It was there that for one hour he lived over again his former happiness.
For, by a phenomenon well known to drinkers of absinthe, he regulated and governed his intoxication, and it gave him the dream that he desired.
"Boy, one glass of absinthe!" And once more he became the young husband, who adores his dear Lucie and is adored by her.
It is winter, he is seated in the corner by the fire, and before him, sitting in the light reflected by a green lampshade upon which dark silhouettes of jockey-riders are running at full speed, his wife is busying herself with some embroidery.

Every few moments they look at each other and smile, he over his book and she over her work; the lover never tired of admiring Lucie's delicate fingers.

She is too pretty! Suddenly he falls at her feet, slips his arm about her waist, and gives her a long kiss; then, overcome with languor, he puts his head upon his beloved's knees and hears her say to him, in a low voice: "That is right! Go to sleep!" and her soft hands lightly stroke his hair.
"Boy, one glass of absinthe!" They are in that beautiful field filled with flowers, near the woods in Verrieres, upon a fine June afternoon when the sun is low.

She has made a magnificent bouquet of field flowers.

She stops at intervals to add a cornflower, and he follows, carrying her mantle and umbrella.