But what was to become of her, thus abandoned? Had he not also some duty toward her, whose whole life was love? He tried to imagine her future. He saw her cruelly torn, cursing him and weeping for him by turns, calling for him in the sacred wood, among the chapels, in all the places that had been the witness of their tenderness. He shared truly in her agony. However, there was so much of life’s resource in her, such a frenzy of living, that she would hold out against her fate in the end and find herself. Had he not seen her rise against him, trembling and revolting against him, when he had spoken to her of dying? Yes, she would find herself again, she would resist fate and live. And he felt his heart yearn at the thought of her being loved again, the thought that perhaps some day this devouring flame which consumed her should burn again for some one else.
“No, not that,” he sighed; “I don’t wish that.”
It was the last struggle.
From the first moment he had acknowledged his defeat. His mother’s death, his family’s supreme appeal to him, the infamous sentence that had been dealt him, did not permit him to discuss it with her. It only remained for him to set right the details of his departure, to lessen as much as possible the sorrow it would bring to her. He could not consent to live with her any longer, and though he was separated from her only by this frail decision, he suffered and almost cried out in pain....
She was waiting for him on the steps of the hotel. The moment she saw him she came running to meet him.
“At last,” she murmured, her words coming like a soft moan, but not with any scolding.
He tried to smile.
“Good-day, Edith.”
Tenderly and attentively she scanned her lover’s face, and noticed the traces of tears there.
“I’m always afraid now,” she said, “when you are away.”