At the top of the slope, on the green margin of the glade, shaded by the tall trees, two pedestrians were slowly advancing.  At the distance they still were I could distinguish very little except that the man wore a frock-coat, and that the girl was dressed in gray, and was young, to judge by the suppleness of her walk.  Nevertheless I felt at once that it was she!

I hid at they came near, and saw her pass on her father’s arm, chatting in low tones, full of joy to have escaped from the Rue de l’Universite.  She was looking before her with wide-open eyes.  M. Charnot kept his eyes on his daughter, more interested in her than in all the wealth of spring.  He kept well to the right of the path as the sun ate away the edge of the shadows; and asked, from time to time: 

“Are you tired?”

“Oh, no!”

“As soon as you are tired, my dear, we will sit down.  I am not walking too fast?”

She answered “No” again, and laughed, and they went on.

Soon they left the avenue and were lost in a green alley.  Then a sudden twilight seemed to have closed down on me, an infinite sadness swelled in my heart.  I closed my eyes, and—­God forgive my weakness, but the tears came.

“Hallo!  What part do you intend me to play in all this?” said Lampron behind me.

“’What part’?”

“Yes.  It’s an odd notion to invite me to your trysting-place.”

“Trysting-place?  I haven’t one.”

“You mean to tell me, perhaps, that you came here by chance?”

“Certainly.”

“And chanced upon the very moment and the spot where she was passing?”

“Do you want a proof?  That young lady is Mademoiselle Charnot.”

“Well?”

“Well, I never have said another word to her since my one visit to her father; I have only seen her once, for a moment, in the street.  You see there can be no question of trysting-places in this case.  I was wondering at her appearance when you awoke.  It is luck, or a friendly providence, that has used the beauty of the sunlight, the breeze, and all the sweets of April to bring her, as it brought us, to the forest.”

“And that is what fetched the tears?”

“Well, no.”

“What, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“My full-grown baby, I will tell you.  You are in love with her!”

“Indeed, Sylvestre, I believe you’re right.  I confess it frankly to you as to my best friend.  It is an old story already; as old, perhaps, as the day I first met her.  At first her figure would rise in my imagination, and I took pleasure in contemplating it.  Soon this phantom ceased to satisfy; I longed to see her in person.  I sought her in the streets, the shops, the theatre.  I still blinded myself, and pretended that I only wanted to ask her pardon, so as to remove, before I left Paris, the unpleasant impression I had made at our first meeting.  But now, Sylvestre, all these false reasons have disappeared, and the true one is clear.  I love her!”