l belief
in the happiness which it promised to her. And when, on that supreme
day, the Paradou had cried to her to cast herself beneath the
giant-tree, she had done so in compliance with its voice. If she then
had nothing to reproach herself with, it must be the garden which had
betrayed her; the garden which was torturing her for the mere sake of
seeing her suffer.

She halted and looked around her. The great gloomy masses of foliage
preserved deep silence. The paths were blocked with black walls of
darkness. The distant lawns were lulling to sleep the breezes that
kissed them. And she thrust out her hands with a gesture of hopelessness
and raised a cry of protest. It could not all end thus. But her voice
choked beneath the silent trees. Thrice did she implore the Paradou to
answer her, but never an explanation fell from its lofty branches, not
a leaf seemed to be moved with pity for her. Then she resumed her weary
wandering, and felt that she was entering into the fatal sternness of
winter. Now that she had ceased to rebelliously question the earth, she
caught sound of a gentle murmur speeding along the ground. It was the
farewell of the plants, wishing one another a happy death. To have drunk
in the sunshine for a whole season, to have lived ever blossoming,
to have breathed continual perfume, and then, at the first blast, to
depart, with the hope of springing up again elsewhere, was not that
sufficiently long and full a life which obstinate craving for further
existence would mar? Ah! how sweet death must be; how sweet to have an
endless night before one, wherein to dream of the short days of life and
to recall eternally its fugitive joys!

She stayed her steps once more; but she no longer protested as she stood
there amidst the deep stillness of the Paradou. She now believed that
she understood everything. The garden doubtless had death in store for
her as a supreme culminating happiness. It was to death that it had all
along been leading her in its tender fashion. After love, there could be
nought but death. And never had the garden loved her so much as it did
now; she had shown herself ungrateful in accusing it, for all the time
she had remained its best beloved child. The motionless boughs, the
paths blocked up with darkness, the lawns where the breezes fell asleep,
had only become mute in order that they might lure her on to taste the
joys of long silence. They wished her to be with them in their winter
rest,