Canalis did not listen to this statement after the opening sentence. The four riders, having now reached a wider road, went abreast and soon reached a stretch of table-land, from which the eye took in on one side the rich valley of the Seine toward Rouen, and on the other an horizon bounded only by the sea.
“Butscha was right, God is the greatest of all landscape painters,” said Canalis, contemplating the view, which is unique among the many fine scenes that have made the shores of the Seine so justly celebrated.
“Above all do we feel that, my dear baron,” said the duke, “on hunting-days, when nature has a voice, and a lively tumult breaks the silence; at such times the landscape, changing rapidly as we ride through it, seems really sublime.”
“The sun is the inexhaustible palette,” said Modeste, looking at the poet in a species of bewilderment.
A remark that she presently made on his absence of mind gave him an opportunity of saying that he was just then absorbed in his own thoughts,—an excuse that authors have more reason for giving than other men.
“Are we really made happy by carrying our lives into the midst of the world, and swelling them with all sorts of fictitious wants and over-excited vanities?” said Modeste, moved by the aspect of the fertile and billowy country to long for a philosophically tranquil life.
“That is a bucolic, mademoiselle, which is only written on tablets of gold,” said the poet.
“And sometimes under garret-roofs,” remarked the colonel.
Modeste threw a piercing glance at Canalis, which he was unable to sustain; she was conscious of a ringing in her ears, darkness seemed to spread before her, and then she suddenly exclaimed in icy tones:—
“Ah! it is Wednesday!”