He had not even been loved. No woman had gone to sleep with her head on his chest in the complete abandonment of love. He had never known the exquisite pain of waiting for someone to come, the heavenly thrill in the squeeze of a hand or the ecstasy of triumphant passion. What heavenly happiness must flood into your heart when lips meet for the first time, when four arms combine into a single being, the supremely happy unity of two creatures madly in love.

Monsieur Saval sat down in his dressing-gown and put his feet up close to the fire. No doubt about it, his life was a failure. A total failure. And yet he himself had loved. He had loved in secret, painfully and of course casually, as usual. Yes, he had been in love with Madame Sandres, the wife of his old chum Sandres, and now herself his old friend too. Oh, if only he had known her as a young woman! But he had been too late. When he met her she was already married. He would certainly have proposed to her, no question of that. And despite that, how he had loved her, constantly, from the very first day they had met! He remembered how he had felt every time he saw her and how sad he was to leave her side. He remembered now all the sleepless nights of his life that he had spent thinking about her. In the mornings he always used to wake up feeling a little bit less in love. Why was that?

How pretty she was in those days – a sweet, blonde, curly-headed little thing always bubbling with laughter. Sandres was not the man she ought to have married. Now she was fifty-eight. She seemed happy. Oh if only she had loved him back then. If only she had loved him! And why should she not have? Considering how much Saval loved Madame Sandres.

Saval began to wonder about a thousand more things. He went back over his entire life trying to recall a whole host of details. He remembered all the long evenings playing écarté2 at Sandres’ house when she was full of youthful charm. He remembered things she had said to him, the tone of her voice and the gentle, meaningful smiles she would give him. He remembered how the three of them used to go for walks along the banks of the Seine, the picnics they used to have, always on a Sunday, since Sandres worked in the administration.