“You told me you were sleepy,” I murmured, in a trembling voice.  I was like a shipwrecked person clutching at a floating match-box; I knew quite well that the Captain would not go away.

“Yes, I was sleepy, pet,” said Georges, approaching his face to mine; “but now I am athirst.”  He put his lips to my ear and whispered softly, “Athirst for a kiss from you, love.”

This “love” was the beginning of another life.  The spouse now appeared, the past was fleeing away, I was entering on the future.  At length I had crossed the frontier; I was in a foreign land.  Oh!  I acknowledge—­for what is the use of feigning?—­that I craved for this love, and I felt that it engrossed me and spread itself through me.  I felt that I was getting out of my depth, I let go the last branch that held me to the shore, and to myself I repeated:  “Yes, I love you; yes, I am willing to follow you; yes, I am yours, love, love, love!”

“Won’t you kiss your husband; come, won’t you?”

And his mouth was so near my own that it seemed to meet my lips.

“Yes,” said I.

.............................

August 7th, 185-How many times have I not read through you during the last two years, my little blue note-book!  How many things I might add as marginal notes if you were not doomed to the flames, to light my first fire this autumn!  How could I have written all this, and how is it that having done so I have not dared to complete my confidences!  No one has seen you, at any rate; no one has turned your pages.  Go back into your drawer, dear, with, pending the first autumn fire, a kiss from your Valentine.

Note.—­Owing to what circumstances this blue note-book, doomed to the flames, was discovered by me in an old Louis XVI chiffonnier I had just bought does not greatly matter to you, dear reader, and would be out of my power to explain even if it did.

CHAPTER XIV

THE BLUE NOTE-BOOK AGAIN

Only to think that I was going to throw you into the fire, poor dear!  Was I not foolish?  In whom else could I confide?  If I had not you, to whom could I tell all those little things at which every one laughs, but which make you cry!

This evening, for instance, I dined alone, for Georges was invited out; well, to whom else can I acknowledge that when I found myself alone, face to face with a leg of mutton, cooked to his liking, and with the large carving-knife which is usually beside his plate, before me, I began to cry like a child?  To whom else can I admit that I drank out of the Bohemian wine-glass he prefers, to console me a little?

But if I were to mention this they would laugh in my face.  Father Cyprien himself, who nevertheless has a heart running over with kindness, would say to me: 

“Let us pass that by, my dear child; let us pass that by.”

I know him so well, Father Cyprien; while you, you always listen to me, my poor little note-book; if a tear escapes me, you kindly absorb it and retain its trace like a good-hearted friend.  Hence I love you.