sun. I loved everything--the
steamer, the river, the trees, the houses and my fellow-passengers. I
felt inclined to kiss something, no matter what; it was love, laying its
snare. Presently, at the Trocadero, a girl, with a small parcel in her
hand, came on board and sat down opposite me. She was decidedly pretty,
but it is surprising, monsieur, how much prettier women seem to us when
the day is fine at the beginning of the spring. Then they have an
intoxicating charm, something quite peculiar about them. It is just like
drinking wine after cheese.

"I looked at her and she also looked at me, but only occasionally, as
that girl did at you, just now; but at last, by dint of looking at each
other constantly, it seemed to me that we knew each other well enough to
enter into conversation, and I spoke to her and she replied. She was
decidedly pretty and nice and she intoxicated me, monsieur!

"She got out at Saint-Cloud, and I followed her. She went and delivered
her parcel, and when she returned the boat had just started. I walked by
her side, and the warmth of the 'air made us both sigh. 'It would be very
nice in the woods,' I said. 'Indeed, it would!' she replied. 'Shall we go
there for a walk, mademoiselie?'

"She gave me a quick upward look, as if to see exactly what I was like,
and then, after a little hesitation, she accepted my proposal, and soon
we were there, walking side by side. Under the foliage, which was still
rather scanty, the tall, thick, bright green grass was inundated by the
sun, and the air was full of insects that were also making love to one
another, and birds were singing in all directions. My companion began to
jump and to run, intoxicated by the air and the smell of the country, and
I ran and jumped, following her example. How silly we are at times,
monsieur!

"Then she sang unrestrainedly a thousand things, opera airs and the song
of Musette! The song of Musette! How poetical it seemed to me, then! I
almost cried over it. Ah! Those silly songs make us lose our heads; and,
believe me, never marry a woman who sings in the country, especially if
she sings the song of Musette!

"She soon grew tired, and sat down on a grassy slope, and I sat at her
feet and took her hands, her little hands, that were so marked with the
needle, and that filled me with emotion. I said to myself:

"'These are the sacred marks of toil.' Oh! monsieur, do you know what
those sacred marks of toil mean? They mean all the