“No,” replied Clothilde, closing her eyes, with a transport of cruelty and the consciousness that she caused immense suffering, and terrified at having caused such a passion. “I can never love you because I idolize and will ever idolize the memory of Alberto.” When he heard the sentence, Julio bowed his head upon his arm as it rested on the table; pushed back the coffee without tasting it and rose. “You forgive me?” “Yes,” said Clothilde, “and I pray God to cure you.” “Will you not come to my house? Will I not see you again?” exclaimed Julio with a sweeping gesture of his arm that indicated that his suffering was incurable. “Yes, yes, but the least possible.” The two felt that the interview was ended; and Julio believed himself finally cast off. As in all critical situations, there was a tragic silence; Clothilde looked at the floor; Julio gazed at her with the yearning love, with which the dying look for the last time upon the familiar objects and the dear faces, never so beautiful as in that awful moment. Thus he gazed, long, long, taking her hand and kissing it with the respect of a priest for a holy thing. Then he passed the wicket of the little garden, and departed without once turning his head, staggering like a drunken man; he was lost on the broad pavement, his worn garments of the poor office hack, hanging in the sunlight in such folds as to throw into relief the narrow shoulders of the consumptive. I am dismissed, he thought, and I am glad that it was with a “no.” What folly to think that a woman like Clothilde could ever care for a man like me! What can I offer her?--A worthless trifle, an illegal love, a legitimate wife, children, poverties! How could I pay her house rent, the most necessary expenses, the most trifling luxuries? Better, much better, that they despise me, the more I will occupy myself with my wife and my children, what is earned they will have; I will return to the path of rectitude, to my old companion; I will cure myself of this attack of love. And walking, walking, he reached the Alameda, seated himself in the Glorieta of San Diego, on a deserted bench, in front of two students, who were reading aloud. * * * * *