e stood still, astonished and uneasy, when she saw him lying,
half-dressed, across his bed, haggard, biting the pillow to stifle his
sobs. He got out of bed and tried to finish dressing himself, but a
fresh attack seized him, and, his head giddy and his heart palpitating
to suffocation, recovering from a momentary faintness, he faltered in
agonized tones:

"No, no, I cannot; I suffer too much. I would rather die, die now--"

He recognized Martine, and abandoning himself to his grief, his strength
totally gone, he made his confession to her:

"My poor girl, I suffer too much, my heart is breaking. She is taking
away my heart with her, she is taking away my whole being. I cannot live
without her. I almost died last night. I would be glad to die before her
departure, not to have the anguish of seeing her go away. Oh, my God!
she is going away, and I shall have her no longer, and I shall be left
alone, alone, alone!"

The servant, who had gone upstairs so gaily, turned as pale as wax, and
a hard and bitter look came into her face. For a moment she watched him
clutching the bedclothes convulsively, uttering hoarse cries of despair,
his face pressed against the coverlet. Then, by a violent effort, she
seemed to make up her mind.

"But, monsieur, there is no sense in making trouble for yourself in
this way. It is ridiculous. Since that is how it is, and you cannot do
without mademoiselle, I shall go and tell her what a state you have let
yourself get into."

At these words he got up hastily, staggering still, and, leaning for
support on the back of a chair, he cried:

"I positively forbid you to do so, Martine!"

"A likely thing that I should listen to you, seeing you like that! To
find you some other time half dead, crying your eyes out! No, no! I
shall go to mademoiselle and tell her the truth, and compel her to
remain with us."

But he caught her angrily by the arm and held her fast.

"I command you to keep quiet, do you hear? Or you shall go with her!
Why did you come in? It was this wind that made me ill. That concerns no
one."

Then, yielding to a good-natured impulse, with his usual kindness of
heart, he smiled.

"My poor girl, see how you vex me? Let me act as I ought, for the
happiness of others. And not another word; you would pain me greatly."

Martine's eyes, too, filled with tears. It was just in time that they
made peace, for Clotilde entered almost immediately. She had risen
early, eager to see