“Not I,” she answered. “I wish nothing.” * * * All the recollections that I pluck from the past contribute to picture her in a perfection of a love that I cannot imagine more complete. It was her very life, the very breath of her being. This love I believed myself worthy of inspiring, so many illusions did I still cherish. Her fervour, the solitude, the woods and the autumn days, strove together to exalt me. I truly believe that during this period I tried unconsciously to raise myself to her level. Her glance calmed, soothed and purified me. They say the moonlight calms the waves. In the same way, her influence stilled my transports and my desires. I should have striven to find my true self, to prune the forest of my spirit, to clear it of all its vanity and sham, of all that rank vegetation which I had permitted to grow up there--which, though temporarily stifled, would soon flourish again. I did not comprehend her love. I thought that I should teach her life, while she already knew by intuition that it was quite simple, and direct, level and smooth. One night the wind carried away the leaves. The next day we found them under our horses’ feet, and we left a track of red gold rustling behind us. However, in the forest we could the better appreciate the upward shooting of the bare trees, and the depth and charm of the paths. Winter was here, and the cold. Soon we should have to face bad weather. That ride would be one of our last. Mindful of all our others, we rode in silence more and more slowly, as if to prolong the hours.... * * * Mme. Mairieux always prepared tea and small cakes for us on our return. She was very busy. Her daughter entrusted to her the choice of the trousseau, and she it was also who fixed the date for the marriage, made the arrangements for the official ceremony, marshalled the bridal procession as a captain his company, and finally even attempted to secure a bishop to pronounce the nuptial benediction. Her husband, somewhat reserved since our engagement, teased her gently, and by a calculated stubbornness obtained from her some concessions and omissions. These tilts consumed the evenings. “We must have a large wedding,” she said. “No, indeed, no,” he replied. Nevertheless she made out a list on the back of a mourning announcement, a sheet which she had economically torn from a letter of condolence. I recall that detail now, that omen: a black bordered sheet of paper for the list of our wedding guests. M. Mairieux read the list, which assumed disturbing proportions. Hoping for allies, he turned to the corner of the room where Raymonde and I were sitting, paying indifferent attention to these preparations. “What is your opinion, dear?” he inquired. “Oh, I,” she said, “you know very well that all the others are indifferent to me. All that I want are here now.”