come back to me.”  Her self-control had now completely abandoned her, and her words were broken with long sobs.  “Why do such dreadful things happen to us—­why is my brother Valentin killed, like a beast in the midst of his youth and his gayety and his brightness and all that we loved him for?  Why are there things I can’t ask about—­that I am afraid to know?  Why are there places I can’t look at, sounds I can’t hear?  Why is it given to me to choose, to decide, in a case so hard and so terrible as this?  I am not meant for that—­I am not made for boldness and defiance.  I was made to be happy in a quiet, natural way.”  At this Newman gave a most expressive groan, but Madame de Cintre went on.  “I was made to do gladly and gratefully what is expected of me.  My mother has always been very good to me; that’s all I can say.  I must not judge her; I must not criticize her.  If I did, it would come back to me.  I can’t change!”

“No,” said Newman, bitterly; “I must change—­if I break in two in the effort!”

“You are different.  You are a man; you will get over it.  You have all kinds of consolation.  You were born—­you were trained, to changes.  Besides—­besides, I shall always think of you.”

“I don’t care for that!” cried Newman.  “You are cruel—­you are terribly cruel.  God forgive you!  You may have the best reasons and the finest feelings in the world; that makes no difference.  You are a mystery to me; I don’t see how such hardness can go with such loveliness.”

Madame de Cintre fixed him a moment with her swimming eyes.  “You believe I am hard, then?”

Newman answered her look, and then broke out, “You are a perfect, faultless creature!  Stay by me!”

“Of course I am hard,” she went on.  “Whenever we give pain we are hard.  And we must give pain; that’s the world,—­the hateful, miserable world!  Ah!” and she gave a long, deep sigh, “I can’t even say I am glad to have known you—­though I am.  That too is to wrong you.  I can say nothing that is not cruel.  Therefore let us part, without more of this.  Good-by!” And she put out her hand.

Newman stood and looked at it without taking it, and raised his eyes to her face.  He felt, himself, like shedding tears of rage.  “What are you going to do?” he asked.  “Where are you going?”

“Where I shall give no more pain and suspect no more evil.  I am going out of the world.”

“Out of the world?”

“I am going into a convent.”

“Into a convent!” Newman repeated the words with the deepest dismay; it was as if she had said she was going into an hospital.  “Into a convent—­you!”

“I told you that it was not for my worldly advantage or pleasure I was leaving you.”

But still Newman hardly understood.  “You are going to be a nun,” he went on, “in a cell—­for life—­with a gown and white veil?”

“A nun—­a Carmelite nun,” said Madame de Cintre.  “For life, with God’s leave.”