"I was working on the declivity which led to the Valley of Etretat. On
this particular morning I had, by chance, the sort of floating vapor
which I needed. Suddenly something rose up in front of me like a phantom;
it was Miss Harriet. On seeing me she was about to flee. But I called
after her, saying: 'Come here, come here, mademoiselle. I have a nice
little picture for you.'

"She came forward, though with seeming reluctance. I handed her my
sketch. She said nothing, but stood for a long time, motionless, looking
at it, and suddenly she burst into tears. She wept spasmodically, like
men who have striven hard to restrain their tears, but who can do so no
longer and abandon themselves to grief, though still resisting. I sprang
to my feet, moved at the sight of a sorrow I did not comprehend, and I
took her by the hand with an impulse of brusque affection, a true French
impulse which acts before it reflects.

"She let her hands rest in mine for a few seconds, and I felt them quiver
as if all her nerves were being wrenched. Then she withdrew her hands
abruptly, or, rather, snatched them away.

"I recognized that tremor, for I had felt it, and I could not be
deceived. Ah! the love tremor of a woman, whether she be fifteen or fifty
years of age, whether she be of the people or of society, goes so
straight to my heart that I never have any hesitation in understanding
it!

"Her whole frail being had trembled, vibrated, been overcome. I knew it.
She walked away before I had time to say a word, leaving me as surprised
as if I had witnessed a miracle and as troubled as if I had committed a
crime.