up by the
sun, had the blinding whiteness of snow. The air was intensely warm,
heavy and pungent. Therese, on the arm of Camille, walked with short
steps, concealing herself beneath her umbrella, while her husband fanned
his face with an immense handkerchief. Behind them came Laurent, who had
the sun streaming fiercely on the back of his neck, without appearing to
notice it. He whistled and kicked the stones before him as he strolled
along. Now and again there was a fierce glint in his eyes as he watched
Therese's swinging hips.

On reaching Saint-Ouen, they lost no time in looking for a cluster of
trees, a patch of green grass in the shade. Crossing the water to an
island, they plunged into a bit of underwood. The fallen leaves covered
the ground with a russety bed which cracked beneath their feet with
sharp, quivering sounds. Innumerable trunks of trees rose up erect,
like clusters of small gothic columns; the branches descended to the
foreheads of the three holiday makers, whose only view was the expiring
copper-like foliage, and the black and white stems of the aspens and
oaks. They were in the wilderness, in a melancholy corner, in a narrow
clearing that was silent and fresh. All around them they heard the
murmur of the Seine.

Camille having selected a dry spot, seated himself on the ground, after
lifting up the skirt of his frock coat; while Therese, amid a loud
crumpling of petticoats, had just flung herself among the leaves.
Laurent lay on his stomach with his chin resting on the ground.

They remained three hours in this clearing, waiting until it became
cooler, to take a run in the country before dinner. Camille talked about
his office, and related silly stories; then, feeling fatigued, he let
himself fall backward and went to sleep with the rim of his hat over
his eyes. Therese had closed her eyelids some time previously, feigning
slumber.

Laurent, who felt wide awake, and was tired of his recumbent position,
crept up behind her and kissed her shoe and ankle. For a month his life
had been chaste and this walk in the sun had set him on fire. Here he
was, in a hidden retreat, and unable to hold to his breast the woman
who was really his. Her husband might wake up and all his prudent
calculations would be ruined by this obstacle of a man. So he lay, flat
on the ground, hidden by his lover's skirts, trembling with exasperation
as he pressed kiss after kiss upon the shoe and white stocking. Therese
made no