to think of nothing else.

The body was too much weakened by the attack of fever, and even
by the process of its cure, to permit him any violent emotions,
and the universal joy of spring which wrapped him round carried
his thoughts instinctively to images of joy. He had always
obstinately refused to tell his family of the danger which he had
been in, and when he was well again his father did not even know
that he had been ill.

One evening we had sat at the window later than usual; the
weather had been superb, and the sun sank to sleep in a twilight
dazzling with gold and azure. Though we were in Paris, the
verdure which surrounded us seemed to shut us off from the world,
and our conversation was only now and again disturbed by the
sound of a passing vehicle.

"It was about this time of the year, on the evening of a day like
this, that I first met Marguerite," said Armand to me, as if he
were listening to his own thoughts rather than to what I was
saying. I did not answer. Then turning toward me, he said:

"I must tell you the whole story; you will make a book out of it;
no one will believe it, but it will perhaps be interesting to
do."

"You will tell me all about it later on, my friend," I said to
him; "you are not strong enough yet."

"It is a warm evening, I have eaten my ration of chicken," he