They were in each other’s arms when Pascal reentered the room. He pretended not to see them, doubtless afraid of giving way to his emotion. In an unnaturally loud voice he spoke of the final preparations for Clotilde’s departure, like a man who had a great deal on his hands and was afraid that the train might be missed. He had corded the trunks, a man had taken them away in a little wagon, and they would find them at the station. But it was only eight o’clock, and they had still two long hours before them. Two hours of mortal anguish, spent in unoccupied and weary waiting, during which they tasted a hundred times over the bitterness of parting. The breakfast took hardly a quarter of an hour. Then they got up, to sit down again. Their eyes never left the clock. The minutes seemed long as those of a death watch, throughout the mournful house. “How the wind blows!” said Clotilde, as a sudden gust made all the doors creak. Pascal went over to the window and watched the wild flight of the storm-blown trees. “It has increased since morning,” he said. “Presently I must see to the roof, for some of the tiles have been blown away.” Already they had ceased to be one household. They listened in silence to the furious wind, sweeping everything before it, carrying with it their life. Finally Pascal looked for a last time at the clock, and said simply: “It is time, Clotilde.” She rose from the chair on which she had been sitting. She had for an instant forgotten that she was going away, and all at once the dreadful reality came back to her. Once more she looked at him, but he did not open his arms to keep her. It was over; her hope was dead. And from this moment her face was like that of one struck with death. At first they exchanged the usual commonplaces. “You will write to me, will you not?” “Certainly, and you must let me hear from you as often as possible.” “Above all, if you should fall ill, send for me at once.” “I promise you that I will do so. But there is no danger. I am very strong.” Then, when the moment came in which she was to leave this dear house, Clotilde looked around with unsteady gaze; then she threw herself on Pascal’s breast, she held him for an instant in her arms, faltering: “I wish to embrace you here, I wish to thank you. Master, it is you who have made me what I am. As you have often told me, you have corrected my heredity. What should I have become amid the surroundings in which Maxime has grown up? Yes, if I am worth anything, it is to you alone I owe it, you, who transplanted me into this abode of kindness and affection, where you have brought me up worthy of you. Now, after having taken me and overwhelmed me with benefits, you send me away. Be it as you will, you are my master, and I will obey you. I love you, in spite of all, and I shall always love you.” He pressed her to his heart, answering: “I desire only your good, I am completing my work.”