one. And Paul, who knew only the long avenues
of the aristocratic Parisian promenades, the sparkling lake perceived
from the depths of a carriage or from the top of a coach in a drive back
from Longchamps, was astonished to see the deliciously sheltered nook to
which his friends had led him. It was on the banks of a pond lying like
a mirror under willow-trees, covered with water-lilies, with here and
there large white shimmering spaces where sunbeams fell and lay on the
bright surface.

On the sloping bank, sheltered by the boughs of trees where the leaves
were already thick, they sat down to listen to the reading of the play,
and the pretty, attentive faces, the skirts lying puffed out over the
grass, made one think of some Decameron, more innocent and chaste, in
a peaceful atmosphere. To complete this pleasant country scene, two
windmill-sails seen through an opening in the branches were revolving
over in the direction of Suresnes, while of the dazzling and luxurious
vision to be met at every cross-roads in the Bois there reached them
only a confused and perpetual murmur, which one ended by ceasing to
notice. The poet's voice alone rose in the silence, the verses fell on
the air tremblingly, repeated below the breath by other moved lips, and
stifled sounds of approbation greeted them, with shudders at the tragic
passages. Bonne Maman was even seen to wipe away a big tear. That comes,
you see, from having no embroidery in one's hand!

His first work! That was what the _Revolt_ was for Andre, that first
work always too exuberant and ornate, into which the author throws, to
begin with, whole arrears of ideas and opinions, pent up like the waters
of a river-lock; that first work which is often the richest if not the
best of its writer's productions. As for the fate that awaited it, no
one could predict it; and the uncertainty that hovered over the reading
of the drama added to its own emotion that of each auditor, the hopes,
all arrayed in white, of Mlle. Elise, the fantastic hallucinations of
M. Joyeuse, and the more positive desires of Aline as she installed
in advance the modest fortune of her sister in the nest of an artist's
household, beaten by the winds but envied by the crowd.

Ah, if one of those idle people, taking a turn for the hundredth time
round the lake, overwhelmed by the monotony of his habitual promenade,
had come and parted the branches, how surprised he would have been at
this picture! But would he