before his eyes with tantalizing grace.
Sometimes the Allier, a liquid shining ribbon, meandered through the
distant fertile landscape; then followed the steeples of hamlets, hiding
modestly in the depths of a ravine with its yellow cliffs; sometimes,
after the monotony of vineyards, the watermills of a little valley would
be suddenly seen; and everywhere there were pleasant chateaux, hillside
villages, roads with their fringes of queenly poplars; and the Loire
itself, at last, with its wide sheets of water sparkling like diamonds
amid its golden sands. Attractions everywhere, without end! This nature,
all astir with a life and gladness like that of childhood, scarcely able
to contain the impulses and sap of June, possessed a fatal attraction
for the darkened gaze of the invalid. He drew the blinds of his carriage
windows, and betook himself again to slumber.

Towards evening, after they had passed Cesne, he was awakened by lively
music, and found himself confronted with a village fair. The horses
were changed near the marketplace. Whilst the postilions were engaged
in making the transfer, he saw the people dancing merrily, pretty and
attractive girls with flowers about them, excited youths, and finally
the jolly wine-flushed countenances of old peasants. Children prattled,
old women laughed and chatted; everything spoke in one voice, and there
was a holiday gaiety about everything, down to their clothing and the
tables that were set out. A cheerful expression pervaded the square and
the church, the roofs and windows; even the very doorways of the village
seemed likewise to be in holiday trim.

Raphael could not repress an angry exclamation, nor yet a wish to
silence the fiddles, annihilate the stir and bustle, stop the clamor,
and disperse the ill-timed festival; like a dying man, he felt unable
to endure the slightest sound, and he entered his carriage much annoyed.
When he looked out upon the square from the window, he saw that all the
happiness was scared away; the peasant women were in flight, and the
benches were deserted. Only a blind musician, on the scaffolding of the
orchestra, went on playing a shrill tune on his clarionet. That piping
of his, without dancers to it, and the solitary old man himself, in the
shadow of the lime-tree, with his curmudgeon's face, scanty hair, and
ragged clothing, was like a fantastic picture of Raphael's wish. The
heavy rain was pouring in torrents; it was one of those thundersto