h leaves of the hellebore. To
each of these flowery letters we linked a meaning, a remembrance, a
look, a sigh, a prayer. We kept them to reperuse when parted; they were
destined to recall each precious moment of these blissful hours.

We often sat in the shade by the side of the path, and opened a book
which we tried to read; but we could never turn the first leaf, and
ever preferred reading in ourselves the inexhaustible pages of our own
feelings. I went to fetch milk and brown bread from some neighboring
farm; we ate, seated on the grass, throwing the remains of the cup to
the ants, and the crumbs of bread to the birds. At sunset we returned
to the tumultuous ocean of Paris, the noise and crowd of which jarred
upon our hearts. I left Julie, excited by the enjoyment of the day, at
her own door, and then went back, overcome with happiness, to my
solitary room, the walls of which I would strike and bid them crumble,
that I might be restored to the light, Nature, and love which they shut
out. I dined without relish, read without understanding; I lighted my
lamp and waited, reckoning the hours as they passed, till the evening
was far enough advanced for me to venture again to her door, and renew
the enjoyment of the morning.

LXXXVI.

The next day we recommenced our wanderings. Ah, in those forests, how
many trees, marked by my knife, bear on their roots or bark a sign by
which I shall ever recognize them! They are those whose shade she
enjoyed; those beneath which she breathed new life, basked in the
warmth of the sun, or inhaled the sweet vernal scent of the trees. The
stranger sees, but dreams not that they are to another the pillars of a
temple, whose worshipper is on earth though its divinity is in heaven.
I still visit them once or twice each spring, on the anniversaries of
these walks; and when the axe lays one low, it seems to me as though it
falls upon myself, and carries away a portion of my heart.

LXXXVII.

On one of the highest and most generally solitary summits of the park
of St. Cloud, where the rounded hill descends in two separate slopes,
one towards the valley of Sevres, and the other towards the hollow
where the Chateau stands, there is an open space where three long
avenues meet. From thence the eye discovers from afar the rare
passengers that intrude on the solitude of the place. The hill, like a
promontory, overlooks the plain of Issy, the course of the Seine, and
the road to V