“Whenever you wish,” consented Raymonde.
We arranged our departure for the first of December. The baby could travel then without danger. The milk of her nurse agreed with her wonderfully. For a child of two months, she showed good strength.
Raymonde suggested a last walk, and a pale, cold sun enticed us. It scarcely melted the white frost in the fields and on the weed-grown paths. The grass crackled under our steps as we entered the woods. We went deep into them. Along the edge, the leaves more exposed to the wind had already fallen. Deeper within there were still a few, especially on the oaks and maples. Copper-coloured or golden, they clung stiffly to the branches, and with the least breath of wind sounded like toy bells. At the Green Fountain, where our horses had drunk that day, they nearly stopped the basin.
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.”