I have promised you a muff, and I will give you one later on, as my friend Jacques did to his poor love Francine, who had become his mistress, as I have explained in the line left blank above.
She was fair was Francine, fair and lovely, which is not usual.

She had remained ignorant of love until she was twenty, but a vague presentiment of her approaching end counselled her not to delay if she would become acquainted with it.
She met Jacques and loved him.

Their connection lasted six months.

They had taken one another in the spring; they were parted in the autumn.
Francine was consumptive.

She knew it and her lover Jacques knew it too; a fortnight after he had taken up with her he had learned it from one of his friends, who was a doctor.
"She will go with the autumn leaves," said the latter.
Francine heard this confidence, and perceived the grief it caused her lover.
"What matters the autumn leaves ?" said she, putting the whole of her love into a smile.