My face was white as paper.
I could have fallen to the ground.
For I knew the walk was the walk of Marc!
And these three years he had been dead!
With the emotions called forth by this untimely apparition, do you suppose that I remained in the crowd in the narrow street?—that I desired to “huzza!” as M. André and Cécile drove away? I was stifled. I wanted air—to breathe—to breathe! I sought it, by turning my steps to the hills as fast as my trembling limbs would carry me.
It was the road he had taken.
Should I see him again?
I gathered strength. I walked fast—faster. I ran till I was out of breath. I stopped and sat down on a great moss-grown stone.
A lovely landscape spread out below me. It was years since I had seen it. The rivers flowing through a champagne country to the sea. The white houses and thatched roofs of the villages: the red-brick streets of Bénévent. How well I knew it all! It recalled memories of the past. The thought flashed upon me in an instant.
The last time I was here was with Marc. We desired again to take our walk—to see our old haunts of bird’s-nesting and berry-gathering. It was the day before he married Cécile.