ill not be an amusing tale; for I am going to relate to you
the most lamentable love affair of my life, and I sincerely hope that
none of my friends have ever passed through a similar experience."

I

I was at the time twenty-five years of age, and I was making daubs along
the coast of Normandy. I call "making daubs" that wandering about, with
a bag on one's back, from mountain to mountain, under the pretext of
studying and of sketching nature. I know nothing more enjoyable than
that happy-go-lucky wandering life, in which one is perfectly free,
without shackles of any kind, without care, without preoccupation,
without thinking even of to-morrow. One goes in any direction one
pleases, without any guide, save his fancy, without any counselor save
his eyes. One pulls up, because a running brook seduces one, because one
is attracted, in front of an inn, by the smell of potatoes frying.
Sometimes it is the perfume of clematis which decides one in his choice,
or the naive glance of the servant at an inn. Do not despise me for my
affection for these rustics. These girls have a soul as well as feeling,
not to mention firm cheeks and fresh lips; while their hearty and
willing kisses have the flavor of wild fruit. Love always has its price,
come whence it may. A heart that beats when you make your appearance, an
eye that weeps when you go away, are things so rare, so sweet, so
precious, that they must never be despised.

I have had rendezvoux in ditches in which cattle repose, and in barns
among the straw, still steaming from the heat of the day. I have
recollections of canvas being spread on rude and elastic benches, and of
hearty and fresh, free kisses, more delicate and unaffectedly sincere
than the subtle attractions of charming and distinguished women.

But what one loves most amidst all these varied adventures is the
country, the woods, the risings of the sun, the twilight, the light of
the moon. These are, for the painter, honeymoon trips with nature. One
is alone with her in that long and tranquil rendezvous. You go to bed in
the fields, amidst marguerites and wild poppies, and, with eyes wide
open, you watch the going down of the sun, and descry in the distance
the little village, with its pointed clock tower, which sounds the hour
of midnight.

You sit down by the side of a spring which gushes out from the foot of
an oak, amidst a covering of fragile herbs, upright and redolent of
life. You go down on your knees