The crocuses came up in a single night. The woods which till now had
remained bare and brown, flushed suddenly, as if the coming Summer were
imprisoned in their glowing buds. The birds began to try their little
voices here and there. Never once, in all the years that have gone by
since then, have I seen so startling a transition. It was as if the Prince
in the dear old fairy tale had just kissed the Sleeping Beauty, and all
that enchanted world had sprung into life at the meeting of their lips.
But the Spring, with its sudden beauty and brightness, seems to have no
charm for Monsieur Maurice. He has permission to walk in the grounds twice
a week--with a sentry at his heels; but of that permission he sternly
refuses to take advantage. It was not wonderful that he preferred his
fireside and his books, while the sleet, and snow, and bitter east winds
lasted; but it seems too cruel that he should stay there now, cutting
himself off from all the warmth and sweetness of the opening season. In
vain I come to him with my hands full of dewy crocuses. In vain I hang
about him, pleading for just a turn or two on the terrace where the
sunshine falls hottest. He shakes his head, and is immoveable.
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