“_... I don’t care how long I have to wait: I don’t mind what they say: indeed, I don’t mind anything since I have been in love. They are keeping me at Saint Clair, but Argelouse is not so far off that Jean and I cannot meet. Do you remember the pigeon-shooters’ hut? Why, it was you, darling, that chose beforehand the places where I was to know such happiness.... Oh, please don’t think we do anything we should not. He is so considerate. You have no idea what a boy of his kind is like. He has studied and read a great deal, like you: but I don’t mind that in a young man and I never think of teasing him about it. I do not know what I would give to be as clever as you are. Oh, my darling, I wonder what your happiness can be like, if the mere approach to it is so exquisite. When I sit beside him in the hut, where you used to like to take our lunch, and his hand lies still on my heart,--and I put my hand on his (it is what he calls: ‘the last caress allowed’), I feel happiness within me like something that I could touch. I tell myself that there is yet another joy beyond this one; and when Jean goes away, quite pale, the memory of our caresses, the thought of the next day and all that it will bring, makes me deaf to the complaints and prayers and insults of those poor people who do not know ... have never known: Darling, forgive me: I talk to you about this happiness as if you did not know it either: and yet I am only a novice beside you: and also I am sure that you will be on our side against these cruel people._” Thérèse opened the third envelope: only a brief scrawl. “_Do come, darling: they have separated us, and I am not allowed out of sight. They believe that you will be on their side. I have said that I will abide by your judgement. I will explain everything: he is not ill.... I am happy though I suffer. I am happy to suffer because of him and his suffering is a joy to me because it is the proof of his love for me...._” Thérèse read no further. As she slipped the sheet into the envelope, she saw a photograph inside it that she had not noticed; she stood near the window and examined the face: it was that of a youth whose head, owing to his thick hair, seemed too large for him. Thérèse recognized the place where the photograph had been taken: an embankment on which Jean Azévédo stood up like David (behind him was a stretch of heath on which sheep were pasturing). His coat was over his arm: and his shirt a little open ... (“the last caress allowed”). Thérèse raised her eyes and was amazed at the reflection of her face in the mirror. It cost her an effort to unclench her teeth and swallow. She rubbed her temples and forehead with eau-de-Cologne.