There was a soft air blowing gently over the _marais_. It came to them through the open window, laden with a hundred subtle sounds and scents of the springtime. It seemed to remind Madame of something far, far away, for she gazed dreamily out into the blue firmament. It fretted Sépincourt with impulses to speech and action which he found it impossible to control. "You must know what has brought me," he began impulsively, drawing his chair nearer to hers. "Through all these months I have never ceased to love you and to long for you. Night and day the sound of your dear voice has been with me; your eyes"--She held out her hand deprecatingly. He took it and held it. She let it lie unresponsive in his. "You cannot have forgotten that you loved me not long ago," he went on eagerly, "that you were ready to follow me anywhere,--anywhere; do you remember? I have come now to ask you to fulfill that promise; to ask you toy be my wife, my companion, the dear treasure of my life." She heard his warm and pleading tones as though listening to a strange language, imperfectly understood. She withdrew her hand from his, and leaned her brow thoughtfully upon it. "Can you not feel--can you not understand, _mon ami_," she said calmly, "that now such a thing--such a thought, is impossible to me?" "Impossible?" "Yes, impossible. Can you not see that now my heart, my soul, my thought--my very life, must belong to another? It could not be different." "Would you have me believe that you can wed your young existence to the dead?" he exclaimed with something like horror. Her glance was sunk deep in the embankment of flowers before her. "My husband has never been so living to me as he is now," she replied with a faint smile of commiseration for Sépincourt's fatuity. "Every object that surrounds me speaks to me of him. I look yonder across the _marais_, and I see him coming toward me, tired and toil-stained from the hunt. I see him again sitting in this chair or in that one. I hear his familiar voice, his footsteps upon the galleries. We walk once more together beneath the magnolias; and at night in dreams I feel that he is there, there, near me. How could it be different! Ah! I have memories, memories to crowd and fill my life, if I live a hundred years!" Sépincourt was wondering why she did not take the sword down from her altar and thrust it through his body here and there. The effect would have been infinitely more agreeable than her words, penetrating his soul like fire. He arose confused, enraged with pain. "Then, Madame," he stammered, "there is nothing left for me but to take my leave. I bid you adieu." "Do not be offended, _mon ami_," she said kindly, holding out her hand. "You are going to Paris, I suppose?" "What does it matter," he exclaimed desperately, "where I go?" "Oh, I only wanted to wish you _bon voyage_" she assured him amiably.