Brigitte's only relatives lived. Nevertheless, our
preparations progressed rapidly and I became impatient to get away; at
the same time I was so happy that I could hardly rest. When I arose in
the morning and the sun was shining through our windows, I experienced
such transports of joy that I was almost intoxicated with happiness. So
anxious was I to prove the sincerity of my love for Brigitte that I
hardly dared kiss the hem of her skirt. Her lightest words made me
tremble as if her voice were strange to me; I alternated between tears
and laughter, and I never spoke of the past except with horror and
disgust. Our room was full of personal effects scattered about in
disorder--albums, pictures, books, and the dear map we loved so much. We
went to and fro about the little apartment; at brief intervals I would
stop and kneel before Brigitte who would call me an idler, saying that
she had to do all the work, and that I was good for nothing; and all
sorts of projects flitted through our minds. Sicily was far away, but the
winters are so delightful there! Genoa is very pretty with its painted
houses, its green gardens, and the Apennines in the background! But what
noise! What crowds! Among every three men on the street, one is a monk
and another a soldier. Florence is sad, it is the Middle Ages living in
the midst of modern life. How can any one endure those grilled windows
and that horrible brown color with which all the houses are tinted?

What could we do at Rome? We were not travelling in order to forget
ourselves, much less for the sake of instruction. To the Rhine? But the
season was over, and although we did not care for the world of fashion,
still it is sad to visit its haunts when it has fled. But Spain? Too many
restrictions there; one travels like an army on the march, and may expect
everything except repose. Switzerland? Too many people go there, and most
of them are deceived as to the nature of its attractions; but in that
land are unfolded the three most beautiful colors on God's earth: the
azure of the sky, the verdure of the plains, and the whiteness of the
snows on the summits of glaciers.

"Let us go, let us go!" cried Brigitte, "let us fly away like two birds.
Let us pretend, my dear Octave, that we met each other only yesterday.
You met me at a ball, I pleased you and I love you; you tell me that some
leagues distant, in a certain little town, you loved a certain Madame
Pierson; what passed between you and