“It is not necessary to go any farther,” said Henri to his companion. “I need only to take a few steps in order to see what interests me.”
“I will wait for you here,” she replied, alighting after him. “Don’t be afraid to leave me alone. The horse will not move; he is used to stopping.”
He left her gathering daisies, and walked resolutely to the panoramic point of view, where a strange and unexpected sight met his eyes!
All that had once been so dear to him had regained its former aspect. The kitchen-gardens had given place to the rich pastures, where yearling colts frisked gayly. The factory had disappeared, and the chateau had been restored to its original appearance. The walls enclosing the park had been rebuilt, and even several cleared places indicated the sites of cottages that had been pulled down.
Henri de Prerolles could hardly believe his eyes! Was he the sport of a dream or of one of those mirages which rise before men who travel across the sandy African deserts? The latitude and the position of the sun forbade this interpretation. But whence came it, then? What fairy had turned a magic ring in order to work this miracle?
A crackling of dry twigs under a light tread made him turn, and he beheld Zibeline, who had come up behind him.
The fairy was there, pale and trembling, like a criminal awaiting arrest.
“Is it you who have done this?” Henri exclaimed, with a sob which no human strength could have controlled.
“It is I!” she murmured, lowering her eyes. “I did it in the hope that some day you would take back that which rightfully belongs to you.”
“Rightfully, you say? By what act?”