b of dancers, and bring home only
the last remnants of your good spirits, with the last remnants of your
train. Jeanne, I am delighted to hear that you dance badly.

Whither away, Fabien, my friend, whither away? You are letting your
imagination run away with you again. A hint from it, and off you go.
Come, do use your reason a little. You have seen this young lady again,
that is true. You admired her; that was for the second time. But she,
whom you so calmly speak of as "Jeanne," as if she were something to
you, never even noticed you. You know nothing about her but what you
suspect from her maiden grace and a dozen words from her lips. You do
not know whether she is free, nor how she would welcome the notions
you entertain if you gave them utterance, yet here you are saying, "We
should go here," "We should do this and that." Keep to the singular,
my poor fellow. The plural is far away, very far away, if not entirely
beyond your reach.

CHAPTER VII. A WOODLAND SKETCH

April 27th.

The end of April. Students, pack and be off! The first warm breezes
burst the buds. Meudon is smiling; Clamart breaks into song; the air in
the valley of Chevreuse is heavy with violets; the willows shower their
catkins on the banks of the Yvette; and farther yet, over yonder beneath
the green domes of the forest of Fontainebleau, the deer prick their
ears at the sound of the first riding-parties. Off with you! Flowers
line the pathways, the moors are pink with bloom, the undergrowth teems
with darting wings. All the town troops out to see the country in its
gala dress. The very poorest have a favorite nook, a recollection of the
bygone year to be revived and renewed; a sheltered corner that invited
sleep, a glade where the shade was grateful, a spot beside the river's
brink where the fish used to bite. Each one says, "Don't you remember?"
Each one seeks his nest like a home-coming swallow. Does it still hold
together? What havoc has been made by the winter's winds, and the rain,
and the frost? Will it welcome us, as of old?

I, too, said to Lampron, "Don't you remember?" for we, too, have our
nest, and summer days that smile to us in memory. He was in the mood for
work, and hesitated. I added in a whisper, "The blackbird's pool!" He
smiled, and off we went.

Again, as of old, our destination was St. Germain--not the town, nor the
Italian palace, nor yet the terrace whence the view spreads so wide over
the Seine, the country dott