t, I love you!'

They adored each other; it was inevitable. Near them, on the centre of
the table, the lilac she had sent him that morning embalmed the night
air, and, alone shiny with lingering light, the scattered particles of
gold leaf, wafted from the frame of the big picture, twinkled like a
swarming of stars.

VI

THE very next morning, at seven o'clock, Christine was at the studio,
her face still flushed by the falsehood which she had told Madame
Vanzade about a young friend from Clermont whom she was to meet at the
station, and with whom she should spend the day.

Claude, overjoyed by the idea of spending a whole day with her, wanted
to take her into the country, far away under the glorious sunlight, so
as to have her entirely to himself. She was delighted; they scampered
off like lunatics, and reached the St. Lazare Station just in time to
catch the Havre train. He knew, beyond Mantes, a little village called
Bennecourt, where there was an artists' inn which he had at times
invaded with some comrades; and careless as to the two hours' rail, he
took her to lunch there, just as he would have taken her to Asnieres.
She made very merry over this journey, to which there seemed no end.
So much the better if it were to take them to the end of the world! It
seemed to them as if evening would never come.

At ten o'clock they alighted at Bonnieres; and there they took the
ferry--an old ferry-boat that creaked and grated against its chain--for
Bennecourt is situated on the opposite bank of the Seine. It was a
splendid May morning, the rippling waters were spangled with gold in
the sunlight, the young foliage showed delicately green against the
cloudless azure. And, beyond the islets situated at this point of the
river, how delightful it was to find the country inn, with its little
grocery business attached, its large common room smelling of soapsuds,
and its spacious yard full of manure, on which the ducks disported
themselves.

'Hallo, Faucheur! we have come to lunch. An omelette, some sausages, and
some cheese, eh?'

'Are you going to stay the night, Monsieur Claude?'

'No, no; another time. And some white wine; eh? you know that pinky
wine, that grates a bit in the throat.'

Christine had already followed mother Faucheur to the barn-yard, and
when the latter came back with her eggs, she asked Claude with her
artful peasant's laugh:

'And so now you're married?'

'Well,' replied the painter without