Wilhelm read his paper to the end, blew out the light, and turned himself to the wall.  But sleep forsook him, and he stared with wide-open eyes into the darkness.  Suddenly an odd suggestion flashed across his mind—­was rejected—­returned again obstinately, grew stronger, and finally was so imperative that Wilhelm sat up in bed excitedly and relit the candles.  Don Pablo had gone home, Anne had accompanied Pilar, Isabel was in the back premises, engaged upon the Val de Penas, two fresh casks of which had lately arrived, and Auguste was probably in his bedroom asleep.  He was as good as alone in the house.  Now or never!

He sprang out of bed, and began to dress with a beating heart.  Had it come to this with him?  He was on the point of committing an act of cowardice—­yes, but no greater, perhaps even less so, than smouldering away in slavery and degradation.  It was an ugly breach of trust.  Not really so, for he had expressed, himself plainly to Pilar, and she must know how matters stood between them.  Moreover, if you fall into the mire, you cannot expect to get out of it again without besmirching yourself.  But—­what will poor Pilar’s feelings be when she comes home and finds him gone?  At the picture he faltered, and very near returned to bed.  But no—­he put it forcibly from him.

He rapidly finished dressing, and went into his room to collect such things as were absolutely necessary.  The two large trunks had been removed, and would in any case have been out of the question at this juncture.  The portmanteau lay behind a wardrobe.  Into it he stuffed some linen and clothes, a few books and his manuscript, cast one look round the rooms in which he had encountered such heavy storms of the heart, extinguished the lights, and walked resolutely downstairs.

The gas was burning in the hall, the front door stood half open, and on the doorstep was Auguste, talking to a maid-servant from the next house.  She flitted away as the man turned round, and, to his astonishment, perceived Wilhelm with a portmanteau in his hand.  He stepped quickly indoors.

“Ah,” he said in a muffled tones, “Monsieur le Docteur!  I understand—­I understand.  I would have done it long ago.  It really couldn’t go on like that any longer.  But monsieur might have said a word to me; for as to me—­I am dumb!”

Wilhelm was crushed to the earth.  So he was not to be spared one humiliation, not even the patronizing familiarity of this lackey!  But it could not be helped now.  Regardless of his opposition, Auguste took the portmanteau out of his hand, and asked with eager civility where he should carry it.

“Only to a fiacre,” Wilhelm answered.

They went out together into the Boulevard Pereire, and as they walked along beside the deep cutting of the circle railway, Auguste inquired: 

“Monsieur is leaving Paris, no doubt?”

Wilhelm made no reply.

“Has Monsieur le Docteur left any address?” he continued urgently.