len from the sky, became the
subject of my constant reveries until the month of August, the time set
for our departure.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Little Jeanne had come over to spend the day at our house; it was at the
end of May during that spring in which my expectations were so great--I
was twelve years old at the time. All the afternoon we rehearsed with
our tiny jointed china dolls, and painted scenery, we had in fact been
busy with the "Donkey's Skin,"--but with a revised and grand version of
it, and we had about us a great confusion of paints, brushes, pieces of
cardboard, gilt paper and bits of gauze. When it came time for us to go
down into the dining-room we stored our precious work away in a large
box that was consecrated to it from that day forth--the box was a new
one made of pine, and it had a penetrating, resinous odor.

After our dinner, at dusk, we were taken out for a walk. But, to my
surprise and sorrow, we found it chilly and the sky was overcast, and
every where there was a sort of mist that recalled winter to my mind.
Instead of going beyond the town, to the places usually frequented by
pedestrians, we went towards the Marine Garden, a much prettier and more
suitable walk, but one usually deserted after sunset.

We went down the long straight street without meeting any one; as we
drew near the "Chapel of the Orphans" we heard those within chanting a
psalm. When that was finished a procession of little girls filed out.
They were dressed in white, and they looked very cold in their spring
muslins. After making a circuit of the lonely quarter, chanting
meanwhile a melancholy hymn, they noiselessly re-entered the chapel.
There was no one in the street to see them save ourselves, and the
thought came to me that neither was there any one in the gray heavens
above to see them; the overcast sky seemed as lonely as the solitary
street. That little band of orphaned children intensified my feeling
of sorrow and added to the disenchantment of the May night, and I had a
consciousness of the vanity of prayer, of the emptiness of all things.

In the Marine Garden my sadness increased. It was extremely cold, and we
shivered in our light spring wraps. There was not a single promenader
to be seen. The large chestnut trees all abloom and the foliage, in
the glory of its tender hue, formed a feathery green and white
avenue--emptiness was here too; all of this intertwined magnificence of
branch and flower, seen of