Illnesses like Armand's have one fortunate thing about them: they either kill outright or are very soon overcome.

A fortnight after the events which I have just related Armand was convalescent, and we had already become great friends.

During the whole course of his illness I had hardly left his side.
Spring was profuse in its flowers, its leaves, its birds, its songs; and my friend's window opened gaily upon his garden, from which a reviving breath of health seemed to come to him.

The doctor had allowed him to get up, and we often sat talking at the open window, at the hour when the sun is at its height, from twelve to two.

I was careful not to refer to Marguerite, fearing lest the name should awaken sad recollections hidden under the apparent calm of the invalid; but Armand, on the contrary, seemed to delight in speaking of her, not as formerly, with tears in his eyes, but with a sweet smile which reassured me as to the state of his mind.
I had noticed that ever since his last visit to the cemetery, and the sight which had brought on so violent a crisis, sorrow seemed to have been overcome by sickness, and Marguerite's death no longer appeared to him under its former aspect.