They were disagreeably brought back to the realities of life when one day Anne asked, with her most impassive air, when Madame la Comtesse thought of leaving, for if she were going to stay any longer, they must provide themselves with winter clothing.  They had reached the end of September; it rained nearly every day, the streets of the village were impassable, sitting on the shore out of the question, the equinoctial gales howled across the country from the tempestuous sea; all the world had gone home, and Wilhelm and Pilar were the last guests in the desolate hotel, spending most of the day in their room, where an inadequate fire spluttered on the hearth.  For a fortnight past Anne had boiled with silent rage, which she sometimes let out on poor, snorting, asthmatic Fido.  She had been absent from Paris since the middle of July, and had counted on being back by the beginning of September at the latest, and here was October coming upon them in this God-forsaken little hole, and her mistress showed no signs of returning home.

Anne’s question came like a rough hand to shake Pilar out of sleep.  Like a drowsy child who does not want to get up, she kept her eyes closed for awhile.  Another week!  Four days more!  Two days more!  But then she had to pack, for Anne exaggerated a slight cold, and at short intervals let off a dry cough with the suddenness and force of a pistol-shot, tied her head up in a white shawl, and begged to be allowed to send to Paris for warm underclothing and her fur cloak.  In the hotel, too, from which all the servants had been dismissed, and only the landlord, his wife, and a half-grown daughter remained, the neglect became conspicuous.  The rooms were not put in order till late in the evening, and even then the landlady would come and grumble that she could not manage so much work, and that was the reason everything was late.  A leg of mutton appeared upon the table three days running, till nothing was left but the bone.  In short, it was not to be misunderstood that the hotel family wished to be alone.

At last, at the beginning of the second week of October, the return to Paris took place.  During the five hours’ railway journey Pilar was silent and moody.  She felt that an enchanting chapter of her love-story had come to an end, and a fresh one beginning, the unforeseen possibilities of which filled her with alarm.  She held fast to Wilhelm, and would not let him go free; but what form was their life together going to take in Paris?  Not that she cared for the opinion of the world—­far from it; but other difficulties remained which menaced her happiness.  At the seaside all the circumstances had combined to aid and befriend them.  Surrounded by people to whom she and Wilhelm were alike strangers, they were thrown entirely upon one another, and even his scruples could find nothing to prevent him treating her openly as his wife.  In Paris, on the other hand, all the circumstances became disturbing and