And standing in front of her, Goujet looked at her all the while; under the bright light cast by the lamp-shade he could see her well. How aged and altered she seemed! The heat was melting the snow on her hair and clothes, and she was dripping. Her poor wagging head was quite grey; there were any number of grey locks which the wind had disarranged. Her neck sank into her shoulders and she had become so fat and ugly you might have cried on noticing the change. He recollected their love, when she was quite rosy, working with her irons, and showing the child-like crease which set such a charming necklace round her throat. In those times he had watched her for hours, glad just to look at her. Later on she had come to the forge, and there they had enjoyed themselves whilst he beat the iron, and she stood by watching his hammer dance. How often at night, with his head buried in his pillow, had he dreamed of holding her in his arms. Gervaise rose; she had finished. She remained for a moment with her head lowered, and ill at ease. Then, thinking she detected a gleam in his eyes, she raised her hand to her jacket and began to unfasten the first button. But Goujet had fallen on his knees, and taking hold of her hands, he exclaimed softly: “I love you, Madame Gervaise; oh! I love you still, and in spite of everything, I swear it to you!” “Don’t say that, Monsieur Goujet!” she cried, maddened to see him like this at her feet. “No, don’t say that; you grieve me too much.” And as he repeated that he could never love twice in his life, she became yet more despairing. “No, no, I am too ashamed. For the love of God get up. It is my place to be on the ground.” He rose, he trembled all over and stammered: “Will you allow me to kiss you?” Overcome with surprise and emotion she could not speak, but she assented with a nod of the head. After all she was his; he could do what he chose with her. But he merely kissed her. “That suffices between us, Madame Gervaise,” he muttered. “It sums up all our friendship, does it not?” He had kissed her on the forehead, on a lock of her grey hair. He had not kissed anyone since his mother’s death. His sweetheart Gervaise alone remained to him in life. And then, when he had kissed her with so much respect, he fell back across his bed with sobs rising in his throat. And Gervaise could not remain there any longer. It was too sad and too abominable to meet again under such circumstances when one loved. “I love you, Monsieur Goujet,” she exclaimed. “I love you dearly, also. Oh! it isn’t possible you still love me. Good-bye, good-bye; it would smother us both; it would be more than we could stand.”