It would be difficult to give you all the details of our new life. It
was made up of a series of little childish events, charming for us but
insignificant to any one else. You know what it is to be in love with
a woman, you know how it cuts short the days, and with what loving
listlessness one drifts into the morrow. You know that forgetfulness of
everything which comes of a violent confident, reciprocated love. Every
being who is not the beloved one seems a useless being in creation. One
regrets having cast scraps of one's heart to other women, and one can
not believe in the possibility of ever pressing another hand than that
which one holds between one's hands. The mind admits neither work nor
remembrance; nothing, in short, which can distract it from the one
thought in which it is ceaselessly absorbed. Every day one discovers in
one's mistress a new charm and unknown delights. Existence itself is but
the unceasing accomplishment of an unchanging desire; the soul is but
the vestal charged to feed the sacred fire of love.

We often went at night-time to sit in the little wood above the house;
there we listened to the cheerful harmonies of evening, both of us
thinking of the coming hours which should leave us to one another till
the dawn of day. At other times we did not get up all day; we did not
even let the sunlight enter our room.