“Bruno’s trout always have the best flavor,” once remarked Andoche, “and I do not understand how he coaxes them to bite.” And now Bruno was grown to manhood. One morning toward the end of November, after a successful expedition, the result of which was a fine trout of enormous size, Bruno was returning home by way of a secluded path through the woods, dreaming of his love for Catherine, when he met the object of his thoughts face to face. The gamekeeper’s wife involuntarily stopped. Bruno’s face changed color. At this moment Jacques Percier made his appearance. He quickly passed by, but just as he was about to disappear behind a hedge of walnut trees he turned and saw the gamekeeper’s wife still standing in front of Bruno. Knowing Bruno’s mad infatuation for Catherine, Jacques fancied he had stumbled upon a rendezvous, and the stupid fellow hid himself behind the trees to watch proceedings. Catherine approached closer to Bruno. “You are a brave defender,” said she, referring to his action on the day of Suzanne’s wedding. “No, Madame--oh, no. It was nothing. Why do you say that?” “You know perfectly well, Bruno,” she replied. “Ah, if you had only told me your sentiments before my marriage.” Bruno tremblingly whispered: “Do not speak like that, Catherine, for we know not what may happen.” “And why shouldn’t I say it? I express a regret. If I only had known then what I know now.” “Ah, then you know----” “I know that you were exposed to death for my sake that day.” “O Madame, surely you exaggerate.” “At all events, I must admire your heroism. I know that at Suzanne’s reception you tried to defend me against the man I have married. And you do not wish me to reproach myself for not having guessed your secret? Alas! the past cannot be changed, but if I were your wife----” “I beg of you, be silent! I shall go mad.” “Oh, I too am miserable. Still, that shall not prevent me from thanking you.” She extended her hand. Poor Bruno knew not what to do. “It is not necessary to speak of the little I have done. It was but selfishness on my part.” Catherine, who was silent for a moment, decided to change the subject. “You have there a fine fish,” she said, for want of a better theme. “Will you not accept it, Madame?” “Oh, no, my poor friend, no. What should I do with it? Should I not be obliged to tell _him_ where I got it?” Him! That word strangely impressed Bruno. For the second time she had designated her husband without speaking his name, as though the sound were odious to her. “Never mind,” he said. “Take the trout, please. It will give me great pleasure if you will.”