"Not to-morrow! No, no," he said, almost relieved that it was better
than she feared. "In five days, in five days. Oh, this brings it before
me! I have no wish now for that release for which I have longed. Fanny,
it is only a change, not a parting!"
Alfred's voice called sharply from without. "You must come, mademoiselle!
Julien, bring her!"
"One instant. She is coming. Fanny, I must think it out. Until I go--I
shall have time--we will get you sent to Charleville, and Charleville I
must come often to see my land and my factory."
"How often?"
"Often, I must--"
"How often?"
"Once a week at last. Perhaps more often. If we can only manage that!"
"Julien!" Alfred returned and stood again in the doorway. "This is
absurd. I can never get to the river if you keep her."
"Go, go. I will arrange! You will have a note from me to-morrow. Hurry,
good-night, good-night!"
She was in the car; now the door was shutting on her; yet once more he
pulled it open, "Ah! Oh, good-night!"
At the side of the car, the snow whirling round his head, Julien kissed
her face in the darkness; Alfred, relentless, drove the car onward, and
the door shutting with a slam, left him standing by the inn.
CHAPTER XIV
THE RIVER
The indifferent Alfred drove his unhappy burden towards the river.
Walled in by the rush of snowflakes about him he made what way he could,
but it was well-nigh impossible to see.
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