He talked quite gaily while they were at dinner in the long dining-hall under the minstrel's gallery.
But when they went to her little study afterwards together, they both were very silent.
There was a fire burning, but all the windows were open.
And as they sat there, almost silently together, they heard the first frogs singing in the castle moat. He laughed, and would have her tell him the story of the Frog Princess, that he never had cared for her to tell him when he was a little boy.
She knew that she would never listen to the frogs again without remembering that night.
She wondered if the memory would become an agony to her. It seemed to her strange that, caring so much, she could not know.
Thursday, April 27th
Under the walls of St. Germain des Prés, and the chestnut trees in their spring misty leaf of amber and topaz and ruby, a vendor of, I don't know what, had set up a little booth and shaded it with an indigo blue bit of canvas. The shade was deep purple under the blue canvas, and brass and bronze and copper and rust-red things had vague shapes in the shadow.
It was so beautiful that I was happy for all of a minute, passing in the tram on my way to the cantine.