For an answer she kissed his hand.
"You are a busy little Bébée always," he said, with his lips caressing her soft brown arms that were round his neck. "But you must be busier than ever whilst I am gone. So you will forget. No, no, I do not mean that:—I mean so the time will pass quickest. And I shall finish your picture, Bébée, and all Paris will see you, and the great ladies will envy the little girl with her two wooden shoes. Ah! that does not please you?—you care for none of these vanities. No. Poor little Bébée, why did God make you, or Chance breathe life into you? You are so far away from us all. It was cruel. What harm has your poor little soul ever done that, pure as a flower, it should have been sent to the hell of this world?"
She clung to him, sobbing without sound. "You will come back? You will come back?" she moaned, clasping him closer and closer.
Flamen's own eyes grew dim. But he lied to her: "I will—I promise."
It was so much easier to say so, and it would break her sorrow. So he thought.
For the moment again he was tempted to take her with him—but, he resisted it—he would tire, and she would cling to him forever.
There was a long silence. The bleating of the little kid in the shed without was the only sound; the gray lavender blew to and fro.
Her arms were close about his throat; he kissed them again, and kissed her eyes, her cheek, her mouth; then put her from him quickly and went out.
She ran to him, and threw herself on the damp ground and held him there, and leaned her forehead on his feet. But though he looked at her with wet eyes, he did not yield, and he still said,—
"I will come back soon—very soon; be quiet, dear, let me go."