ve could be, united to youth, talent,
and beauty. Gaston has no affectations, he moves with an instinctive and
unstudied grace. When we walk alone together in the woods, his arm round
my waist, mine resting on his shoulder, body fitting to body, and head
touching head, our step is so even, uniform, and gentle, that those who
see us pass by night take the vision for a single figure gliding over
the graveled walks, like one of Homer's immortals. A like harmony exists
in our desires, our thoughts, our words. More than once on some evening
when a passing shower has left the leaves glistening and the moist grass
bright with a more vivid green, it has chanced that we ended our walk
without uttering a word, as we listened to the patter of falling drops
and feasted our eyes on the scarlet sunset, flaring on the hilltops or
dyeing with a warmer tone the gray of the tree trunks.

Beyond a doubt our thoughts then rose to Heaven in silent prayer,
pleading as it were, for our happiness. At times a cry would escape
us at the moment when some sudden bend on the path opened up fresh
beauties. What words can tell how honey-sweet, how full of meaning, is
a kiss half-timidly exchanged within the sanctuary of nature--it is as
though God had created us to worship in this fashion.

And we return home, each more deeply in love than ever.

A love so passionate between old married people would be an outrage on
society in Paris; only in the heart of the woods, like lovers, can we
give scope to it.

To come to particulars, Gaston is of middle height--the height proper
to all men of purpose. Neither stout nor thin, his figure is admirably
made, with ample fulness in the proportions, while every motion is
agile; he leaps a ditch with the easy grace of a wild animal. Whatever
his attitude, he seems to have an instinctive sense of balance, and this
is very rare in men who are given to thought. Though a dark man, he has
an extraordinarily fair complexion; his jet-black hair contrasts finely
with the lustreless tints of the neck and forehead. He has the tragic
head of Louis XIII. His moustache and tuft have been allowed to grow,
but I made him shave the whiskers and beard, which were getting too
common. An honorable poverty has been his safeguard, and handed him over
to me, unsoiled by the loose life which ruins so many young men. His
teeth are magnificent, and he has a constitution of iron. His keen
blue eyes, for me full of tenderness, will flash