He placed both hands on Jean's shoulders. "I must stay: that's my way, you see, of loving Alsace; there is no better. I live here, and here I die. But for you, my boy, things are different, I understand—don't let the women guess; it's too serious. Does any one know at your home?"
"No."
"Keep your secret," and then, lowering his voice, "You wanted to see her once more. I don't blame you, since you will never meet again."
Jean nodded as though to say "Yes, I had to see her once more."
"Look at her a minute, and then go. Stay where you are—look over my shoulder."
Over M. Bastian's shoulder Jean could see that the troubled look in Odile's eyes had grown to terror. She met his gaze fearlessly; she had no thought but for the dialogue which she could not hear, the mystery in which she felt she had some part, and her face betrayed her anguish.
"What are they saying? Is it bad news again? Is it better? No; not better, they are not both looking my way."
Her mother was still paler than her daughter.
"Farewell, my boy," said M. Bastian in low tones. "I loved you.... I could not act differently ... but I think highly of you; I will remember you."
Overcome by emotion, the old Alsatian silently pressed Jean's hand and let it fall. As to Jean, trembling and dazed, he walked to the door, looking back for the last time. He was going then—in one minute he would be gone, never to return to Alsheim.