The setting sun made the great mass appear black; the dying
rays touched the surface of the lake and then melted in the mist on the
purplish top of the silent forest.
We sat down at the foot of an oak and opened _Rene_. We faced the lake
where he had often watched the nimble swallow on the bending reeds; we
sat in the shadow of the forest where he had often pursued rainbows over
the dripping hills; we harkened to the rustling of the leaves and the
whisperings of the water that had added their murmur to the sad melody
of his youth. As the darkness gathered on the pages of the book, the
bitterness of its words went to our hearts, and we experienced a
sensation of mingled melancholy and sweetness.
A wagon passed in the road, and the wheels sank in the deep tracks. A
smell of new-mown hay pervaded the air. The frogs were croaking in the
marshes. We went back.
The sky was heavy and a storm raged all night. The front of a
neighbouring house was illumined and flared like a bonfire at every
flash of lightning. Gasping, and tired of tossing on my bed, I arose,
lighted a candle, opened the window and leaned out.
The night was dark, and as silent as slumber.
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