I am a poor country girl, and six years ago I could not write my own name.

You are relieved, aren't you?
Why is it you are the first whom I have ever asked to share the joy of this desire of mine?
I suppose because I feel that you love me for myself and not for yourself, while all the others have only loved me for themselves.
"I have often been in the country, but never as I should like to go there.

I count on you for this easy happiness; do not be unkind, let me have it.

Say this to yourself: 'She will never live to be old, and I should some day be sorry for not having done for her the first thing she asked of me, such an easy thing to do!'" What could I reply to such words, especially with the memory of a first night of love, and in the expectation of a second?
An hour later I held Marguerite in my arms, and, if she had asked me to commit a crime, I would have obeyed her.
At six in the morning I left her, and before leaving her I said: "Till to-night!" She kissed me more warmly than ever, but said nothing.
During the day I received a note containing these words: "DEAR CHILD: I am not very well, and the doctor has ordered quiet.

I shall go to bed early to-night and shall not see you.