All right, Marie. I am going to take the air. . . . I'll walk along the bank of the river, if you want me to."
"No, Monsieur, you must take a walk in the woods. . . . The air there will do you good."
"All right, Marie, I am going to take a walk in the woods."
At times, seeing him inactive, slumbering, she would tap him on the shoulder:
"Why don't you get your rifle, Monsieur? There are a lot of finches in the park."
And looking at her with an air of reproach, my father would mutter:
"Finches? . . . The poor things! . . . "
Why did my father not write to me? Did my letters reach him at all? I reproached myself with having been too dry in my letters until now, and I promised myself to write to him the next day the first opportunity I got—a long affectionate letter, in which I was going to pour out my heart to him.
The sky was gradually clearing way yonder on the horizon whose outline stood out clear against a darker blue. It was still night, the fields remained dark, but one could feel the approaching dawn. The cold was more piercing than ever, the earth cracked harder under the feet, moisture crystallized into drops on the branches of the trees. And little by little the sky was brightened by a faint glimmer of pale-gold color which was growing in distinctness. Gradually, outlines emerged from the shadow, indefinite and confused as yet, the opaque blackness of the plain changed into a dull violet, here and there rent by light. . . . Suddenly I heard a noise, weak at first, like the distant roll of a drum. . . . I listened, my heart beating violently. Presently the noise stopped and the cocks crowed. , About ten minutes later
