as she could, and was
always laughing and jumping up to kiss Jeanne. She seemed to have found
some unknown source of happiness, and her husband simply worshiped her
now, following her about with his eyes and seeking every pretext for
touching her hand or her dress.

"We are happier now than we have ever been before," he said, one
evening, to Jeanne. "Gilberte has never been so affectionate as she is
now; nothing seems to vex her or make her angry. Until lately I was
never quite sure that she loved me, but now I know she does."

Julien had changed for the better also; he had become gay and
good-tempered, and their friendship seemed to have brought peace and
happiness to both families.

The spring was exceptionally warm and forward. The sun cast his warm
rays upon the budding trees and flowers from early morn until the sweet,
soft evening. It was one of those favored years when the world seems to
have grown young again, and nature to delight in bringing everything to
life once more.

Jeanne felt a vague excitement in the presence of this reawakening of
the fields and woods. She gave way to a sweet melancholy and spent hours
languidly dreaming. All the tender incidents of her first hours of love
came back to her, not that any renewal of affection for her husband
stirred her heart; _that_ had been completely destroyed; but the soft
breeze which fanned her cheek and the sweet perfume which filled the air
seemed to breathe forth a tender sigh of love which made her pulse beat
quicker. She liked to be alone, and in the warm sunshine, to enjoy these
vague, peaceful sensations which aroused no thoughts.

One morning she was lying thus half-dormant, when suddenly she saw in
her mind that sunlit space in the little wood near Etretat where for the
first time she had felt thrilled by the presence of the man who loved
her then, where he had for the first time timidly hinted at his hopes,
and where she had believed that she was going to realize the radiant
future of her dreams. She thought she should like to make a romantic,
superstitious pilgrimage to the wood, and she felt as if a visit to that
sunny spot would in some way alter the course of her life.

Julien had gone out at daybreak, she did not know whither, so she
ordered the Martins' little white horse, which she sometimes rode, to be
saddled, and set off.

It was one of those calm days when there is not a leaf nor a blade of
grass stirring. The wind seemed dead, and ev