At the chateau we found a large fire burning in the little salon, which I had refurnished for her. She looked at the furniture, the pictures and the hangings, and then at me with a smile that was a little sad. Did she have a presentiment of the future? Now that I am able to interpret truly the past, I recall having seen, one morning when I was out shooting, a young hind stop at the entrance to a wood, where I was hiding. She inhaled the fresh breeze and then hesitated in fear. Finally she came on in my direction. “You are in your own home, Raymonde,” I said. “Oh! it is very beautiful, but I am not accustomed to it.” “You will become so soon.” “Of course, I must.” To her the new luxury was a burden. Otherwise it meant nothing. The only effect of this change of conditions for her was one of restraint. She left me to change her gown. When she reappeared, she came over and clung to me. “My love,” she said. And as I held her to my heart, so young, so pure and so confiding, I felt two tears fill my eyes. Raising her head a little she saw them. “What troubles you?” she asked anxiously. “Are you weeping?” I am proud now to remember those tears, the quivering of my love and the obscure confession of my own unworthiness. Through them Raymonde recognised the upheaval that I felt before the perfection of her love. Later they unquestionably helped her to endure my cruelty and to forgive it. I was silent. “Dear,” she repeated, “why do you weep?” “No doubt because I love you too much,” I managed to say at last, in an attempt to play with my emotion. “That is so simple,” she answered. Our happiness was indeed so simple that I could not believe that it was happiness. Until then I had sought it in the artificialities and complexities of pleasure. My engagement and marriage had restored it to me in its integrity and fulness, and I was astonished that it was serene. She took down her hair, and it spread over her shoulders and breast, even more golden at the ends than on top. The various shades of gold blended to frame the whiteness of her face and neck. She had chosen the white woollen dress which she had worn on the day I had asked for her hand. I felt that this act brought her closer to me, and that I shared in the radiance which emanated from her. We did not touch the supper which had been prepared. The chateau was asleep, and when we were silent there was nothing but the solemn silence of the country night. There was no one but us in the world; only us and love that was stronger than we. “It is late,” she murmured, and it was like a prayer. “Don’t you want me to retire? I am tired.” She leaned toward me and my mouth touched her forehead. Then I let her go. The peace that was in her dominated my love. I sat long before the open fire--how long, I cannot say--and my heart opened to all the sweetness of life. When I rejoined her she was sleeping. I did not waken her. _Second Note Book_