“Balion came for orders when he was going in to Saint Clair on the following day. Aunt Clara drew up the list of commissions, and put together the prescriptions for the sick of Argelouse. ‘You will go to the chemist in the first place; Darquey will want quite the whole day to make them all up....’” * * * * * “My first meeting with Jean.... I must remember every detail: I had decided to go to that deserted shooting-hut where I used to eat my lunch with Anne and where I knew, since then, she had so loved to meet her Azévédo. No, I did not look upon it as a pilgrimage. But the pines in that neighbourhood have grown so tall that it is no longer possible to watch for pigeons there, so I ran no risk of disturbing the sportsmen. That shooting-hut was useless now, for the surrounding forest hid the horizon; the tree-tops were no longer far enough apart to reveal those broad vistas of sky against which the watcher sees the rising flights of birds. How well I remember: the October sun was still hot: I toiled along that sandy road, tormented by flies. And how heavy I felt! I longed to sit down on the mouldering bench inside the hut.” As I opened the door a young man came out, bareheaded; at the first glance I recognised Jean Azévédo, and at first I thought I was intruding on a rendezvous, his expression looked so confused. I wanted to go away but he would not let me; it was strange that he was so intent on my remaining: ‘Not at all, please come in, Madame; I assure you that you are not disturbing me in the least.’ Why did he ask me if one could see from outside what was going on inside the hut? I was astonished that there was no one there when I went in, as he insisted. Perhaps the shepherdess had fled by another exit? But I had not heard the rustle of a single twig. He, too, had recognised me, and he was the first to mention Anne de la Trave’s name. I was sitting down; he standing up, just as in the photograph. I looked through his tussore shirt at the place where I had stuck the pin: mere curiosity, without any warmer feeling; I remembered without the slightest irritation what Anne had written to me: ‘I press my hand against the place where I can feel his heart beating ... what he calls the last caress allowed.’ Handsome? A high forehead, the velvet eyes of his race,--cheeks too large;--and, what I so dislike in young men of his age,--spots, the signs of overheated blood; a general unpleasant clamminess; and worst of all, moist palms,--which he had to wipe with a handkerchief before shaking hands. But he had fine burning eyes, and I liked his wide mouth, always a little open to display his pointed teeth, like a puppy panting with the heat.