e; or we can halve them, and taste each of them.
You'll thank me, and then I shall hear you.'

But he would not sit down, he refused the strawberries, which Albine
pettishly threw away. She did not open her lips again. She would rather
have seen him ill, as in those earlier days when she had given him her
hand for a pillow, and had felt him coming back to life beneath the
cooling breath she blew upon his face. She cursed the returning health
which now made him stand in the light like a young unheeding god. Would
he be ever thus then, with never a glance for her? Would he never be
further healed, and at last see her and love her? And she dreamed of
once again being his healer, of accomplishing by the sole power of her
little hands the cure of the second childhood in which he remained.
She could clearly see that there was no spark in the depths of his grey
eyes, that his was but a pallid beauty like that of the statues which
had fallen among the nettles of the flower-garden. She rose and clasped
him, breathing on his neck to rouse him. But that morning Serge never
even felt the breath that lifted his silky beard. The sun got low, it
was time to go indoors. On reaching his room, Albine burst into tears.

From that morning forward the invalid took a short walk in the garden
every day. He went past the mulberry tree, as far as the edge of the
terrace, where a wide flight of broken steps descended to the flowery
parterre. He grew accustomed to the open air, each bath of sunlight
brought him fresh vigour. A young chestnut tree, which had sprung from
some fallen nut between two stones of the balustrade, burst the resin
of its buds, and unfolded its leafy fans with far less vigour than he
progressed. One day, indeed, he even attempted to descend the steps,
but in this his strength failed him, and he sat down among the dane-wort
which had grown up between the cracks in the stone flags. Below, to the
left, he could see a small wood of roses. It was thither that he dreamt
of going.

'Wait a little longer,' said Albine. 'The scent of the roses is too
strong for you yet. I have never been able to sit long under the
rose-trees without feeling exhausted, light-headed, with a longing to
cry. Don't be afraid, I will some day lead you to the rose-trees, and I
shall surely weep among them, for you make me very sad.'

VI

One morning she at last succeeded in helping him to the foot of the
steps, trampling down the grass before hi