Mme. Mairieux broke into loud protestations of gratitude. Evidently I was making real one of her dreams. She had always wished to live in state, with dignity and ceremony, a troupe of servants, a continual round of visits, much publicity. A certain childishness lent to her ambition a touch of prettiness. The simplicity of her husband disconcerted her, for she did not recognise in it the superiority of breeding. The daughter of a bookseller in the town where he had been in garrison, thoroughly saturated with romantic novels, she had been captivated by his uniform and his horsemanship, and, after his marriage had cost him his career, had always cherished a grudge against him for the lack of money which compelled him to abandon his life of show. I reconstructed without difficulty this domestic drama, so common and inglorious. Raymonde looked at her father, who had not yet spoken. I noticed the anxiety in her glance, but I could not understand it. M. Mairieux gave me the explanation. He thanked me most amicably for what he called my delicacy, and declined. “This lodge,” he concluded, “was sufficient for us when we had our daughter. Without her it will be much too big and too empty. And see how conveniently it is arranged, and outside, the walls are clothed with vines and clematis. Let us live and die here.” Mme. Mairieux made a face, and I too was a little hurt by his refusal. I insisted, but ungraciously. “If not for your own sake, accept, for mine,” I said. “I cannot permit my parents-in-law to remain in an inferior position. What will they say in the neighbourhood?” This was the poorest of all arguments. At once the blood rushed to Raymonde’s face and she blushed all over. This excessive sensitiveness, which, however, she showed only in connection with the most subtle sentiments, gave her an incomparable charm. The time was still to come when I should reproach her for it. “That is perfectly true,” said Mme. Mairieux, her hopes reviving. “What will people say?” “What does it matter?” Her husband scorned the objection. “Are they not saying already that we have long lain in wait for M. Cernay in order to give him our daughter?” He regretted having repeated this gossip when he saw Raymonde’s eyes fill with tears. “They say that!” she cried. He endeavoured to soothe her at once. “Little one, little one! There are always evil-minded people. One must realise that.” “When you are happy,” she murmured, “how is one to know that?” * * * On the day we signed the marriage contract, she followed the example of her father. In the contract I had settled upon her a sum which would insure her future. She refused to accept it, and all my entreaties were useless. “But I may die, Raymonde,” I said. “Then I shall no longer need anything.” “One has to live even in sorrow,” I explained. “It takes very little.” “Fortune has favoured me,” I said. “Let me look after you.”