“Oh, to us!” I protested.
People were not to take possession of other people’s property like that, simply because they did not know the owner’s name. Everything that I had been taught protested.
“Why, yes, little simpleton,” he replied. “Every one takes his own in the world. Do you like this bit of land? It is yours,—like the sun that warms us, the air that we breath, the loveliness of these early spring days.”
I was not convinced. Dim resistances awoke within me, shivering; I found no words to express them, and could only bring forward the poor objection:
“Yes, but I couldn’t take anything from it.”
“You take your pleasure from it, that’s the important thing.”
Confident of victory, he clinched it by invoking the testimony of a third party.
“Jean-Jacques would explain to you better than I can, that nature holds within itself the happiness of man. Jean-Jacques would have loved this retreat.”
He uttered the name Jean-Jacques with devout unction, pursing his lips. He spoke of him as Aunt Deen spoke of the best known and most useful saints, Saint Christopher, for example, who protects against accidents, or Saint Antony, who helps to find lost objects. Puzzled, I at once asked:
“Who is that—Jean-Jacques?”