hing now
but to go away and bury himself out of sight in some remote corner; but
for her was it not an injurious life, a life which would deteriorate
her character and weaken her will? And suddenly he saw himself in fancy
dying, leaving her alone to perish of hunger in the streets. No, no!
this would be a crime; he could not, for the sake of the happiness
of his few remaining days, bequeath to her this heritage of shame and
misery.

One morning Clotilde went for a walk in the neighborhood, from which she
returned greatly agitated, pale and trembling, and as soon as she
was upstairs in the workroom, she almost fainted in Pascal's arms,
faltering:

"Oh, my God! oh, my God! those women!"

Terrified, he pressed her with questions.

"Come, tell me! What has happened?"

A flush mounted to her face. She flung her arms around his neck and hid
her head on his shoulder.

"It was those women! Reaching a shady spot, I was closing my parasol,
and I had the misfortune to throw down a child. And they all rose
against me, crying out such things, oh, such things--things that I
cannot repeat, that I could not understand!"

She burst into sobs. He was livid; he could find nothing to say to her;
he kissed her wildly, weeping like herself. He pictured to himself
the whole scene; he saw her pursued, hooted at, reviled. Presently he
faltered:

"It is my fault, it is through me you suffer. Listen, we will go away
from here, far, far away, where we shall not be known, where you will be
honored, where you will be happy."

But seeing him weep, she recovered her calmness by a violent effort. And
drying her tears, she said:

"Ah! I have behaved like a coward in telling you all this. After
promising myself that I would say nothing of it to you. But when I found
myself at home again, my anguish was so great that it all came out. But
you see now it is all over, don't grieve about it. I love you."

She smiled, and putting her arms about him she kissed him in her turn,
trying to soothe his despair.

"I love you. I love you so dearly that it will console me for
everything. There is only you in the world, what matters anything that
is not you? You are so good; you make me so happy!"

But he continued to weep, and she, too, began to weep again, and there
was a moment of infinite sadness, of anguish, in which they mingled
their kisses and their tears.

Pascal, when she left him alone for an instant, thought himself a
wretch. He could no