"I imprison my liberty in the bonds of matrimony? Never," said she.

"But I pass my time in trembling with fear of losing you."

"It would be worse if I were your wife. Do not let us speak about that
any more. Besides, I am not free," she added, thinking no doubt of
Marcel.

Thus she passed her youth, her mind caught by every straw blown by the
breeze of fancy, causing the happiness of a great many and almost happy
herself. Vicomte Maurice, under whose protection she then was, had a
great deal of difficulty in accustoming himself to her untamable
disposition, intoxicated with freedom, and it was with jealous
impatience that he awaited the return of Musette after having seen her
start off to Marcel's.

"Will she stay there?" he kept asking himself all the evening.

"Poor Maurice," said Musette to herself on her side. "He thinks it
rather hard. Bah! Young men must go through their training."

Then her mind turning suddenly to other things, she began to think of
Marcel to whom she was going, and while running over the recollections
reawakened by the name of her erst adorer, asked herself by what miracle
the table had been spread at his dwelling. She re-read, as she went
along, the letter that the artist had written to her, and could not help
feeling somewhat saddened by it. But this only lasted a moment. Musette
thought aright, that it was less than ever an occasion for grieving, and
at that moment a strong wind spring up she exclaimed: