Beside me, enveloped in a white cloak and hood, my wife gazed absorbedly, her eyes dim with tears. I was astonished, and even somewhat annoyed by such emotion. Was I not sufficient for her happiness? Why should a mere change of environment, one at which, indeed, she ought to have rejoiced, since I was offering her Paris and its gaieties, have so affected her? “What troubles you, my dear?” I asked her. “I have been so happy here,” she replied. “But we shall be happy in Paris.” “Here my trees help me. Everything helps me. I feel myself at ease and protected. Yonder I shall be alone.” “You will be with me. Is not that enough?” I asked. “Alone to keep your love, which I am so afraid of losing.” “But that is absurd.” Why did she doubt herself? In the clear light of the winter sun, which filled the woods, she was resplendent with youth; or rather not youth, but almost childish beauty. Maternity had restored to her that air of extreme purity that one sees in young novices. I looked at her, all in white, so sweet and so gentle, and then round us again at the familiar forest which contented her. “My love,” I said, with condescending protection, “I will watch over you.” Oh, the smile with which she rewarded this promise that I was to keep so badly! * * * A day or two after our arrival in Paris I surprised her leaning against the window of her room overlooking the Avenue du Bois. She was so absorbed that she did not hear me come in. I approached her. It was of course the novelty of the sight that held her prisoner. A beautiful winter morning had drawn all the idle world of Paris to a promenade before luncheon. Men and women on horseback, riding at a walk or a quiet canter, crowded the beaten earth of the bridle path. The roadway was devoted to a few surviving carriages, whose ancient steeds seemed hardly able to move their thin legs, and above all to many motors, which, under less restraint than in the crowded city, passed by at full speed, as though revenging themselves with absolute license in the country. On the broad pavement by the side of the grass plots pedestrians were taking their constitutionals among the nurses and children scattered about in pursuit of hoops and balloons. The bluish haze of the clear day softened the outlines of the Arch of Triumph and the light, entering it from all sides, seemingly, increased the height of its arch and columns. At the other end of the Avenue, the Bois slept. “I am sure you love Paris already,” I said. Much to her astonishment, I had ceased in Paris calling her “thou,” on account of the custom in society, of which I had already begun to think, and she had obediently imitated me, without asking any explanation. Now, not knowing that I was near, she gave a slight start when she heard my voice. “Oh, no,” she answered. “There are too many houses and too many people.” “What were you looking at?”