We lived a very single life, interested in common, as we were, in our laboratory experiments and in the preparation of lectures and examinations. During eleven years we were scarcely ever separated, which means that there are very few lines of existing correspondence between us, representing that period. We spent our rest days and our vacations walking or bicycling either in the country near Paris, or along the sea, or in the mountains. My husband was so engrossed in his researches, however, that it was very difficult for him to remain for any length of time in a place where he lacked facilities for work. After a few days he would say: "It seems to me a very long time since we have accomplished anything." And yet he liked the excursions which covered successive days, and enjoyed to the full our walks together, just as he had formerly enjoyed those with his brother. But his joy in seeing beautiful things never drew his thoughts away from the scientific questions that absorbed him. In these free times, we traversed the region of the Cevennes and of the Monts d'Auvergne, as well as the coast of France, and some of its great forests. These days in the open, filled with beautiful sights, made a deep impression on us, and we loved to recall them. One of our radiant memories was of a sunny day, when after a long and wearying climb, we reached the fresh, green meadow of the Aubrac, in the pure air of the high plateaus. Another vivid memory was that of an evening, when, lingering until twilight in the gorge of the Truyère, we were enchanted to hear a popular air dying away in the distance, carried to us from a little boat that descended the stream. We had taken so little notice of the time that we did not regain our lodging before dawn. At one point we had an encounter with carts whose horses were frightened by our bicycles, and we were obliged to cut across ploughed fields. At length we regained our route on the high plateau, bathed in the unreal light of the moon. And cows that were passing the night in enclosures came gravely to contemplate us with their large, tranquil eyes. The forest of Compiegne charmed us in the spring, with its mass of green foliage stretching far as the eye could see, and its periwinkles and anemones. On the border of the forest of Fontainebleau, the banks of the Loing, covered with water buttercups, were an object of delight for Pierre Curie. We loved the melancholy coasts of Brittany and the reaches of heather and gorse, stretching to the very points of Finistère, which seemed like claws or teeth burying themselves in the water which forever rages at them.