tables are set out, where lamps with many
colored shades shine among the trees like scintillating glow-worms.
Armand de Marthenay, who had been asked to dine with the
Dulaurenses, joined the party in the big hall of the Club. They had
reserved one of the favorite and most sheltered tables, at the end of
the terrace, for Alice was sensitive to cold and at nights a fresh
breeze blew from the mountains. The cavalry lieutenant was in a
bad humor. He could not swallow his discomfiture of the afternoon.
As soon as he saw Marcel Guibert he came up to him rashly and
remarked:
“You fail to distinguish, my dear sir, between war and play.”
Marcel drew himself up to his full height. Much taller than de
Marthenay, he looked down on him contemptuously and said, “You
fail to distinguish between respect and mere gallantry.”
Hearing the sound of this dialogue and fearing a scene, Madame
Dulaurens came up to them. The title of one and the fame of the
other were equally in her mind, and it suited her vanity to have the
two officers in the party.
De Marthenay, unable to complain of the words addressed to
him, tried to find an excuse for a quarrel, when Isabelle Orlandi
came up like a whirl-wind and saved the compromising situation.
“Come here, Jean, quickly. Here is the dragoon.”
And with the unchecked caprice of a spoilt child she added
quickly, “Show me your face!”
“But, Mademoiselle Orlandi—” protested the lieutenant, growing
pale.
 “Just for a minute, only just for a minute.”
She pretended to examine his face and said, as though she were
presenting him to the public, “It’s simply wonderful! There’s not a
mark.”
“What do you want of me?” stammered de Marthenay.
The young girl burst out laughing and went on making fun of
him.
“You can’t deny it! These colonials can shoot splendidly—You
beat them in a cotillion! But in war! Hardly!”
“I don’t understand you—”
“Oh, yes you do! You understand me perfectly. M. Guibert here
has beaten you! We applaud him because, as you know, he is our
hero. Now you are anything but a hero. When your uniform gets wet
you talk about it for a week! Besides, when one really wants to fight,
one doesn’t go into the cavalry!”
Now for a man to extricate himself wittily from the
embarrassment caused by a pretty woman’s jokes is no easy matter,
and Lieutenant de Marthenay was far from being witty. He attacked
Marcel Guibert once more.
“The ladies are your protection, sir!”
But Isabelle Orlandi did not let him go. It was she who
answered:
“Oh! he needs no protection to advance him.”
Madame Dulaurens intervened at last:
“Come, Isabelle, you are not considerate.”
The girl lifted her arms heavenwards with a comical gesture:
“One must not strike an officer of the Dragoons,” she said. “Even
with flowers.”
 It was a joy to her to humiliate this young man. Before life
humbled her—and she was quite determined to sacrifice everything,
including love itself, to her luxurious ideas—she gave herself up
entirely to the joy of being beautiful, coquettish, and daring.
Clément Dulaurens, arriving at this point, turned the conversation
completely by questioning Marcel about the Malagasy names which
afforded him so much amusement.
“Captain, do tell me, is Antanimbarindra Tsoksoraka a real name?
Or is it just a journalist’s invention?”
“Not at all. It is a village.”
“And Ramazombazaha?”
“He was the chief of the Hovas at the beginning of the war. Our
men to simplify matters called him Ramasse ton bazar.”
“There you see,” said Clément, “I’m the only one able to talk
about the Madagascar expedition with you in technical terms. And I
know some even more complicated names than these.”
During the whole scene Alice had kept nervously silent.
They sat down to dinner, and soon the little skirmish was
forgotten in the general merriment which followed a day spent in the
open air and in physical exercise.
Isabelle, less aggressive now, amused everybody including even
her enemy. Alice, seated between Marcel and Armand de Marthenay,
tried to make herself agreeable to both of them, though showing as
usual considerable reserve. When they left the table she forgot the
bouquet of cyclamen, which she had worn in her belt in the
afternoon. Marcel promptly seized it. The girl noticed this.
“Will you give it to me?” he asked, but his voice was scarcely that
of a suppliant. However, he added, “You thought so little of it that
you left it behind and the flowers are quite faded already.”
She did not answer, but she smiled and blushed. In her smile he
read her preference.
 Marcel left first, to get back to Le Maupas early and not to cause
his mother needless worry. The night was so lovely that, getting out
at the station at Chambéry about 10 o’clock, he thought he would
walk home. It was but two miles of a flat country along an avenue of
plane-trees and up a little wooded hill.
He walked quickly, inhaling from time to time the still fresh scent
of the cyclamens. As he neared Le Maupas in the twofold darkness
of the night and the trees he could see just a few stars, which shone
through the leaves, their brightness augmented by the dark dome of
the heavens. Greedily he breathed the fresh, balmy air. He inflated
his chest and felt a new thrill through his whole being.
Was he in love? He did not know yet. But the sight of a young
girl had been enough to revive all his youthful fire.
A memory suddenly came to him. He felt that he was transported
back to Algiers some years ago. It was one of those never-to-be-
forgotten nights of the East, with their dark skies, their warm, soft
breezes. Alone on horseback he was riding slowly through the bush,
when suddenly his horse stopped. Round him he could see only the
silhouettes of a few stunted shrubs. Neither pats nor spurs had any
effect; the animal refused to move and his body trembled. Was there
some living thing in the shadow beside them? In the dead silence of
the dark and deserted plain some invisible presence made itself felt.
But even in the face of this mysterious peril, from which there was
no escape, he did not feel afraid. On the contrary, he felt conscious
of all his strength and energy.
With a violent effort he forced his horse forward until it galloped
away into the darkness. And he never knew if the animal had
shuddered at some imaginary fear or if they really had passed within
reach of death....
Why should this memory come back to him at this hour? He lived
through the same strange feelings of that night of long ago. As then,
he guessed at an unknown danger; he could not tell if it were a
future of joy or of sorrow that was awaiting him. But he felt all his
power now as he did then. He put his hand to his breast, inhaled
deep breaths of the soft, fragrant night air, and drew himself up to
his full height; then intoxicated with hope and pride he began to run.
When he stopped, the inexplicable sense of danger which had
visited him had not vanished; it was alive within him.
In the wood the soft night sighed sadly.... And later Marcel had
reason to remember this hour when he had run through the
shadows towards something intoxicating and to be feared—which
was love.
 CHAPTER IV
A MORNING AT LA CHÊNAIE
“I’ve come to take away your children,” said Jean Berlier to
Madame Guibert after he had shaken hands with her.
“Don’t take them from me, please,” she answered softly. And she
smiled her delicate sweet smile. The young man had surprised her
seated under the chestnut trees at work, near the front of the old
house. She had put on her spectacles to see the stitches of her
needlework. Soon she called to Marcel and Paule, who were walking
about in the garden at a little distance. And when they were coming
down the weed-grown path she inquired almost timidly:
“Are you going to La Chênaie?”
“Yes,” answered Jean, “for a game of croquet or tennis.”
Then, as if he regretted his words, he added:
“If you like, Madame, I will say no more about it.”
“Oh, no. Marcel needs diversion and exercise—he has been used
to an active life. And my little Paule has lived too long with her old
mother.”
She never gives a thought to herself and her loneliness.
Madame Guibert always welcomed Jean almost maternally. When
quite a little child he had played at Le Maupas as one of her own. He
was the only son of a barrister, who was the glory of the Chambéry
bar. An orphan at an early age, Jean had been brought up by rather
an eccentric, original old uncle, brother to the boy’s mother, who
forgot everybody, even his nephew, in his devotion to his garden.
This M. Loigny lived near the town, on the Cognin road, in a little
house smothered in roses. He cultivated his garden and edited a
guide to the names of roses. Thus every minute of his life was taken
up, and he never quite knew how long it was when Jean was away
on duty in the Algerian Tirailleurs. When he came home every
eighteen months on leave, his uncle immediately told him all about
his latest discoveries in the rose family, thereby thinking he was
giving him proofs of the greatest affection!
When Marcel and Paule appeared in the Avenue, Jean told them
that they were expected at La Chênaie.
“And too,” he said to Marcel, “you owe Madame Dulaurens a call
after the Battle of Flowers, don’t you? This is a good opportunity of
paying it and getting a game of croquet at the same time.”
“That is true,” agreed the captain.
“You will come with us, Mademoiselle Paule?” asked Jean Berlier.
But Paule refused, saying she was in bad humor. Marcel looked at
her sadly, and Jean regarded her with sympathetic curiosity. He
remembered having played long ago in this same courtyard with a
child of overflowing spirits, brighter and jollier than any boy. He now
found in her place a young woman, reserved and proud, even in the
company of playfellows. And yet he could not refrain from admiring
her tall, graceful figure, slight but strong, and her dark eyes from
which the light seemed to flash. He would like to have met on the
old terms of friendship with his little Paule. In the presence of this
cold and beautiful Paule he felt an awkwardness and a vague anxiety
that he dared not analyse.
“Jean,” said Madame Guibert suddenly, “I want to scold you.”
“No, please, don’t scold me,” said the young man, putting on the
grimace of a naughty child.
He was proverbially good-tempered, and the sight of him was
enough to brighten the faces of all who knew him.
“We are your oldest friends, and yet Mademoiselle Dulaurens was
the first to tell us about the most important event in your life!”
 “What most important event?” said Jean, in pretended
astonishment.
Paule got up and walked towards the house as if she had some
very important duty there.
“Your marriage,” said Madame Guibert.
“My marriage! To whom, in heaven’s name?”
“To Mademoiselle Isabelle Orlandi.”
Madame Guibert, who always meant what she said, had believed
the tale of Madame Dulaurens. But Jean Berlier began to laugh.
“Oh, she was talking of my little flirtation! But I’m sure you don’t
know the meaning of the English word flirtation.”
Paule went slowly up the steps. She had laid her hand upon her
breast as if she were breathing with difficulty and then she
quickened her step. Passing before the drawing-room mirror she
stopped, surprised at her own beauty. The friendly daylight showed
her a more charming face than she had expected to see. She smiled
sadly at her image and her smile meant to say, “What is the good of
being beautiful if you have no dowry? What is the good of having all
this tenderness and devotion burning in an empty heart like a lamp
in a deserted sanctuary.” At the same time she felt an involuntary
consolation at the sight of her unavailing charm.
Jean’s face wore the serious air of a scientist explaining a
problem.
“Flirtation means the love one makes to girls one doesn’t marry,”
said he.
“In French we call that conter fleurette,” said Madame Guibert.
“You are wrong, Jean. I am an old woman, so listen to me. The
game is never an equal one. Girls always expect to find a husband.
You deceive their lawful hopes, and you amuse yourself with them at
the cost of their peace of mind and their better feelings.”
 The young man listened to this little sermon with a respectful
smile.
“I love to hear you talk like that,” he said. “But I see that the
modern girl is a stranger to you.”
“To me too,” said Marcel. “Do you often go to La Chênaie?”
“Yes, I am too active to spend all my days at Villa Rose. My uncle
is always afraid that I shall walk on his flower beds. He lives in a
constant state of alarm, and sighs with relief when he sees the last
of me. But the household at La Chênaie is so interesting.”
“Really?” said Marcel, trying rather ineffectively not to appear
interested.
“It affords a thousand different ways of killing time—which is the
enemy it is most in dread of—and in spite of it all it does sometimes
experience what it is to have nothing to do. Madame Dulaurens
bustles about, sends out her invitations, writes menus or accounts of
her At Homes for the society papers. M. Dulaurens, the ceremonious
and punctilious, arranges his library, which nobody is ever allowed to
disturb, greets his wife’s guests, agrees with his wife’s slightest word
and by his attitude of adoration constantly begs forgiveness of this
thoroughly aristocratic person for his plebeian origin. Young Clément
runs over dogs in his car. Happily he has done nothing worse until
the present time.”
“And Alice?” Madame Guibert asked innocently.
The young man’s answer was full of tact.
“Mademoiselle Alice is waiting for something to happen. It cannot
fail to be pleasant for her.”
“But do you see only the Dulaurenses at La Chênaie?” said
Marcel.
“They have their guests too. There is Madame Orlandi, for
instance. Madame Orlandi has come back to the town of her birth to
mourn her lost beauty rather than her husband. She lived in
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