It had happened so on that
third of December, and--
This was the reason that he had not written to her or returned to his
lodgings. The soldier's bullet seemed to him a merciful interposition
of Fate, which released him from his difficulties. When health was
restored, he fairly fled from Paris, leaving behind him the few effects
of a jolly student. This soothed his conscience a little, and moreover
he told himself that he owed Pauline nothing, that she did not need
him, that she, who possessed a thoroughly reasonable, nay, superior
nature, would henceforward pursue the path of honour. True, a secret
voice often cried out to him: "Coward! Coward!" But then he solaced
himself by shrugging his shoulders and thinking that everybody else
would have done the same, and she would console herself quickly enough.
Of course he could not confess this to her, but it was not necessary.
She had divined it all.
With a melancholy smile, she said:
"I understand, my poor Rudolf, I understand you were glad to get rid of
troublesome Pauline. The bullet spared you the pain of bidding me
farewell.
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