“I seemed to myself to expand in the sun.  I loved everything—­the steamer, the river, the trees, the houses and my fellow-passengers.  I felt inclined to kiss something, no matter what; it was love, laying its snare.  Presently, at the Trocadero, a girl, with a small parcel in her hand, came on board and sat down opposite me.  She was decidedly pretty, but it is surprising, monsieur, how much prettier women seem to us when the day is fine at the beginning of the spring.  Then they have an intoxicating charm, something quite peculiar about them.  It is just like drinking wine after cheese.

“I looked at her and she also looked at me, but only occasionally, as that girl did at you, just now; but at last, by dint of looking at each other constantly, it seemed to me that we knew each other well enough to enter into conversation, and I spoke to her and she replied.  She was decidedly pretty and nice and she intoxicated me, monsieur!

“She got out at Saint-Cloud, and I followed her.  She went and delivered her parcel, and when she returned the boat had just started.  I walked by her side, and the warmth of the ’air made us both sigh.  ’It would be very nice in the woods,’ I said.  ‘Indeed, it would!’ she replied.  ’Shall we go there for a walk, mademoiselie?’

“She gave me a quick upward look, as if to see exactly what I was like, and then, after a little hesitation, she accepted my proposal, and soon we were there, walking side by side.  Under the foliage, which was still rather scanty, the tall, thick, bright green grass was inundated by the sun, and the air was full of insects that were also making love to one another, and birds were singing in all directions.  My companion began to jump and to run, intoxicated by the air and the smell of the country, and I ran and jumped, following her example.  How silly we are at times, monsieur!

“Then she sang unrestrainedly a thousand things, opera airs and the song of Musette!  The song of Musette!  How poetical it seemed to me, then!  I almost cried over it.  Ah!  Those silly songs make us lose our heads; and, believe me, never marry a woman who sings in the country, especially if she sings the song of Musette!

“She soon grew tired, and sat down on a grassy slope, and I sat at her feet and took her hands, her little hands, that were so marked with the needle, and that filled me with emotion.  I said to myself: 

“‘These are the sacred marks of toil.’  Oh! monsieur, do you know what those sacred marks of toil mean?  They mean all the gossip of the workroom, the whispered scandal, the mind soiled by all the filth that is talked; they mean lost chastity, foolish chatter, all the wretchedness of their everyday life, all the narrowness of ideas which belongs to women of the lower orders, combined to their fullest extent in the girl whose fingers bear the sacred marks of toil.