But once, in the light and warmth of an autumn afternoon, this writer saw on the bench of a public square, in a poor Parisian suburb, an old and poor couple. They were sitting hand in hand, in silence, enjoying the pale light, the last warmth of the season. In silence: all words had been said, all passion exhausted, all storms at peace. The whole life was behind--yet all of it was now present, in this silence, in this light, in this warmth, in this silent unity of hands. Present--and ready for eternity, ripe for joy. This to me remains the vision of marriage, of its heavenly beauty.24