Part 2 (1/2)

THE VILLAGE.

They lived at Loisy, in the old keeper's lodge, whither I accompanied them, and then turned back toward Montagny, where I was staying with my uncle. Leaving the highway to cross a little wood that divides Loisy from Saint S----, I plunged into a deep track skirting the forest of Hermenonville. I thought it would lead me to the walls of a convent, which I had to follow for a quarter of a league. The moon, from time to time, concealed by clouds, shed a dim light upon the grey rocks, and the heath which lay thick upon the ground as I advanced. Right and left stretched a pathless forest, and before me rose the Druid altars guarding the memory of the sons of Armen, slain by the Romans. From these ancient piles I discerned the distant lakelets glistening like mirrors in the misty plain, but I could not distinguish the one where the feast was held.

The air was so balmy, that I determined to lie down upon the heath and wait for the dawn. When I awoke, I recognized, one by one, the neighbouring landmarks. On the left stretched the long line of the convent of Saint S----, then, on the opposite side of the valley, La b.u.t.te aux Gens d'Armes, with the shattered ruins of the ancient Carlovingian palace. Close by, beyond the tree-tops, the crumbling walls of the lofty Abbey of Thiers, stood out against the horizon. Further on, the manor of Pontarme, surrounded as in olden times, by a moat, began to reflect the first fires of dawn, while on the south appeared the tall keep of La Tournelle and the four towers of Bertrand Fosse, on the slopes of Montmeliant.

The night had pa.s.sed pleasantly, and I was thinking only of Sylvie, but the sight of the convent suggested the idea that it might be the one where Adrienne lived. The sound of the morning bell was still ringing in my ears and had probably awakened me. The thought came to me, for a moment, that by climbing to the top of the cliff, I might take a peep over the walls, but on reflection, I dismissed it as profane. The sun with its rising beams, put to flight this idle memory, leaving only the rosy features of Sylvie. ”I will go and awaken her,” I said to myself, and again I started in the direction of Loisy.

Ah, here at the end of the forest track, is the village, twenty cottages whose walls are festooned with creepers and climbing roses. A group of women, with red kerchiefs on their heads, are spinning in the early light, in front of a farmhouse, but Sylvie is not among them. She is almost a young lady, now she makes dainty lace, but her family remain simple villagers. I ran up to her room without exciting surprise, to find that she had been up for a long time, and was busily plying her bobbins, which clicked cheerfully against the square green cus.h.i.+on on her knees. ”So, it is you, lazybones,” she said with her divine smile; ”I am sure you are just out of bed.”

I told her how I had lost my way in the woods and had pa.s.sed the night in the open air, and for a moment she seemed inclined to pity me.

”If you are not too tired, I will take you for another ramble. We will go to see my grand-aunt at Othys.”

Before I had time to reply, she ran joyously to smooth her hair before the mirror, and put on her rustic straw hat, her eyes sparkling with innocent gaiety.

Our way, at first, lay along the banks of the Theve, through meadows sprinkled with daisies and b.u.t.tercups; then we skirted the woods of Saint Lawrence, sometimes crossing streams and thickets to shorten the road. Blackbirds were whistling in the trees, and tomt.i.ts, startled at our approach, flew joyously from the bushes.

Now and then we spied beneath our feet the periwinkles which Rousseau loved, putting forth their blue crowns amid long sprays of twin leaves, a network of tendrils which arrested the light steps of my companion.

Indifferent to the memory of the philosopher of Geneva, she sought here and there for fragrant strawberries, while I talked of the New Heloise, and repeated pa.s.sages from it, which I knew by heart.

”Is it pretty?” she asked.

”It is sublime.”

”Is it better than Auguste Lafontaine?”

”It is more tender.”

”Well, then,” said she, ”I must read it. I will tell my brother to bring it to me the next time he goes to Senlis.”

I went on reciting portions of the Heloise, while Sylvie picked strawberries.

VI.

OTHYS.

When we had left the forest, we found great tufts of purple foxglove, and Sylvie gathered an armful, saying it was for her aunt who loved to have flowers in her room.

Only a stretch of level country now lay between us and Othys. The village church-spire pointed heavenward against the blue hills that extend from Montmeliant to Dammartin. The Theve again rippled over the stones, narrowing towards its source, where it forms a tiny lake which slumbers in the meadows, fringed with gladiolus and iris. We soon reached the first houses where Sylvie's aunt lived in a little cottage of rough stone, adorned with a trellis of hop-vine and Virginia creeper.

Her only support came from a few acres of land which the village folk cultivated for her, now her husband was dead. The coming of her niece set the house astir.

”Good morning, aunt; here are your children!” cried Sylvie; ”and we are very hungry.” She kissed her aunt tenderly, gave her the flowers, and then turned to present me, saying, ”He is my sweetheart.”

I, in turn, kissed the good aunt, who exclaimed, ”He is a fine lad! why, he has light hair!” ”He has very pretty hair,” said Sylvie. ”That does not last,” returned her aunt; ”but you have time enough before you, and you are dark, so you are well matched.”