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She sat a moment trying to remember the rest, then took
the book and read in a low, despondent tone:
“Vostre innocente amour ne fuit point la clarté,
Tout le monde est pour vous un lieu de liberté,
Mais ce cruel honneur, ce fléau de nostre vie,
Sous de si dures loix la retient asservie.…”
She closed the book with a bang and almost shouted:
“II est vray je ressens une secrete flame
Qui malgré ma raison s’allume dans mon âme
Depuis le jour fatal que je vis sous l’ormeau
Alcidor, qui dançoit au son du chalumeau.”
Her voice sank, and the last lines were breathed forth softly,
almost automatically, as if her fancy were merely using the
rhythm as an accompaniment to other images than those
of the poem. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
It was so strange and disturbing, now that she was
middle-aged, to feel herself again in the grip of the same breathless
longing, the same ardent dreams and restless hopes that had
thrilled her youth. But would they last? Would they not be
like the short-lived bloom that is sometimes quickened by
a sunny week in autumn, the after-bloom that sucks the
very last strength of the flower, only to give it over, feeble
and exhausted, to the mercy of winter? For they were dead,
these longings, and had slept many years in silent graves.
Why did they come again? What did they want of her?
Was not their end fulfilled, so they could rest in peace and
not rise again in deceitful shapes of life, to play the game
of youth once more?
So ran her thoughts, but they were not real. They were
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