“Because you were too unhappy, my poor boy!” Madame Cormier said, whose maternal heart was moved by this cry.
“Am I happier here, or shall I be to-morrow? What does this to-morrow, full of uncertainty and dangers, hold for us?”
“Why do you insist that it has only dangers?” Phillis asked, in a conciliating and caressing tone.
“You always expect the good.”
“At least I hope for it, and do not admit deliberately that it is impossible. I do not say that life is always rose-colored, but neither is it always black. I believe it is like the seasons. After winter, which is vile, I confess, come the spring, summer, and autumn.”
“Well, if I had the money necessary for the voyage, I would go and pass the end of the winter in a country where it would be less disagreeable than here, and, above all, less dangerous for my constitution.”
“You do not say that seriously, I hope?” cried Madame Cormier.
“On the contrary, very seriously.”
“We are hardly reunited, and you think of a separation,” she said, sadly.
“It is not of a separation that Florentin thinks,” cried Phillis, “but of a flight.”