ie, so full of life, so
fresh, with her dark eyes, her regular profile, her sunburnt face. I had
loved nobody, I had seen nobody but her, till the daughter of the
_chateau_, fair and tall, entered the circle of peasant girls. To obtain
the right to join the ring she had to chant a scrap of a ballad. We sat
round her, and in a fresh, clear voice she sang one of the old ballads of
romance, full of love and sadness . . . As she sang, the shadow of the
great trees grew deeper, and the broad light of the risen moon fell on
her alone, she standing without the listening circle. Her song was over,
and no one dared to break the silence. A light mist arose from the mossy
ground, trailing over the grass. We seemed to be in Paradise."

So the boy twisted a wreath for this new enchantress, the daughter of a
line of nobles with king's blood in her veins. And little brown,
deserted Sylvie cried.

All this Gerard remembered, and remembering, hurried down to the old
country place, and met Sylvie, now a woman grown, beautiful, unspoiled,
still remembering the primitive songs and fairy tales. They walked
together through the woods to the cottage of the aunt of Sylvie, an old
peasant woman of the richer class. She prepared dinner for them, and
sent De Nerval for the girl, who had gone to ransack the peasant
treasures in the garret.

Two portraits were hanging there--one that of a young man of the good old
times, smiling with red lips and brown eyes, a pastel in an oval frame.
Another medallion held the portrait of his wife, gay, _piquante_, in a
bodice with ribbons fluttering, and with a bird perched on her finger. It
was the old aunt in her youth, and further search discovered her ancient
festal-gown, of stiff brocade. Sylvie arrayed herself in this splendour;
patches were found in a box of tarnished gold, a fan, a necklace of
amber.

The holiday attire of the dead uncle, who had been a keeper in the royal
woods, was not far to seek, and Gerard and Sylvie appeared before the
aunt, as her old self, and her old lover. "My children!" she cried and
wept, and smiled through her tears at the cruel and charming apparition
of youth. Presently she dried her tears, and only remembered the pomp
and pride of her wedding. "We joined hands, and sang the _naive_
epithalamium of old France, amorous, and full of flowery turns, as the
Song of Songs; we were the bride and the bridegroom all one sweet morning
of summer."

I translated the