But in the face of M. Mairieux as he confronted me, there was the same resolution which had so much surprised me when I first observed it, and which I felt was invincible. Influenced by it despite myself, I modified my language. “Allow me to see her, I beg of you, if only for a few moments. I will talk to her before you, before her mother. Don’t you understand my suffering?” Mme. Mairieux, who had been incessantly encouraging me with all kinds of significant looks, now turned to her husband. “My dear,” said she, “see how he suffers. It is inconceivable. Do you wish me to go back to Raymonde?” But, reaching his own decision, he rebuffed her. “I will go myself,” he said, and walked to the door. “I will go with you,” said his wife. He instructed her to keep me company instead, and disappeared. His absence seemed long to me, though I do not believe that it was really so. Mme. Mairieux deluged me throughout this period of expectation with the most consoling flattery, and the consoling flattery of Mme. Mairieux had the gift of exasperating me. I began to walk up and down the room, now fast, now slow. “Everything will come out all right,” the good woman kept repeating. “If she does not love you now, she will not fail to do so in time. It is not an opportunity that presents itself twice, and Raymonde is so reasonable.” But these assurances merely increased my anxiety. At last M. Mairieux reappeared. He did not bring back with him, however, the repentant culprit, as I had hoped he would. Walking up to me, he laid his hand upon my shoulder. “We must give her time to come to herself,” he said. “You have frightened her a little. You should have spoken to me first. She is timid. She does not know.” I heeded nothing but the delay that was being forced upon me. “Time?” I demanded. “How much time?” “Several days.” “Oh, several days! That will be death. A day, one day, won’t that be enough? Mayn’t I come back to-morrow?” “Well, try it,” agreed M. Mairieux. I returned to my own home exalted by mingled sensations of anger and love. In the avenue several dead oak trees had been replaced by early chestnuts, and from one of these a leaf blew away. It was certainly one of the first to fall. A breath of wind kept it in the air, and it floated, like a tired bird, around one of the stone vases on the open lawn. Would it rest there, or would it reach the earth? With childish superstition, I looked upon it as an omen. If it fell to the ground, it would mean happiness for me. The wind understood me and the urn swallowed it. When the heart is truly alive the least trifles are important. * * *