“Courage, courage, Maria,” he said sweetly.
A great silence, a great shadow, an ineffable solitude was around them in that funereal wood.
“But couldn’t we go on as we did up to yesterday, each in our own way?” she asked in a weak voice.
“Where, where, Maria?” he asked, with the shadow of a melancholy smile.
“I don’t know ... anywhere ... everywhere,” she said vaguely, “each our own way, as up to yesterday.”
“We met yesterday,” he said sweetly.
“Let us separate to-day and resume our way.”
“We should meet to-morrow.” And his voice was very sweet and sad.
“Do you think so, Marco? Do you think so?”
“It is fate. Maria, it was fate our meeting yesterday; our fate would be meeting to-morrow. A will which we are ignorant of, which is outside us, which acts on us while it is foreign to us, has reunited us yesterday, and would reunite us to-morrow. Let us accept it, Maria.”