, as was their wont when they wanted to go
out together. That day the young painter was possessed by a sudden whim
to ramble about and revisit in Christine's company the nooks beloved in
other days; and behind this desire of his there lurked a vague hope
that she would bring him luck. And thus they went as far as the Pont
Louis-Philippe, and remained for a quarter of an hour on the Quai des
Ormes, silent, leaning against the parapet, and looking at the old Hotel
du Martoy, across the Seine, where they had first loved each other.
Then, still without saying a word, they went their former round; they
started along the quays, under the plane trees, seeing the past rise up
before them at every step. Everything spread out again: the bridges
with their arches opening upon the sheeny water; the Cite, enveloped in
shade, above which rose the flavescent towers of Notre-Dame; the
great curve of the right bank flooded with sunlight, and ending in the
indistinct silhouette of the Pavillon de Flore, together with the broad
avenues, the monuments and edifices on both banks, and all the life of
the river, the floating wash-houses, the baths, and the lighters.

As of old, the orb in its decline followed them, seemingly rolling along
the distant housetops, and assuming a crescent shape, as it appeared
from behind the dome of the Institute. There was a dazzling sunset, they
had never beheld a more magnificent one, such a majestic descent amidst
tiny cloudlets that changed into purple network, between the meshes of
which a shower of gold escaped. But of the past that thus rose up before
their eyes there came to them nought but invincible sadness--a sensation
that things escaped them, and that it was impossible for them to retrace
their way up stream and live their life over again. All those old stones
remained cold. The constant current beneath the bridges, the water that
had ever flowed onward and onward, seemed to have borne away something
of their own selves, the delight of early desire and the joyfulness of
hope. Now that they belonged to one another, they no longer tasted the
simple happiness born of feeling the warm pressure of their arms as they
strolled on slowly, enveloped by the mighty vitality of Paris.

On reaching the Pont des Saints-Peres, Claude, in sheer despair, stopped
short. He had relinquished Christine's arm, and had turned his face
towards the point of the Cite. She no doubt felt the severance that
was taking place an