as searching for words that would not appear too severe,
and that she was anxious to avoid hurting me.

"One word," I said, rising, "one word, nothing more. I know who you are
and if there is any compassion for me in your heart, I thank you; speak
but one word, this moment decides my life."

She shook her head; I saw that she was hesitating.

"You think I can be cured?" I cried. "May God grant you that solace if
you send me away--"

I looked out of the window at the horizon, and felt in my soul such a
frightful sensation of loneliness at the idea of going away that my blood
froze in my veins. She saw me standing before her, my eyes fixed on her,
awaiting her reply; all my life was hanging in suspense upon her lips.

"Very well," she said, "listen to me. This move of yours in coming to see
me was an act of great imprudence; however, it is not necessary to assume
that you have come here to see me; accept a commission that I will give
you for a friend of my family. If you find that it is a little far, let
it be the occasion of an absence which shall last as long as you choose,
but which must not be too short. Although you said a moment ago," she
added with a smile, "that a short trip would calm you. You will stop in
the Vosges and you will go as far as Strasburg. Then in a month, or,
better, in two months, you will return and report to me; I will see you
again and give you further instructions."

CHAPTER VI

THE RUGGED PATH OF LOVE

That evening I received from Madame Pierson a letter addressed to M. R.
D., at Strasburg. Three weeks later my mission had been accomplished and
I returned. During my absence I had thought of nothing but her, and I
despaired of ever forgetting her. Nevertheless I determined to restrain
my feelings in her presence; I had suffered too cruelly at the prospect
of losing her to run any further risks. My esteem for her rendered it
impossible for me to suspect her sincerity, and I did not see, in her
plan of getting me to leave the country, anything that resembled
hypocrisy. In a word, I was firmly convinced that at the first word of
love her door would be closed to me. Upon my return I found her thin and
changed. Her habitual smile seemed to languish on her discolored lips.
She told me that she had been suffering. We did not speak of the past.
She did not appear to wish to recall it, and I had no desire to refer to
it. We resumed our old relations of neighbors; yet there was something o