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And he got up in great surprise, took up his hat, and went. The next day she returned to Val de Ciré, and her husband, who had not expected her for some time, blamed her for a freak. "I could not live away from you any longer," she said. He found her altered in character, and sadder than formerly, but when he said to her: "What is the matter with you? You seem unhappy.
Perhaps you are not familiar with the quatrain: "'Sire, si vous laissez, comme Charles désire, Comme Diane veut, par trop vous gouverner, Foudre, pétrir, mollir, refondre, retourner, Sire vous n'êtes plus, vous n'êtes plus que cire."
She loved him, and no guilty thought had ever entered her mind. Her mother came and spent every summer at Ciré, and then returned to Paris for the winter, as soon as the leaves began to fall. Jeanne coughed a little every autumn, for the narrow valley through which the river wound, grew foggy for five months.
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