side."
Frail, swept away by a breath, but at the same time in harmony, not with
the season, with the hour; a promise of that immediate pleasure which
the day will deny or fulfil, and thereby of the one paramount immediate
pleasure, the pleasure of loving and of being loved; more soft,
more warm upon tie stone than even moss is; alive, a ray of sunshine
sufficing for its birth, and for the birth of joy, even in the heart of
winter.

And on those days when all other vegetation had disappeared, when the
fine jerkins of green leather which covered the trunks of the old trees
were hidden beneath the snow; after the snow had ceased to fall, but
when the sky was still too much overcast for me to hope that Gilberte
would venture out, then suddenly--inspiring my mother to say: "Look,
it's quite fine now; I think you might perhaps try going to the
Champs-Elysees after all."--On the mantle of snow that swathed the
balcony, the sun had appeared and was stitching seams of gold, with
embroidered patches of dark shadow. That day we found no one there, or
else a solitary girl, on the point of departure, who assured me that
Gilberte was not coming. The chairs, deserted by the imposing but
uninspiring company of governesses, stood empty. Only, near the grass,
was sitting a lady of uncertain age who came in all weathers, dressed
always in an identical style, splendid and sombre, to make whose
acquaintance I would have, at that period, sacrificed, had it lain in my
power, all the greatest opportunities in my life to come. For Gilberte
went up every day to speak to her; she used to ask Gilberte for news of
her "dearest mother" and it struck me that, if I had known her, I should
have been for Gilberte some one wholly different, some one who knew
people in her parents' world. While her grandchildren played together at
a little distance, she would sit and read the Debats, which she called
"My old _Debats_!" as, with an aristocratic familiarity, she would say,
speaking of the police-sergeant or the woman who let the chairs, "My
old friend the police-sergeant," or "The chair-keeper and I, who are old
friends."

Francoise found it too cold to stand about, so we walked to the Pont
de la Concorde to see the Seine frozen over, on to which everyone, even
children, walked fearlessly, as though upon an enormous whale, stranded,
defenceless, and about to be cut up. We returned to the Champs-Elysees;
I was growing sick with misery between the motionle