t you have?" she asked.

"Why, this one--this one was in the artichokes."

"Oh, then the other one is among the strawberries, by the well."

And she began to sob so piteously that no one could hear her unmoved.

The girl Rosalie Prudent was acquitted.

REGRET

Monsieur Saval, who was called in Mantes "Father Saval," had just risen
from bed. He was weeping. It was a dull autumn day; the leaves were
falling. They fell slowly in the rain, like a heavier and slower rain. M.
Saval was not in good spirits. He walked from the fireplace to the
window, and from the window to the fireplace. Life has its sombre days.
It would no longer have any but sombre days for him, for he had reached
the age of sixty-two. He is alone, an old bachelor, with nobody about
him. How sad it is to die alone, all alone, without any one who is
devoted to you!

He pondered over his life, so barren, so empty. He recalled former days,
the days of his childhood, the home, the house of his parents; his
college days, his follies; the time he studied law in Paris, his father's
illness, his death. He then returned to live with his mother. They lived
together very quietly, and desired nothing more. At last the mother died.
How sad life is! He lived alone since then, and now, in his turn, he,
too, will soon be dead. He will disappear, and that will be the end.
There will be no more of Paul Saval upon the earth. What a frightful
thing! Other people will love, will laugh. Yes, people will go on amusing
themselves, and he will no longer exist! Is it not strange that people
can laugh, amuse themselves, be joyful under that eternal certainty of
death? If this death were only probable, one could then have hope; but
no, it is inevitable, as inevitable as that night follows the day.

If, however, his life had been full! If he had done something; if he had
had adventures, great pleasures, success, satisfaction of some kind or
another. But no, nothing. He had done nothing, nothing but rise from bed,
eat, at the same hours, and go to bed again. And he had gone on like that
to the age of sixty-two years. He had not even taken unto himself a wife,
as other men do. Why? Yes, why was it that he had not married? He might
have done so, for he possessed considerable means. Had he lacked an
opportunity? Perhaps! But one can create opportunities. He was
indifferent; that was all. Indifference had been his greatest drawback,
his defect, his vice. How many men wreck the