“She replied in a most comical tone of anger: 

“‘I am just the same with you as formerly.  It is not true, not true,’ and she ran upstairs and shut herself up in her room.

“Occasionally she would look at me in a peculiar manner.  I have often said to myself since then that those who are condemned to death must look thus when they are informed that their last day has come.  In her eye there lurked a species of insanity, an insanity at once mystical and violent; and even more, a fever, an aggravated longing, impatient and impotent, for the unattained and unattainable.

“Nay, it seemed to me there was also going on within her a struggle in which her heart wrestled with an unknown force that she sought to master, and even, perhaps, something else.  But what do I know?  What do I know?

“It was indeed a singular revelation.

“For some time I had commenced to work, as soon as daylight appeared, on a picture the subject of which was as follows: 

“A deep ravine, enclosed, surmounted by two thickets of trees and vines, extended into the distance and was lost, submerged in that milky vapor, in that cloud like cotton down that sometimes floats over valleys at daybreak.  And at the extreme end of that heavy, transparent fog one saw, or, rather, surmised, that a couple of human beings were approaching, a human couple, a youth and a maiden, their arms interlaced, embracing each other, their heads inclined toward each other, their lips meeting.

“A first ray of the sun, glistening through the branches, pierced that fog of the dawn, illuminated it with a rosy reflection just behind the rustic lovers, framing their vague shadows in a silvery background.  It was well done; yes, indeed, well done.

“I was working on the declivity which led to the Valley of Etretat.  On this particular morning I had, by chance, the sort of floating vapor which I needed.  Suddenly something rose up in front of me like a phantom; it was Miss Harriet.  On seeing me she was about to flee.  But I called after her, saying:  ’Come here, come here, mademoiselle.  I have a nice little picture for you.’

“She came forward, though with seeming reluctance.  I handed her my sketch.  She said nothing, but stood for a long time, motionless, looking at it, and suddenly she burst into tears.  She wept spasmodically, like men who have striven hard to restrain their tears, but who can do so no longer and abandon themselves to grief, though still resisting.  I sprang to my feet, moved at the sight of a sorrow I did not comprehend, and I took her by the hand with an impulse of brusque affection, a true French impulse which acts before it reflects.

“She let her hands rest in mine for a few seconds, and I felt them quiver as if all her nerves were being wrenched.  Then she withdrew her hands abruptly, or, rather, snatched them away.

“I recognized that tremor, for I had felt it, and I could not be deceived.  Ah! the love tremor of a woman, whether she be fifteen or fifty years of age, whether she be of the people or of society, goes so straight to my heart that I never have any hesitation in understanding it!