wood, the daylight becoming richer and more golden, and the shadows
stretching farther into the open. A cool air comes along the

highways, and the scents awaken. The fir-trees breathe abroad their
ozone. Out of unknown thickets comes forth the soft, secret,

aromatic odour of the woods, not like a smell of the free heaven, but
as though court ladies, who had known these paths in ages long gone

by, still walked in the summer evenings, and shed from their brocades
a breath of musk or bergamot upon the woodland winds. One side of

the long avenues is still kindled with the sun, the other is plunged
in transparent shadow. Over the trees the west begins to burn like a

furnace; and the painters gather up their chattels, and go down, by
avenue or footpath, to the plain.

A PLEASURE-PARTY
As this excursion is a matter of some length, and, moreover, we go in

force, we have set aside our usual vehicle, the pony-cart, and
ordered a large wagonette from Lejosne's. It has been waiting for

near an hour, while one went to pack a knapsack, and t'other hurried
over his toilette and coffee; but now it is filled from end to end

with merry folk in summer attire, the coachman cracks his whip, and
amid much applause from round the inn door off we rattle at a

spanking trot. The way lies through the forest, up hill and down
dale, and by beech and pine wood, in the cheerful morning sunshine.

The English get down at all the ascents and walk on ahead for
exercise; the French are mightily entertained at this, and keep coyly

underneath the tilt. As we go we carry with us a pleasant noise of
laughter and light speech, and some one will be always breaking out

into a bar or two of opera bouffe. Before we get to the Route Ronde
here comes Desprez, the colourman from Fontainebleau, trudging across

on his weekly peddle with a case of merchandise; and it is 'Desprez,
leave me some malachite green'; 'Desprez, leave me so much canvas';

'Desprez, leave me this, or leave me that'; M. Desprez standing the
while in the sunlight with grave face and many salutations. The next

interruption is more important. For some time back we have had the
sound of cannon in our ears; and now, a little past Franchard, we

find a mounted trooperholding a led horse, who brings the wagonette
to a stand. The artillery is practising in the Quadrilateral, it

appears; passage along the Route Ronde formally interdicted for the
moment. There is nothing for it but to draw up at the glaring cross-

roads and get down to make fun with the notorious Cocardon, the most
ungainly and ill-bred dog of all the ungainly and ill-bred dogs of

Barbizon, or clamber about the sandy banks. And meanwhile the
doctor, with sun umbrella, wide Panama, and patriarchal beard, is

busy wheedling and (for aught the rest of us know) bribing the too
facile sentry. His speech is smooth and dulcet, his manner dignified

and insinuating. It is not for nothing that the Doctor has voyaged
all the world over, and speaks all languages from French to

Patagonian. He has not come borne from perilous journeys to be
thwarted by a corporal of horse. And so we soon see the soldier's

mouth relax, and his shoulders imitate a relenting heart. 'EN
VOITURE, MESSIEURS, MESDAMES,' sings the Doctor; and on we go again

at a good round pace, for black care follows hard after us, and
discretion prevails not a little over valour in some timorous spirits

of the party. At any moment we may meet the sergeant, who will send
us back. At any moment we may encounter a flying shell, which will

send us somewhere farther off than Grez.
Grez - for that is our destination - has been highly recommended for

its beauty. 'IL Y A DE L'EAU,' people have said, with an emphasis,
as if that settled the question, which, for a French mind, I am

rather led to think it does. And Grez, when we get there, is indeed
a place worthy of some praise. It lies out of the forest, a cluster

of houses, with an old bridge, an old castle in ruin, and a quaint
old church. The inn garden descends in terraces to the river;

stable-yard, kailyard, orchard, and a space of lawn, fringed with
rushes and embellished with a green arbour. On the opposite bank

there is a reach of English-looking plain, set thickly with willows
and poplars. And between the two lies the river, clear and deep, and

full of reeds and floating lilies. Water-plants cluster about the
starlings of the long low bridge, and stand half-way up upon the

piers in green luxuriance. They catch the dipped oar with long
antennae, and chequer the slimy bottom with the shadow of their

leaves. And the river wanders and hither" target="_blank" title="ad.到那里 a.那边的">thitherhither among the islets,
and is smothered and broken up by the reeds, like an old building in

the lithe, hardy arms of the climbing ivy. You may watch the box
where the good man of the inn keeps fish alive for his kitchen, one

oily ripple following another over the top of the yellow deal. And
you can hear a splashing and a prattle of voices from the shed under

the old kirk, where the village women wash and wash all day among the
fish and water-lilies. It seems as if linen washed there should be

specially cool and sweet.
We have come here for the river. And no sooner have we all bathed

than we board the two shallops and push off gaily, and go gliding
under the trees and gathering a great treasure of water-lilies. Some

one sings; some trail their hands in the cool water; some lean over
the gunwale to see the image of the tall poplars far below, and the

shadow of the boat, with the balanced oars and their own head
protruded, glide smoothly over the yellow floor of the stream. At

last, the day declining - all silent and happy, and up to the knees
in the wet lilies - we punt slowly back again to the landing-place

beside the bridge. There is a wish for solitude on all. One hides
himself in the arbour with a cigarette; another goes a walk in the

country with Cocardon; a third inspects the church. And it is not
till dinner is on the table, and the inn's best wine goes round from

glass to glass, that we begin to throw off the straint" target="_blank" title="n.抑制；管束；克制">restraint and fuse
once more into a jolly fellowship.

Half the party are to return to-night with the wagonette; and some of
the others, loath to break up company, will go with them a bit of the

way and drink a stirrup-cup at Marlotte. It is dark in the
wagonette, and not so merry as it might have been. The coachman

loses the road. So-and-so tries to light fireworks with the most
indifferent success. Some sing, but the rest are too weary to

applaud; and it seems as if the festival were fairly at an end -
'Nous avons fait la noce,

Rentrons a nos foyers!'
And such is the burthen, even after we have come to Marlotte and

taken our places in the court at Mother Antonine's. There is punch
on the long table out in the open air, where the guests dine in

summer weather. The candles flare in the night wind, and the faces
round the punch are lit up, with shifting emphasis, against a

background of complete and solid darkness. It is all picturesque
enough; but the fact is, we are aweary. We yawn; we are out of the

vein; we have made the wedding, as the song says, and now, for
pleasure's sake, let's make an end on't. When here comes striding

into the court, booted to mid-thigh, spurred and splashed, in a
jacket of green cord, the great, famous, and redoubtable Blank; and

in a moment the fire kindles again, and the night is witness of our
laughter as he imitates Spaniards, Germans, Englishmen, picture-

dealers, all eccentric ways of speaking and thinking, with a
possession, a fury, a strain of mind and voice, that would rather

suggest a nervouscrisis than a desire to please. We are as merry as
ever when the trap sets forth again, and say farewell noisily to all

the good folk going farther. Then, as we are far enough from
thoughts of sleep, we visit Blank in his quaint house, and sit an

hour or so in a great tapestried chamber, laid with furs, littered
with sleeping hounds, and lit up, in fantastic shadow and shine, by a

wood fire in a mediaeval chimney. And then we plod back through the
darkness to the inn beside the river.

How quick bright things come to confusion! When we arise next
morning, the grey showers fall steadily, the trees hang limp, and the

face of the stream is spoiled with dimpling raindrops. Yesterday's
lilies encumber the garden walk, or begin, dismally enough, their

voyage towards the Seine and the salt sea. A sicklyshimmer lies
upon the dripping house-roofs, and all the colour is washed out of

the green and golden landscape of last night, as though an envious
man had taken a water-colour sketch and blotted it together with a