Part 3 (1/2)
I entered the ball of Loisy at that sad yet pleasing hour when the lights flicker and grow dim at the approach of dawn. A faint bluish tinge crept over the tops of the lime-trees, sunk in shadow below. The rustic flute no longer contended so gayly with the trills of the nightingale. The dancers all looked pale, and among the dishevelled groups I distinguished with difficulty any familiar faces. Finally, I recognized a tall girl, Sylvie's friend Lise.
”We have not seen you for a long time, Parisian,” said she.
”Yes; a long time.”
”And you come so late?”
”By coach.”
”And you traveled slowly!”
”I came to see Sylvie; is she still here?”
”She will stay till morning; she loves to dance.”
In a moment I was beside her; she looked tired, but her black eyes sparkled with the same Athenian smile as of old. A young man stood near her, but she refused by a gesture to join the next country-dance, and he bowed to her and withdrew.
It began to grow light, and we left the ball hand in hand. The flowers hung lifeless and faded in Sylvie's loosened tresses, and the nosegay at her bosom dropped its petals on the crumpled lace made by her skilful hands. I offered to walk home with her; it was broad day, but the sky was cloudy. The Theve murmured on our left, leaving at every curve a little pool of still water where yellow and white pond-lilies blossomed, and lake star-worts, like Easter daisies, spread their delicate broidery. The plain was covered with hay-ricks whose fragrance seemed wafted to my brain, affecting me as the fresh scent of the woods and hawthorn thickets had done in the past. This time neither of us thought of crossing the meadows.
”Sylvie,” said I, ”you no longer love me.”
She sighed. ”My friend,” she continued, ”you must console yourself, since things do not happen as we wish in this world. You once mentioned the New Heloise; I read it, and shuddered when I found these words, at the beginning: 'Any young girl who reads this book is lost.' However, I kept on, trusting in my discretion. Do you remember the day we put on the wedding clothes, at my aunt's house? The engravings in the book also represented lovers dressed in olden costumes, so that to me you were Saint-Preux and I was Julie. Ah! why did you not come back then? But they said you were in Italy. You must have seen there far prettier girls than I!”
”Not one, Sylvie, with your expression or the pure lines of your profile. You do not know it, but you are a nymph of antiquity. Besides, the woods here are as beautiful as those about Rome. There are granite ma.s.ses yonder, not less sublime, and a cascade which falls from the rocks like that of Terni. I saw nothing there to regret here.”
”And in Paris?” she asked.
”In Paris--” I shook my head, but did not answer. Suddenly I remembered the vain shadow which I had pursued so long. ”Sylvie,” cried I, ”let us stop here, will you?”
I threw myself at her feet, and with hot tears I confessed my irresolution and fickleness; I evoked the fatal spectre that haunted my days.
”Save me!” I implored, ”I come back to you forever.”
She turned toward me with emotion, but at this moment our conversation was interrupted by a loud burst of laughter, and Sylvie's brother rejoined us with the boisterous mirth always attending a rustic festival, and which the abundant refreshments of the evening had stimulated beyond measure. He called to the gallant of the ball, who was concealed in a thicket, but hastened to us. This youth was little firmer on his feet than his companion, and appeared more embarra.s.sed by the presence of a Parisian than by Sylvie. His candid look and awkward deference prevented any dislike on my part, on account of his dancing so late with Sylvie at the ball; I did not consider him a dangerous rival.
”We must go in,” said Sylvie to her brother. ”We shall meet again soon,”
she said, as she offered me her cheek to kiss, at which the lover was not offended.
IX.
HERMENONVILLE.
Not feeling inclined to sleep, I walked to Montagny to revisit my uncle's house. Sadness fell upon me at the first glimpse of its yellow front and green shutters. Everything looked as before, but I was obliged to go to the farmer's to obtain the key. The shutters once open, I surveyed with emotion the old furniture, polished from time to time, to preserve its l.u.s.tre, the tall cupboard of walnut, two Flemish paintings said to be the work of an ancient artist, our ancestor, some large prints after Boucher, and a whole series of framed engravings representing scenes from ”Emile” and the ”New Heloise” by Moreau; on the table was the dog, now stuffed and mounted, that I remembered alive, as the companion of my forest rambles, perhaps the last ”Carlin,” for it had belonged to that breed now extinct.
”As for the parrot,” said the farmer, ”he is still alive, and I took him home with me.”
The garden offered a magnificent picture of the growth of wild vegetation, and there in a corner was the plot I had tended as a child.
A shudder came over me as I entered the study, which still contained the little library of choice books, familiar friends of him who was no more, and where upon his desk lay antique relics, vases and Roman medals found in the garden,--a local collection, the source of much pleasure to him.