She was going in search of Julio, fearing to be recognized,
tremulous with emotion, selecting her most inconspicuous suit, and
covering her face with a close veil--"the veil of adultery," as her
friends called it. They had their trysts in the least-frequented squares
of the district, frequently changing the places, like timid birds
that at the slightest disturbance fly to perch a little further away.
Sometimes they would meet in the Buttes Chaumont, at others they
preferred the gardens on the left bank of the Seine, the Luxembourg, and
even the distant Parc de Montsouris. She was always in tremors of terror
lest her husband might surprise them, although she well knew that the
industrious engineer was in his factory a great distance away. Her
agitated aspect, her excessive precautions in order to slip by unseen,
only served to attract the attention of the passers-by. Although Julio
was waxing impatient with the annoyance of this wandering love affair
which only amounted to a few fugitive kisses, he finally held his peace,
dominated by Marguerite's pleadings.
She did not wish merely to be one in the procession of his sweethearts;
it was necessary to convince herself first that this love was going to
last forever. It was her first slip and she wanted it to be the last.
Ay, her former spotless reputation! . . . What would people say! .
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