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them from. The very fact that he could not get away from
these notions was what troubled him most, for he
remembered that he had heard tales of Cyprianus, whom you could
burn and drown, yet he always came back. In his heart of
hearts he really hoped that the fancies would not leave him,
for life would seem very dreary and empty without them,
but this he did not admit to himself. In fact, his cheeks
flushed with shame whenever he soberly considered what he
really had in mind.
About a week after the day when she had found Sören
asleep, Marie Grubbe was sitting under the great beech on
the heathery hill in Fastrup Grove. She sat leaning her back
against the trunk, and held an open book in her hand, but
she was not reading. With dreamy eyes, she followed
intently a large, dark bird of prey, which hung, in slowly
gliding, watchful flight, over the unending, billowing surface
of the thick, leafy treetops.
The air was drenched with light and sun, vibrant with the
drowsy, monotonous hum of myriad invisible insects. The
sweet—too sweet—odor of yellow-flowered broom and
the spicy fragrance of sun-warmed birch-leaves mingled
with the earthy smell of the forest and the almond scent
of white meadowsweet in the hollows.
Marie sighed.
“Petits oiseaux des bois,”
“que vous estes heureux,
De plaindre librement vos tourmens amoreux.
Les valons, les rochers, les forests et les plaines
Sçauent également vos plaisirs et vos peines.”
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