“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 take the boat and go as far as the island of Croissy. She seemed very cheerful; when we got back it was five o’clock.
“Mme. Duvernoy has been here,” said Nanine, as she saw us enter. “She has gone again?” asked Marguerite.