"Not a doubt of it, my friend, not a doubt of it. I have been through it myself." He was silent, and his eyes wandered away to the faroff woods, perhaps back to those distant memories of his. A shadow rested on his strong face, but only for an instant. He shook off his depression, and his old smile came back as he said: "It's serious, then?" "Yes, very serious." "I'm not surprised; she is a very pretty girl." "Isn't she lovely?" "Better than that, my friend; she is good. What do you know about her?" "Only that she is a bad dancer." "That's something, to be sure." "But it isn't all." "Well, no. But never mind, find out the rest, speak to her, declare your passion, ask for her hand, and marry her." "Good heavens, Sylvestre, you are going ahead!" "My dear fellow, that is the best and wisest plan; these vague idyls ought to be hurried on, either to a painless separation or an honorable end in wedlock. In your place I should begin to-morrow." "Why not to-day?" "How so?" "Let's catch them up, and see her again at least." He began to laugh. "Run after young girls at my age! Well, well, it was my advice. Come along!" We crossed the avenue, and plunged into the forest. Lampron had formerly acquired a reputation for tireless agility among the fox-hunters of the Roman Campagna. He still deserves it. In twenty strides he left me behind. I saw him jumping over the heather, knocking off with his cane the young shoots on the oaks, or turning his head to look at me as I struggled after, torn by brambles and pricked by gorse. A startled pheasant brought him to a halt. The bird rose under his feet and soared into the full light. "Isn't it beautiful?" said he. "Look out, we must be more careful; we are scaring the game. We should come upon the path they took, about sixty yards ahead." Five minutes later he was signalling to me from behind the trunk of a great beech. "Here they are." Jeanne and M. Charnot were seated on a fallen trunk beside the path, which here was almost lost beneath the green boughs. Their backs were toward us. The old man, with his shoulders bent and his goldknobbed cane stuck into the ground beside him, was reading out of a book which we could not see, while Jeanne, attentive, motionless, her face half turned toward him, was listening. Her profile was outlined against a strip of clear sky. The deep silence of the wood wrapped us round, and we could hear the old scholar's voice; it just reached us.