s done, that nothing is
decided, that we can still go back to the past; and this is enough to
hurry our steps towards the future. We go, we walk on and on, we walk
till we are tired. Then does it not seem as if each minute shifted the
problem of our destiny a little more? And in a few hours would it not
need more courage to return than to continue our road?

But it is nearly always so, by little unforeseen acts, by fear as much
as by weakness, that we perform the inaugural act of our
enfranchisement. We flee bewildered, like poor beasts that have broken
loose; and the first movements of our liberty echo in our hearts with a
melancholy sound of dangling chains.

2

My dear Rose!... As I go through the damp, dark station, I am already
picturing her fright....

The train arrives, full of passengers, who hurry towards the exit in
surging black masses. How shall I recognise her in this crowd, in the
fog? I do not know what she will look like. A lady? A servant? A
servant, I expect, because she will have had nothing ready. I hope so;
and I look out eagerly for a black knitted hood on a head of golden
hair. I am afraid lest she should not see me in her excitement and
nervousness. The flood of passengers separates on either side of the
ticket-collector; and I keep close to him, standing desperately on
tip-toe....

The crowd has passed and I have not caught sight of her. There are still
a few people coming from the far end of the train; it is so dark that I
can hardly see.... There is a tall figure all over feathers in the
distance, but it cannot be ... And yet ... yes, yes, it is she! Gracious
goodness, what a sight!... I feel that it would be better to laugh, but
I can't; and I am furious with myself for keeping a grave face. It is
Rose! Rose dressed like a Sainte-Colombe lady!

She comes along, calmly, smiling and self-possessed; and I am now able
to distinguish the painful hues of that appalling garb: the little
red-velvet hat, studded with glass stones of every imaginable colour and
trimmed with green feathers of the most aggressive shade and style; the
serge skirt, too short in front; the black jacket, quite simple, it is
true, but so badly cut that it murders the figure of the lovely girl!
She has a large basket, carefully corded, on her arm. I really suffer
tortures while she kisses me effusively and says, gaily:

"You are looking very well, dearest; but you're upset: what's the
matter?" And, before I have tim