nature is human nature, and
that strength I can have only on one condition."

"And that is?" asked Boleslas. Maud's speech, for it was a speech
carefully reflected upon, every phrase of which had been weighed by that
scrupulous conscience, contrasted strongly in its lucid reasoning with
the state of nervous excitement in which he had lived for several days.
He had been more pained by it than he would have been by passionate
reproaches. At the same time he had been moved by the reference to his
son's love for him, and he felt that if he did not become reconciled
with Maud at that moment his future domestic life would be ended. There
was a little of each sentiment in the few words he added to the anxiety
of his question. "Although you have spoken to me very severely, and
although you might have said the same thing in other terms, although,
above all, it is very painful to me to have you condemn my entire
character on one single error, I love you, I love my son, and I agree
in advance to your conditions. I esteem your character too much to doubt
that they will be reconcilable with my dignity. As for the duel of this
morning," he added, "you know very well that it was too late to withdraw
without dishonor."

"I should like your promise, first of all," replied Madame Gorka, who
did not answer his last remark, "that during the time in which you are
obliged to keep your room no one shall be admitted.... I could not bear
that creature in my house, nor any one who would speak to me or to you
of her."

"I promise," said the young man, who felt a flood of warmth enter his
soul at the first proof that the jealousy of the loving woman still
existed beneath the indignation of the wife. And he added, with a smile,
"That will not be a great sacrifice. And then?"

"Then?... That the doctor will permit us to go to England. We will leave
orders for the management of things during our absence. We will go this
winter wherever you like, but not to this house; never again to this
city."

"That is a promise, too," said Boleslas, "and that will be no great
sacrifice either; and then?"

"And then," said she in a low voice, as if ashamed of herself. "You must
never write to her, you must never try to find out what has become of
her."

"I give you my word," replied Boleslas, taking her hand, and adding:
"And then?"

"There is no then," said she, withdrawing her hand, but gently. And she
began to realize herself her promise of pardon, f