Since then, at Florence, her only pleasure was to feel that he was near her, to hear him.  He made life for her charming, diverse, animated, new.  He revealed to her delicate joys and a delightful sadness; he awakened in her a voluptuousness which had been always dormant.  Now she was determined never to give him up.  But how?  She foresaw difficulties; her lucid mind and her temperament presented them all to her.  For a moment she tried to deceive herself; she reflected that perhaps he, a dreamer, exalted, lost in his studies of art, might remain assiduous without being exacting.  But she did not wish to reassure herself with that idea.  If Dechartre were not a lover, he lost all his charm.  She did not dare to think of the future.  She lived in the present, happy, anxious, and closing her eyes.

She was dreaming thus, in the shade traversed by arrows of light, when Pauline brought to her some letters with the morning tea.  On an envelope marked with the monogram of the Rue Royale Club she recognized the handwriting of Le Menil.  She had expected that letter.  She was only astonished that what was sure to come had come, as in her childhood, when the infallible clock struck the hour of her piano lesson.

In his letter Robert made reasonable reproaches.  Why did she go without saying anything, without leaving a word of farewell?  Since his return to Paris he had expected every morning a letter which had not come.  He was happier the year before, when he had received in the morning, two or three times a week, letters so gentle and so well written that he regretted not being able to print them.  Anxious, he had gone to her house.

“I was astounded to hear of your departure.  Your husband received me.  He said that, yielding to his advice, you had gone to finish the winter at Florence with Miss Bell.  He said that for some time you had looked pale and thin.  He thought a change of air would do you good.  You had not wished to go, but, as you suffered more and more, he succeeded in persuading you.

“I had not noticed that you were thin.  It seemed to me, on the contrary, that your health was good.  And then Florence is not a good winter resort.  I cannot understand your departure.  I am much tormented by it.  Reassure me at once, I pray you.

“Do you think it is agreeable for me to get news of you from your husband and to receive his confidences?  He is sorry you are not here; it annoys him that the obligations of public life compel him to remain in Paris.  I heard at the club that he had chances to become a minister.  This astonishes me, because ministers are not usually chosen among fashionable people.”

Then he related hunting tales to her.  He had brought for her three fox-skins, one of which was very beautiful; the skin of a brave animal which he had pulled by the tail, and which had bitten his hand.

In Paris he was worried.  His cousin had been presented at the club.  He feared he might be blackballed.  His candidacy had been posted.  Under these conditions he did not dare advise him to withdraw; it would be taking too great a responsibility.  If he were blackballed it would be very disagreeable.  He finished by praying her to write and to return soon.