“Mademoiselle Sophie!” said I.
“Leave me, my friend—leave me. I do not like to weep before you, and I feel that I must weep.”
And, with one hand, she made me a sign to go.
I obeyed.
She sat down by the side of a little brook, which fell into the Brésme, and taking off her hat, which she placed by her side, began to pluck flowers, and throw them into the water.
Sixty years have passed since that day, and I fancy that I can still see the poor child with her golden hair floating in the breeze, the tears coursing down her cheeks, throwing the flowers into the current of the Brésme, which would carry them to the Aisne, the Aisne to the Oise, the Oise to the Seine, and the Seine to the sea.
After about an hour had passed, she got up silently, came towards me, and smilingly took my arm.
We retraced our steps to my uncle’s house.
We had scarcely arrived, when we heard the sound of wheels. It was Father Gerbaut’s carriage.