“Mon Dieu! it’s hot!” he remarked to another occupant of the seat.
This was a woman, and, as he saw when she turned her face towards him, an exceedingly handsome woman. Her white lawn and black silk headdress, coming to a tiny crown just covering the parting of her full, wavy hair, proclaimed her of the neighboring town of Arles. She had all the Arlésienne’s Roman beauty—the finely chiselled features, the calm, straight brows, the ripe lips, the soft oval contour, the clear olive complexion. She had also lustrous brown eyes; but these were full of tears. She only turned them on him for a moment; then she resumed her apparently interrupted occupation of sobbing. Aristide was a soft-hearted man. He drew nearer.
“Why, you’re crying, madame!” said he.
“Evidently,” murmured the lady.
“To cry scalding tears in this weather! It’s too hot! Now, if you could only cry iced water there would be something refreshing in it.”
“You jest, monsieur,” said the lady, drying her eyes.
“By no means,” said he. “The sight of so beautiful a woman in distress is painful.”
“Ah!” she sighed. “I am very unhappy.”
Aristide drew nearer still.
“Who,” said he, “is the wretch that has dared to make you so?”