“One does not get married in secret,” protested her mother. “You, M. Cernay, who know so much of the world, must agree with me, do you not?” Thus drawn into the discussion, I supported my fiancée with an energy which astonished myself. Unquestionably, like her, I preferred to be alone with my happiness. Perhaps too--I am ashamed to admit it, but have I not undertaken to confess?--even at this happy time my vanity may not have been so completely dead that it did not suggest the advantage of not seeking to advertise too loudly a marriage without distinction, a union which would astonish the world, which they would make fun of in Paris. I was marrying my superintendent’s daughter; there was nothing in that on which to pride myself. Such were some of the imaginary difficulties that I had not succeeded in dispelling. When our judgment has been warped in early life by excess of worldly advantages and success, how many years and how much suffering are necessary to bring the truth, the real meaning of life, back to us! And in the interval, irreparable harm can be done. * * * One night about this time we began to discuss the plans of our life after the wedding. My wife and I intended to spend the winter in Rome, the following summer at the Sleeping Woods, and to postpone until the next winter our residence in Paris. I adopted this plan partly to secure more leisure for Raymonde’s education, which I flattered myself I was to undertake. Curiously enough, she smiled at the thought of Rome, while Paris frightened her. “But why?” I asked her. “In Italy we know nobody, all our time will be our own, all our hours, all our thoughts. It will be like the forest.” “Like the forest?” I repeated. “Yes, instead of the trees, the names of which I who know nothing of anything, was so proud to teach you, we shall see beautiful things, of which I am totally ignorant and which you will explain to me.” “And in Paris?” “In Paris, I shall be afraid.” “Of what?” “That you will not be pleased with me; I am only a little girl.” “How strange you are, Raymonde!” I answered. Nevertheless I did not ask her in what I could possibly fail to be pleased with her. It is not enough to say that I divined her doubts, for I actually shared them. But that which with her was merely modesty and shyness, was in my case, unwarranted distrust, a wretched preoccupation with the world’s opinion, which, even when away from it, I could not entirely disregard. What would be thought of my wife by the world, would my friends approve my choice? After a prolonged silence, in which there was no harmony of spirit, I determined to show my generosity, and turned to my parents-in-law. “It is understood,” I said, “that whether or not we are here, you will live in the chateau. I do not wish you to remain in this little lodge.”