they dreamt of carrying her off, swathed in their dry leaves with
her eyes frozen like the waters of the springs, her limbs stiffened like
the bare branches, and her blood sleeping the sleep of the sap. And,
yes, she would live their life to the very end, and die their death.
Perhaps they had already willed that she should spring up next summer as
a rose in the flower-garden, or a pale willow in the meadow-lands, or a
tender birch in the forest. Yes, it was the great law of life; she was
about to die.

Then, for the last time, she resumed her walk through the Paradou in
quest of death. What fragrant plant might need her sweet-scented tresses
to increase the perfume of its leaves? What flower might wish the gift
of her satinlike skin, the snowy whiteness of her arms, the tender pink
of her bosom? To what weakly tree should she offer her young blood? She
would have liked to be of service to the weeds vegetating beside the
paths, to slay herself there so that from her flesh some huge greenery
might spring, lofty and sapful, laden with birds at May-time, and
passionately caressed by the sun. But for a long while the Paradou still
maintained silence as if it had not yet made up its mind to confide to
her in what last kiss it would spirit away her life. She had to wander
all over it again, seeking, pilgrim-like, for her favourite spots. Night
was now more swiftly approaching, and it seemed to her as if she were
being gradually sucked into the earth. She climbed to the great rocks
and questioned them, asking whether it was upon their stony beds that
she must breathe her last breath. She crossed the forest with lingering
steps, hoping that some oak would topple down and bury her beneath the
majesty of its fall. She skirted the streams that flowed through the
meadows, bending down at almost every step she took so as to peep into
the depths and see whether a couch had not been prepared for her amongst
the water lilies. But nowhere did Death call her; nowhere did he offer
her his cold hands. Yet, she was not mistaken. It was, indeed, the
Paradou that was about to teach her to die, as, indeed, it had taught
her to love. She again began to scour the bushes, more eagerly even than
on those warm mornings of the past when she had gone searching for love.
And, suddenly, just as she was reaching the parterre, she came upon
death, amidst all the evening fragrance. She ran forward, breaking out
into a rapturous laugh. She was to die amongs