“No, not to-night:--not yet.” “You like going out, then?” “I like going with you.” I could not prevail upon her to stay behind. I offered to let her return to the Sleeping Woods. She might regain her health and strength there. At the name she smiled, a thing she did seldom enough now, but still she refused. “I do not care to leave you,” she said. “That is stubbornness.” She turned away. “Oh, no, it is not, I assure you.” There was only one thing for me to say: “Let us stay at home to-night, then.” I did not say it, although I was tempted to. The germ of evil had been sown in me, and my crime was working out naturally, almost of itself. When one has sown the seeds and covered them well, does not grain grow in the fields? The bad grain in our hearts is still more prompt to spring up. Nevertheless, I was irritated with myself. My discontent gave me a sort of fever, a need of activity and distraction, added to my taste for society and the wicked fascinations of Mme. de H--. What loyalty and wholesome tenderness remained in me thus took sides, while it disturbed me, with my basest instincts, to push me the faster toward the abyss. Only some miraculous intervention could have saved me. Raymonde, who knew it, after having tried suffering in vain, gave her life that the miracle might come to pass. * * * On our return that evening, she sank down on a divan in the vestibule and had to admit that she was defeated. “I cannot stir. I’m sorry.” She had to be carried to her room and put to bed, and wrapped in warm clothes to stimulate her circulation. Her feet and hands were fairly frozen; the slackened course of her blood was quickened only with great difficulty. After the perplexing and alarming diagnosis of the nearest physician, whom I had sent for in the night, I called in Dr. Aynaud, whose authority is universally admitted. He could not come until six o’clock that evening, but as soon as he was announced I felt reassured. An illness without cause or first stages, without definite symptoms, which had not prevented the patient from attending a function the night before, could not be extremely dangerous. I explained things to the doctor in a few words. He made the gesture of a man who trusts only his own examination, and I led him to Raymonde’s room. After the auscultation, he proceeded to investigation and minute questioning. My wife lent herself to it complaisantly, and added nothing herself when the doctor’s questions ceased. “You do not ask my opinion?” he queried. “What is the good?” she replied, preoccupied. Still more surprised, he hesitated, then said: “I see. You think it isn’t serious, eh?” “If you like.” “Come, come! A change of air, and everything will be all right.” She repeated pensively: “A change of air.” I led the doctor into my study. “You understood?” he said at once. “That it isn’t serious?”