eternity.

* * * * * *

The leaves are falling; the year draws near to its end; the wedding is
arranged to take place about Christmas.

That decision was mine; Marie said "yes," as usual, and her father,
absorbed all the day in figures, would emerge from them at night, like
a shipwrecked man, seeing darkly, passive, except on rare occasions
when he had fits of mad obstinacy, and no one knew why.

In the early morning sometimes, when I was climbing Chestnut Hill on my
way to work, Marie would appear before me at a corner, in the pale and
blushing dawn. We would walk on together, bathed in those fresh fires,
and would watch the town at our feet rising again from its ashes. Or,
on my way back, she would suddenly be there, and we would walk side by
side towards her home. We loved each other too much to be able to
talk. A very few words we exchanged just to entwine our voices, and in
speaking of other people we smiled at each other.

One day, about that time, Monsieur the Marquis of Monthyon had the
kindly thought of asking us both to an evening party at the castle,
with several leading people of our quarter. When all the guests were
gathered in a huge gallery, adorned with busts which sat in state
between high curtains of red damask, the Marquis took it into his head
to cut off the electricity. In a lordly way he liked heavy practical
jokes--I was just smiling at Marie, who was standing near me in the
middle of the crowded gallery, when suddenly it was dark. I put out my
arms and drew her to me. She responded with a spirit she had not shown