lf away. I
should have spoken, burst out, told her all. After I had gone a few
steps, I stopped and turned. She could no longer see me, I was lost in
the darkness; but I could see her. She stood there motionless, her
shoulders and arms bare, in the rain, her eyes fixed on the way by which
I had gone. Perhaps I am mad to think that. Perhaps it was only a feeling
of pity. But no, it was something more than pity, for do you know what
she did the next morning? She came at five o'clock, in the most frightful
weather, to see me pass with the regiment--and then--the way she bade me
adieu--oh, my friend, my dear old friend!"

"But then," said the poor Cure, completely bewildered, completely at a
loss, "but then, I do not understand you at all. If you love her, Jean,
and if she loves you?"

"But that is, above all, the reason why I must go. If it were only I, if
I were certain that she has not perceived my love, certain that she has
not been touched by it, I would stay, I would stay--for nothing but for
the sweet joy of seeing her, and I would love her from afar, without any
hope, for nothing but the happiness of loving her. But no, she has
understood too well, and far from discouraging me--that is what forces me
to go."

"No, I do not understand it! I know well, my poor boy, we are speaking of
things in which I am no great scholar, but you are both good, young, and
charming; you love her, she would love you, and you will not!"

"And her money! her money!"

"What matters her money? If it is only that, is it because of her money
that you have loved her? It is rather in spite of her money. Your
conscience, my son, would be quite at peace with regard to that, and that
would suffice."

"No, that would not suffice. To have a good opinion of one's self is not
enough; that opinion must be shared by others."

"Oh, Jean! Among all who know you, who can doubt you?"

"Who knows? And then there is another thing besides this question of
money, another thing more serious and more grave. I am not the husband
suited to her."

"And who could be more worthy than you?"

"The question to be considered is not my worth; we have to consider what
she is and what I am, to ask what ought to be her life, and what ought to
be my life."

"One day, Paul--you know he has rather a blunt way of saying things, but
that very bluntness often places thoughts much more distinctly before
us--Paul was speaking of her; he did not suspect anything; if he h