This absence for a week was not a betrayal, it was not a fault against her; it was nothing, yet it was everything.  It was the end.  She knew it.  She wished to cease.  It was the consent of all the forces of her being.  She said to herself:  “I have no reason to love him less.  Do I love him no more?  Did I ever love him?” She did not know and she did not care to know.  Three years, during which there had been months when they had seen each other every day—­was all this nothing?  Life is not a great thing.  And what one puts in it, how little that is!

In fine, she had nothing of which to complain.  But it was better to end it all.  All these reflections brought her back to that point.  It was not a resolution; resolutions may be changed.  It was graver:  it was a state of the body and of the mind.

When she arrived at the square, in the centre of which is a fountain, and on one side of which stands a church of rustic style, showing its bell in an open belfry, she recalled the little bouquet of violets that he had given to her one night on the bridge near Notre Dame.  They had loved each other that day—­perhaps more than usual.  Her heart softened at that reminiscence.  But the little bouquet remained alone, a poor little flower skeleton, in her memory.

While she was thinking, passers-by, deceived by the simplicity of her dress, followed her.  One of them made propositions to her:  a dinner and the theatre.  It amused her.  She was not at all disturbed; this was not a crisis.  She thought:  “How do other women manage such things?  And I, who promised myself not to spoil my life.  What is life worth?”

Opposite the Greek lantern of the Musee des Religions she found the soil disturbed by workmen.  There were paving-stones crossed by a bridge made of a narrow flexible plank.  She had stepped on it, when she saw at the other end, in front of her, a man who was waiting for her.  He recognized her and bowed.  It was Dechartre.  She saw that he was happy to meet her; she thanked him with a smile.  He asked her permission to walk a few steps with her, and they entered into the large and airy space.  In this place the tall houses, set somewhat back, efface themselves, and reveal a glimpse of the sky.

He told her that he had recognized her from a distance by the rhythm of her figure and her movements, which were hers exclusively.

“Graceful movements,” he added, “are like music for the eyes.”

She replied that she liked to walk; it was her pleasure, and the cause of her good health.

He, too, liked to walk in populous towns and beautiful fields.  The mystery of highways tempted him.  He liked to travel.  Although voyages had become common and easy, they retained for him their powerful charm.  He had seen golden days and crystalline nights, Greece, Egypt, and the Bosporus; but it was to Italy that he returned always, as to the mother country of his mind.