n his
knees as if he needed to cool off his head, and said aloud in the
stillness of the country: "If you want a fine girl, she is a fine girl."

He thought of it again at night, in his bed, and in the morning when he
awoke.

He was not sad, he was not discontented, he could not have told what
ailed him. It was something that had hold of him, something fastened in
his mind, an idea that would not leave him and that produced a sort of
tickling sensation in his heart.

Sometimes a big fly is shut up in a room. You hear it flying about,
buzzing, and the noise haunts you, irritates you. Suddenly it stops; you
forget it; but all at once it begins again, obliging you to look up. You
cannot catch it, nor drive it away, nor kill it, nor make it keep still.
As soon as it settles for a second, it starts off buzzing again.

The recollection of Martine disturbed Benoist's mind like an imprisoned
fly.

Then he longed to see her again and walked past the Martiniere several
times. He saw her, at last, hanging out some clothes on a line stretched
between two apple trees.

It was a warm day. She had on only a short skirt and her chemise, showing
the curves of her figure as she hung up the towels. He remained there,
concealed by the hedge, for more than an hour, even after she had left.
He returned home more obsessed with her image than ever.

For a month his mind was full of her, he trembled when her name was
mentioned in his presence. He could not eat, he had night sweats that
kept him from sleeping.

On Sunday, at mass, he never took his eyes off her. She noticed it and
smiled at him, flattered at his appreciation.

One evening, he suddenly met her in the road. She stopped short when she
saw him coming. Then he walked right up to her, choking with fear and
emotion, but determined to speak to her. He began falteringly:

"See here, Martine, this cannot go on like this any longer."

She replied as if she wanted to tease him:

"What cannot go on any longer, Benoist?"

"My thinking of you as many hours as there are in the day," he answered.

She put her hands on her hips.

"I do not oblige you to do so."

"Yes, it is you," he stammered; "I cannot sleep, nor rest, nor eat, nor
anything."

"What do you need to cure you of all that?" she asked.

He stood there in dismay, his arms swinging, his eyes staring, his mouth
agape.

She hit him a punch in the stomach and ran off.

From that day they met each other along the