great druidic boulders rose up out of the thick forest, where the memory of the sons of Armen, who were killed by the Romans, is still lurking. The distant lakes looked like mirrors set in the misty plain, but I could not tell which one had been the scene of the festival.

The soft air was laden with the perfume of the wood, and I decided to go no farther, but to sleep till morning on a bed of sweet heather. When I awoke, the outlines of my surroundings were just visible. To the left, the walls of the Convent of Saint S—stretched away into the mist, and across the valley I saw the ridge of the Gens-d’Armes and the jagged remains of the old Carlovingian dwelling. Then came Thiers Abbey, high above the tree tops, its crumbling walls, pierced by trefoils and pointed arches, silhouetted against the sky; and beyond, the moated manor of Pontarmé had just caught the first rays of the sun. To the south rose up the high turret of La Tournelle, and on the first slopes of Montméliant I saw the four towers of Bertrand-Fosse.

My thoughts were held captive by the memory of the day before, and I thought only of Sylvie. Nevertheless, the appearance of the convent forced the idea into my mind that perhaps Adrienne was within. The tolling of the morning bell, which had undoubtedly awakened me, was still in my ears, and I was suddenly possessed by the desire to climb upon the highest rock that I might look into the enclosure, but a moment’s hesitation kept me from this as from a profanation. With the fullness of daylight this futile memory vanished from my mind, and I saw only the pink cheeks of Sylvie.

‘Why not awaken her myself?’ I said, and I started off along the path that skirts the wood towards Loisy: twenty thatched cottages festooned with vines and climbing roses. Some spinners, their hair tied in red handkerchiefs, were already at work, but Sylvie was not among them. Her people were still peasants, but Sylvie had become a young lady now that she was engaged in making fine laces. … I went up to her room without shocking any one, and found her already at work plying her bobbins, which clicked gently against the green frame upon her knees.

‘You lazy thing,’ she said, smiling adorably, ‘I believe you’re only just out of bed!’

I told her how I had passed the night, of my wanderings through the woods and among the rocks, and she replied half indulgently, ‘I hope you’re not too tired for another ramble, because we’re going to see my great-aunt at Othys.’

I had scarcely time to answer before she gleefully abandoned her work, arranged her hair before a mirror and put on a rough straw hat. Her yes were bright with innocent pleasure as we set out, first following the banks of the Thève, then through a meadow full of daisies and buttercups and on into Saint-Laurent wood. Every now and then we leapt over streams and broke through thickets in order to shorten our way. Blackbirds whistled in the trees above us, and tomtits darted exultingly from the nearest bushes.

At our feet there was periwinkle, so dear to Rousseau, opening its blue flowers upon sprays of paired leaves, and Sylvie was careful not to crush them, but memories of the philosopher of Geneva did not interest her for she was hunting for strawberries. I spoke to her of La Nouvelle Héloïse and recited several passages I knew by heart.

‘Is it good?’ she asked.

‘It is sublime!’

‘Better than Auguste Lafontaine?’

‘There is more tenderness in it.’

‘Oh, well,’ she said, ‘I must read it then. I’ll tell my brother to get it for me the next time he goes to Senlis.’ Then I recited some more passages while she gathered her strawberries.