as it were, against her teeth.

"Will you have some more bread?" he asked in an undertone.

She cried, she said "no," she said "yes," she didn't know. Ah! how nice
and yet how painful it is to eat when one is starving.

And standing in front of her, Goujet looked at her all the while; under
the bright light cast by the lamp-shade he could see her well. How aged
and altered she seemed! The heat was melting the snow on her hair and
clothes, and she was dripping. Her poor wagging head was quite grey;
there were any number of grey locks which the wind had disarranged.
Her neck sank into her shoulders and she had become so fat and ugly you
might have cried on noticing the change. He recollected their love, when
she was quite rosy, working with her irons, and showing the child-like
crease which set such a charming necklace round her throat. In those
times he had watched her for hours, glad just to look at her. Later on
she had come to the forge, and there they had enjoyed themselves whilst
he beat the iron, and she stood by watching his hammer dance. How often
at night, with his head buried in his pillow, had he dreamed of holding
her in his arms.

Gervaise rose; she had finished. She remained for a moment with her head
lowered, and ill at ease. Then, thinking she detected a gleam in his
eyes, she raised her hand to her jacket and began to unfasten the first
button. But Goujet had fallen on his knees, and taking hold of her
hands, he exclaimed softly:

"I love you, Madame Gervaise; oh! I love you still, and in spite of
everything, I swear it to you!"

"Don't say that, Monsieur Goujet!" she cried, maddened to see him like
this at her feet. "No, don't say that; you grieve me too much."

And as he repeated that he could never love twice in his life, she
became yet more despairing.

"No, no, I am too ashamed. For the love of God get up. It is my place to
be on the ground."

He rose, he trembled all over and stammered: "Will you allow me to kiss
you?"

Overcome with surprise and emotion she could not speak, but she assented
with a nod of the head. After all she was his; he could do what he chose
with her. But he merely kissed her.

"That suffices between us, Madame Gervaise," he muttered. "It sums up
all our friendship, does it not?"

He had kissed her on the forehead, on a lock of her grey hair. He had
not kissed anyone since his mother's death. His sweetheart Gervaise
alone remained to him in life. And then, when