VI. Othys

As we emerged from the wood we came upon a great clump of purple foxglove, and when Sylvie had picked an armful of it she told me it was for her aunt. ‘She loved to love these beautiful flowers in her bedroom.’

There remained only a bit of level field to cross before reaching Othys, and we could see the village steeple against the bluish hills that rise from Montméliant to Dammartin. Now there fell upon our ears the pleasant rustling sound of the Thève flowing in its bed of sandstone and flint. The river was narrow here, for its source, a tiny lake enclosed by gladioli and iris, lay close by in the meadow’s sleepy embrace. We gone came to the outskirts of the village where Sylvie’s aunt had a little thatched cottage built of rough sandstone blocks hidden beneath trellis work that supported wild grape and hop vines; she lived on the produce of a small piece of land the village people had worked for her since her husband’s death. At her niece’s arrival the cottage seemed at once to be full of commotion.

‘Good-morning, auntie! Here are your children!’ cried Sylvie, ‘and we’re dreadfully hungry!’

It was only after kissing her affectionately and placing the bunch of foxgloves in her arms that it occurred to her to introduce me: ‘He is my sweetheart!’ And when I too had kissed her, she said:

‘What a fine young fellow—and fair hair too!’

‘He’s got nice soft hair,’ Sylvie added.

‘It won’t last,’ the old woman said, ‘but you’ve got plenty of time, and your dark hair goes well with his.’

‘We must give him some breakfast,’ announced Sylvie, and she brought brown bread, milk, and sugar from the cupboard, and spread out on the table some earthenware plates and platters with flowers and bright-feathered cocks upon them in large design. A Creil bowl of strawberries, floating in milk, went in the centre, and when several handfuls of cherries and currants had been brought in from the garden, Sylvie placed a vase of flowers at either end of the tablecloth. But her aunt, who was not to be outdone, objected: ‘This is all very nice, but it’s only dessert. You must let me do something now,’ and taking down the frying-pan, she threw a faggot on the fire. Sylvie wanted to help her, but she was firm. ‘You mustn’t touch this; those pretty fingers are for making lace, finer lace than they make at Chantilly! I know, because you once gave me some.’

‘Yes, I know, auntie. But tell me, have you got any old bits? I can use them for models if you have.’

‘Go upstairs and see what you can find; perhaps there are some in my chest of drawers!’

‘But the keys, auntie!’

‘Nonsense! The drawers are open.’

‘It’s not true; there’s one that’s always locked,’ and while the old woman was cleaning the frying-pan, Sylvie snatched a little key of wrought steel from its place at her belt and waved it at me triumphantly.

Then she ran quickly up the wooden staircase leading to the bedroom, and I followed her. Oh, sacred Youth! Oh, sacred Old Age! Who could have dreamed of such an intrusion into that innermost sanctuary where the memory of a first love lay carefully guarded? At the head of the rough bedstead, a young man with black eyes and red lips smiled down from an oval gilt frame. He was wearing a gamekeeper’s uniform of the house of Condé, and his soldierly appearance, rosy cheeks and finely modelled forehead beneath his powdered hair had cast upon this otherwise commonplace portrait the spell of youthful grace and simplicity. Some unassuming artist, invited to the royal hunt, had done the best he could, and upon the opposite wall in a similar frame hung his portrait of the young wife, mischievous and inviting, in her slim, ribbon-laced bodice, coaxing a bird perched upon her finger to come still nearer. This was indeed