ces by Boulle
himself, and the woodwork of the chairs, which were covered by hand-made
tapestry, was carved oak. The dinner, plentifully supplied, was not
luxurious; family silver without uniformity, Dresden china which was
not then in fashion, octagonal decanters, knives with agate handles, and
lacquered trays beneath the wine-bottles, were the chief features of the
table, but flowers adorned the porcelain vases and overhung the gilding
of their fluted edges. I delighted in these quaint old things. I thought
the Reveillon paper with its flowery garlands beautiful. The sweet
content that filled my sails hindered me from perceiving the obstacles
which a life so uniform, so unvarying in solitude of the country placed
between her and me. I was near her, sitting at her right hand, serving
her with wine. Yes, unhoped-for joy! I touched her dress, I ate her
bread. At the end of three hours my life had mingled with her life! That
terrible kiss had bound us to each other in a secret which inspired us
with mutual shame. A glorious self-abasement took possession of me. I
studied to please the count, I fondled the dogs, I would gladly have
gratified every desire of the children, I would have brought them hoops
and marbles and played horse with them; I was even provoked that
they did not already fasten upon me as a thing of their own. Love has
intuitions like those of genius; and I dimly perceived that gloom,
discontent, hostility would destroy my footing in that household.

The dinner passed with inward happiness on my part. Feeling that I was
there, under her roof, I gave no heed to her obvious coldness, nor to
the count's indifference masked by his politeness. Love, like life,
has an adolescence during which period it suffices unto itself. I made
several stupid replies induced by the tumults of passion, but no one
perceived their cause, not even SHE, who knew nothing of love. The rest
of my visit was a dream, a dream which did not cease until by moonlight
on that warm and balmy night I recrossed the Indre, watching the white
visions that embellished meadows, shores, and hills, and listening to
the clear song, the matchless note, full of deep melancholy and uttered
only in still weather, of a tree-frog whose scientific name is unknown
to me. Since that solemn evening I have never heard it without infinite
delight. A sense came to me then of the marble wall against which
my feelings had hitherto dashed themselves. Would it be alway