“But, Wilhelm,” she returned, “what else could we do?  I should not like to think that it was your plan we should part at the station and each go our different ways.  If I believed that, I would throw myself under the wheels of the train this very instant.  We have not been indulging in a little summer romance, entertaining enough at the seaside, but which must die a natural death as soon as we return to Paris.  My love is a serious matter to me, and to you too, I hope.  You are mine forever, and as long as there is life in this hand, it will hold you fast,” and she cast herself passionately upon his breast, and clung to him as if he were going to be torn from her.

“I never said I would leave you,” he returned gently, and trying to disengage himself; “but it is quite inconceivable that you should have thought you would simply bring me back with you from the journey and present me to your people.”

“My people!  You are my all, and nobody else exists for me.”

“One says that in the heat of the moment, but you have relations—­ you told me so yourself.  What will they think of us if I calmly settle down in your house?”

“Think?—­always what people will think.  That is the only fault you have, Wilhelm.  How can you do people the honor to take them into consideration when it is a question of my life’s happiness?  Let them think what they like.  They will think you are the master and I am your slave, who only lives in and for you.”

Wilhelm only shook his head, for he was unwilling to wound her by saying what he thought of such an unworthy connection.  She hung trembling on his looks, and asked, as he still did not answer: 

“Well, darling, is it to be my way?  We will drive quietly home and pretend we are at St. Valery?”

“No,” he answered firmly, “that is impossible.  I shall go to an hotel.  No, do not try to dissuade me, for it would be useless.”

“And you can let me go from you?”

“Only for a few hours.  We shall be in the same town, and can see one another as often as we like.”

“And you would be satisfied with that?”

“It will have to be so, as the circumstances will not permit of anything else.”

She broke into a storm of tears, and sobbed, “You do not love me.”

He soothed and comforted her; he kissed her eyes, he pressed her head to his heart, and tried to calm her as he would a child, but it was long before he brought her round.  At last she raised her head and asked: 

“You are determined to go to an hotel?”

“I must, dear heart.”

“Very well; then I shall go too.”

He had nothing to say against this and so it was settled.

It was close upon midnight when the train ran into the St. Lazare station.  Anne came hurrying from the next carriage.

“You can drive home,” said Pilar to her.  “Take the large boxes with you.  You can leave the small one and the portmanteau with me.  I am going with monsieur.  I shall come round to-morrow and see if things are in order.”