"Now let us go and see the garden."
"Is de garten in zo pad a stade as de house?" he asked. "Well ... it has been rather neglected, but now it belongs to us...."
"It vill take much money to restore dis old tumbledown place," Bamps discreetly observed.
"Bah! we shall find it," I replied: "if it is not in our own pockets, it will be in someone else's."
"Goot! if you can vind it, zo much de better."
We crossed the yard and entered the garden. It was at the beginning of April; we had had two or three lovely days—days one knows so well, on which the year, like a faithful servant, seems to fold up Winter's white garment, and unfold the green robe of Spring.
Now, although the garden was as neglected as the house, it was pursuing its work of life, in opposition to the work of death going on in the house. The house grew older year by year; year by year the garden renewed its youth. It looked as though the trees had powdered themselves for a forest ball: apples and pears in white, and peaches and almonds in pink. You could not imagine anything younger, fresher or more full of life, than was this garden of death. Everything was waking up with Nature, as she herself woke up: the birds had begun to sing, and three or four butterflies, deceived by the flowers and by the first rays of sunshine, were flying about still somewhat benumbed; poor ephemera, born in the morning, but to die by night!
"Well," I asked Bamps, "what do you say to the garden?" "Oh! dat is fery bretty: it is a bity it is not in de rue de Rifoli."
"There will be more than a hundred crowns' worth of fruit in this garden, you take my word for it."