As a cork held under water seems restless under the hand which holds it, and slips through the fingers to rise to the surface, thus there stirred in me a sentiment that I could neither overcome nor escape.  The gardens of the Luxembourg made my heart leap and banished every other thought.  How many times had I stretched myself out on one of those little mounds, a sort of sylvan school, while I read in the cool shade some book filled with foolish poetry!  For such, alas, were the extravagances of my childhood.  I saw many souvenirs of the past among those leafless trees and faded lawns.  There, when ten years of age, I had walked with my brother and my tutor, throwing bits of bread to some of the poor half-starved birds; there, seated under a tree, I had watched a group of little girls as they danced, and felt my heart beat in unison with the refrain of their childish song.  There, returning from school, I had followed a thousand times the same path, lost in meditation upon some verse of Virgil and kicking the pebbles at my feet.

“Oh, my childhood!  You are there!” I cried.  “Oh, heaven! now I am here.”

I turned around.  Marco was asleep, the lamp had gone out, the light of day had changed the aspect of the room; the hangings which had at first appeared blue were now a faded yellow, and Marco, the beautiful statue, was livid as death.

I shuddered in spite of myself; I looked at the alcove, then at the garden; my head became drowsy and fell on my breast.  I sat down before an open secretary near one of the windows.  A piece of paper caught my eye; it was an open letter and I looked at it mechanically.  I read it several times before I thought what I was doing.  Suddenly a gleam of intelligence came to me, although I could not understand everything.  I picked up the paper and read what follows, written in an unskilled hand and filled with errors in spelling: 

“She died yesterday.  She began to fail at twelve the night before.  She called me and said:  ’Louison, I am going to join my companion; go to the closet and take down the cloth that hangs on a nail; it is the mate of the other.’  I fell on my knees and wept, but she took my hand and said:  ‘Do not weep, do not weep!’ And she heaved such a sigh—­”

The rest was torn, I can not describe the impression that sad letter made on me; I turned it over and saw on the other side Marco’s address and the date that of the evening previous.

“Is she dead?  Who is dead?” I cried going to the alcove.  “Dead!  Who?”

Marco opened her eyes.  She saw me with the letter in my hand.

“It is my mother,” she said, “who is dead.  You are not coming?”

As she spoke she extended her hand.

“Silence!” I said, “sleep, and leave me to myself.”

She turned over and went to sleep.  I looked at her for some time to assure myself that she would not hear me, and then quietly left the house.

CHAPTER V