He had not even been loved.  No woman had reposed on his bosom, in a complete abandon of love.  He knew nothing of the delicious anguish of expectation, the divine vibration of a hand in yours, of the ecstasy of triumphant passion.

What superhuman happiness must overflow your heart, when lips encounter lips for the first time, when the grasp of four arms makes one being of you, a being unutterably happy, two beings infatuated with one another.

M. Saval was sitting before the fire, his feet on the fender, in his dressing gown.  Assuredly his life had been spoiled, completely spoiled.  He had, however, loved.  He had loved secretly, sadly, and indifferently, in a manner characteristic of him in everything.  Yes, he had loved his old friend, Madame Sandres, the wife of his old companion, Sandres.  Ah! if he had known her as a young girl!  But he had met her too late; she was already married.  Unquestionably, he would have asked her hand!  How he had loved her, nevertheless, without respite, since the first day he set eyes on her!

He recalled his emotion every time he saw her, his grief on leaving her, the many nights that he could not sleep, because he was thinking of her.

On rising in the morning he was somewhat more rational than on the previous evening.

Why?

How pretty she was formerly, so dainty, with fair curly hair, and always laughing.  Sandres was not the man she should have chosen.  She was now fifty-two years of age.  She seemed happy.  Ah! if she had only loved him in days gone by; yes, if she had only loved him!  And why should she not have loved him, he, Saval, seeing that he loved her so much, yes, she, Madame Sandres!

If only she could have guessed.  Had she not guessed anything, seen anything, comprehended anything?  What would she have thought?  If he had spoken, what would she have answered?

And Saval asked himself a thousand other things.  He reviewed his whole life, seeking to recall a multitude of details.

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

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

He recalled their walks, the three of them together, along the banks of the Seine, their luncheon on the grass on Sundays, for Sandres was employed at the sub-prefecture.  And all at once the distinct recollection came to him of an afternoon spent with her in a little wood 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 intoxicate one.  Everything smells fresh, everything seems happy.  The voices of the birds sound more joyous, and-they fly more swiftly.  They had luncheon 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 drank it in with delight.  How pleasant everything was on that day!