Then Lirat approached and put both hands on my shoulders:
"You say you are lost! Let us see now; when one is of your stock, can one say that a man's life is lost? You say you must kill yourself? Does a man who has typhoid fever say: 'I must kill myself?' He says: 'I must cure myself!' You have typhoid fever, my poor child ... cure yourself. Lost! Why, there is not a crime, do you hear me, there is not a crime, no matter how monstrous and vile, that can not be redeemed by forgiveness. I don't mean God's forgiveness or man's forgiveness, but one's own forgiveness, which is much more difficult and more worth while to obtain. Lost! I was listening to you, my dear Mintié, and do you know what I was thinking? I was thinking that you had the noblest and most beautiful soul that I ever knew. No, no ... a man who accuses himself as you do ... who puts into his confession of sin the heart-rending accents which you have put in yours just now ... why no—that man is never lost. On the contrary, he finds himself again and he is near redemption. Love has passed over you and has left all the more filth in its wake because of your extremely delicate nature. Well! You must wash this filth off—and I know where the water is that will wash it off. You are going to leave this place ... leave Paris."
"Lirat!" I entreated, "don't ask me to leave! I have tried it twenty times and I cannot do it."
"You are going away," repeated Lirat, whose face suddenly darkened. "Or else I am mistaken about you, and you are a scamp!"
He resumed:
"In the heart of Brittany there is a fishing village, which is called Le Ploch. The air there is pure, nature is superb, man rugged and kind. It is there that you are going to live three months, six months, a year if necessary. You will walk along the sandy shore, across the heath, through pine forests, over rocks; you will dig the soil, you will catch sea wrack, you will lift logs, you will shout in the wind. There, at last, you will subdue this poisoned body insane with love. In the beginning it will be hard for you and you will perhaps feel homesick ... you will rebel, you will be seized with passionate desires to return. Don't be discouraged, I beseech you. On days especially hard to bear, walk all the more ... spend nights out on the sea with the brave people of the place ... and when your heart is heavy, weep, weep. Above all, keep from leading an indolent life, from dreaming, from reading, from carving your name on the rocks and tracing it on the sand. Don't think of anything, don't think at all! On such occasions, literature and art are poor counsellors, they are apt to bring you back to love again. Incessant activity of your body, hard physical labor, your flesh worn out by crushing fatigue, your head lashed and made giddy by the wind, by the rain, by storms! I tell you, you will come back from that place not only cured but stronger than ever and better armed for struggle. And you shall have paid your debt to that monster. You say, you shall have paid it with your fortune? Well what of it, that's nothing. Why, I envy you and wish I could go with you. Come, my dear Mintié, a little courage! Go!"
"Yes, Lirat, you are right. I must go away."
"Well go then!"
"I am going away tomorrow, I swear!"
"Tomorrow? Ah, tomorrow! She is going to come back, isn't that the idea? And you will throw yourself in her arms again. No, go now!"