I walked at random. Finally I found myself in front of the enclosure where the statues of Hippomenes and Atalanta stand. That reminded me of a certain assignation. It was three years before, in the middle of winter. There had been a heavy fall of snow; the garden, the benches were covered with it, and it was very cold. But I had an assignation, and on such occasions one does not consult the thermometer. It was with a certain Lucile, who, for decency’s sake, called herself Madame Lejeune, and who mended cashmere shawls. She was very pretty, was Lucile. About twenty-three years old at that time, with a pretty, shapely figure, and an almost distinguished face which did not betray the grisette. I had an idea that her portrait was among those that I had preserved. She was accustomed to love madly for a fortnight; during the third week she calmed down, and ordinarily she was unfaithful by the end of the month. As I had been warned, I considered it more amusing to anticipate her, and to take up with another before the fortnight had expired. She did not forgive me; her self-esteem was wounded, for I have no idea that she would have been more constant with me than with others; but she tried to make me believe that she would have, and whenever I met her I could always detect a flavor of bitterness in her speech and anger in her glance. It was in front of that enclosure, close by those statues, that we had arranged to meet. I remembered that Lucile was there before me, despite the extreme cold. We had not known each other four days, and we adored each other. She did not reprove me for keeping her waiting, and yet her nose and chin were purple with cold, and her fingers were stiff; but her eyes burned. I put her into a cab and took her to dine at Pelletan’s, at the Pavillon-Français. It was one of the red-letter days of my bachelorhood. Very good, but the whole business was not worth one smile from Eugénie. I was about to turn away from Atalanta, when I saw within a few feet of me a lady dressed with some elegance, who was looking at me with a smile on her lips. “You must admit,” she said, “that the snow is all that is needed to make the resemblance complete.” It was Lucile! What a strange chance! I walked toward her. “You here, madame?” “Yes, monsieur; and I beg you to believe that I have not come here in search of memories.” “I am here, madame, by the merest chance. But, as I passed these statues, I remembered a certain assignation, one winter, and I confess that I was thinking of you.” “Really! Ah! that is most flattering on your part! You have to come to the Tuileries to do that, do you not, monsieur?” “If that were so, madame, you must admit that other men devote their thoughts to you. One aspirant more or less--you can hardly detect the difference.” “Ah! your remarks are exceedingly polite! But I am not surprised: you have never been anything but agreeable to me! You are the same as ever!”