“My dear, you whom I have made my God,” said Esther, kneeling down on a cushion in front of Lucien, “give me your blessing.”
Lucien tried to raise her and kiss her, saying, “What is this jest, my dear love?” And he would have put his arm round her, but she freed herself with a gesture as much of respect as of horror.
“I am no longer worthy of you, Lucien,” said she, letting the tears rise to her eyes. “I implore you, give me your blessing, and swear to me that you will found two beds at the Hotel-Dieu—for, as to prayers in church, God will never forgive me unless I pray myself.
“I have loved you too well, my dear. Tell me that I made you happy, and that you will sometimes think of me.—Tell me that!”
Lucien saw that Esther was solemnly in earnest, and he sat thinking.
“You mean to kill yourself,” said he at last, in a tone of voice that revealed deep reflection.
“No,” said she. “But to-day, my dear, the woman dies, the pure, chaste, and loving woman who once was yours.—And I am very much afraid that I shall die of grief.”
“Poor child,” said Lucien, “wait! I have worked hard these two days. I have succeeded in seeing Clotilde——”
“Always Clotilde!” cried Esther, in a tone of concentrated rage.
“Yes,” said he, “we have written to each other.—On Tuesday morning she is to set out for Italy, but I shall meet her on the road for an interview at Fontainebleau.”