happens that Juliette is sick. Her members, overstrained by pleasure, refuse to obey her; her constitution, worn out by nervous shocks, revolts. She takes
to her bed. If you could only see her then? A child,
Lirat, a sweet and touching child! She dreams only
of the country, little brooks, green prairies, simple
joys: 'Oh, my dear, she exclaims, 'with ten thousand
francs of income, how happy we should be!' She
makes all sorts of Virgilian and charming plans. 'We
ought to go far, far away, to live in a house surrounded
by tall trees. She will raise chickens which will lay
eggs she herself will take out of the hatching place
every morning; she will make cream, cheese; and she
will wear aprons like this and straw hats like that,
jogging along pathways astride a donkey that she
will call Joseph. Geeho! Joseph, Geeho! Ah, how nice
it will be!'
"When I hear her say that, I feel hope returning and I let myself be taken in by that impossible dream of a rustic life with Juliette disguised as a shepherdess. Quiet landscapes like places of refuge, enchanting like a paradise, unroll before us. . . . and we grow exalted and enthusiastic. Juliette cries: 'My poor little thing, I have caused you suffering, but now it's all over. I promise you. And then I am going to have a trained ram, am I not? A beautiful ram, very big, all white, around whom I shall tie a bow of red ribbon, and who will follow me everywhere together with Spy, not so, dear?' She insists that I have my dinner in front of her bed, on a little table, and she coddles me like a nurse and caresses me like a mother; she makes me eat as one does a child, repeating without end and with agitation in her voice: 'My poor little thing!'
"At other moments she becomes thoughtful and grave: 'My dear, I would like to ask you something
