The idea seemed to haunt him, for he returned to it on our next walk, and described, with more enthusiasm than usual, a splendid epoch which he had known, compared with which our own period was but darkness. Our own period seemed to me quite endurable, between our walks and the Café. It appeared that at that time, as under the Revolution, liberty had a second time been set free, and when liberty is set free an era of universal peace and concord begins. Citizens moved by a fraternal impulse were working together in vast national workshops, a modest remuneration, the same for all, weak and strong, robust and malingerers, giving to each that contentment which arises from being sure of one’s daily bread.
“That is what M. Martinod demands,” I said.
“Martinod is right,” replied my companion, “but will he succeed where we came to grief?”
“You came to grief, grandfather!”
“We failed in the blood of the days of June.”
We failed in the blood of the days of June. The meaning of the words might escape me, but they made music in my ears like the rolling of a drum. Long ago—three or four years perhaps—I had been excited over other mysterious words, such as the lament of the White Blackbird, I was arranging trifles while you were in the woods, and also that of the Nightingale, All night long I strain my throat for her, but she sleeps and hears me not. Now I found their melancholy somewhat insipid, and preferred this new rhythm, so war-like and full of pain. Touched to the heart I at once asked, as with Aunt Deen’s stories when I was little,
“And what happened after that?”
“A tyrant came.”
Ah, this time it was all clear! A tyrant, a hospodar, to be sure! Aunt Deen’s hospodar, the famous man all dressed in red, who gave commands with loud shouts.
“What tyrant?” I asked, by way of knowing it all.