Pascal turned cold. He read the four pages over again. Here an opportunity to separate presented itself, acceptable to him and advantageous for Clotilde, so easy and so natural that they ought to accept it at once; yet, in spite of all his reasoning he felt so weak, so irresolute still that his limbs trembled under him, and he was obliged to sit down for a moment. But he wished to be heroic, and controlling himself, he called to his companion.
“Here!” he said, “read this letter which your grandmother has sent me.”
Clotilde read the letter attentively to the end without a word, without a sign. Then she said simply:
“Well, you are going to answer it, are you not? I refuse.”
He was obliged to exercise a strong effort of self-control to avoid uttering a great cry of joy, as he pressed her to his heart. As if it were another person who spoke, he heard himself saying quietly:
“You refuse—impossible! You must reflect. Let us wait till to-morrow to give an answer; and let us talk it over, shall we?”
Surprised, she cried excitedly:
“Part from each other! and why? And would you really consent to it? What folly! we love each other, and you would have me leave you and go away where no one cares for me! How could you think of such a thing? It would be stupid.”
He avoided touching on this side of the question, and hastened to speak of promises made—of duty.
“Remember, my dear, how greatly affected you were when I told you that Maxime was in danger. And think of him now, struck down by disease, helpless and alone, calling you to his side. Can you abandon him in that situation? You have a duty to fulfil toward him.”