THE GREYHOUND
Towards the middle of September Emile Blondet, who had gone to Paris to publish a book, returned to refresh himself at Les Aigues and to think over the work he was planning for the winter.At Les Aigues, the loving and sincere qualities which succeed adolescence in a young man's soul reappeared in the used-up journalist.
"What a fine soul!" was the comment of the count and the countess when they spoke of him.
Men who are accustomed to move among the abysses of social nature, to understand all and to repress nothing, make themselves an oasis in the heart, where they forget their perversities and those of others; they become within that narrow and sacred circle,--saints; there, they possess the delicacy of women, they give themselves up to a momentary realization of their ideal, they become angelic for some one being who adores them, and they are not playing comedy; they join their soul to innocence, so to speak; they feel the need to brush off the mud, to heal their sores, to bathe their wounds.At Les Aigues Emile Blondet was without bitterness, without sarca**, almost without wit; he made no epigrams, he was gentle as a lamb, and platonically tender.
"He is such a good young fellow that I miss him terribly when he is not here," said the general."I do wish he could make a fortune and not lead that Paris life of his."
Never did the glorious landscape and park of Les Aigues seem as luxuriantly beautiful as it did just then.The first autumn days were beginning, when the earth, languid from her procreations and delivered of her products, exhales the delightful odors of vegetation.At this time the woods, especially, are delicious; they begin to take the russet warmth of Sienna earth, and the green-bronze tones which form the lovely tapestry beneath which they hide from the cold of winter.
Nature, having shown herself in springtime jaunty and joyous as a brunette glowing with hope, becomes in autumn sad and gentle as a blonde full of pensive memories; the turf yellows, the last flowers unfold their pale corollas, the white-eyed daisies are fewer in the grass, only their crimson calices are seen.Yellows abound; the shady places are lighter for lack of leafage, but darker in tone; the sun, already oblique, slides its furtive orange rays athwart them, leaving long luminous traces which rapidly disappear, like the train of a woman's gown as she bids adieu.
On the morning of the second day after his arrival, Emile was at a window of his bedroom, which opened upon a terrace with a balustrade from which a noble view could be seen.This balcony ran the whole length of the apartments of the countess, on the side of the chateau towards the forests and the Blangy landscape.The pond, which would have been called a lake were Les Aigues nearer Paris, was partly in view, so was the long canal; the Silver-spring, coming from across the pavilion of the Rendezvous, crossed the lawn with its sheeny ribbon, reflecting the yellow sand.
Beyond the park, between the village and the walls, lay the cultivated parts of Blangy,--meadows where the cows were grazing, small properties surrounded by hedges, filled with fruit of all kinds, nut and apple trees.By way of frame, the heights on which the noble forest-trees were ranged, tier above tier, closed in the scene.The countess had come out in her slippers to look at the flowers in her balcony, which were sending up their morning fragrance; she wore a cambric dressing-gown, beneath which the rosy tints of her white shoulders could be seen; a coquettish little cap was placed in a bewitching manner on her hair, which escaped it recklessly; her little feet showed their warm flesh color through the transparent stockings;
the cambric gown, unconfined at the waist, floated open as the breeze took it, and showed an embroidered petticoat.
"Oh! are you there?" she said.
"Yes."
"What are you looking at?"
"A pretty question! You have torn me from the contemplation of Nature.
Tell me, countess, will you go for a walk in the woods this morning before breakfast?"
"What an idea! You know I have a horror of walking."
"We will only walk a little way; I'll drive you in the tilbury and take Joseph to hold the horses.You have never once set foot in your forest; and I have just noticed something very curious, a phenomenon;
there are spots where the tree-tops are the color of Florentine bronze, the leaves are dried--"
"Well, I'll dress."
"Oh, if you do, we can't get off for two hours.Take a shawl, put on a bonnet, and boots; that's all you want.I shall tell them to harness."
"You always make me do what you want; I'll be ready in a minute."
"General," said Blondet, waking the count, who grumbled and turned over, like a man who wants his morning sleep."We are going for a drive; won't you come?"
A quarter of an hour later the tilbury was slowly rolling along the park avenue, followed by a liveried groom on horseback.
The morning was a September morning.The dark blue of the sky burst forth here and there from the gray of the clouds, which seemed the sky itself, the ether seeming to be the accessory; long lines of ultramarine lay upon the horizon, but in strata, which alternated with other lines like sand-bars; these tones changed and grew green at the level of the forests.The earth beneath this overhanging mantle was moistly warm, like a woman when she rises; it exhaled sweet, luscious odors, which yet were wild, not civilized,--the scent of cultivation was added to the scents of the woods.Just then the Angelus was ringing at Blangy, and the sounds of the bell, mingling with the wild concert of the forest, gave harmony to the silence.Here and there were rising vapors, white, diaphanous.
Seeing these lovely preparations of Nature, the fancy had seized Olympe Michaud to accompany her husband, who had to give an order to a keeper whose house was not far off.The Soulanges doctor advised her to walk as long as she could do so without fatigue; she was afraid of the midday heat and went out only in the early morning or evening.
