thing with which to reproach her, except
that she had been the object of his love, a reproach which of all men
on earth he should be the last to make; and that she was poor, which he
was ashamed to utter; and that she was uneducated, which could be no
serious obstacle, for she made up for ignorance by natural wit and
intelligence, and innate refinement. She wanted reasons, he could
offer none except: "Why, dear child, surely you will see that we must
part now." That, however, was precisely what she could not perceive,
and she continued to weep, saying mournfully: "Rudolf, Rudolf, do not
leave me. I love you, and that is always something. I want nothing
except to have you keep me with you. No one will ever love you as I
do."

These unspeakably painful scenes, to which Rudolf had not the courage
to put a heroic end, were repeated many days. When Pauline's tears
became unendurable, he went out and wandered for hours through the
streets, restless, out of humour, tortured. It had happened so on that
third of December, and--

This was the reason that he had not written to her or returned to his
lodgings. The soldier's bullet seemed to him a merciful interposition
of Fate, which released him from his difficulties. When health was
restored, he fairly fled from Paris, leaving behind him the few effects
of a jolly student. This soothed his conscience a little, and moreover
he told himself that he owed Pauline nothing, that she did not need
him, that she, who possessed a thoroughly reasonable, nay, superior
nature, would henceforward pursue the path of honour. True, a secret
voice often cried out to him: "Coward! Coward!" But then he solaced
himself by shrugging his shoulders and thinking that everybody else
would have done the same, and she would console herself quickly enough.

Of course he could not confess this to her, but it was not necessary.
She had divined it all.

With a melancholy smile, she said:

"I understand, my poor Rudolf, I understand you were glad to get rid of
troublesome Pauline. The bullet spared you the pain of bidding me
farewell." She was about to say more, but she forced it all back into
her heart. She had never reproached him, should she do so now, in the
spot which, for so many years, she had believed his grave?

Clasping her hand, Rudolf pressed it tenderly, and to give the painful
conversation a pleasanter turn, asked:

"What are you doing now, how do you fare, Pauline?"

"I t