o Saint-Jean, for there, about
a hundred yards from the town is a little wood, or rather a little
half-wild cluster of hornbeams, maples, limes and lilac bushes, a
bouquet that murmurs in the breeze. The very first day I discovered it,
I felt its charm. I determined to make love to it; I made up my mind to
know it tree by tree, to search out its humblest plants, its vetches,
its saxifrages, and to see whether there was no Solomon's seal to be
found growing beneath the shade of the big trees. I kept my word and
now I am beginning to make acquaintance with the flora and fauna of my
little wood. I had been reclining on the grass to-day for the space of
an hour, book in hand, when I heard some one crying in a faint voice.
I looked up and beheld a little girl standing beside an elderly man and
weeping. The man was undeniably old. His face was long and pallid.
There was an expression of sadness in his eyes and his mouth drooped
mournfully. He had a skipping-rope in his hand and was looking fixedly
at the child. Then he turned aside to brush away a tear from his cheek.
It was then that I beheld him full face and saw that he was Marguerite's
father. I was shocked at the great change that illness and sorrow had
wrought in his haughty mien. Despair was graven on his countenance and
he seemed to be calling for help.

[Illustration: 070]

I went up to him and, in response to my offer to assist him in any way
possible, he explained with some embarrassment that a ball with which
his little girl had been playing had got caught in a tree and that
his stick, which he had thrown up in order to dislodge it, had become
entangled in the branches. He was at his wit's end.

Only a few years before, this same man had circumvented the policy of
England and imparted a vigorous stimulus to French diplomacy in Europe.
Then he fell with honour, and was followed in his retirement by a
profound but honourable unpopularity. And now, behold his powers are
unequal to the task of dislodging a ball from a tree. Such is the
frailty of man. As for his daughter, Marie's daughter, a sort of
presentiment forbade me to look in her face. And then when at length
I did look at her, I could not tear myself away from such a sorrowful
object of contemplation. She was no longer the little pink and white
child I had seen in the Champs-Elysees; she had grown taller and
thinner, and her face was wan as a waxen taper. Her languid eyes were
encircled with blue rings. An