they have their own season, and I am happy to come back to them, since their season has returned."
"That," thought Leonor, "is better; it's almost good.... Is Hervart still at Robinvast? I hope not. His holiday wasn't indefinite, I should think. Suppose I wrote to Gratienne?"
".... You flowers that the touch of my Beloved made to blossom in my heart, you perfume my soul, you intoxicate my senses ...."
Intoxicate my senses... Is it necessary to remember myself to Gratienne? I would as soon get my information from another source."
".... intoxicate my senses. My body trembles at the thought of the night at Compiégne, every moment of which is a star that shines in my dreams. I did not know what love was...."
"Who does know what love is?... I don't feel bound to answer that to-day. Now I come to think of it I don't know where Gratienne is. She must have left almost at the same time as I did. Let's leave it at that ..."
