“It is time, Clotilde.”
She rose from the chair on which she had been sitting. She had for an instant forgotten that she was going away, and all at once the dreadful reality came back to her. Once more she looked at him, but he did not open his arms to keep her. It was over; her hope was dead. And from this moment her face was like that of one struck with death.
At first they exchanged the usual commonplaces.
“You will write to me, will you not?”
“Certainly, and you must let me hear from you as often as possible.”
“Above all, if you should fall ill, send for me at once.”
“I promise you that I will do so. But there is no danger. I am very strong.”
Then, when the moment came in which she was to leave this dear house, Clotilde looked around with unsteady gaze; then she threw herself on Pascal’s breast, she held him for an instant in her arms, faltering:
“I wish to embrace you here, I wish to thank you. Master, it is you who have made me what I am. As you have often told me, you have corrected my heredity. What should I have become amid the surroundings in which Maxime has grown up? Yes, if I am worth anything, it is to you alone I owe it, you, who transplanted me into this abode of kindness and affection, where you have brought me up worthy of you. Now, after having taken me and overwhelmed me with benefits, you send me away. Be it as you will, you are my master, and I will obey you. I love you, in spite of all, and I shall always love you.”
He pressed her to his heart, answering: