remembered, as he looked at the women that passed him, how pretty and
charming she was. Like many others who do not admit it, he had always
been waiting to meet the "impossible she," to find the rare, unique,
poetic and passionate being, the dream of whom hovers over our hearts.
Had he not almost found it? Was it not she who might have given him
this almost impossible happiness? Why, then, is it true that nothing
is realized? Why can one seize nothing of that which he pursues, or can
succeed only in grasping a phantom, which renders still more grievous
this pursuit of illusions?

He was no longer resentful toward her; it was life itself that made him
bitter. Now that he was able to reason, he asked himself what cause
for anger he had against her? With what could he reproach her, after
all?--with being amiable, kind, and gracious toward him, while she
herself might well reproach him for having behaved like a villain!

He returned home full of sadness. He would have liked to ask her pardon,
to devote himself to her, to make her forget; and he pondered as to how
he might enable her to comprehend that henceforth, until death, he would
be obedient to all her wishes.

The next day she arrived, accompanied by her daughter, with a smile so
sad, an expression so pathetic, that the painter fancied he could see in
those poor blue eyes, that had always been so merry, all the pain, all
the remorse, all the desolation of that womanly heart. He was moved to
pity, and, in order that she might forget, he showed toward her with
delicate reserve the most thoughtful attentions. She acknowledged them
with gentleness and kindness, with the weary and languid manner of a
woman who suffers.