She passed him and went into the inner room.
He waited for her return with a blank mind, listening to the even blows of the coffin-maker.
After a few moments she came back and crossed to the wide hearth, where a meagre fire burned. An iron saucepan of soup stood on the tiles; she placed it on the fire, Luc the while looking at her. When she rose from her knees, she was once more face to face with him.
“You are staying here?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Probably I shall not see you again,” she said. “I put on the habit of a novice to-morrow.”
“I wish,” answered Luc, “I found it so easy to leave the world, but while I breathe I cannot. Even this confinement irks me. If I live, I shall go back to my ambitions.”
“Something is wrong,” said Carola; “you or I—or God.”
“Why?” he answered, with a grave gentleness. “I thought you had found happiness.”
“I have found an opiate, Monsieur.”