"You will perhaps be more sorry to leave little Chrysantheme than I."

Silence reigns between us.

After which I go on, and, burning my ships, I add:

"You know, after all, if you have such a fancy for her, I haven't really
married her; one can't really consider her my wife."

In great surprise he looks in my face.

"Not your wife, you say? But, by Jove, though, that's just it; she is
your wife."

There is no need of many words at any time between us two; I know exactly
now, by his tone, by his great good-humored smile, how the case stands;
I understand all that lies in the little phrase: "That's just it, she is
your wife." If she were not, well, then, he could not answer for what
might happen--notwithstanding any remorse he might have in the depths of
his heart, since he is no longer a bachelor and free as air, as in former
days. But he considers her my wife, and she is sacred. I have the
fullest faith in his word, and I experience a positive relief, a real
joy, at finding my stanch Yves of bygone days. How could I have so
succumbed to the demeaning influence of my surroundings as to suspect him
even, and to invent for myself such a mean, petty anxiety?

We never shall even mention that doll again.

We remain up there very late, talking of other things, gazing at the