His large black eyes regarded her with all their former tenderness, and then—then he kissed her hand.
Charlotte could scarcely restrain a sigh, and could not repress the terror that pervaded her whole being. He felt the tremor in the hands which he held in his own, and it was perhaps on this account that he released them, threw his arms around her and pressed her to his heart.
“Here I am once more, Charlotte, and, as God is my witness, I return with the same love and fidelity with which I left you! You can believe this, my beloved, for it was on your account chiefly, or on your account solely, that I returned at all. You must therefore love me very dearly, Charlotte, and reward me, with faithful love and cordial friendship, for the sacrifice I have made for your sake.”
“It was, then, a sacrifice?” said she, with a touch of irony in her voice that did not escape Goethe.
“Yes, my dearest, this return to cold, prosaic Germany, from the warm, sunny clime of happy Italy, was a sacrifice.”
“Then I really regret that you did not remain there,” said she, with more sensitiveness than discretion.
He looked at her wonderingly. “You regret that I have returned? I supposed you would be glad.”
“I can rejoice in nothing that I have attained by a sacrifice on your part.”
“My love, do not let us quarrel over words,” said he, almost sadly. “We will not unnecessarily pour drops of bitterness into the cup of our rejoicing at being together once more. We have met again, and will endeavor to hold each other fast, that we may never be divided.”