Albine's white skirt brushed by it, seemed full of compassion, and held
its breath lest it should fan their love prematurely into life.

VIII

At dawn the next day it was Serge who called Albine. She slept in a room
on the upper floor. He looked up at her window and saw her throw open
the shutters just as she had sprung out of bed. They laughed merrily as
their eyes met.

'You must not go out to-day,' said Albine, when she came down. 'We must
stay indoors and rest. To-morrow I will take you a long, long way off,
to a spot where we can have a very jolly time.'

'But sha'n't we grow tired of stopping here?' muttered Serge.

'Oh, dear no! I will tell you stories.'

They passed a delightful day. The windows were thrown wide open, and all
the beauty of the Paradou came in and rejoiced with them in the room.
Serge now really took possession of that delightful room, where he
imagined he had been born. He insisted upon seeing everything, and upon
having everything explained to him. The plaster Cupids who sported
round the alcove amused him so much that he mounted upon a chair to tie
Albine's sash round the neck of the smallest of them, a little bit of a
man who was turning somersaults with his head downward. Albine clapped
her hands, and said that he looked like a cockchafer fastened by a
string. Then, as though seized by an access of pity, she said, 'No, no,
unfasten him. It prevents him from flying.'

But it was the Cupids painted over the doors that more particularly
attracted Serge's attention. He fidgeted at not being able to make out
what they were playing at, for the paintings had grown very dim. Helped
by Albine, he dragged a table to the wall, and when they both had
climbed upon it, Albine began to explain things to him.

'Look, now, those are throwing flowers. Under the flowers you can only
see some bare legs. It seems to me that when first I came here I could
make out a lady reposing there. But she has been gone for a long time
now.'

They examined all the panels in turn; but they had faded to such a
degree that little more could be distinguished than the knees and elbows
of infants. The details which had doubtless delighted the eyes of
those whose old-time passion seemed to linger round the alcove, had so
completely disappeared under the influence of the fresh air, that the
room, like the park, seemed restored to pristine virginity beneath the
serene glory of the sun.

'Oh! they are only some litt