Any one who had seen us leaving the house to go on the river in the charming little boat which I had bought would never have believed that the woman dressed in white, wearing a straw hat, and carrying on her arm a little silk pelisse to protect her against the damp of the river, was that Marguerite Gautier who, only four months ago, had been the talk of the town for the luxury and scandal of her existence.
Alas, we made haste to be happy, as if we knew that we were not to be happy long.
For two months we had not even been to Paris.

No one came to see us, except Prudence and Julie Duprat, of whom I have spoken to you, and to whom Marguerite was afterward to give the touching narrative that I have there.
I passed whole days at the feet of my mistress.

We opened the windows upon the garden, and, as we watched the summer ripening in its flowers and under the shadow of the trees, we breathed together that true life which neither Marguerite nor I had ever known before.
Her delight in the smallest things was like that of a child.

There were days when she ran in the garden, like a child of ten, after a butterfly or a dragon-fly.

This courtesan who had cost more money in bouquets than would have kept a whole family in comfort, would sometimes sit on the grass for an hour, examining the simple flower whose name she bore.
It was at this time that she read Manon Lescaut, over and over again.
I found her several times making notes in the book, and she always declared that when a woman loves, she can not do as Manon did.
The duke wrote to her two or three times.