one's own home, around one; to be trapped, dispossessed, crushed, by
those whom you love, and who love you!

Suddenly this frightful idea presented itself to him.

"And yet both of you love me!" he cried.

He saw their eyes grow dim with tears; he was filled with an infinite
sadness, on this tranquil close of a beautiful day. All his gaiety,
all his kindness of heart, which came from his intense love of life,
were shaken by it.

"Ah, my dear! and you, my poor girl," he said, "you are doing this for
my happiness, are you not? But, alas, how unhappy we are going to be!"



II.

On the following morning Clotilde was awake at six o'clock. She had
gone to bed angry with Pascal; they were at variance with each other.
And her first feeling was one of uneasiness, of secret distress, an
instant need of making her peace, so that she might no longer have
upon her heart the heavy weight that lay there now.

Springing quickly out of bed, she went and half opened the shutters of
both windows. The sun, already high, sent his light across the chamber
in two golden bars. Into this drowsy room that exhaled a sweet odor of
youth, the bright morning brought with it fresh, cheerful air; but the
young girl went back and sat down on the edge of the bed in a