“You are in your own home, Raymonde,” I said.
“Oh! it is very beautiful, but I am not accustomed to it.”
“You will become so soon.”
“Of course, I must.”
To her the new luxury was a burden. Otherwise it meant nothing. The only effect of this change of conditions for her was one of restraint.
She left me to change her gown. When she reappeared, she came over and clung to me.
“My love,” she said.
And as I held her to my heart, so young, so pure and so confiding, I felt two tears fill my eyes. Raising her head a little she saw them.
“What troubles you?” she asked anxiously. “Are you weeping?”
I am proud now to remember those tears, the quivering of my love and the obscure confession of my own unworthiness. Through them Raymonde recognised the upheaval that I felt before the perfection of her love. Later they unquestionably helped her to endure my cruelty and to forgive it.