To the right of us was a newly ploughed hillside, whose deep brown tones contrasted violently with a broad zone of orange-coloured light thrown on them by the setting sun; overhead great masses of deep blue-gray clouds piled themselves up like aerial mountain chains. Here and there, where weeds were burning on the hillsides, the light spirals of their smoke arose in white clouds, and slowly mingled with the vapours of the evening mists. To complete all, on the crest of the hill some cattle were slowly moving along to the monotonous jangling of their bells. As they stood out, so black, against the horizon, crimsoned as it was by the last glow of daylight, they seemed to be of colossal size. Why was it that such a scene, so calm and peaceful, should have affected me so painfully? Hélène was thoughtfully leaning on my arm. After a long silence she said: "I do not know how to explain it, but I seem to be chilled to the heart." Absorbed as I was by the sad thoughts I was trying to conceal from Hélène, this community of impressions struck me forcibly. "It is only nervousness," said I; "it is because of this dark and dismal weather." After this we continued our walk in silence. In truth, I am ashamed to avow the cause of my discontent; it was childish, weak, even silly. It was the first time in my life that I was taken possession of by that insurmountable desire for independence and solitude, whose influence I so often felt in after life, sometimes even in the midst of the utmost gaiety and dissipation. I loved Hélène, almost to adoration; every moment spent away from her was torture to me, and yet on that day, without any reason, and not out of spitefulness, Hélène having been as sweet and affectionate towards me as she always was, for some unknown reason I felt that I was really unhappy. It made me wretched to think that I should be obliged to appear in the salon that evening to be polite to my guests, and to reply to the tender appeals of Hélène. After being so impressed by the melancholy aspect of nature, it would have been pleasant to be able to spend my evening in dreaming, meditating, reading, in the midst of profound silence, one of my favourite books; but, above everything, I wanted to be entirely alone. Nothing was to prevent my going to my own rooms and remaining there; but I knew that there were people in the house. I should have to give some reason for my behaviour; I should have to answer questions, kindly ones, no doubt, as to my state of health, but which would be intolerable to me; therefore, I made up my mind that I was a perfectly miserable being because I would not be able to spend my evening all alone.