She smiled.
"And on my return my husband found leaves on my hat, in the folds of my dress."
"Yes, you told me."
"I did not go out again that day. I did not care to go out again. I thought, and rethought. Yes, it was a sad anniversary."
After an interval of silent revery, she spoke again.
"Did you believe, in your heart, that we should reach our second anniversary?"
"I—no," he replied.
"Nor I."
"What love!" thought George, "that which carries within itself the presentiment of its end." He then thought of the husband, without hate and even with a sort of compassionate benevolence. "Now she is free. Why, then, am I more uneasy now than formerly? The husband was a sort of guarantee for me; I looked on him as a guardian who shielded my mistress from all danger. Maybe these are illusions; because at that time, also, I suffered much. But the suffering which is passed seems always less severe than the present pain." Following his own reflections, he no longer listened to Hippolyte's words.
"Well," she said, "where shall we go? We must decide. To-morrow is the first of April. I have already said to my mother: 'You know, mamma, one of these days I am going on a short journey.' I must prepare her for my departure. Do not worry. I will invent a plausible pretext. Leave it to me."