“Oh!” she said, “but I cannot treat your words as serious; you are but playing with my weakness. I will not let you--how can I, a woman, say what I should say?”
“You should say: Monsieur le Vicomte, I am happy that you have discovered yourself in time. You are free--go--farewell?”
“But I cannot say that.”
“Then I shall do it for you. My cousin,” he went on, more seriously, “my mind is made up. To-morrow I start again on my pilgrimage, and you are as free as air. Do not think that your words have pained me, for I have long known that I was unworthy and I myself almost desire to be free. We cannot live twice.”
“You are too generous.”
“By no means. I am only a prodigal; even this treasure I could not keep, but I must let it slip through my fingers with the rest. Now I shall leave you to think upon what I have said. Do not judge me hardly.”
“I shall think of you always as the best gentleman in the world. Oh! Victor,” she cried, as though interrogating herself, “why cannot I love you?”
“Because, my dear, I would not let you. There is but one thing more to do and then I leave your cold North for ever to seek my fortune elsewhere.
‘Et je m´en vais chercher du repos aux enfers.´
I shall send you a peace-offering that I know you will receive as much for my sake as its own. And now I kiss your hand.”