Bertin felt recollections awakening within him—­those faded remembrances that are drowned in forgetfulness, and which suddenly return, one knows not why.  They surged up rapidly, of all sorts, and so numerous at the same time that it seemed to him a hand was stirring the miry depths of his memory.

He tried to guess the reasons of this rising up of his former life which several times already, though never so insistently as to-day, he had felt and remarked.  A cause always existed for these sudden evocations—­a natural and simple cause, an odor, perhaps, often a perfume.  How many times a woman’s draperies had thrown to him in passing, with the evaporating breath of some essence, a host of forgotten events.  At the bottom of old perfume-bottles he had often found bits of his former existence; and all wandering odors—­of streets, fields, houses, furniture, sweet or unsavory, the warm odors of summer evenings, the cold breath of winter nights, revived within him far-off reminiscences, as if odors kept embalmed within him these dead-and-gone memories, as aromatics preserve mummies.

Was it the damp grass or the chestnut blossoms that thus reanimated the past?  No.  What, then?

Was it his eye to which he owed this alertness?  What had he seen?  Nothing.  Among the persons he had met, perhaps one might have resembled some one he had known, and, although he had not recognized it, it might have rung in his heart all the chords of the past.

Was it not a sound, rather?  Very often he had heard by chance a piano, an unknown voice, even a hand-organ in the street playing some old air, which had suddenly made him feel twenty years younger, filling his breast with tender recollections, long buried.

But this appeal, continued, incessant, intangible, almost irritating!  What was there near him to revive thus his extinct emotions?

“It is growing a little cool; we must go home,” he said.

They rose, and resumed their walk.

He looked at the poor people sitting on benches, for whom a chair was too great an expense.

Annette also observed them, and felt disturbed at the thought of their lives, their occupations, surprised that they should come to lounge in this beautiful public garden, when their own appearance was so forlorn.

More than ever was Olivier now dreaming over past years.  It seemed to him that a fly was humming in his ear, filling it with a buzzing song of bygone days.

The young girl, observing his dreamy air, asked: 

“What is the matter?  You seem sad.”

His heart thrilled within him.  Who had said that?  She or her mother?  Not her mother with her present voice but with her voice of long ago, so changed that he had only just recognized it.

“Nothing,” he replied, smiling.  “You entertain me very much; you are very charming, and you remind me of your mother.”

How was it that he had not sooner remarked this strange echo of a voice once so familiar, now coming from these fresh lips?