The less one has had for breakfast, the more one wants for dinner. I had felt all the force of this axiom long before the sun had finished its course. Among the strollers whom the mild air had attracted to the Tuileries this afternoon to watch the first smiles of spring playing on the faces of the marble fauns, the observant might have noted a young man of irreproachable appearance who seemed to study the awakening of nature with extraordinary interest. Not satisfied with devouring the fresh verdure with his eyes, he would furtively detach the young, appetizing shoots and the half-opened leaves from their stems, and put them to his lips with the curiosity of a botanist. I convinced myself in this way that this form of nourishment, suggested by accounts of shipwrecks, is of very little value. Still, I enriched my experience with some interesting discoveries: for instance, I know now that the foliage of the chestnut has an exceedingly bitter taste; that the rose is not unpleasant; that the lime is oily and rather agreeable; the lilac pungent—and I believe unwholesome. Meditating on these discoveries, I walked towards Hélène’s convent. I found the parlour as crowded as a hive, and I was more than usually bewildered by the tumultuous confidences of the young bees. Hélène arrived, her hair in disorder, her cheeks flushed, her eyes red and sparkling. In her hand she had a piece of bread as long as her arm. As she embraced me in an absent way, I asked: "Well, little girl, what is the matter? You’ve been crying." "No, Maxime, no, it’s nothing." "Well, what is it? Now tell me...." In a lower tone she said: "Oh, I am very miserable, dear Maxime!" "Really? Tell me all about it while you eat your bread." "Oh, I shall certainly not eat my bread. I am too miserable to eat. You know Lucy—Lucy Campbell, my dearest friend. Well, we’ve quarrelled completely." "Oh, _mon Dieu_! Don’t worry, darling, you’ll make it up. It will be all right, dear."