I walked slowly beneath the young leaves, drinking in the air, fragrant with the odor of young buds and sap.  I sauntered along, forgetful of musty papers, of the offices, of my chief, my colleagues, my documents, and thinking of the good things that were sure to come to me, of all the veiled unknown contained in the future.  A thousand recollections of childhood came over me, awakened by these country odors, and I walked along, permeated with the fragrant, living enchantment, the emotional enchantment of the woods warmed by the sun of June.

At times I sat down to look at all sorts of little flowers growing on a bank, with the names of which I was familiar.  I recognized them all just as if they were the ones I had seen long ago in the country.  They were yellow, red, violet, delicate, dainty, perched on long stems or close to the ground.  Insects of all colors and shapes, short, long, of peculiar form, frightful, and microscopic monsters, climbed quietly up the stalks of grass which bent beneath their weight.

Then I went to sleep for some hours in a hollow and started off again, refreshed by my doze.

In front of me lay an enchanting pathway and through its somewhat scanty foliage the sun poured down drops of light on the marguerites which grew there.  It stretched out interminably, quiet and deserted, save for an occasional big wasp, who would stop buzzing now and then to sip from a flower, and then continue his way.

All at once I perceived at the end of the path two persons, a man and a woman, coming towards me.  Annoyed at being disturbed in my quiet walk, I was about to dive into the thicket, when I thought I heard someone calling me.  The woman was, in fact, shaking her parasol, and the man, in his shirt sleeves, his coat over one arm, was waving the other as a signal of distress.

I went towards them.  They were walking hurriedly, their faces very red, she with short, quick steps and he with long strides.  They both looked annoyed and fatigued.

The woman asked: 

“Can you tell me, monsieur, where we are?  My fool of a husband made us lose our way, although he pretended he knew the country perfectly.”

I replied confidently: 

“Madame, you are going towards Saint-Cloud and turning your back on Versailles.”

With a look of annoyed pity for her husband, she exclaimed: 

“What, we are turning our back on Versailles?  Why, that is just where we want to dine!”

“I am going there also, madame.”

“Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!” she repeated, shrugging her shoulders, and in that tone of sovereign contempt assumed by women to express their exasperation.

She was quite young, pretty, a brunette with a slight shadow on her upper lip.

As for him, he was perspiring and wiping his forehead.  It was assuredly a little Parisian bourgeois couple.  The man seemed cast down, exhausted and distressed.