Mariette! only this thought, and I fell on my knees beside her; our hands touched, and I kissed her dainty white fingers. Why was I certain in all my life never to know a like moment? Ah! never shall I experience the same mad joy; the delight of holding in mine the thin hands of my childhood's friend. It was that childhood I embraced; that other time, so free and pure, with its pretty welcoming air. "Do you remember when last we met?" I asked earnestly. She heaved a slight sigh, so like those of other days that tears rose to my eyes. "Yes," she murmured. "But--there, don't speak of it. Such memories must be painful to both of us." "If to you, none the less to me, Mariette," I replied, looking in her sad, sweet face. Her lips quivered, and a tear stole down her cheek. During a whole hour it was nothing but expressions of surprise and vain regrets. To the depths of our being we felt the force of these recollections, causing us to live over an almost forgotten period. I found in looking at her, in listening to her, my great soul and little body of that sweet other time. Once more I felt the immensity of the fields and of the sky; the fine smell of the leaves enthralled my senses, and the least sound was melody. Once more I lived the old free life over again. It was before I went to stay at Brussels, when I resided under the paternal roof on the edge of the dense Soignes forest, that Mariette and I were playmates and afterwards lovers. How well I recollect one halcyon day, the memory of which now comes before me in all its vividness. It was autumn. We were walking alone in the wood. The leaves floated down noiselessly upon the chill November air, leaving the naked branches like black lace against a grey, snow-laden sky. That day she admitted that she loved me, that she would be my wife. And all around us there was infinite space, coloured by the joyful imaginings of happy youth. We were speaking of it, when suddenly she withdrew her hand from mine, and a red flush mounted to her forehead. "But you soon forgot me when you went away," she said reproachfully. "I waited months, but you never wrote; then I heard how an actress had infatuated you. Yet--you are rich now, and the world looks leniently upon what it calls a wealthy man's folly." I could not prevent myself from frowning. "You mean Clementine Sucaret? People coupled our names without cause," I replied coldly, almost cruelly. Yet I knew she spoke the truth. "And I--I am mad," she whispered. I rose and looked at her. She was still seated, her eyes riveted upon the fire, her cheek resting upon her hand, appearing to have forgotten my presence. For a moment I remained in that position, then I reseated myself. There was nothing awkward in our silence. We felt too deeply for idle words. As we contemplated our past, the wind whistled without, the rain fell furiously, and from time to time I added a log to the fire and stirred the embers.