d where she gave to herself the illusion of being lost with
him.

One day they had taken the boat that she had seen pass so often under
her windows. She was not afraid of being recognized. Her danger was
not great, and, since she was in love, she had lost prudence. They saw
shores which little by little grew gay, escaping the dusty aridity
of the suburbs; they went by islands with bouquets of trees shading
taverns, and innumerable boats tied under willows. They debarked at
Bas-Meudon. As she said she was warm and thirsty, he made her enter a
wine-shop. It was a building with wooden galleries, which solitude made
to appear larger, and which slept in rustic peace, waiting for Sunday
to fill it with the laughter of girls, the cries of boatmen, the odor of
fried fish, and the smoke of stews.

They went up the creaking stairway, shaped like a ladder, and in a
first-story room a maid servant brought wine and biscuits to them. On
the mantelpiece, at one of the corners of the room, was an oval mirror
in a flower-covered frame. Through the open window one saw the Seine,
its green shores, and the hills in the distance bathed with warm air.
The trembling peace of a summer evening filled the sky, the earth, and
the water.

Therese looked at the running river. The boat passed on the water, and
when the wake which it left reached the shore it seemed as if the house
rocked like a vessel.

"I like the water," said Therese. "How happy I am!"

Their lips met.

Lost in the enchanted despair of love, time was not marked for them
except by the cool plash of the water, which at intervals broke under
the half-open window. To the caressing praise of her lover she replied:

"It is true I was made for love. I love myself because you love me."

Certainly, he loved her; and it was not possible for him to explain to
himself why he loved her with ardent piety, with a sort of sacred fury.
It was not because of her beauty, although it was rare and infinitely
precious. She had exquisite lines, but lines follow movement, and escape
incessantly; they are lost and found again; they cause aesthetic joys
and despair. A beautiful line is the lightning which deliciously wounds
the eyes. One admires and one is surprised. What makes one love is a
soft and terrible force, more powerful than beauty. One finds one woman
among a thousand whom one wants always. Therese was that woman whom one
can not leave or betray.

She exclaimed, joyfully:

"I never