cter to her love. You love me, I am sure,
but you do not know on how slight a thread depends the love one has
for a woman like me. Who knows? Perhaps some day when you were bored
or worried you would fancy you saw a carefully concerted plan in our
liaison. Prudence is a chatterbox. What need had I of the horses? It was
an economy to sell them. I don't use them and I don't spend anything
on their keep; if you love me, I ask nothing more, and you will love me
just as much without horses, or shawls, or diamonds."

All that was said so naturally that the tears came to my eyes as I
listened.

"But, my good Marguerite," I replied, pressing her hands lovingly, "you
knew that one day I should discover the sacrifice you had made, and that
the moment I discovered it I should allow it no longer."

"But why?"

"Because, my dear child, I can not allow your affection for me to
deprive you of even a trinket. I too should not like you to be able,
in a moment when you were bored or worried, to think that if you were
living with somebody else those moments would not exist; and to repent,
if only for a minute, of living with me. In a few days your horses,
your diamonds, and your shawls shall be returned to you. They are as
necessary to you as air is to life, and it may be absurd, but I like you
better showy than simple."

"Then you no longer love me."

"Foolish creature!"

"If you loved me, you would let me love you my own way; on the
contrary, you persist in only seeing in me a woman to whom luxury is
indispensable, and whom you think you are always obliged to pay. You are
ashamed to accept the proof of my love. In spite of yourself, you think
of leaving me some day, and you want to put your disinterestedness
beyond risk of suspicion. You are right, my friend, but I had better
hopes."

And Marguerite made a motion to rise; I held her, and said to her:

"I want you to be happy and to have nothing to reproach me for, that is
all."

"And we are going to be separated!"

"Why, Marguerite, who can separate us?" I cried.

"You, who will not let me take you on your own level, but insist on
taking me on mine; you, who wish me to keep the luxury in the midst of
which I have lived, and so keep the moral distance which separates us;
you, who do not believe that my affection is sufficiently disinterested
to share with me what you have, though we could live happily enough on
it together, and would rather ruin yourself, because you are