And they mostly make answer, "Toutte douce, chè,—et ou?" (All sweetly, dear,—and thou?) But some, overweary, cry to him, "Ah! déchâgê moin vite, chè! moin lasse, lasse!" (Unload me quickly, dear; for I am very, very weary.) Then he takes off their burdens, and fetches bread for them, and says foolish little things to make them laugh. And they are pleased, and laugh, just like children, as they sit right down on the road there to munch their dry bread.
... So often have I watched that scene!... Let me but close my eyes one moment, and it will come back to me,—through all the thousand miles,—over the graves of the days....
Again I see the mountain road in the yellow glow, banded with umbrages of palm. Again I watch the light feet coming,—now in shadow, now in sun,—soundlessly as falling leaves. Still I can hear the voices crying, "Ah! déchâgê moin vite, chè!—moin lasse!"—and see the mighty arms outreach to take the burdens away.
LES PORTEUSES
"Again I see the mountain road in the yellow glow. ... Again I watch the light feet coming,—now in shadow, now in sun,—soundless as falling leaves."
... Only, there is a change,—I know not what!... All vapory the road is, and the fronds, and the comely coming of feet of the bearers, and even this light of sunset,—sunset that is ever larger and nearer to us than dawn, even as death than birth. And the weird way appeareth a way whose dust is the dust of generations;—and the Shape that waits is never Jean-Marie, but one darker and stronger;—and these are surely voices of tired souls who cry to Thee, thou dear black Giver of the perpetual rest, "Ah! déchâgé moin vite, chè!—moin lasse!"
