TO tell you of our new life in any detail would be no easy matter.It was made up of a series of frivolous diversions which，though delightful to us，would be quite meaningless to anyone who heard me recount them.You know what it is to love a woman.You know how short the days seem and how loving the ease with which you let yourself drift towards the morrow.You are acquainted with that general neglect of things which is bred of violent，trusting，requited love.Any mortal being who is not the woman you love seems superfluous to creation.You regret having tossed pieces of your heart to other women，and you cannot imagine the prospect of ever holding a hand which is not the hand that you now hold clasped in yours.Your brain will entertain neither work nor memories，nor anything which might divert it from the one thought with which it is endlessly regaled.Each day you discover some new attraction in your mistress，some unknown sensual delight.
Life is no more than the repeated fulfilling of a permanent desire.The soul is merely the vestal handmaid whose task is to keep the sacred flame of love burning.
Often，after dark，we would go and sit in the little wood which overlooked the house.There we listened to the happy song of evening as we both thought of the approaching moment which would leave us in each other's arms till morning.At other times，we would stay in bed all day and not let even the sun into our bedroom.The curtains would be tightly drawn，and for us the world outside momentarily stopped turning.Nanine alone was authorized to open our door，but only to bring us our meals-and even so we ate them without getting up，and interrupted them constantly with laughter and all kinds of foolishness.And then would follow a few moments of sleep，for，retreating completely into our love，we were like two persistent divers who return to the surface only to take breath.
However，I would catch Marguerite looking sad，and sometimes there were tears in her eyes.I would ask what was the reason for her sudden dejection and she would answer：
'This love of ours，my dearest Armand，is no ordinary love.You love me as though I'd never belonged to anyone else，and I tremble for fear that with time，regretting that you ever loved me and turning my past into a crime to hold against me，you might force me to resume the life from which you took me.Remember this：now that I've tasted a new kind of life，I should die if I had to take up the old one.So tell me you'll never leave me.'
'I swear it！'
At this，she would stare at me，as though she could read in my eyes whether my oath was sincere.Then she would throw herself into my arms and，burying her head in my chest，say：
'It's just that you have no idea how much I love you！'
One evening，we were leaning over the balcony outside our window.We gazed at the moon struggling to rise from its bed of clouds.We listened to the noise of the wind as it shook the trees.We held hands，and had not spoken for a good quarter of an hour when Marguerite said：
'Winter's coming.Would you like us to go away？'
'Where would we go？'
'Italy.'
'Are you bored here？'
'I'm afraid of winter.And I'm even more afraid of our going back to Paris.'
'Why？'
'Lots of reasons.'
And she went on quickly，without explaining the reasons for her fears：
'Do you want to leave this place？I'll sell everything I have.We'll go and live far away.There'll be nothing left of the person I used to be.No one will know who I am.Would you like that？'
'We'll go，if that's what you want，Let's travel，'I said，'but why the need to sell things you'll be glad to have when we get back？I haven't got enough money to accept a sacrifice like that，but I do have enough for us to travel in style for five or six months，if you fancy the idea at all.'
'If that's the way of it，no，'she continued，leaving the window and moving to the sofa in the dark shadow of the bedroom.'What's the point of going all that way to spend money？I cost you enough here as it is.'
'That sounds like a reproach，Marguerite.You're being ungracious.'
'Forgive me，my dear，'she said，holding out her hand to me，'this stormy weather makes me irritable.I'm not saying what I mean.'
And，after kissing me，she sat for a long time，lost in thought.
Scenes like this occurred on several occasions and，though I remained ignorant as to their cause，I nevertheless sensed in Marguerite a feeling of anxiety for the future.It was not that she could have any doubts about my love for her，for it grew deeper with each passing day.And yet I often saw that she was sad，though she never explained why she was sad other than by alleging some physical reason.
Fearing that she would weary of too monotonous a life，I suggested that we might return to Paris，but she invariably rejected the suggestion，and assured me that she could not be as happy anywhere as she was in the country.
Prudence made only rare visits now.On the other hand，she wrote a number of letters which I never asked to see，although each one left Marguerite deeply preoccupied.I did not know what to make of it.
One day，Marguerite remained in her room.I entered.She was writing.
'Who are you writing to？'I asked her.
'Prudence.Do you want me to read out what I've written？'
I had a profound distaste for anything that could seem like suspiciousness.So I answered Marguerite saying that there was no need for me to know what she was writing.And yet，I was sure of it，that letter would have acquainted me with the real reason for her fits of sadness.
The next day，the weather was superb.Marguerite suggested that we might take a boat out on the river and visit the lle de Croissy.She seemed in the best of spirits.It was five o'clock by the time we got back.
'Madame Duvernoy came，'said Nanine as soon as she saw us come in.
'Did she go away again？'asked Marguerite.
'Yes，in Madame's carriage.She said it was all right to take it.'
'Very good，'said Marguerite quickly.'Let dinner be served at once.'
