And once more he became the young husband, who adores his dear Lucie and is adored by her.

It is winter, he is seated in the corner by the fire, and before him, sitting in the light reflected by a green lampshade upon which dark silhouettes of jockey-riders are running at full speed, his wife is busying herself with some embroidery.  Every few moments they look at each other and smile, he over his book and she over her work; the lover never tired of admiring Lucie’s delicate fingers.  She is too pretty!  Suddenly he falls at her feet, slips his arm about her waist, and gives her a long kiss; then, overcome with languor, he puts his head upon his beloved’s knees and hears her say to him, in a low voice:  “That is right!  Go to sleep!” and her soft hands lightly stroke his hair.

“Boy, one glass of absinthe!”

They are in that beautiful field filled with flowers, near the woods in Verrieres, upon a fine June afternoon when the sun is low.  She has made a magnificent bouquet of field flowers.  She stops at intervals to add a cornflower, and he follows, carrying her mantle and umbrella.  How beautiful is summer and how sweet it is to love!  They are a little tired; for during the whole of this bright Sunday they have wandered through the meadows.  It is the hour for dinner, and here is a little tavern under some lindens, where the whiteness of the napkins rivals the blossoming thickets.  They choose a table and order their repast of a moustached youth.  While waiting for their soup, Lucie, rosy from being out all day in the open air and silent from hunger, amuses herself in looking at the blue designs on the plates, which represented battles in Africa.  What a joyous dinner!  There were mushrooms in the omelet, mushrooms in the stewed kidneys, mushrooms in the filet.  But so much the better!  They are very fond of them.  And the good wine!  The dear child is almost intoxicated at dessert!  She takes it into her head to squeeze a cherry-stone between her thumb and first finger and makes it pop-slap! into her husband’s face!  And the naughty creature laughs!  But he will have his revenge—­wait a little!  He rises, and leaning over the table buries two fingers between her collar and her neck, and the mischievous creature draws her head down into her shoulders as far as she can, begging him, with a nervous laugh, “No, no, I beseech you!” for she is afraid of being tickled.  But the best time of all is the return through the country at night, the exquisite odor of new-mown hay, the road lighted by a summer sky where the whole zodiac twinkles, and through which, like a silent stream, the Chemin de St. Jacques rolls its diamond smoke.

Tired and happy she hangs upon her husband’s arm.  How he loves her!  It seems to him that his love for Lucie is as deep and profound as the night.  “Nobody is coming let me kiss your dear mouth!” and their kisses are so pure, so sincere, and so sweet, that they ought to rejoice the stars!