through the village street at Mont-l’ Évêque and, a few moments afterwards, drew up at the guard house which had once been Chaâlis Abbey … Chaâlis, and my mind throngs again with memories.

There is nothing of this ancient refuge of emperors left to admire except the ruins of its cloister of byzantine arches through which one may look out across the lakes—the forgotten relic of a holy edifice upon what used to be known as Charlemagne’s farms. The cardinals of the House of Este, owing to their long stay thereabouts at the time of the Medici, had left their mark upon the religion of that country, so far removed from the life and movement of cities, and there is still something noble and poetic in its quality and practice; in the chapels beneath delicately moulded arches, decorated by Italian artists, one breathes the perfume of the fifteenth century. Figures of saints and angels are painted in pink upon the pale blue background of the vaulting, with an appearance of pagan allegory that calls to mind the sentimentality of Petrarch and the fictitious mysticism of Francesco Colonna.

Sylvie’s brother and I were intruders that evening at what turned out to be a sort of allegorical spectacle. It had been arranged by the owner of the domain, a person of noble birth, and he had invited some families of the neighbourhood to be his guests. Some little girls from a near-by convent were to take part in the performance, which was not a reproduction of the tragedies of Saint-Cyr, but dated back to those first lyrical experiments brought into France at the time of the Valois: a mystery play of the Middle Ages. The costumes worn by the actors were long robes of azure, hyacinth or gold, and the opening scene was a discourse by the angels upon the destruction of the world. They sang of its vanished glories, and the Angel of Death set forth the causes of its downfall. A spirit then rose up out of the depths, holding the Flaming Sword in its hand, and bade them bow down in admiration before the Glory of Christ, Conqueror of the regions beneath the earth. It seemed as though I were gazing upon Adrienne, transformed by the spirit’s robe as she already was by her vocation, and the gilded pasteboard halo that encircled her head seemed to us quite naturally a ring of light. The range and the power of her voice had increased, and her singing, with its birdlike twitter of gracenotes, gave an Italian flavour to the severe phrasing of the recitative.

As I set down these words I cannot help wondering whether the events they describe actually took place or whether I have dreamed them. Sylvie’s brother was a little drunk that night, for we had stopped a few moments at the guard house, where a swan with wings outspread, suspended above the door, impressed me greatly, and there were high cupboards of carved walnut, a grandfather’s clock, and some trophies, bows, arrows, and a red and green marksmen’s record. An odd-looking dwarf in a Chinese hat, holding a bottle in one hand and a ring in the other, seemed to be urging the marksmen to aim accurately. He was, if I am not mistaken, cut out of sheet-iron. … But the presence of Adrienne!—is it as clearly fixed in my mind as these details and the unquestionable existence of Chaâlis Abbey? Yet I can remember that it was the guard’s son who took us into the room where the performance took place; we stood near the door and I have to-day a distinct impression of the deep emotion of that numerous company seated in front of us. It was Saint Bartholomew’s day, peculiarly associated with the memory of the Medici, whose coat of arms, united with that of the house of Este, decorated the old walls. … But perhaps, after all, that cherished appearance was only one of my obsessions, and now, happily, the carriage has stopped at the Plessis road; I emerge from the world of dreams and it is only a quarter of an hour’s walk, by a deserted path, to Loisy.

VIII. The Loisy Dance

I arrived at the Loisy dance just at that melancholy but somehow agreeable stage when the lights begin to grow dim at the approach of dawn. The lower outlines of the lindens had sunk into obscurity and their topmost branches were blue in the half-light. The rustic flute strove but faintly now to silence the song of the nightingale, and I could hardly recognize those I knew, scattered through the pale, dishevelled groups. At last I found Lise, one of Sylvie’s friends, and she kissed me, saying, ‘It’s a long time since we’ve seen you, Parisian!’

‘Ah, yes, a long time.’