“But why?” I asked her.
“In Italy we know nobody, all our time will be our own, all our hours, all our thoughts. It will be like the forest.”
“Like the forest?” I repeated.
“Yes, instead of the trees, the names of which I who know nothing of anything, was so proud to teach you, we shall see beautiful things, of which I am totally ignorant and which you will explain to me.”
“And in Paris?”
“In Paris, I shall be afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That you will not be pleased with me; I am only a little girl.”
“How strange you are, Raymonde!” I answered.
Nevertheless I did not ask her in what I could possibly fail to be pleased with her. It is not enough to say that I divined her doubts, for I actually shared them. But that which with her was merely modesty and shyness, was in my case, unwarranted distrust, a wretched preoccupation with the world’s opinion, which, even when away from it, I could not entirely disregard. What would be thought of my wife by the world, would my friends approve my choice?