is to take my mother with us, because you know I cannot leave her alone.  In attending her, you have learned to know her well enough to know that she is not disagreeable or difficult to please.  As for Florentin, he will remain in Paris and work.  His trip to America has made him wise, and his ambition will now be easily satisfied; to earn a small salary is all that he asks.  Without doubt we shall be a burden, but not so heavy as one might think at first.  A woman, when she chooses, brings order and economy into a house, and I promise you that I will be that woman.  And then I will work.  I am sure my stationer will give me as many menus when I am in Auvergne as he does now that I am in Paris.  I could, also, without doubt, procure other work.  It would be a hundred francs a month, perhaps a hundred and fifty, perhaps even two hundred.  While waiting for your patients to come, we could live on this money.  In Auvergne living must be cheap.”

She had taken his hands in hers, and she watched anxiously his face as the firelight shone on it, to see the effect of her words.  It was the life of both of them that was to be decided, and the fulness of her heart made her voice tremble.  What would he reply?  She saw that his face was agitated, without being able to read more.

As she remained silent, he took her head in his hands, and looked in her face for several moments.

“How you love me!” he said.

“Let me prove it in some way besides in words.”

“It would be cowardly to let you share my misery.”

“It would be loving me enough to feel sure that I would be happy.”

“And I?”

“Is not the love in your heart greater than pride?  Do you not feel that since I have loved you my love has filled all my life, and that there is nothing in the world, in the present or in the future, but it and you?  Because I see you for several hours from time to time in Paris, I am happy; whatever difficulties await us, I should be much happier in Auvergne, because we should be together always.”

He remained silent for some time.

“Could you love me there?” he murmured.

Evidently it was more to himself than to her that he addressed this question, which was the sum of his reflections.

“O dear Victor!” she cried.  “Why do you doubt me?  Have I deserved it?  The past, the present, do they not assure the future?”

He shook his head.

“The man you have loved, whom you love, has never shown himself to you as he really is.  In spite of the trials and sorrows of his life he has been able to answer your smile with a smile, because, cruel as his life was, he was sustained by hope and confidence; in Auvergne there will be no more hope or confidence, but the madness of a broken life, and the dejection of impotence.  What sort of man should I be?  Could you love such a man?”

“A thousand times more, for he would be unhappy, and I should have to comfort him.”