this now, and he must live. It was living, really, to stand there with
such a faith even in one's self still flung over one by such hands. He
was not to disappoint her, he was to justify a conception it had
beguiled her weariness to form. His imagination embraced it; he threw
back his head and seemed to be looking for his friend's conception among
the blinking mocking stars. But it came to him rather on the mild night-
wind wandering in over the house-tops which covered the rest of so many
heavy human hearts. What she asked he seemed to feel her ask not for her
own sake--she feared nothing, she needed nothing--but for that of his
own happiness and his own character. He must assent to destiny. Why else
was he young and strong, intelligent and resolute? He mustn't give it to
her to reproach him with thinking she had had a moment's attention for
his love, give it to her to plead, to argue, to break off in bitterness.
He must see everything from above, her indifference and his own ardour;
he must prove his strength, must do the handsome thing, must decide that
the handsome thing was to submit to the inevitable, to be supremely
delicate, to spare her all pain, to stifle his passion, to ask no
compensation, to depart without waiting and to try to believe that
wisdom is its own reward. All this, neither more nor less, it was a
matter of beautiful friendship with him for her to expect of him. And
what should he himself gain by it? He should have pleased her! Well, he
flung himself on his bed again, fell asleep at last and slept till
morning.

Before noon next day he had made up his mind to leave Saint-Germain at
once. It seemed easiest to go without seeing her, and yet if he might
ask for a grain of "compensation" this would be five minutes face to
face with her. He passed a restless day. Wherever he went he saw her
stand before him in the dusky halo of evening, saw her look at him with
an air of still negation more intoxicating than the most passionate