and had made my way down to the spring of Fougeres. It was
as warm, you remember, as in the middle of summer; and our beautiful
plants, in their autumn red, seemed more beautiful than ever as they
stretched their delicate tracery over the stream. The trees have very
little foliage left; but the carpet of dried leaves one walks upon gives
forth a sound which to me is full of charm. The satiny trunks of the
birches and young oaks are covered with moss and creepers of all shades
of brown, and tender green, and red and fawn, which spread out into
delicate stars and rosettes, and maps of all countries, wherein the
imagination can behold new worlds in miniature. I kept gazing lovingly
on these marvels of grace and delicacy, these arabesques in which
infinite variety is combined with unfailing regularity, and as I
remembered with pleasure that you are not, like the vulgar, blind to
these adorable coquetries of nature, I gathered a few with the greatest
care, even bringing away the bark of the tree on which they had taken
root, in order not to destroy the perfection of their designs. I made
a little collection, which I left at Patience's as I passed; we will
go and see them, if you like. But, on our way, I must tell you what
happened to me as I approached the spring. I was walking upon the wet
stones with my head down, guided by the slight noise of the clear little
jet of water which bursts from the heart of the mossy rock. I was about
to sit down on the stone which forms a natural seat at the side of it,
when I saw that the place was already occupied by a good friar whose
pale, haggard face was half-hidden by his cowl of coarse cloth. He
seemed much frightened at my arrival; I did my best to reassure him by
declaring that my intention was not to disturb him, but merely to put my
lips to the little bark channel which the woodcutters have fixed to the
rock to enable one to drink more easily.

"'Oh, holy priest,' he said to me in the humblest tone, 'why are you
not the prophet whose rod could smite the founts of grace? and why
cannot my soul, like this rock, give forth a stream of tears?'

"Struck by the manner in which this monk expressed himself, by his sad
air, by his thoughtful attitude in this poetic spot, which has often
made me dream of the meeting of the Saviour and the woman of Samaria, I
allowed myself to be drawn into a more intimate conversation. I
learnt from the monk that he was a Trappist, and that he was making a