And he, poor wretch, saw and understood that devotion, and when he realized his ingratitude he was consumed by remorse which crushed him. He should have had a heedless, robust mistress, who would have laughed at his anger and his repentance alike, who would not have suffered because of anything he did, so long as she controlled him. Thérèse was not such a woman. She was dying of weariness and disappointment, and Laurent, seeing her fade away, sought momentary forgetfulness of his own tears in the suicide of his intelligence, in the poison of drunkenness. XIII One evening, he abused her so long and so incoherently that she ceased to listen to him, and dozed in her chair. After a few moments, a slight rustling made her open her eyes. Laurent convulsively threw on the floor something that gleamed: it was a dagger. Thérèse smiled, and closed her eyes again. She understood feebly, and as if through the haze of a dream, that he had thought of killing her. At that moment, Thérèse was utterly indifferent to everything. To rest from living and thinking, let that rest be sleep or death--she left the choice to destiny. Death was what she despised. Laurent thought that it was he, and, as he despised himself, he left her at last. Three days later, Thérèse, having decided to borrow a sum which would enable her to take a long journey, to leave Paris in earnest,--for such a succession of agitations and hurricanes was spoiling her work and her life,--went to the Quai aux Fleurs and bought a white rose-bush, which she sent to Laurent without giving her name to the messenger. It was her farewell. On returning home, she found there a white rose-bush, sent without a name: that was Laurent's farewell. They both intended to go away--they both remained. The incident of the white rose-bushes moved Laurent to tears. He hurried to Thérèse and found her finishing her packing. Her place was taken in the mail-coach for six o'clock that evening. Laurent's place also was taken in the same coach. Both had thought of visiting Italy again alone. "Well, let us go together!" he cried. "No, I am not going," said she. "Thérèse, it's of no use for us to plan! this horrible bond that connects us will never be broken. It is madness to think of it. My love has withstood everything that can crush a sentiment, everything that can break a heart. You must love me as I am, or else we must die together. Are you willing to love me?" "It would be of no use for me to be willing to do it; I cannot," said Thérèse. "I feel that my heart is exhausted; I think that it is dead." "Very well; are you willing to die?" "It is a matter of indifference to me how soon I die, as you know; but I do not wish you to live or die with me." "Ah! yes, you believe in the eternity of the _ego_! You don't want to meet me again in the other life! Poor martyr! I can understand that."