[XI.]
RETURN.
The outlook widened when we left the forest and we found ourselves near the lake of Chaâlis. The galleries of the cloister, the chapel with its pointed arches, the feudal tower and the little castle which had sheltered the loves of Henry IV. and Gabrielle, were bathed in the crimson glow of evening against the dark background of the forest.
"Like one of Walter Scott's landscapes, is it not?" said Sylvie. "And who has told you of Walter Scott?" I inquired. "You must have read much in the past three years! As for me, I try to forget books, and what delights me, is to revisit with you this old abbey where, as little children, we played hide and seek among the ruins. Do you remember, Sylvie, how afraid you were when the keeper told us the story of the Red Monks?"
"Oh, do not speak of it!"
"Well then, sing me the song of the fair maid under the white rose-bush, who was stolen from her father's garden."
"Nobody sings that now."
"Is it possible that you have become a musician?"
"Perhaps."
"Sylvie, Sylvie, I am positive that you sing airs from operas!"