he had the strength to answer gaily:

"Do you suppose that I would allow myself to die without seeing you once
more. I will write to you, of course. You must come back to close my
eyes."

Now she burst out sobbing, and sank into a chair.

"My God! Can it be! You wish that to-morrow we should be together no
longer, we who have never been separated!"

From this day forth Pascal seemed more engrossed than ever in his
work. He would sit for four or five hours at a time, whole mornings and
afternoons, without once raising his head. He overacted his zeal.
He would allow no one to disturb him, by so much as a word. And when
Clotilde would leave the room on tiptoe to give an order downstairs or
to go on some errand, he would assure himself by a furtive glance that
she was gone, and then let his head drop on the table, with an air
of profound dejection. It was a painful relief from the extraordinary
effort which he compelled himself to make when she was present; to
remain at his table, instead of going over and taking her in his arms
and covering her face with sweet kisses. Ah, work! how ardently he
called on it as his only refuge from torturing thoughts. But for the
most part he was unable to work; he was obliged to feign attention,
keeping his eyes fixed upon the page, his sorrowful eyes that grew dim
with tears, while his mind, confused, distracted, filled always with one
image, suffered the pangs of death. Was he then doomed to see work fail
now its effect, he who had always considered it of sovereign power,
the creator and ruler of the world? Must he then throw away his pen,
renounce action, and do nothing in future but exist? And tears would
flow down his white beard; and if he heard Clotilde coming upstairs
again he would seize his pen quickly, in order that she might find him
as she had left him, buried seemingly in profound meditation, when his
mind was now only an aching void.

It was now the middle of September; two weeks that had seemed
interminable had passed in this distressing condition of things, without
bringing any solution, when one morning Clotilde was greatly surprised
by seeing her grandmother, Felicite, enter. Pascal had met his mother
the day before in the Rue de la Banne, and, impatient to consummate the
sacrifice, and not finding in himself the strength to make the rupture,
he had confided in her, in spite of his repugnance, and begged her to
come on the following day. As it happened, she had jus