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.
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