Then she led him towards the orchard, but they could not reach it.  The stream was too much swollen.  Serge no longer thought of taking Albine upon his back and lightly bounding across with her to the other side.  Yet there the apple-trees and the pear-trees were still laden with fruit, and the vines, now with scantier foliage, bent beneath the weight of their gleaming clusters, each grape freckled by the sun’s caress.  Ah! how they had gambolled beneath the appetising shade of those ancient trees!  What merry children had they then been!  Albine smiled as she thought of how she had clambered up into the cherry-tree that had broken down beneath her.  He, Serge, must at least remember what a quantity of plums they had eaten.  He only answered by a nod.  He already seemed quite weary.  The orchard, with its green depths and chaos of mossy trunks, disquieted him and suggested to his mind some dark, dank spot, teeming with snakes and nettles.

Then she led him to the meadow-lands, where he had to take a few steps amongst the grass.  It reached to his shoulders now, and seemed to him like a swarm of clinging arms that tried to bind his limbs and pull him down and drown him beneath an endless sea of greenery.  He begged Albine to go no further.  She was walking on in front, and at first she did not stop; but when she saw how distressed he appeared, she halted and came back and stood beside him.  She also was growing gradually more low-spirited, and at last she shuddered like himself.  Still she went on talking.  With a sweeping gesture she pointed out to him the streams, the rows of willows, the grassy expanse stretching far away towards the horizon.  All that had formerly been theirs.  For whole days they had lived there.  Over yonder, between those three willows by the water’s edge, they had played at being lovers.  And they would then have been delighted if the grass had been taller than themselves so that they might have lost themselves in its depths, and have been the more secluded, like larks nesting at the bottom of a field of corn.  Why, then, did he tremble so to-day, when the tip of his foot just sank into the grass?

Then she led him to the forest.  But the huge trees seemed to inspire Serge with still greater dread.  He did not know them again, so sternly solemn seemed their bare black trunks.  Here, more than anywhere else, amidst those austere columns, through which the light now freely streamed, the past seemed quite dead.  The first rains had washed the traces of their footsteps from the sandy paths, the winds had swept every other lingering memorial into the underbrush.  But Albine, with grief at her throat, shot out a protesting glance.  She could still plainly see their lightest footprints on the sandy gravel, and, as they passed each bush, the warmth with which they had once brushed against it surged to her cheeks.  With eyes full of soft entreaty, she still strove to awaken Serge’s memory.  It was along that path that they had walked