The Gods are Athirst by Anatole France

It was ten o'clock in the forenoon. The April sun bathed the tender leafage of the trees in light. A storm had cleared the air during the night and it was deliciously fresh and sweet. At long intervals a horseman passing along the Allee des Veuves broke the silence and solitude. On the outskirts of the shady avenue, over against a rustic cottage known as _La Belle Lilloise_, Evariste sat on a wooden bench waiting for Elodie. Since the day their fingers had met over the embroidery and their breaths had mingled, he had never been back to the _Amour peintre_. For a whole week his proud stoicism and his timidity, which grew more extreme every day, had kept him away from Elodie.

He had written her a letter conceived in a key of gravity, at once sombre and ardent, in which, explaining the grievance he had against the _citoyen_ Blaise, but saying no word of his love and concealing his chagrin, he announced his intention of never returning to her father's shop, and was now showing greater steadfastness in keeping this resolution than a woman in love was quite likely to approve.