me. "No, I don't think you will. Don't, dear. But I don't think you will. You won't laugh about it, will you? You won't laugh, Cæsar?"
I bent low and kissed her hand. I should have broken down had I tried to speak. As I raised my head from her hand, she kissed my brow. Then she wiped her eyes, saying:
"You'll send Max to Paris? You promised me this Embassy. You shall be good and great and independent, and all you say you mean to be and must be afterward. But you promised me this Embassy. Well, I ask your promise of you. I ask it for Max."
"You would go away from me?"
"Yes. I want to grow old away from you. I ask the Embassy for Max."
I stood silent, wretched, undecided. She came near to me again.
"Don't refuse me, dear," she said in a low unsteady voice. "I don't ask much of you; just to let me go, and not to laugh. I shall never ask anything again of you. I have given you so much, and I would have given you anything you asked. Don't refuse me."
"It breaks my heart."
"Poor heart, poor heart!" she whispered softly, with a sad mocking smile. "It will mend, Cæsar."
"You—you mean it?"
"With all my heart and soul."
"Then so be it."
She came to me and held out her arms. I clasped her in mine, and we kissed one another. Then both of us sat down again, and there was silence. Only once she spoke.
