st they exchanged the usual commonplaces.

"You will write to me, will you not?"

"Certainly, and you must let me hear from you as often as possible."

"Above all, if you should fall ill, send for me at once."

"I promise you that I will do so. But there is no danger. I am very
strong."

Then, when the moment came in which she was to leave this dear house,
Clotilde looked around with unsteady gaze; then she threw herself on
Pascal's breast, she held him for an instant in her arms, faltering:

"I wish to embrace you here, I wish to thank you. Master, it is you who
have made me what I am. As you have often told me, you have corrected
my heredity. What should I have become amid the surroundings in which
Maxime has grown up? Yes, if I am worth anything, it is to you alone
I owe it, you, who transplanted me into this abode of kindness and
affection, where you have brought me up worthy of you. Now, after having
taken me and overwhelmed me with benefits, you send me away. Be it as
you will, you are my master, and I will obey you. I love you, in spite
of all, and I shall always love you."

He pressed her to his heart, answering:

"I desire only your good, I am completing my work."

When they reached the station, Clotilde vowed to herself that she would
one day come back. Old Mme. Rougon was there, very gay and very brisk,
in spite of her eighty-and-odd years. She was triumphant now; she
thought she would have her son Pascal at her mercy. When she saw them
both stupefied with grief she took charge of everything; got the ticket,
registered the baggage, and installed the traveler in a compartment
in which there were only ladies. Then she spoke for a long time
about Maxime, giving instructions and asking to be kept informed of
everything. But the train did not start; there were still five cruel
minutes during which they remained face to face, without speaking to
each other. Then came the end, there were embraces, a great noise of
wheels, and waving of handkerchiefs.

Suddenly Pascal became aware that he was standing alone upon the
platform, while the train was disappearing around a bend in the road.
Then, without listening to his mother, he ran furiously up the slope,
sprang up the stone steps like a young man, and found himself in three
minutes on the terrace of La Souleiade. The mistral was raging there--a
fierce squall which bent the secular cypresses like straws. In the
colorless sky the sun seemed weary of the viole