“Death for both of us, then, it seems,” she replied. “How suddenly it has come, Monsieur.”
Luc pressed his hands to his bosom.
“My God, my God!” he cried fiercely, “I want to live or die—do you not understand? I have seen them—half blind, crawling, hideous.”
“But your spirit would be always beautiful,” said Carola gently, “and always triumphant.”
They stood looking at each other, the width of the room between them. A bar of clear sunlight fell through the half-open door across her gown and across the floor. The sounds from the carpenter’s shed came distinctly, and then presently the cold call of the convent bell. Luc remained in an attitude of arrested movement, with his hands at his heart and his deep eyes on her. Unnatural beauty rested on his absorbed face, which was flushed and quivering.
“Monsieur,” said Carola, “when you have attained—but words are useless; and after all, I do not think that you will ever forget me.”
“No, Clémence,” he answered, with great sweetness.
“You will remember me for my name’s sake.”
She opened the door a little wider; she was a thing of gorgeous colours and delicate shape against the whitewashed wall.
“Good-bye,” she said.