Thus the period through which I was passing was very closely linked with that of my convalescence, of which it became in a sort the completion. Alone by myself I resumed the walks which a few years before I had taken with grandfather. His friend Jean-Jacques was with me in his stead. These were not the same places, but in natural aspects there was small difference between them. They had the same glamour of wildness, that flutter of vegetation stirred by the slightest breath, the sparkle of waters; and the greater altitude even added a more exhilarating air, farther distances, less accessible to the works of man, a new exaltation. In the mountains the holdings are without walls or gates. No enclosure mars the beauty of the land, and individual ownership is not apparent,—that ownership which, as I knew from grandfather’s teachings, corrupts the heart of man and fills it with greed, jealousy and cupidity. On the mountains field and forest belong to every one and to no one, like the sun and the air, like health. The upper pastures, whither the shepherd who in one sentence had revealed longing to me, was leading his sheep,—now I was treading their short grass. Mountain climbing thrilled me with an ardour for conquest, and with each height gained I hoped to meet her whom I was awaiting but who continually evaded me. She was not Nazzarena, whom I had loved and whom now my dreams disdained; who seemed to me too young, too simple. I thought rather of the unknown lady of the pavilion, or still more of her who had appeared before me on the road, all in white with a hat trimmed with cherries, and a flower-like face, she whose parasol made an aureola about her, and whom I had called Helen since I knew that her beauty was like that of the immortal goddesses.
I was alone, deliciously alone, and in love, with no beloved one. I was perfectly happy, and never realised that I was torturing my sister Louise, whose affection I misunderstood. I was free.
By reason of the difficulty of procuring provisions our table was the most frugal in the world. We lived upon eggs, potatoes, cheese, and on Sundays had the luxury of a fowl. Grandfather was never tired of extolling the excellencies of this fare, and the benefits of pastoral life. It was easy for me to persuade myself of the excellence of our mode of living. I took less and less interest in the news from town that reached us by the diligence. Once or twice, to give us fuller intelligence, they sent up the farmer himself, so that in our hermitage we knew the number of deaths and the ravages of the pestilence. The Hanged, who was dead, had made a most edifying end, Aunt Deen being with him to the last. Gallus and Merinos were safe and sound.
“They are always in luck,” observed grandfather.
The farmer shook his head as if to say that the last word hadn’t been said yet, and that the ravages of the epidemic were not over. Of Martinod he knew nothing; he was still in hiding. Our friend Abbé Heurtevant had resisted but he was undermined; however he still had life enough to predict catastrophes.
“May we go back?” Louise would ask each time. This astonished grandfather and me, for we were in no hurry.
“Not yet, Miss; Master Michael has said like this, that the moment hasn’t come yet.”
A lazaretto had been set up for doubtful cases, the two hospitals were crowded, those who went in or out of the city were examined. A series of edicts had been issued by the mayor, ordering the most minute precautions.
“It’s awful,” concluded the farmer, who was giving these details.
Grandfather declared that we were perfectly comfortable at the Alpette, but Louise was chafing with impatience.