Another burst of grief overwhelmed her in which her whole tortured personality resisted and asserted itself. She seized Jean's photographs and kissed them frantically. She would fain detest all the rest of the world and give herself wholly to this one sacred memory. For the moment she spurned the opinion of Mme. de Calouas: "If it is a self-indulgence, let it be so! I yield myself to this self-indulgence! I love Jean, I have never loved any one but Jean!" In the old days she used to bicycle with Jean, and the two, side by side, often exchanging glances, sometimes throwing kisses, would roll breathlessly along the Norman roads, between the high, thick hedges where they were as if enclosed, with only one way out, where they had nothing to do but roll along. An auto would appear; Jean would go first, Odette following in his track, breathing his perfume until the cloud of dust and the smell of oil or of gasolene choked her. Sometimes, going slowly, they would take one another by the hand. She was flexible, slight, and lightly clothed; she would play acrobatic tricks on her machine, and her joyful agility would fill Jean with delight. Suddenly he would jump down, she would follow his example, and they would exchange a kiss, folded lingeringly in one another's arms. There was a little wayside inn where, under the arbor, they would call for cider with bread and white cheese. They had never met any one there; the wind would ruffle the foliage around them, the dog would gaze at them with a twinkle in his eye, the hostess would serve them with a smile. More often than elsewhere they used to go to the orchard, the incomparable orchard of the farm at the foot of the ruins of Saint-Gingolph, where they were welcomed as friends, both so young, so beautiful, so radiant with happiness. There in the autumn they would walk in the little paths bordered with sorrel and thyme; where dahlias were growing beside onions, where there were currant-bushes loaded with rubies, in a corner a fig-tree whose fruit never ripened, under which they must bend to go to the pear-trees. There Odette would bite into a pear as she passed it, and this would make Jean scold; he would gather the pear, nibble at the place which her teeth had damaged, and carry it to the good-natured farmer's wife, saying: "Just see what mischief we have done!" "Oh!" the farmer's wife would simply reply, "Madame seems to enjoy it so!" Delicious and terrible memories! Odette could not endure again to visit those places, so near, yet which would now have given her so much pain!