“I came to see the child,” she said. “I want this buried with her.” She held out a narrow white hand on which lay a diamond ring with sapphire points. “M. de Richelieu told me its history,” she continued--“the bribe, the wages, that you refused and that I took. This is the last of it.” “You have a strange fancy,” said Luc. She passed him and went into the inner room. He waited for her return with a blank mind, listening to the even blows of the coffin-maker. After a few moments she came back and crossed to the wide hearth, where a meagre fire burned. An iron saucepan of soup stood on the tiles; she placed it on the fire, Luc the while looking at her. When she rose from her knees, she was once more face to face with him. “You are staying here?” she asked. “Yes.” “Probably I shall not see you again,” she said. “I put on the habit of a novice to-morrow.” “I wish,” answered Luc, “I found it so easy to leave the world, but while I breathe I cannot. Even this confinement irks me. If I live, I shall go back to my ambitions.” “Something is wrong,” said Carola; “you or I--or God.” “Why?” he answered, with a grave gentleness. “I thought you had found happiness.” “I have found an opiate, Monsieur.” They were both silent; then she turned towards the door. Her splendid dress was as incongruous here as it had been in the wet fields; it jarred on Luc to see her in such surroundings. He turned suddenly and followed her. “You beautiful, foolish woman,” he cried, “what are you doing in a convent? Go back to Versailles.” “Is that your advice to me?” she asked slowly. “Advice! I know not--but this is death.” “Yes, death,” answered Carola. She lifted the latch of the door. “Will you pray for me?” smiled Luc. “Yes.” “Then put your prayers this way--that if I am stricken I may die.” “Death for both of us, then, it seems,” she replied. “How suddenly it has come, Monsieur.” Luc pressed his hands to his bosom. “My God, my God!” he cried fiercely, “I want to _live_ or _die_--do you not understand? I have seen them--half blind, crawling, hideous.” “But your spirit would be always beautiful,” said Carola gently, “and always triumphant.” They stood looking at each other, the width of the room between them. A bar of clear sunlight fell through the half-open door across her gown and across the floor. The sounds from the carpenter’s shed came distinctly, and then presently the cold call of the convent bell. Luc remained in an attitude of arrested movement, with his hands at his heart and his deep eyes on her. Unnatural beauty rested on his absorbed face, which was flushed and quivering. “Monsieur,” said Carola, “when you have attained--but words are useless; and after all, I do not think that you will ever forget me.” “No, Clémence,” he answered, with great sweetness. “You will remember me for my name’s sake.” She opened the door a little wider; she was a thing of gorgeous colours and delicate shape against the whitewashed wall.