To-dau I went for a stroll by the river in whose blue waters are
mirrored the willows and the houses that befringe its banks. There is a
seductive charm about running waters. They bear along with them as they
flow all those idlers who love to dream their time away.
The river lured me as far as the château de- ------ which had witnessed
the betrothal and the death of Marie, and the birth of Marguerite. My
heart tolled a knell within me when I saw once more that peaceful abode,
which, despite the scenes of sorrow enacted within its walls, speaks,
with its white pillared façade, of naught save elegant opulence and
luxurious repose. I was so overcome that, to save myself from falling,
I clung to the bars of the park gate and gazed at the wide lawns which
stretched away as far as the flight of steps which the hem of Marie’s
robe had kissed so often. I had been there some minutes when the gate
was opened and X ... came out.
On this occasion, also, he was accompanied by his child: but this time
she was not walking. She was lying in a perambulator which was being
pushed by a governess. With her head resting on an embroidered pillow in
the shadow of the lowered hood, she resembled one of those little waxen
images of saint or martyr, embellished with silver filigree, on whose
wounds and gems the nuns of Spain are wont to pore in the solitude of
their cells.
[Illustration: 080]
Her father, elegantly dressed, presented a faded, tear-stained
countenance. He advanced towards me with little faltering steps, took me
by the hand and led me to his little girl.
“Tell me,” he said in the tone of a child asking a favour, “you don’t
think she has changed since you last saw her, do you? It was the day she
threw her ball up into the tree.”
The perambulator which we were following in silence came to a halt in
the Bois Saint-Jean. The governess lowered the hood. Marguerite lay with
her head thrown back, her eyes big with terror, and she was stretching
out her arms to push aside something that we could not see. Oh, I
guessed well enough what invisible hand it was. The same hand that had
touched the mother was now laid upon the child. I fell on my knees.
But the phantom departed and Marguerite, raising her head, lay resting
peacefully. I gathered some flowers and laid them reverently beside her.
She smiled. Seeing her come back to life I gave her more flowers and
sang to her, endeavouring to beguile her. The air and the feeling of
happiness she now experienced brought back to her that desire to live
which had forsaken her. At the end of an hour her cheeks were almost
rosy. When it grew cool and we had to take the little suffering child
back to the château again, her father took my hand as we parted and,
pressing it, said in suppliant tones:
“Come again to-morrow.”
[Illustration: 084]
[Illustration: 086]