From that day on，the Duke was never mentioned again.Marguerite was no longer the girl I had met.She avoided anything which might have reminded me of the life she had been leading when I first made her acquaintance.Never did wife or sister show husband or brother such love，such consideration as she showed me.Her state of health left her open to sensation，and made her vulnerable to her feelings.She had broken with her women friends just as she had broken with her old ways；she controlled her language just as she curbed the old extravagance.Had you observed us leave the house for an outing in a delightful little boat I had bought，you would never have thought that this woman in a white dress，wearing a large straw hat and carrying on her arm a simple fur-lined silk coat which would protect her against the chill of the water，was the same Marguerite Gautier who，four months before，had attracted such attention with her extravagant ways and scandalous conduct.
Alas！we made haste to be happy，as though we had sensed that we should not be happy for long.
We had not set foot in Paris for two months.No one had come down to see us，except Prudence and the same Julie Duprat whom I have already mentioned as the person in whose keeping Marguerite would later place the moving story now in my possession.
I spent whole days at my mistress's feet.We would open the windows overlooking the garden and，as we watched the bright summer swoop down and open the flowers and settle under the trees，we would sit side by side and drink in this real，live world which neither Marguerite nor I had understood before.
She reacted with childish wonder to the most trivial things.There were days when she ran round the garden，like a girl of ten，chasing a butterfly or a dragonfly.This courtesan，who had made men spend more on flowers than would be needed to enable a whole family to live without a care，would sometimes sit on the lawn for an hour on end，examining the simple flower whose name she bore.
It was at this time that she read Manon Lescaut so frequently.Many a time，I caught her writing in the margin of the book.And she always said that if a woman is truly in love，then that woman could never do what Manon did.
The Duke wrote to her two or three times.She recognized his writing and gave me his letters unread.
On occasions，the wording of his letters brought tears to my eyes.
He had thought that，by closing his purse to Marguerite，he could make her go back to him.But when he saw how ineffective his stratagem was，he was unable to carry it through.He had written，again asking her，as he had asked in the past，to allow him back to the fold，whatever conditions she chose to set for his return.
I thus had read his pressing，repeated letters and had torn them up，without telling Marguerite what they said or advising her to see the old man again-though a feeling of pity for the poor man's unhappiness did tempt me to do so.But I was afraid that she would see in my urging no more than a wish on my part to see the Duke resume his old visits，and thereby to see him assume responsibility once more for the household expenses.And above all，I feared that she would conclude that her love for me might lead to situations in which I would be capable of repudiating my responsibilities for her existence.
The outcome was that the Duke，continuing to receive no answer，eventually stopped writing，and Marguerite and I continued our life together without a thought for the future.