Part 4 (1/2)

”Oh! Sylvie!”

”They put us on an a.s.s, one in each pannier.”

”And we said thee and thou to each other? Do you remember how you taught me to catch crawfish under the bridges over the Nonette and the Theve?”

”Do you remember your foster-brother who pulled you out of the water one day?”

”Big Curly-head? It was he who told me to go in.”

I made haste to change the subject, because this recollection had brought vividly to mind the time when I used to go into the country, wearing a little English coat which made the peasants laugh. Sylvie was the only one who liked it, but I did not venture to remind her of such a juvenile opinion. For some reason, my mind turned to the old aunt's wedding clothes in which we had arrayed ourselves, and I asked what had become of them.

”Oh! poor aunt,” cried Sylvie; ”she lent me her gown to wear to the carnival at Dammartin, two years ago, and the next year she died, dear, old aunt!” She sighed and the tears came, so I could not inquire how it chanced that she went to a masquerade, but I perceived that, thanks to her skill, Sylvie was no longer a peasant girl. Her parents had not risen above their former station, and she lived with them, scattering plenty around her like an industrious fairy.

XI.

RETURN.

The outlook widened when we left the forest and we found ourselves near the lake of Chaalis. The galleries of the cloister, the chapel with its pointed arches, the feudal tower and the little castle which had sheltered the loves of Henry IV. and Gabrielle, were bathed in the crimson glow of evening against the dark background of the forest.

”Like one of Walter Scott's landscapes, is it not?” said Sylvie. ”And who has told you of Walter Scott?” I inquired. ”You must have read much in the past three years! As for me, I try to forget books, and what delights me, is to revisit with you this old abbey where, as little children, we played hide and seek among the ruins. Do you remember, Sylvie, how afraid you were when the keeper told us the story of the Red Monks?”

”Oh, do not speak of it!”

”Well then, sing me the song of the fair maid under the white rose-bush, who was stolen from her father's garden.”

”n.o.body sings that now.”

”Is it possible that you have become a musician?”

”Perhaps.”

”Sylvie, Sylvie, I am positive that you sing airs from operas!”

”Why should you complain?”

”Because I loved the old songs and you have forgotten them.”

Sylvie warbled a few notes of a grand air from a modern opera.... She _phrased!_

We turned away from the lakeside and approached the green bordered with lime-trees and elms, where we had so often danced. I had the conceit to describe the old Carlovingian walls and to decipher the armorial bearings of the House of Este.

”And you! How much more you have read than I, and how learned you have become!” said Sylvie. I was vexed by her tone of reproach, as I had all the way been seeking a favourable opportunity to resume the tender confidences of the morning, but what could I say, accompanied by a donkey and a very wide-awake lad who pressed nearer and nearer for the pleasure of hearing a Parisian talk? Then I displayed my lack of tact, by relating the vision of Chaalis which I recalled so vividly. I led Sylvie into the very hall of the castle where I had heard Adrienne sing.

”Oh, let me hear you!” I besought her; ”let your loved voice ring out beneath these arches and put to flight the spirit that torments me, be it angel or demon!” She repeated the words and sang after me:

”_Anges, descendez promptement_ _au fond du purgatoire...._”

Angels descend without delay To dread abyss of purgatory.