ned at bay, trembling and
hesitating as to the means of persuading her. He pictured to himself her
despair, her tears; what should he do? how should he tell her? how could
they bring themselves to give each other a last embrace, never to see
each other again? And the days passed, and he could think of nothing,
and he began once more to accuse himself of cowardice.

Sometimes she would say jestingly, with a touch of affectionate malice:

"Master, you are too kind-hearted not to keep me."

But this vexed him; he grew excited, and with gloomy despair answered:

"No, no! don't talk of my kindness. If I were really kind you would have
been long ago with your brother, leading an easy and honorable life,
with a bright and tranquil future before you, instead of obstinately
remaining here, despised, poor, and without any prospect, to be the sad
companion of an old fool like me! No, I am nothing but a coward and a
dishonorable man!"

She hastily stopped him. And it was in truth his kindness of heart,
above all, that bled, that immense kindness of heart which sprang from
his love of life, which he diffused over persons and things, in his
continual care for the happiness of every one and everything. To be
kind, was not this to love her, to make her happy, at the price of his
own happiness? This was the kindness which it was necessary for him to
exercise, and which he felt that he would one day exercise, heroic and
decisive. But like the wretch who has resolved upon suicide, he waited
for the opportunity, the hour, and the means, to carry out his design.
Early one morning, on going into the workroom, Clotilde was surprised
to see Dr. Pascal seated at his table. It was many weeks since he had
either opened a book or touched a pen.

"Why! you are working?" she said.

Without raising his head he answered absently:

"Yes; this is the genealogical tree that I had not even brought up to
date."

She stood behind him for a few moments, looking at him writing. He was
completing the notices of Aunt Dide, of Uncle Macquart, and of little
Charles, writing the dates of their death. Then, as he did not stir,
seeming not to know that she was there, waiting for the kisses and the
smiles of other mornings, she walked idly over to the window and back
again.

"So you are in earnest," she said, "you are really working?"

"Certainly; you see I ought to have noted down these deaths last month.
And I have a heap of work waiting there for me."