Sylvie: souvenirs du Valois Part 3

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.

"Let us go to see the parrot," I said to the farmer. The parrot clamoured for his breakfast, as in his best days, and gave me a knowing look from his round eye peering out from the wrinkled skin, like the wise glances of the old.

Full of sad thoughts awakened by my return to this cherished spot, I felt that I must again see Sylvie, the only living tie which bound me to that region, and once more I took the road to Loisy. It was the middle of the day, and I found them all asleep, worn out by the night of merry-making. It occurred to me that it might divert my thoughts to stroll to Hermenonville, a league distant, by the forest road. It was fine summer weather, and on setting out I was delighted by the freshness and verdure of the path which seemed like the avenue of a park. The green branches of the great oaks were relieved by the white trunks and rustling leaves of the birches. The birds were silent, and I heard no sound but the woodp.e.c.k.e.r tapping the trees to find a hollow for her nest. At one time I was in danger of losing my way, the characters being wholly effaced on the guide-posts which served to distinguish the roads.

Pa.s.sing the Desert on the left, I came to the dancing-ring where I found the benches of the old men still in place. All the a.s.sociations of ancient philosophy, revived by the former owner of the demesne, crowded upon me, at the sight of this picturesque realisation of "Anacharsis"

and "Emile."

When I caught sight of the waters of the lake sparkling through the branches of willows and hazels, I recognised a spot which I had often visited with my uncle. Here stands to this day, sheltered by a group of pines, the Temple of Philosophy which its founder had not the good fortune to complete. It is built in the form of the temple of the Tiburtine Sibyl, and displays with pride the names of all the great thinkers from Montaigne and Descartes to Rousseau. This unfinished structure is now but a ruin around which the ivy twines its graceful tendrils, while brambles force their way between its disjointed steps.

When but a child, I witnessed the celebrations here, where young girls, dressed in white, came to receive prizes for scholars.h.i.+p and good conduct. Where are the roses that girdled the hillside? Hidden by brier and eglantine, they are fast losing all traces of cultivation. As for the laurels, have they been cut down, according to the old song of the maidens who no longer care to roam the forest? No! these shrubs from sweet Italy have withered beneath our unfriendly skies. Happily, the privet of Virgil still thrives as if to emphasize the words of the Master, inscribed above the door, _Rerum cognoscere causas._ Yes! like so many others, this temple crumbles, and man, weary or thoughtless, pa.s.ses it by, while indifferent nature reclaims the soil for which art contended, but the thirst for knowledge is eternal, the mainspring of all power and activity.

Here are the poplars of the island and the empty tomb of Rousseau. O Sage! thou gavest us the milk of the strong and we were too weak to receive it! We have forgotten thy lessons which our fathers knew, and we have lost the meaning of thy words, the last faint echoes of ancient wisdom! Still, let us not despair, and like thee, in thy last moments, let us turn our eyes to the sun!

I revisited the castle, the quiet waters about it, the cascade which complains among the rocks, the causeway that unites the two parts of the village with the four dove-cotes that mark the corners, and the green that stretches beyond like a prairie, above which rise wooded slopes; the tower of Gabrielle is reflected from afar in the waters of an artificial lake studded with ephemeral blossoms; the sc.u.m is seething, the insects hum. It is best to escape the noxious vapours and seek the rocks and sand of the desert and the waste lands where the pink heath blooms beside green ferns. How sad and lonely it all seems! In by-gone days, Sylvie's enchanting smile, her merry pranks and glad cries enlivened every spot! She was then a wild little creature with bare feet and sun-burned skin, in spite of the straw hat whose long strings floated loosely amid her dark locks. We used to go to the Swiss farm to drink milk, and they said: "How pretty your sweetheart is, little Parisian!" Ah! no peasant lad could have danced with her in those days!

She would have none but me for her partner, at the yearly Feast of the Bow.

X.

BIG CURLY-HEAD

I went back to Loisy and they were all awake. Sylvie was dressed like a young lady, almost in the fas.h.i.+on of the city. She led me up to her room with all her old simplicity. Her bright eyes smiled as charmingly as ever, but the decided arch of her brows made her at times look serious.

The room was simply decorated, but the furniture was modern: a mirror in a gilt frame had replaced the old-fas.h.i.+oned looking-gla.s.s where an idyllic shepherd was depicted offering a nest to a blue and pink shepherdess; the four-post bed, modestly hung with flowered chintz, was succeeded by a little walnut couch with net curtains; canaries occupied the cage at the window where once there were linnets. I was impatient to leave this room, where nothing spoke to me of the past. "Shall you make lace to-day?" I asked Sylvie. "Oh, I do not make lace now; there is no demand for it here, and even at Chantilly the factory is closed." "What is your work then?" She brought forward, from the corner of the room, an iron tool which resembled a long pair of pincers.

"What is that?"

"It is called the machine and is used to hold the leather in place while the gloves are sewed."

"Then you are a glove-maker, Sylvie?"

"Yes, we work here for Dammartin; it pays well now, but I shall not work to-day; let us go wherever you like." I glanced towards Othys, but she shook her head, and I understood that the old aunt was no more. Sylvie called a little boy and bade him saddle an a.s.s. "I am still tired from yesterday," she said, "but the ride will do me good; let us go to Chaalis."

We set out through the forest, followed by the boy armed with a branch.

Sylvie soon wished to stop, and I kissed her as I led her to a seat. Our conversation could no longer be very intimate. I had to talk of my life in Paris, my travels.... "How can anyone go so far?" she demanded. "It seems strange to me, when I look at you."

"Oh! of course,"

"Well, admit that you were not so pretty in the old days."

"I cannot tell."

"Do you remember when we were children and you the tallest?"

"And you the wisest?"