"I don't know. 'Tis the moon and the water that have affected me. Every time I see poetic things, they seize hold of my heart, and I have to cry." He smiled, moved himself, considering her feminine emotion charming--the emotion of a poor little woman whom every sensation overwhelms. And he embraced her passionately, stammering: "My little Lise, you are exquisite." What a charming love affair short-lived and dainty it had been, and all over too so quickly, cut short in the midst of its ardor by this old brute of a Baron, who had carried off his wife, and never shown her afterwards to anyone! Lormerin had forgotten, in good sooth, at the end of two or three months. One woman drives out the other so quickly in Paris when one is a bachelor! No matter he had kept a little chapel for her in his heart, for he had loved her alone! He assured himself now that this was so. He rose up, and said: "Certainly, I will go and dine with her this evening!" And instinctively he turned round towards the glass in order to inspect himself from head to foot. He reflected: "She must have grown old unpleasantly, more than I have!" And he felt gratified at the thought of showing himself to her still handsome, still fresh, of astonishing her, perhaps of filling her with emotion, and making her regret those bygone days so far, far distant! He turned his attention to the other letters. They were not of importance. The whole day, he kept thinking of this phantom. What was she like now? How funny it was to meet in this way after twenty-five years! Would he alone recognize her? He made his toilet with feminine coquetry, put on a white waistcoat, which suited him better with the coat, sent for the hairdresser to give him a finishing touch with the curling-iron, for he had preserved his hair, and started very early in order to show his eagerness to see her. The first thing he saw on entering a pretty drawing-room freshly furnished, was his own portrait, an old faded photograph, dating from the days of his good-fortune, hanging on the wall in an antique silk frame. He sat down and waited. A door opened behind him. He rose up abruptly, and, turning round, beheld an old woman with white hair who extended both hands towards him. He seized them, kissed them one after the other with long, long kisses, then, lifting up his head, he gazed at the woman he had loved. Yes, it was an old lady, an old lady whom he did not recognize, and who, while she smiled, seemed ready to weep. He could not abstain from murmuring: "It is you, Lise?" She replied: