Sylvie: souvenirs du Valois Part 4

"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.

"It is very sad!" she cried.

"It is sublime! An air from Porpora, I think, with words translated in the present century."

"I do not know," she replied.

We came home through the valley, following the Charlepont road which the peasants, without regard to etymology, persistently called Challepont.

The way was deserted, and Sylvie, weary of riding, leaned upon my arm, while I tried to speak of what was in my heart, but, I know not why, could find only trivial words or stilted phrases from some romance that Sylvie might have read. I stopped suddenly then, in true cla.s.sic style, and she was occasionally amazed by these disjointed rhapsodies. Having reached the walls of Saint S---- we had to look well to our steps, on account of the numerous stream-lets winding through the damp marshes.

"What has become of the nun?" I asked suddenly.

"You give me no peace with your nun! Ah, well! it is a sad story!" Not a word more would Sylvie say.

Do women really feel that certain words come from the lips rather than the heart? It does not seem probable, to see how readily they are deceived, and what an inexplicable choice they usually make--there are men who play the comedy of love so well! I never could accustom myself to it, although I know some women lend themselves wittingly to the deception. A love that dates from childhood is, however, sacred, and Sylvie, whom I had seen grow up, was like a sister to me; I could not betray her. Suddenly, a new thought came to me. "At this very hour, I might be at the theatre. What is Aurelie (that was the name of the actress) playing to-night? No doubt the part of the Princess in the new play. How touching she is in the third act! And in the love scene of the second with that wrinkled actor who plays the lover!"

"Lost in thought?" said Sylvie; and she began to sing:

_"A Dammartin l'y a trots belles filles:_ _L'y en a z'une plus belle que le jour...."_

_At Dammartin there are three fair maids,_ _And one of them is fairer than day._

"Little tease!" I cried, "you know you remember the old songs."

"If you would come here oftener, I would try to remember more of them,"

she said; "but we must think of realities; you have your affairs at Paris, I have my work here; let us go in early, for I must rise with the sun to-morrow."

XII.

FATHER DODU.

I was about to reply, to fall at her feet and offer her my uncle's house which I could purchase, as the little estate had not been apportioned among the numerous heirs, but just then we reached Loisy, where supper awaited us and the onion-soup was diffusing its patriarchal odour.

Neighbours had been invited to celebrate the day after the feast, and I recognised at a glance Father Dodu, an old wood-cutter who used to amuse or frighten us, in the evenings by his stories. Shepherd, carrier, gamekeeper, fisherman and even poacher, by turns, Father Dodu made clocks and turnspits in his leisure moments. For a long time he acted as guide to the English tourists at Hermenonville, and while he recounted the last moments of the philosopher, would lead them to Rousseau's favourite spots for meditation. He was the little boy employed to cla.s.sify the herbs and gather the hemlock twigs from which the sage pressed the juice into his cup of coffee. The landlord of the Golden Cross contested this point and a lasting feud resulted. Father Dodu had once borne the reproach of possessing some very innocent secrets, such as how to cure cows by saying a rhyme backwards and making the sign of the cross with the left foot, but he had renounced these superst.i.tions--thanks, he declared, to his conversations with Jean Jacques.

"That you, little Parisian?" said Father Dodu; "have you come to carry off our pretty girls?"

"I, Father Dodu?"

"You take them into the woods when the wolf is away!"

"Father Dodu, you are the wolf."

"I was as long as I could find sheep, but at present I meet only goats, and they know how to take care of themselves! As for you, why, you are all rascals in Paris. Jean Jacques was right when he said, 'Man grows corrupt in the poisonous air of cities.'"