breakfast, at about eleven o'clock. The outing had been projected a long
time, and was to be the last of the season. Autumn approached, and the
cold breezes at night, began to make the air chilly.

On this particular morning, the sky maintained all its blue serenity.
It proved warm in the sun and tepid in the shade. The party decided that
they must take advantage of the last fine weather.

Hailing a passing cab they set out, accompanied by the pitiful
expressions of uneasiness, and the anxious effusions of the old mercer.
Crossing Paris, they left the vehicle at the fortifications, and gained
Saint-Ouen on foot. It was noon. The dusty road, brightly lit up by the
sun, had the blinding whiteness of snow. The air was intensely warm,
heavy and pungent. Therese, on the arm of Camille, walked with short
steps, concealing herself beneath her umbrella, while her husband fanned
his face with an immense handkerchief. Behind them came Laurent, who had
the sun streaming fiercely on the back of his neck, without appearing to
notice it. He whistled and kicked the stones before him as he strolled
along. Now and again there was a fierce glint in his eyes as he watched
Therese's swinging hips.

On reaching Saint-Ouen, they lost no time in looking for a cluster of
trees, a patch of green grass in the shade. Crossing the water to an
island, they plunged into a bit of underwood. The fallen leaves covered
the ground with a russety bed which cracked beneath their feet with
sharp, quivering sounds. Innumerable trunks of trees rose up erect,
like clusters of small gothic columns; the branches descended to the
foreheads of the three holiday makers, whose only view was the expiring
copper-like foliage, and the black and white stems of the aspens and
oaks. They were in the wilderness, in a melancholy corner, in a narrow