ust look thus
when informed that their last day has come. In her eye there lurked a
species of folly, a folly at once mysterious and violent--even more, a
fever, an exasperated desire, impatient, at once incapable of being
realized and unrealizable!

"Nay, it seemed to me that there was also going on within her a combat,
in which her heart struggled against an unknown force that she wished
to overcome--perhaps, even, something else. But what could I know? What
could I know?"

III.

"This was indeed a singular revelation.

"For some time I had commenced to work, as soon as daylight appeared,
on a picture, the subject of which was as follows:

"A deep ravine, steep banks dominated by two declivities, lined with
brambles and long rows of trees, hidden, drowned in milky vapor, clad
in that misty robe which sometimes floats over valleys at break of day.
At the extreme end of that thick and transparent fog, you see coming,
or rather already come, a human couple, a stripling and a maiden
embraced, interlaced, she, with head leaning on him, he; inclined
toward hers and lip to lip.

"A ray of the sun, glistening through the branches, has traversed the
fog of dawn and illuminated it with a rosy reflection, just behind the
rustic lovers, whose vague shadows are reflected on it in clear silver.
It was well done, yes, indeed, well done.

"I was working on the declivity which led to the Val d'Etretat. This
particular morning, I had, by chance, the sort of floating vapor which
was necessary for my purpose. Suddenly, an object appeared in front of
me, a kind of phantom; it was Miss Harriet. On seeing me, she took to
flight. But I called after her saying: 'Come here, come here,
Mademoiselle, I have a nice little picture for you.'

"She came forward, though with seeming reluctance. I handed her my
sketch. She said nothing, but stood for a long time motionless, looking
at it. Suddenly she burst into tears. She wept spasmodically, like men
who have been struggling hard against shedding tears, but who can do so
no longer, and abandon themselves to grief, though unwillingly. I got
up, trembling, moved myself by the sight of a sorrow I did not
comprehend, and I took her by the hand with a gesture of brusque
affection, a true French impulse which impels one quicker than one
thinks.

"She let her hands rest in mine for a few seconds, and I felt them
quiver, as if her whole nervous system was twisting and turning. Then
she withdre