whole quarter of an hour we had not spoken,
when Marguerite said to me:

"Winter is at hand. Would you like for us to go abroad?"

"Where?"

"To Italy."

"You are tired of here?"

"I am afraid of the winter; I am particularly afraid of your return to
Paris."

"Why?"

"For many reasons."

And she went on abruptly, without giving me her reasons for fears:

"Will you go abroad? I will sell all that I have; we will go and live
there, and there will be nothing left of what I was; no one will know
who I am. Will you?"

"By all means, if you like, Marguerite, let us travel," I said. "But
where is the necessity of selling things which you will be glad of when
we return? I have not a large enough fortune to accept such a sacrifice;
but I have enough for us to be able to travel splendidly for five or six
months, if that will amuse you the least in the world."

"After all, no," she said, leaving the window and going to sit down
on the sofa at the other end of the room. "Why should we spend money
abroad? I cost you enough already, here."

"You reproach me, Marguerite; it isn't generous."

"Forgive me, my friend," she said, giving me her hand. "This thunder
weather gets on my nerves; I do not say what I intend to say."

And after embracing me she fell into a long reverie.

Scenes of this kind often took place, and though I could not discover
their cause, I could not fail to see in Marguerite signs of disquietude
in regard to the future. She could not doubt my love, which increased
day by day, and yet I often found her sad, without being able to get any
explanation of the reason, except some physical cause. Fearing that so
monotonous a life was beginning to weary her, I proposed returning to
Paris; but she always refused, assuring me that she could not be so
happy anywhere as in the country.

Prudence now came but rarely; but she often wrote letters which I never
asked to see, though, every time they came, they seemed to preoccupy
Marguerite deeply. I did not know what to think.

One day Marguerite was in her room. I entered. She was writing. "To whom
are you writing?" I asked. "To Prudence. Do you want to see what I am
writing?"

I had a horror of anything that might look like suspicion, and I
answered that I had no desire to know what she was writing; and yet
I was certain that letter would have explained to me the cause of her
sadness.

Next day the weather was splendid.' Marguerite proposed to me to
tak