Then he changed the subject brusquely: 

“What about your love-affair?”

“Fresher than ever.”

“Did it survive half an hour’s conversation?”

“It grew the stronger for it.”

“Does she still detest you?”

I told him the story of our trip to Desio, and our conversation in the carriage, without omitting a detail.

He listened in silence.  At the end he said: 

“My dear Fabien, there must be no delay.  She must hear your proposal within a week.”

“Within a week!  Who is to make it for me?”

“Whoever you like.  That’s your business.  I have been making inquiries while you were away; she seems a suitable match for you.  Besides, your present position is ridiculous; you are without a profession; you have quarrelled, for no reason, with your only relative; you must get out of the situation with credit, and marriage will compel you to do so.”

CHAPTER XVI

A FISHING-TRIP AND AN OLD FRIEND

July 21st.

M. Jupille had written to tell me where I was to meet him on the Sunday, giving me the most minute directions.  I might take the train to Massy, or to Bievres.  However, I preferred to take the train to Sceaux and walk from there, leaving Chatenay on my left, striking across the woods of Verrieres toward the line of forts, coming out between Igny and Amblainvilliers, and finally reaching a spot where the Bievre broadens out between two wooded banks into a pool as clear as a spring and as full of fish as a nursery-pond.

“Above all things, tell nobody where it is!” begged Jupille.  “It is our secret; I discovered it myself.”

When I left Sceaux to meet Jupille, who had started before daybreak, the sun was already high.  There was not a cloud nor a breath of wind; the sway of summer lay over all things.  But, though the heat was broiling, the walk was lovely.  All about me was alive with voice or perfume.  Clouds of linnets fluttered among the branches, golden beetles crawled upon the grass, thousands of tiny whirring wings beat the air—­flies, gnats, gadflies, bees—­all chorusing the life—­giving warmth of the day and the sunshine that bathed and penetrated all nature.  I halted from time to time in the parched glades to seek my way, and again pushed onward through the forest paths overarched with heavy-scented leafage, onward over the slippery moss up toward the heights, below which the Bievre stole into view.

There it lay, at my feet, gliding between banks of verdure which seemed a season younger than the grass I stood on.  I began to descend the slope, knowing that M. Jupille was awaiting me somewhere in the valley.  I broke into a run.  I heard the murmur of water in the hollows, and caught glimpses of forget-me-not tufts in low-lying grassy corners.  Suddenly a rod outlined itself against the sky, between two trees.  It was he, the old clerk; he nodded to me and laid down his line.