Part 2 (2/2)

”Oh, I know him very well. I've often exchanged seeds and slips with him. Does he still live where he used to?”

”I believe so.”

We were not long seeking him out, and in response to our knocking his good wife opened the door.

”Oh, he's out in his garden,” was her reply to our queries. ”You can't keep him away from it. But he's going crazy, I think. He wants to attend to everything all by himself now. There isn't a soul left to help him, and he'll kill himself, or be killed at it as sure as I'm alive. You'll see, the sh.e.l.ls won't miss him. He's escaped so far but he may not always be so lucky. He's already had a steel splinter in his thumb, and one of them tore a hole in his cap and in his waistcoat.

That's close enough, I should think. But there's no use of my talking; he just won't listen to me. He's mad about gardening. That's what he is!”

On the old woman's a.s.surance that we would find him by pounding hard on the gateway leading to the Avenue de la Gare, we hastened away, leaving her to babble her imprecations to a lazy tabby cat who lay sunning itself in a low window box.

The old fellow being a trifle deaf we were destined to beat a rather lengthy tattoo on the high iron gate. But our efforts were crowned with success, for presently we heard his steps approaching, his sabots crunching on the gravel path.

His face lighted up when he saw us.

”Oh, I remember you, of course I do. You're the lady who used to have the American sweet peas and the Dorothy Perkins. I know you! And the dahlias I gave you? How did they turn out?”

I grew red and sought to change the conversation. Perhaps he saw and understood.

”Come and see mine anyway!”

That sight alone would have made the trip worth while.

”I cut the gra.s.s this very morning so as they'd show off better!

They're so splendid this year that I've put some in the garden at the Hotel de Ville.”

Further on the _Gloire de Dijon, La France_ and _Marechal Niels_ spread forth all their magnificent odorous glory onto the balmy air of this Isle de France country, whose skies are of such exquisite delicate blue, whose very atmosphere breathes refinement.

I felt my old pa.s.sion rising;--that pa.s.sion which in times gone by had drawn us from our sleep at dawn, and scissors and pruning knife in hand, how many happy hours had H. and I thus spent; he at his fruit trees, I at my flower beds, cutting, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, sc.r.a.ping, clipping; inwardly conscious of other duties neglected, but held as though fascinated by the most alluring infatuation in the world--the love of nature. Here now in this delightful garden kept up by the superhuman efforts of a faithful old man, the flame kindled anew.

In an instant H. had discovered the espaliers where _Doyenne du Cornice_ and _Pa.s.se Cressane_ were slowly but surely attaining the required degree of perfection beneath Pere Francois' attentive care.

As I stood open mouthed in wonder before the largest bush of fuchsias I had ever yet beheld, an explosion rent the air, quickly followed by a second, the latter much closer to us.

”Boche bombs! Come quick,” said Pere Francois without seeming in the least ruffled.

Led by the old man we hastened to a tiny grotto, in whose depths we could hear a fountain bubbling. Legion must have been the loving couples that have visited this spot in times gone by, for their vows of fidelity were graven in endearing terms on the stony sides of the retreat. _Leon et Marguerite pour toujours, Alice et Theodore, Georges et Germaine_ were scrawled above innumerable arrow-pierced hearts.

”All things considered, I'd rather they'd send us over a sh.e.l.l or two than bomb us from above!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Pere Francois, who spoke from experience.

”It was one of those hateful things that hit my j.a.panese pepper tree on the main lawn, and killed our only cedar. The handsomest specimen we had here! It makes me sick every time I throw a log of it on to the fire in the Winter. I can't tell you how queer it makes me feel. Of course, it's bad enough for them to kill men who are their enemies, but think of killing trees that it takes hundreds of years to grow. What good can that do them?”

The Boche deemed at a safe distance, we visited the vegetable garden where we purchased our melon and were presented with any number of little packets containing seeds. We protested at the old man's generosity and sought to remunerate him.

”Nothing of the kind; I wouldn't think of accepting it. It's my pleasure. Why it's been ages since I had such a talk as this. I'm so glad you came. So glad for my roses too!” and he started to cut a splendid bouquet.

”I've been saying to myself every day,” he continued, ”Isn't it a pity that n.o.body should see them? But now I feel satisfied.”

<script>