‘And you must admit that you are prettier now than you used to be.’

‘I know nothing about that.’

‘Do you remember when we were children, how much bigger you were than I?’

‘And I was the naughtiest too!’

‘Oh, Sylvie!’

‘And we were put in two baskets slung on the donkey’s back.’

‘Do you remember showing me how to catch crayfish beneath the bridges over the rivers?’

‘And do you remember the day when you foster-brother pulled you out of the water?’

‘You mean Curly-head! And it was he who told me I could wade across!’ Then I hurried on to change the conversation. This incident vividly recalled the time when I had come there dressed in a little English suit, and all the peasants had laughed at me except Sylvie, who thought me magnificent. But I lacked the courage to remind her of her compliment of long ago, and the thought of the wedding clothes we had put on at Othys rose up in my mind, so I asked what had become of them.

‘Dear old auntie, she lent me the dress to dance in at the Dammartin Carnival two years ago; she died last year.’ And Sylvie wept so bitterly that I did not like to ask her how it was that she had gone to a masked ball. But I understood without asking when I remembered that, thanks to her trade of glove- maker, she was no longer a peasant. Her people were still as they had always been, but she was like an industrious fairy bringing ease and comforts to them all.

XI. The Return

When we came out of the wood we found ourselves among the lakes of Chaâlis. The slanting sun fell upon the little château which had sheltered the loves of Henry IV and Gabrielle, and it glowed red against the dull green of the forest.

‘That’s a real Walter Scott landscape, isn’t it?’ said Sylvie.

‘And who told you about Walter Scott? You have been reading since I saw you three years ago! I want to forget books, and what gives me real pleasure is to revisit the old abbey where we used to play hide- and-seek together as little children. Do you remember how frightened you were when the keeper told us the story of the Red Monks?’

‘Oh, don’t let’s talk about that.’

‘Then you must sing me the song of the maiden who was carried off while walking by the white rose tree in her father’s garden.’

‘One doesn’t sing that song any more.’

‘Have you been studying music?’

‘A little.’

‘Then I suppose you sing nothing but operatic airs now!’

‘And why should you complain of that?’

‘Because I love those old melodies and because you will forget how to sing them.’