tears. "She is a good, kind girl," I said to myself; "she is
attacked to me; she will want to prevent me from going; and the Lord
knows that when she has her mind set upon anything, gestures and
cries cost her no effort. In this instance she will be sure to
call the concierge, the scrubber, the mattress-maker, and the seven
sons of the fruit-seller; they will all kneel down in a circle
around me; they will begin to cry, and then they will look so ugly
that I shall be obliged to yield, so as not to have the pain of
seeing them any more."

Such were the awful images, the sick dreams, which fear marshaled
before my imagination. Yes, fear--"fecund Fear," as the poet says--
gave birth to these monstrosities in my brain. For--I may as well
make the confession in these private pages--I am afraid of my
housekeeper. I am aware that she knows I am weak; and this fact
alone is sufficient to dispel all my courage in any contest with her.
Contests are of frequent occurrence; and I invariably succumb.

But for all that, I had to announce my departure to Therese. She
came into the library with an armful of wood to make a little fire--
"une flambe," she said. For the mornings are chilly. I watched
her out of the corner of my eye while she crouched down at the
hearth, with her head in the opening of the fireplace. I do not
know how I then found the courage to speak, but I did so without
much hesitation. I got up, and, walking up and down the room,
observed in a careless tone, with that swaggering manner
characteristic of cowards,

"By the way, Therese, I am going to Sicily."