animal and its insect life.

Marie would not stop when they reached the crossway of the Croix de
Noailles, a spot where people congregate on Sundays, for she was
acquainted with secluded nooks which were far more charming
resting-places. When they reached the slope going down towards Poissy,
she roused Pierre, and they let their machines rush on. Then came all the
joyous intoxication of speed, the rapturous feeling of darting along
breathlessly while the grey road flees beneath one, and the trees on
either hand turn like the opening folds of a fan. The breeze blows
tempestuously, and one fancies that one is journeying yonder towards the
horizon, the infinite, which ever and ever recedes. It is like boundless
hope, delivery from every shackle, absolute freedom of motion through
space. And nothing can inspirit one more gloriously--one's heart leaps as
if one were in the very heavens.

"We are not going to Poissy, you know!" Marie suddenly cried; "we have to
turn to the left."

They took the road from Acheres to the Loges, which ascends and
contracts, thus bringing one closer together in the shade. Gradually
slowing down, they began to exert themselves in order to make their way
up the incline. This road was not so good as the others, it had been
gullied by the recent heavy rains, and sand and gravel lay about. But
then is there not even a pleasure in effort?

"You will get used to it," said Marie to Pierre; "it's amusing to
overcome obstacles. For my part I don't like roads which are invariably
smooth. A little ascent which does not try one's limbs too much rouses
and inspirits one. And it is so agreeable to find oneself strong, and