lightful thing
thus to be dominated by a young woman. It is almost torture, and yet
infinite delight. Her look, her smile, her hair fluttering in the wind,
the little lines of her face, the slightest movement of her features,
delighted me, upset me, entranced me. She had captured me, body and
soul, by her gestures, her manners, even by her clothes, which seemed to
take on a peculiar charm as soon as she wore them. I grew tender at the
sight of her veil on some piece of furniture, her gloves thrown on a
chair. Her gowns seemed to me inimitable. Nobody had hats like hers.

"She was married, but her husband came only on Saturday, and left on
Monday. I didn't concern myself about him, anyhow. I wasn't jealous of
him, I don't know why; never did a creature seem to me to be of less
importance in life, to attract my attention less than this man.

"But she! how I loved her! How beautiful, graceful and young she was!
She was youth, elegance, freshness itself! Never before had I felt so
strongly what a pretty, distinguished, delicate, charming, graceful
being woman is. Never before had I appreciated the seductive beauty to
be found in the curve of a cheek, the movement of a lip, the pinkness of
an ear, the shape of that foolish organ called the nose.

"This lasted three months; then I left for America, overwhelmed with
sadness. But her memory remained in me, persistent, triumphant. From far
away I was as much hers as I had been when she was near me. Years passed
by, and I did not forget her. The charming image of her person was ever
before my eyes and in my heart. And my love remained true to her, a
quiet tenderness now, something like the beloved memory of the most
beautiful and the most enchanting thing I had ever met in my life.

"Twelve years are not much in a lifetime! One does not feel them slip
by. The years follow each other gently and quickly, slowly yet rapidly,
each one is long and yet so soon over! They add up so rapidly, they
leave so few traces behind them, they disappear so completely, that,
when one turns round to look back over bygone years, one sees nothing
and yet one does not understand how one happens to be so old. It seemed
to me, really, that hardly a few months separated me from that charming
season on the sands of Etretat.

"Last spring I went to dine with some friends at Maisons-Laffitte.

"Just as the train was leaving, a big, fat lady, escorted by four little
girls, got into my car. I hardly looke