"You see, I must needs go—not for my own sake, but for yours."
The princess grew somber and fierce. Reclining on a couch, she fixed her flashing eyes on her lover kneeling before her.
"So be it then," she said, after a moment of silence, winding her arms about Paul's neck. "So be it—go; but soon to meet again. It is my mother herself who will be to blame for it."
"Why, what do you mean?" asked the painter, pressing Lise to his heart.
"I mean that before winter is upon us I shall be in Paris. She sends you away, does she—she separates us? Well, I will go to you."
The artist gave a cry of joy; and mad, intoxicated, careless of danger, they forgot all else but their love and their dreams of the future.
That evening Paul Meyrin left Pampeln, after writing to the prince in the sense agreed on with Mme. Podoi. At the same time he made his excuses for being unable to await the prince's return, thank him in person for his hospitality, and take formal leave of him.
It was the middle of September, and the stay in Courland, according to the ordinary custom, would last until the early part of October. Lise had mapped out her course, and was so completely master of herself that her mother soon came to think that she had exaggerated the danger, and that her daughter had almost forgotten Paul Meyrin.
Two months later she saw her mistake, when the prince himself told her in St. Petersburg that his wife was going to Paris for medical advice as to the state of her health, about which she was uneasy.
At this quite unlooked-for news the general's wife had almost betrayed the anger and indignation she felt. Happily she restrained herself, and hurried to her daughter.