"She is suffering," the latter said to herself. "She would suffer less, if she told me her secret which I guess, yet fear I may be mistaken. I ought to get closer to her, draw her to me and comfort her, and yet, I dare not—I feel a weight in my heart, which is choking and oppressing me. My lips are about to open, they do open, and I remain silent. Why, O my God, have I so little courage?"
Elizabeth, overcome, was the first to make up her mind, as they were walking along the plane tree avenue, lightly crushing the dead leaves.
"Mother, do you know where he is now?"
Trembling with emotion, Albert's mother answered quickly:
"He does not write to me very often, and not at length. He is traveling."
"In which country?"
"His last letter was dated from Iran in Spain."
She added, as Elizabeth asked no further:
"It is on the other side of the Pyrenees, but quite near the frontier."
This poor sentence fell like one of those heavy autumn leaves, which the slightest breeze carries off. And that was all. The opportunity they had so long awaited had passed.