She glances at you coldly and curiously.  Then she leans back and no longer seems interested in anything but the country.

In spite of yourself, you watch her; and in spite of yourself you keep on thinking of her.  Who is she?  Whence does she come?  Where is she going?  In spite of yourself you spin a little romance around her.  She is pretty; she seems charming!  Happy he who . . .  Life might be delightful with her.  Who knows?  She is perhaps the woman of our dreams, the one suited to our disposition, the one for whom our heart calls.

And how delicious even the disappointment at seeing her get out at the gate of a country house!  A man stands there, who is awaiting her, with two children and two maids.  He takes her in his arms and kisses as he lifts her out.  Then she stoops over the little ones, who hold up their hands to her; she kisses them tenderly; and then they all go away together, down a path, while the maids catch the packages which the driver throws down to them from the coach.

Adieu!  It is all over.  You never will see her again!  Adieu to the young woman who has passed the night by your side.  You know her no more, you have not spoken to her; all the same, you feel a little sad to see her go.  Adieu!

I have had many of these souvenirs of travel, some joyous and some sad.

Once I was in Auvergne, tramping through those delightful French mountains, that are not too high, not too steep, but friendly and familiar.  I had climbed the Sancy, and entered a little inn, near a pilgrim’s chapel called Notre-Dame de Vassiviere, when I saw a queer, ridiculous-looking old woman breakfasting alone at the end table.

She was at least seventy years old, tall, skinny, and angular, and her white hair was puffed around her temples in the old-fashioned style.  She was dressed like a traveling Englishwoman, in awkward, queer clothing, like a person who is indifferent to dress.  She was eating an omelet and drinking water.

Her face was peculiar, with restless eyes and the expression of one with whom fate has dealt unkindly.  I watched her, in spite of myself, thinking:  “Who is she?  What is the life of this woman?  Why is she wandering alone through these mountains?”

She paid and rose to leave, drawing up over her shoulders an astonishing little shawl, the two ends of which hung over her arms.  From a corner of the room she took an alpenstock, which was covered with names traced with a hot iron; then she went out, straight, erect, with the long steps of a letter-carrier who is setting out on his route.

A guide was waiting for her at the door, and both went away.  I watched them go down the valley, along the road marked by a line of high wooden crosses.  She was taller than her companion, and seemed to walk faster than he.