AS a matter of fact, they had agreed to meet
at Perpignan, because Chopin's decent soul
stuck at publishing his departure. Perhaps,
too, George wanted to smooth the pride of poor
Mallefille. So the two left in their own
way and came together at Perpignan in the last
two days of October. George was happy, at
peace. She had traveled slowly, visited friends
on the way, passed through Lyons, Avignon,
Vaucluse, le Pont du Gard. Furthermore, it
was not so much a question with her of traveling
as of getting away, of seeking, as she always said
on such occasions, some nest in which to love
or some hole in which to die. Doubtless she
hardly remembered having made the same trip
with Musset four years before, when they had
encountered fat Stendhal-Beyle on the steam-
ship. Chopin himself did not stop on the road;
he had four days and four heroically borne
nights by mail coach. Yet he descended "fresh
as a rose but hardly as rosy as a turnip." Grzy-

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