oved. No woman had reposed on his bosom, in a
complete abandon of love. He knew nothing of the delicious anguish of
expectation, the divine vibration of a hand in yours, of the ecstasy of
triumphant passion.

What superhuman happiness must overflow your heart, when lips encounter
lips for the first time, when the grasp of four arms makes one being of
you, a being unutterably happy, two beings infatuated with one another.

M. Saval was sitting before the fire, his feet on the fender, in his
dressing gown. Assuredly his life had been spoiled, completely spoiled.
He had, however, loved. He had loved secretly, sadly, and indifferently,
in a manner characteristic of him in everything. Yes, he had loved his
old friend, Madame Sandres, the wife of his old companion, Sandres. Ah!
if he had known her as a young girl! But he had met her too late; she
was already married. Unquestionably, he would have asked her hand! How
he had loved her, nevertheless, without respite, since the first day he
set eyes on her!

He recalled his emotion every time he saw her, his grief on leaving her,
the many nights that he could not sleep, because he was thinking of her.

On rising in the morning he was somewhat more rational than on the
previous evening.

Why?

How pretty she was formerly, so dainty, with fair curly hair, and always
laughing. Sandres was not the man she should have chosen. She was now
fifty-two years of age. She seemed happy. Ah! if she had only loved him
in days gone by; yes, if she had only loved him! And why should she not
have loved him, he, Saval, seeing that he loved her so much, yes, she,
Madame Sandres!

If only she could have guessed. Had she not guessed anything, seen
anything, comprehended anything? What would she have thought? If he had
spoken, what would she have answered?

And Saval asked himself a thousand other things. He reviewed his whole
life, seeking to recall a multitude of details.

He recalled all the long evenings spent at the house of Sandres, when
the latter's wife was young, and so charming.

He recalled many things that she had said to him, the intonations of her
voice, the little significant smiles that meant so much.

He recalled their walks, the three of them together, along the banks
of the Seine, their luncheon on the grass on Sundays, for Sandres
was employed at the sub-prefecture. And all at once the distinct
recollection came to him of an afternoon spent with her in a little wood
on