“Don’t,” she answered, “it would be too cruel. If you leave me I shall die. I cannot live without you.” Her fierce passion was something he had not seen before. He took her in his arms then, and kissed her on the mouth, the eyes and hair, holding her close, and she returned his kisses with utter abandon, her soft arms round his neck. He was the first to recover, and gently disengaged himself. He was trembling; he had never felt like this in any of his affairs.
“You must go, my darling,” he said very gently, and lifted her to the wall, not daring to say more.
She was crying now, softly as she always did, and the tears fell on him like rain.
“Good-bye,” he said hoarsely, and turned away through the dark woods.
“You scoundrel,” he said to himself. “Now what are you going to do? She is not like the others, she will never forget.
“Are you going to leave her, and break her very soul. She has no mother and no friends outside the convent. Or are you going to take her, she is yours for the asking, and ruin her?”
There was another possibility, but he would not allow his thoughts in that direction—marriage, but that was horrible. To settle down as a married man; no that could never be for him.
And so he went irresolute, torn by conflicting feelings, the sweetness of her kisses an abiding and tormenting memory.
And Carlotta, for her the old life was done. It was all biting pain now. She had been instructed by the Sisters, and she knew right from wrong. She had been playing with fire, and now she was burnt.
The days passed in weariness; she tried to forget in her devotions, but the old fervour would not come. Perhaps she might have recovered in time, might even have forgotten, but fate was playing a part.