“Certainly not; it is quite natural.”  “No, no; it is not natural for me —­because I do not wish to commit a fault, and yet this is how girls fall.  But if you only knew how wretched it is, every day the same thing, every day in the month and every month in the year.  I live quite alone with mamma, and as she has had a great deal of trouble, she is not very cheerful.  I do the best I can, and try to laugh in spite of everything, but I do not always succeed.  But, all the same, it was wrong in me to come, though you, at any rate, will not be sorry.”

By way of an answer, he kissed her ardently on the ear that was nearest him, but she moved from him with an abrupt movement, and, getting suddenly angry, exclaimed:  “Oh!  Monsieur Francois, after what you swore to me!” And they went back to Maisons-Laffitte.

They had lunch at the Petit-Havre, a low house, buried under four enormous poplar trees, by the side of the river.  The air, the heat, the weak white wine and the sensation of being so close together made them silent; their faces were flushed and they had a feeling of oppression; but, after the coffee, they regained their high spirits, and, having crossed the Seine, started off along the bank, toward the village of La Frette.  Suddenly he asked:  “What-is your name?”

“Louise.”

“Louise,” he repeated and said nothing more.

The girl picked daisies and made them into a great bunch, while he sang vigorously, as unrestrained as a colt that has been turned into a meadow.  On their left a vine-covered slope followed the river.  Francois stopped motionless with astonishment:  “Oh, look there!” he said.

The vines had come to an end, and the whole slope was covered with lilac bushes in flower.  It was a purple wood!  A kind of great carpet of flowers stretched over the earth, reaching as far as the village, more than two miles off.  She also stood, surprised and delighted, and murmured:  “Oh! how pretty!” And, crossing a meadow, they ran toward that curious low hill, which, every year, furnishes all the lilac that is drawn through Paris on the carts of the flower venders.

There was a narrow path beneath the trees, so they took it, and when they came to a small clearing, sat down.

Swarms of flies were buzzing around them and making a continuous, gentle sound, and the sun, the bright sun of a perfectly still day, shone over the bright slopes and from that forest of blossoms a powerful fragrance was borne toward them, a breath of perfume, the breath of the flowers.

A church clock struck in the distance, and they embraced gently, then, without the knowledge of anything but that kiss, lay down on the grass.  But she soon came to herself with the feeling of a great misfortune, and began to cry and sob with grief, with her face buried in her hands.

He tried to console her, but she wanted to start to return and to go home immediately; and she kept saying, as she walked along quickly:  “Good heavens! good heavens!”