"Come," said the maiden, "let us sit down here and talk with each other quietly, very quietly."
She sat down on the trunk of a half-buried pine and looked thoughtfully before her.
Lambert seated himself at her side. He wished to speak, but before he could find the right word, Catherine raised her eyes and said:
"See, Lambert, how much you have kindly done for me, a poor girl, and I could not do otherwise than give you back the only thing I have--my all--and love you with all the strength of my soul, with every drop of blood in my heart. I could not do otherwise, and it will be so as long as I live, and after this life throughout eternity. But, Lambert, it was not right for me that, in addition to the much and the beautiful that you have given me, I should also take your love. I felt this from the first day on, and I tried to prevent your seeing my love, though I confess it was a hard task."
Catherine's voice trembled, but she held back the tears that were ready to break from her eyes, and continued:
"I felt from the beginning--and I have said to myself, and promised thousands of times--that I would be a maid-servant to you and your parents and relatives, and, should you bring home a wife, I would also serve her and her children, and so help, as much as I could, to promote your happiness and that of all related to you. When I yesterday learned that you no longer have parents I fled. I wished to flee, while a voice, which I only now rightly understand, said that it would come about as it now has come, and as it should not have come. I have not listened to the voice of my conscience, and the punishment follows at its heels. Your brother is angry at you on my account. Your aunt has left you in anger on my account. What a bad girl I must be, could I calmly look on and see how unhappy I am making him for whom I would give my blood, drop by drop. For this reason it must take place. You have given me permission to go where I will--and God will guide my steps."
Having uttered these words she arose, pale, having her hands folded under her bosom, and her tearless eyes having a far-off look.
Immediately Lambert stood up before her, and her eyes met his, which shone with a wonderfully clear and steady light. "Catherine!"
More he did not say. But it was the right word and the right tone--a cordial tone full of tender suggestion, and yet so firm, so true, that it resounded again in the heart of the maiden: "Catherine!" and filled her soul with sweet pleasure. What she had just said, in the bitter feeling of her injured pride, and in her painful conviction that she must subordinate her own happiness and the happiness of him she loved--it now seemed to her but idle breath, like the wind sweeping above through the rustling tops of the pines and below over the bending grass of the meadow. The pines stood firm, the grass rose again, and everything remained as it was before--yes, more beautiful and delightful than before. What was now her pride except a small additional offering that she brought to her beloved who would not be happy without her--who without her could not be happy? This Lambert said to her again and again; and she said to him that separation from her beloved and death would be the same for her, and that she would never again think of it, but that she could live for him and be happy with him.
So they sat a long time at the edge of the primitive forest in the shadow of the venerable trees--before them the sunlit prairie with its bending flowers and grass, alone--speaking in whispers, as though the mottled butterflies which were moving about the flowers must not hear. And if a bird happened to fly past uttering his warning cry, frightened, they crowded close to each other and then laughed, happy that they were alone and might sink into each other's arms and say what they had already said a hundred times, and yet did not get tired of saying and hearing it.