There was yet another wrenching, and one which made the best of their blood flow, in that rupture between Pierre and the saintly man whose charitable dreams and hopes of salvation he had so long shared.

There had been so many divine illusions, so many struggles for the relief of the masses, so much renunciation and forgiveness practised in common between them in their desire to hasten the harvest of the future! And now they were parting; he, Pierre, still young in years, was returning to life, leaving his aged companion to his vain waiting and his dreams.
In his turn, taking hold of Abbe Rose's hands, he gave expression to his sorrow.

"Ah, my friend, my father," said he, "it is you alone that I regret losing, now that I am leaving my frightful torments behind.

I thought that I was cured of them, but it has been sufficient for me to meet you, and my heart is rent again....

Don't weep for me, I pray you, don't reproach me for what I have done.