The body was too much weakened by the attack of fever, and even by the process of its cure, to permit him any violent emotions, and the universal joy of spring which wrapped him round carried his thoughts instinctively to images of joy. He had always obstinately refused to tell his family of the danger which he had been in, and when he was well again his father did not even know that he had been ill. One evening we had sat at the window later than usual; the weather had been superb, and the sun sank to sleep in a twilight dazzling with gold and azure. Though we were in Paris, the verdure which surrounded us seemed to shut us off from the world, and our conversation was only now and again disturbed by the sound of a passing vehicle. “It was about this time of the year, on the evening of a day like this, that I first met Marguerite,” said Armand to me, as if he were listening to his own thoughts rather than to what I was saying. I did not answer. Then turning toward me, he said: “I must tell you the whole story; you will make a book out of it; no one will believe it, but it will perhaps be interesting to do.” “You will tell me all about it later on, my friend,” I said to him; “you are not strong enough yet.” “It is a warm evening, I have eaten my ration of chicken,” he said to me, smiling; “I have no fever, we have nothing to do, I will tell it to you now.” “Since you really wish it, I will listen.” This is what he told me, and I have scarcely changed a word of the touching story. Yes (Armand went on, letting his head sink back on the chair), yes, it was just such an evening as this. I had spent the day in the country with one of my friends, Gaston R—. We returned to Paris in the evening, and not knowing what to do we went to the Variétés. We went out during one of the _entr’actes_, and a tall woman passed us in the corridor, to whom my friend bowed. “Whom are you bowing to?” I asked. “Marguerite Gautier,” he said. “She seems much changed, for I did not recognise her,” I said, with an emotion that you will soon understand. “She has been ill; the poor girl won’t last long.” I remember the words as if they had been spoken to me yesterday. I must tell you, my friend, that for two years the sight of this girl had made a strange impression on me whenever I came across her. Without knowing why, I turned pale and my heart beat violently. I have a friend who studies the occult sciences, and he would call what I experienced “the affinity of fluids”; as for me, I only know that I was fated to fall in love with Marguerite, and that I foresaw it. It is certainly the fact that she made a very definite impression upon me, that many of my friends had noticed it and that they had been much amused when they saw who it was that made this impression upon me.