Why?
Seeing that she was formerly pretty, and "crumy," blonde, curl, joyous. Saudres was not the man she would have selected. She was now fifty-two years of age. She seemed happy. Ah! if she had only loved him in days gone by; yes, if she had only loved him! And why should she not have loved him, he, Savel, seeing that he loved her so much, yes, she, Madame Saudres!
If only she could have divined something—Had she not divined anything, had she not seen anything, never comprehended anything? But! Then what would she have thought? If he had spoken what would she have answered?
And Savel asked himself a thousand other things. He reviewed his whole life, seeking to grasp again a multitude of details.
He recalled all the long evenings spent at the house of Saudres, when the latter's wife was young and so charming.
He recalled many things that she had said to him, the sweet intonations of her voice, the little significant smiles that meant so much.
He recalled the walks that the three of them had had, along the banks of the Seine, their lunches on the grass on the Sundays, for Saudres was employed at the sub-prefecture. And all at once the distant recollection came to him, of an afternoon spent with her in a little plantation on the banks of the river.
They had set out in the morning, carrying their provisions in baskets. It was a bright spring morning, one of those days which inebriate one. Everything smelt fresh, everything seemed happy. The voices of the birds sounded more joyous, and the flapping of their wings more rapid. They had lunch on the grass, under the willow trees, quite close to the water, which glittered in the sun's rays. The air was balmy, charged with the odors of fresh vegetation; they had drunk the most delicious wines. How pleasant everything was on that day!
After lunch, Saudres went to sleep on the broad of his back, "The best nap he had in his life," said he, when he woke up.
Madame Saudres had taken the arm of Savel, and they had started to walk along the river's bank.