Wilhelm was still unconvinced.

“I surely owe her gratitude for having loved me?  That imposes certain duties upon me; I have no right to break a heart which gave itself wholly to me.”

“Your idea has a specious air of generosity,” answered Schrotter firmly, “but in reality it is morbid and weak.  Love accepts no alms.  One gives oneself wholly or not at all.  Do you imagine that any woman of spirit would be satisfied if you said to her:  ’I do not love you, I should like to leave you, but I will stay on with you because I do not wish to give you pain, or from pity—­soft-heartedness.’  Why, she would thrust you from her, and rather, a thousand times, die than live on your bounty.  On the other hand, the woman who would still hold fast to a man after such a declaration, must be of so poor a stuff that I do not consider her capable of feeling any violent pain.  Woman, in general, has a far truer and more natural judgment in this question.  Where she does not love she has no scruples about want of consideration, and the knowledge that it will hurt the man’s feelings has rarely restrained her from rejecting an unwelcome suitor.  There is such a thing as necessary cruelty, my friend—­the physician knows that better than anybody.”

Wilhelm shook his head thoughtfully.

“Your cruelties are not for your own advantage, but for that of your patient.  I have no such excuse to offer.”

“Yes, you have,” cried Schrotter.  “You cure the countess of a morbid and hysterical sentiment.  This Auguste is right—­she will console herself.”

“And if does not?”

“If not—­why, what can I say?—­we must simply wait and see.  But it would surprise me very much.  The worst is over.  In such cases, if women mean to commit some act of madness, they do it in the first moment.  The countess has her mother with her, she has three children, she has, from all I hear, an extremely buoyant nature, her despair will soon calm down.  If not, it is always open to you to return in a year’s time and do the prodigal son, and have the fatted calf killed for you.”

As Wilhelm looked at him with suppressed reproach, Schrotter laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“You no doubt think me a hard-hearted old fogey—­you miss the ring of romance in what I say.  That is quite natural.  The language of reason always sounds flat to the ear of passion—­and not to passion only, but to sentimentality and feebleness.  Let us finish.  You know my advice.  Give no sign of life, and so give time a chance to do its work.  Try to forgot the past, and help the lady to do likewise, and do not remind her of it again by letters, or any other kind of communication.  And now let us talk of something else.  What are your plans?”

“I have none,” answered Wilhelm, with a dispirited gesture.  “I have not forgotten what you wrote to me at New Year.  If our wishes make up our future, I have no future before me, for I have no wish.”