"She got out at Saint-Cloud, and I followed her. She went and delivered
her parcel, and when she returned, the boat had just started. I walked by
her side, and the warmth of the air made us both sigh. 'It would be very
nice in the woods,' I said. 'Indeed, it would!' she replied. 'Shall we go
there for a walk, Mademoiselle?'

"She gave me a quick, upward look, as if to see exactly what I was like,
and then, after a little hesitation, she accepted my proposal, and soon
we were there, walking side by side. Under the foliage, which was still
rather thin, the tall, thick, bright, green grass, was inundated by the
sun, and full of small insects that also made love to one another, and
birds were singing in all directions. My companion began to jump and to
run, intoxicated by the air, and the smell of the country, and I ran and
jumped behind her. How stupid we are at times, Monsieur!

"Then she wildly sang a thousand things; opera airs, and the song of
_Musette_! The song of _Musette_! How poetical it seemed to me, then! I
almost cried over it. Ah! Those silly songs make us lose our heads; and,
believe me, never marry a woman who sings in the country, especially if
she sings the song of _Musette_!

"She soon grew tired, and sat down on a grassy slope, and I sat down at
her feet, and took her hands, her little hands, that were so marked with
the needle, and that moved me. I said to myself: 'These are the sacred
marks of toil.' Oh! Monsieur, do you know what those sacred marks of
labor mean? They mean all the gossip of the workroom, the whispered
blackguardism, the mind soiled by all the filth that is talked; they mean
lost chastity, foolish chatter, all the wretchedness of daily bad habits,
all the narrowness of ideas which belongs to women of the lower orders,
united in the girl whose sacred fingers bear _the sacred marks of toil_.