Emile, supposing that Sophy runs no better than other women, does not deign to stir from his place and watches her start with a smile of mockery.  But Sophy is light of foot and she wears low heels; she needs no pretence to make her foot look smaller; she runs so quickly that he has only just time to overtake this new Atalanta when he sees her so far ahead.  Then he starts like an eagle dashing upon its prey; he pursues her, clutches her, grasps her at last quite out of breath, and gently placing his left arm about her, he lifts her like a feather, and pressing his sweet burden to his heart, he finishes the race, makes her touch the goal first, and then exclaiming, “Sophy wins!” he sinks on one knee before her and owns himself beaten.

Along with such occupations there is also the trade we learnt.  One day a week at least, and every day when the weather is too bad for country pursuits, Emile and I go to work under a master-joiner.  We do not work for show, like people above our trade; we work in earnest like regular workmen.  Once when Sophy’s father came to see us, he found us at work, and did not fail to report his wonder to his wife and daughter.  “Go and see that young man in the workshop,” said he, “and you will soon see if he despises the condition of the poor.”  You may fancy how pleased Sophy was at this!  They talk it over, and they decide to surprise him at his work.  They question me, apparently without any special object, and having made sure of the time, mother and daughter take a little carriage and come to town on that very day.

On her arrival, Sophy sees, at the other end of the shop, a young man in his shirt sleeves, with his hair all untidy, so hard at work that he does not see her; she makes a sign to her mother.  Emile, a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other, is just finishing a mortise; then he saws a piece of wood and places it in the vice in order to polish it.  The sight of this does not set Sophy laughing; it affects her greatly; it wins her respect.  Woman, honour your master; he it is who works for you, he it is who gives you bread to eat; this is he!

While they are busy watching him, I perceive them and pull Emile by the sleeve; he turns round, drops his tools, and hastens to them with an exclamation of delight.  After he has given way to his first raptures, he makes them take a seat and he goes back to his work.  But Sophy cannot keep quiet; she gets up hastily, runs about the workshop, looks at the tools, feels the polish of the boards, picks up shavings, looks at our hands, and says she likes this trade, it is so clean.  The merry girl tries to copy Emile.  With her delicate white hand she passes a plane over a bit of wood; the plane slips and makes no impression.  It seems to me that Love himself is hovering over us and beating his wings; I think I can hear his joyous cries, “Hercules is avenged.”