He
was obliged to close his eyes that he might again behold the lane green,
and live his happy hours afresh. It was warm weather; and he was
racing with Miette in the balmy air. Then the cruel December rains fell
unceasingly, yet they still came there, sheltering themselves beneath
the planks and listening with rapture to the heavy plashing of the
shower. His whole life--all his happiness--passed before him like a
flash of lightning. Miette was climbing over the wall, running to
him, shaking with sonorous laughter. She was there; he could see her,
gleaming white through the darkness, with her living helm of ink-black
hair. She was talking about the magpies' nests, which are so difficult
to steal, and she dragged him along with her. Then he heard the gentle
murmur of the Viorne in the distance, the chirping of the belated
grasshoppers, and the blowing of the breeze among the poplars in
the meadows of Sainte-Claire. Ah, how they used to run! How well he
remembered it! She had learnt to swim in a fortnight. She was a plucky
girl. She had only had one great fault: she was inclined to pilfering.
But he would have cured her of that. Then the thought of their first
embraces brought him back to the narrow path. They had always ended by
returning to that nook. He fancied he could hear the gipsy girl's song
dying away, the creaking of the last shutters, the solemn striking of
the clocks. Then the hour of separation came, and Miette climbed the
wall again and threw him a kiss.
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