We were alone, the window was open, the murmur of a little fountain came to us from the garden. O God! would that I could count, drop by drop, all the water that fell while we were sitting there, while she was talking and I was responding. It was there that I became intoxicated with her to the point of madness. It is said that there is nothing so rapid as a feeling of antipathy, but I believe that the road to love is more swiftly traversed. Of what avail are words spoken with the lips when hearts listen and respond? What sweetness in the glance of a woman who begins to attract you! At first it seems as though everything that passes between you is timid and tentative, but soon there is born a strange joy, and echo answers the voice of love; the thrill of a dual life is felt. What a touch! What a strange attraction! And when love is sure of itself and recognizes fraternity in the object beloved, what serenity in the soul! Words die on the lips, for each one knows what the other is about to say before utterance has shaped the thought. Souls expand, lips are silent. Oh! what silence! What forgetfulness of all! Although my love began the first day and had since grown to excess, the respect I felt for Madame Pierson sealed my lips. If she had been less frank in permitting me to become her friend, perhaps I would have been more bold, for she had made such a strong impression on me, that I never quitted her without transports of love. But there was something in her frankness and the confidence she placed in me, that checked me; moreover, it was in my father's name that I had been treated as a friend. That consideration rendered me still more respectful and I resolved to prove worthy of that name. To talk of love, they say, is to make love. We rarely spoke of it. Every time I happened to touch the subject Madame Pierson led the conversation to some other topic. I did not discern her motive, but it was not prudery; it seemed to me that at such times her face took on a stern aspect and a wave of feeling, even of suffering, passed over it. As I had never questioned her about her past life and was unwilling to do so, I respected her obvious wishes. Sunday there was dancing in the village; she was almost always there. On those occasions her toilet, although always simple, was more elegant than usual; there was a flower in her hair, a bright ribbon, or some such bagatelle; but there was something youthful and fresh about her. The dance, which she loved for itself as an amusing exercise, seemed to inspire her with a frolicsome gaiety. Once launched on the floor, it seemed to me she allowed herself more liberty than usual, that there was an unusual familiarity. I did not dance, being still in mourning, but I managed to keep near her, and, seeing her in such good humor, I was often tempted to confess my love.