debarred from union. Our talk, so free as we went, had hidden
significations as we returned, when either of us gave an answer to

some furtive interrogation, or continued a subject, already begun, in
the enigmatic phrases to which our language lends itself, and which

women are so ingenious in composing. Who has not known the pleasure of
such secret understandings in a sphere apart from those about us, a

sphere where spirits meet outside of social laws?
One day a wild hope, quickly dispelled, took possession of me, when

the count, wishing to know what we were talking of, put the inquiry,
and Henriette answered in words that allowed another meaning, which

satisfied him. This amused Madeleine, who laughed; after a moment her
mother blushed and gave me a forbidding look, as if to say she might

still withdraw from me her soul as she had once withdrawn her hand.
But our purelyspiritual union had far too many charms, and on the

morrow it continued as before.
The hours, days, and weeks fled by, filled with renascent joys. Grape

harvest, the festal season in Touraine, began. Toward the end of
September the sun, less hot than during the wheat harvest, allows of

our staying in the vineyards without danger of becoming overheated. It
is easier to gather grapes than to mow wheat. Fruits of all kinds are

ripe, harvests are garnered, bread is less dear; the sense of plenty
makes the country people happy. Fears as to the results of rural toil,

in which more money than sweat is often spent, vanish before a full
granary and cellars about to overflow. The vintage is then like a gay

dessert after the dinner is eaten; the skies of Touraine, where the
autumns are always magnificent, smile upon it. In this hospitable land

the vintagers are fed and lodged in the master's house. The meals are
the only ones throughout the year when these poor people taste

substantial, well-cooked food; and they cling to the custom as the
children of patriarchal families cling to anniversaries. As the time

approaches they flock in crowds to those houses where the masters are
known to treat the laborers liberally. The house is full of people and

of provisions. The presses are open. The country is alive with the
coming and going of itinerant coopers, of carts filled with laughing

girls and joyous husbandmen, who earn better wages than at any other
time during the year, and who sing as they go. There is also another

cause of pleasurable content: classes and ranks are equal; women,
children, masters, and men, all that little world, share in the

garnering of the divine hoard. These various elements of satisfaction
explain the hilarity of the vintage, transmitted from age to age in

these last glorious days of autumn, the remembrance of which inspired
Rabelais with the bacchic form of his great work.

The children, Jacques and Madeleine, had never seen a vintage; I was
like them, and they were full of infantine delight at finding a sharer

of their pleasure; their mother, too, promised to accompany us. We
went to Villaines, where baskets are manufactured, in quest of the

prettiest that could be bought; for we four were to cut certain rows
reserved for our scissors; it was, however, agreed that none of us

were to eat too many grapes. To eat the fat bunches of Touraine in a
vineyard seemed so delicious that we all refused the finest grapes on

the dinner-table. Jacques made me swear I would go to no other
vineyard, but stay closely at Clochegourde. Never were these frail

little beings, usually pallid and smiling, so fresh and rosy and
active as they were this morning. They chattered for chatter's sake,

and trotted about without apparent object; they suddenly seemed, like
other children, to have more life than they needed; neither Monsieur

nor Madame de Mortsauf had ever seen them so before. I became a child
again with them, more of a child than either of them, perhaps; I, too,

was hoping for my harvest. It was glorious weather when we went to the
vineyard, and we stayed there half the day. How we disputed as to who

had the finest grapes and who could fill his basket quickest! The
little human shoots ran to and fro from the vines to their mother; not

a bunch could be cut without showing it to her. She laughed with the
good, gay laugh of her girlhood when I, running up with my basket

after Madeleine, cried out, "Mine too! See mine, mamma!" To which she
answered: "Don't get overheated, dear child." Then passing her hand

round my neck and through my hair, she added, giving me a little tap
on the cheek, "You are melting away." It was the only caress she ever

gave me. I looked at the pretty line of purple clusters, the hedges
full of haws and blackberries; I heard the voices of the children; I

watched the trooping girls, the cart loaded with barrels, the men with
the panniers. Ah, it is all engraved on my memory, even to the almond-

tree beside which she stood, girlish, rosy, smiling, beneath the
sunshade held open in her hand. Then I busied myself in cutting the

bunches and filling my basket, going forward to empty it in the vat,
silently, with measured bodilymovement and slow steps that left my

spirit free. I discovered then the ineffable pleasure of an external
labor which carries life along, and thus regulates the rush of

passion, often so near, but for this mechanicalmotion, to kindle into
flame. I learned how much wisdom is contained in uniform labor; I

understood monastic discipline.
For the first time in many days the count was neither surly nor cruel.

His son was so well; the future Duc de Lenoncourt-Mortsauf, fair and
rosy and stained with grape-juice, rejoiced his heart. This day being

the last of the vintage, he had promised a dance in front of
Clochegourde in honor of the return of the Bourbons, so that our

festival gratified everybody. As we returned to the house, the
countess took my arm and leaned upon it, as if to let my heart feel

the weight of hers,--the instinctivemovement of a mother who seeks to
convey her joy. Then she whispered in my ear, "You bring us

happiness."
Ah, to me, who knew her sleepless nights, her cares, her fears, her

former existence, in which, although the hand of God sustained her,
all was barren and wearisome, those words uttered by that rich voice

brought pleasures no other woman in the world could give me.
"The terrible monotony of my life is broken, all things are radiant

with hope," she said after a pause. "Oh, never leave me! Do not
despise my harmless superstitions; be the elder son, the protector of

the younger."
In this, Natalie, there is nothing romantic. To know the infinite of

our deepest feelings, we must in youth cast our lead into those great
lakes upon whose shores we live. Though to many souls passions are

lava torrents flowing among arid rocks, other souls there be in whom
passion, restrained by insurmountable obstacles, fills with purest

water the crater of the volcano.
We had still another fete. Madame de Mortsauf, wishing to accustom her

children to the practical things of life, and to give them some
experience of the toil by which men earn their living, had provided

each of them with a source of income, depending on the chances of
agriculture. To Jacques she gave the produce of the walnut-trees, to

Madeleine that of the chestnuts. The gathering of the nuts began soon
after the vintage,--first the chestnuts, then the walnuts. To beat

Madeleine's trees with a long pole and hear the nuts fall and rebound
on the dry, matted earth of a chestnut-grove; to see the serious

gravity of the little girl as she examined the heaps and estimated
their probable value, which to her represented many pleasures on which

she counted; the congratulations of Manette, the trusted servant who
alone supplied Madame de Mortsauf's place with the children; the

explanations of the mother, showing the necessity of labor to obtain
all crops, so often imperilled by the uncertainties of climate,--all

these things made up a charming scene of innocent, childlike happiness
amid the fading colors of the late autumn.

Madeleine had a little granary of her own, in which I was to see her
brown treasure garnered and share her delight. Well, I quiver still

when I recall the sound of each basketful of nuts as it was emptied on
the mass of yellow husks, mixed with earth, which made the floor of

the granary. The count bought what was needed for the household; the
farmers and tenants, indeed, every one around Clochegourde, sent

buyers to the Mignonne, a pet name which the peasantry give even to
strangers, but which in this case belonged exclusively to Madeleine.

Jacques was less fortunate in gathering his walnuts. It rained for
several days; but I consoled him with the advice to hold back his nuts