Here we rested
on a bench under a lime-tree, not far from the huge stone basin where the
fountain played every Sunday throughout the Summer, and the sleepy
water-lilies rocked to and fro in the sunshine.
All was very quiet. A gardener went by now and then, with his wheelbarrow,
or a gamekeeper followed by his dogs; a blackbird whistled low in the
bushes; a cow-bell tinkled in the far distance; the wood-pigeons murmured
softly in the plantations. Other passers-by, other sounds there were
none--save when a noisy party of flaxen-haired, bare-footed children came
whooping and racing along, but turned suddenly shy and silent at sight of
Monsieur Maurice sitting under the lime-tree.
The sentry, meanwhile, took up his position against the pedestal of a
mutilated statue close by, and leaned upon his musket.
Monsieur Maurice was at first very silent. Once or twice he closed his
eyes, as if listening to the gentle sounds upon the air--once or twice he
cast an uneasy glance in the direction of the sentry; but for a long time
he scarcely moved or spoke.
At length, as if following up a train of previous thought, he said
suddenly:--
"There is no liberty. There are comparative degrees of captivity, and
comparative degrees of slavery; but of liberty, our social system knows
nothing but the name.
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