He recalled all the long evenings spent at the house of Saudres, when the latter’s wife was young and so charming.

He recalled many things that she had said to him, the sweet intonations of her voice, the little significant smiles that meant so much.

He recalled the walks that the three of them had had, along the banks of the Seine, their lunches on the grass on the Sundays, for Saudres was employed at the sub-prefecture.  And all at once the distant recollection came to him, of an afternoon spent with her in a little plantation on the banks of the river.

They had set out in the morning, carrying their provisions in baskets.  It was a bright spring morning, one of those days which inebriate one.  Everything smelt fresh, everything seemed happy.  The voices of the birds sounded more joyous, and the flapping of their wings more rapid.  They had lunch on the grass, under the willow trees, quite close to the water, which glittered in the sun’s rays.  The air was balmy, charged with the odors of fresh vegetation; they had drunk the most delicious wines.  How pleasant everything was on that day!

After lunch, Saudres went to sleep on the broad of his back, “The best nap he had in his life,” said he, when he woke up.

Madame Saudres had taken the arm of Savel, and they had started to walk along the river’s bank.

She leaned tenderly on his arm.  She laughed and said to him:  “I am intoxicated, my friend, I am quite intoxicated.”  He looked at her, his heart going patty-patty.  He felt himself grow pale, fearful that he had not looked too boldly at her, and that the trembling of his hand had not revealed his passion.

She had decked her head with wild flowers and water-lilies, and she had asked him:  “Do you not like to see me appear thus?”

As he did not answer—­for he could find nothing to say, he should rather have gone down on his knees—­she burst out laughing, a sort of discontented laughter, which she threw straight in his face, saying:  “Great goose, what ails you?  You might at least speak!”

He felt like crying, and could not even yet find a word to say.

All these things came back to him now, as vividly as on the day when they took place.  Why had she said this to him, “Great goose.  What ails you!  You might at least speak!”

And he recalled how tenderly she had leaned on his arm.  And in passing under a shady tree he had felt her ear leaning against his cheek, and he had tilted his head abruptly, for fear that she had not meant to bring their flesh into contact.

When he had said to her:  “Is it not time to return?” she darted at him a singular look.  “Certainly,” she said, “certainly,” regarding him at the same time in a curious manner.  He had not thought of anything then; and now the whole thing appeared to him quite plain.

“Just as you like, my friend.  If you are tired let us go back.”