"I meant we should both eat from it," she said helplessly.
"It would cost too much to eat from it with you, Virginie—"
He stopped short, choked, then his face cleared, and his eyes became steady.
"Well then, good-bye, Virginie," he said, holding out his hand.
"You don't think I'd say to any other living man what I've said to you?" she asked.
He nodded understandingly. "That's the best part of it. It was for me of all the world," he answered. "When I look back, I'll see the light in your window—the light you lit for the lost one—for Jean Jacques Barbille."
Suddenly, with eyes that did not see and hands held out before him, he turned, felt for the door and left the room.
She leaned helplessly against the table. "The poor Jean Jacques—the poor Jean Jacques!" she murmured. "Cure or no Cure, I'd have done it," she declared, with a ring to her voice. "Ah, but Jean Jacques, come with me!" she added with a hungry and compassionate gesture, speaking into space. "I could make life worth while for us both."
A moment later Virginie was outside, watching the last act in the career of Jean Jacques in the parish of St. Saviour's.
This was what she saw.