“But then,” said the poor Cure, completely bewildered, completely at a loss, “but then, I do not understand you at all.  If you love her, Jean, and if she loves you?”

“But that is, above all, the reason why I must go.  If it were only I, if I were certain that she has not perceived my love, certain that she has not been touched by it, I would stay, I would stay—­for nothing but for the sweet joy of seeing her, and I would love her from afar, without any hope, for nothing but the happiness of loving her.  But no, she has understood too well, and far from discouraging me—­that is what forces me to go.”

“No, I do not understand it!  I know well, my poor boy, we are speaking of things in which I am no great scholar, but you are both good, young, and charming; you love her, she would love you, and you will not!”

“And her money! her money!”

“What matters her money?  If it is only that, is it because of her money that you have loved her?  It is rather in spite of her money.  Your conscience, my son, would be quite at peace with regard to that, and that would suffice.”

“No, that would not suffice.  To have a good opinion of one’s self is not enough; that opinion must be shared by others.”

“Oh, Jean!  Among all who know you, who can doubt you?”

“Who knows?  And then there is another thing besides this question of money, another thing more serious and more grave.  I am not the husband suited to her.”

“And who could be more worthy than you?”

“The question to be considered is not my worth; we have to consider what she is and what I am, to ask what ought to be her life, and what ought to be my life.”

“One day, Paul—­you know he has rather a blunt way of saying things, but that very bluntness often places thoughts much more distinctly before us—­Paul was speaking of her; he did not suspect anything; if he had, he is good-natured, he would not have spoken thus—­well, he said to me: 

“’What she needs is a husband who would be entirely devoted to her, to her alone, a husband who would have no other care than to make her existence a perpetual holiday, a husband who would give himself, his whole life, in return for her money.’

“You know me; such a husband I can not, I must not be.  I am a soldier, and shall remain one.  If the chances of my career sent me some day to a garrison in the depths of the Alps, or in some almost unknown village in Algeria, could I ask her to follow me?  Could I condemn her to the life of a soldier’s wife, which is in some degree the life of a soldier himself?  Think of the life which she leads now, of all that luxury, of all those pleasures!”

“Yes,” said the Abbe, “that is more serious than the question of money.”

“So serious that there is no hesitation possible.  During the three weeks that I passed alone in the camp, I have well considered all that; I have thought of nothing else, and loving her as I do love, the reason must indeed be strong which shows me clearly my duty.  I must go, I must go far, very far away, as far as possible.  I shall suffer much, but I must not see her again!  I must not see her again!”