one reminded the count of an event, or at least of a distinct impression or emotion; a grave, a drunken orgy, a woman, a friend; this stood for a broken vow, that for a disappointed hope, an unappreciated devotion, or unjustifiable hatred.
There was a birch, shimmering in the sun, which had been brought from the Polish plains, and named ‘Mecislava.’ Des Loges had plucked it from the grave of a beautiful woman for whose sake he had fought a duel, and whom he then had cast off; soon afterwards she had died. When he had visited Masovia for the second time, he had pulled the slender sapling from her snow-covered, neglected grave, on a night when he had ridden from the village inn to the castle, in company with a wild cavalcade of drunken comrades. He had made a detour to ride across the cemetery; when he returned to overtake his companions, he had very nearly lost his life. The little tree, strapped to the saddle, had startled the horse which was unaccustomed to carrying such a singular object, and had thrown the count. In the morning he was found, half frozen, and with a broken ankle.
In another part a stunted pine in a tub
