The Lily of the Valley | Page 9

which
the noise of the music drowned; she turned, saw me, and exclaimed,
"Monsieur!" Ah! had she said, "My little lad, what possesses you?" I
might have killed her; but at the word "Monsieur!" hot tears fell from
my eyes. I was petrified by a glance of saintly anger, by a noble face
crowned with a diadem of golden hair in harmony with the shoulders I
adored. The crimson of offended modesty glowed on her cheeks,
though already it was appeased by the pardoning instinct of a woman
who comprehends a frenzy which she inspires, and divines the infinite
adoration of those repentant tears. She moved away with the step and
carriage of a queen.
I then felt the ridicule of my position; for the first time I realized that I
was dressed like the monkey of a barrel organ. I was ashamed. There I
stood, stupefied,--tasting the fruit that I had stolen, conscious of the
warmth upon my lips, repenting not, and following with my eyes the
woman who had come down to me from heaven. Sick with the first
fever of the heart I wandered through the rooms, unable to find mine
Unknown, until at last I went home to bed, another man.
A new soul, a soul with rainbow wings, had burst its chrysalis.
Descending from the azure wastes where I had long admired her, my
star had come to me a woman, with undiminished lustre and purity. I
loved, knowing naught of love. How strange a thing, this first irruption
of the keenest human emotion in the heart of a man! I had seen pretty
women in other places, but none had made the slightest impression
upon me. Can there be an appointed hour, a conjunction of stars, a
union of circumstances, a certain woman among all others to awaken
an exclusive passion at the period of life when love includes the whole
sex?
The thought that my Elect lived in Touraine made the air I breathed
delicious; the blue of the sky seemed bluer than I had ever yet seen it. I
raved internally, but externally I was seriously ill, and my mother had
fears, not unmingled with remorse. Like animals who know when

danger is near, I hid myself away in the garden to think of the kiss that
I had stolen. A few days after this memorable ball my mother attributed
my neglect of study, my indifference to her tyrannical looks and
sarcasms, and my gloomy behavior to the condition of my health. The
country, that perpetual remedy for ills that doctors cannot cure, seemed
to her the best means of bringing me out of my apathy. She decided
that I should spend a few weeks at Frapesle, a chateau on the Indre
midway between Montbazon and Azay-le-Rideau, which belonged to a
friend of hers, to whom, no doubt, she gave private instructions.
By the day when I thus for the first time gained my liberty I had swum
so vigorously in Love's ocean that I had well-nigh crossed it. I knew
nothing of mine unknown lady, neither her name, nor where to find her;
to whom, indeed, could I speak of her? My sensitive nature so
exaggerated the inexplicable fears which beset all youthful hearts at the
first approach of love that I began with the melancholy which often
ends a hopeless passion. I asked nothing better than to roam about the
country, to come and go and live in the fields. With the courage of a
child that fears no failure, in which there is something really chivalrous,
I determined to search every chateau in Touraine, travelling on foot,
and saying to myself as each old tower came in sight, "She is there!"
Accordingly, of a Thursday morning I left Tours by the barrier of
Saint-Eloy, crossed the bridges of Saint-Sauveur, reached Poncher
whose every house I examined, and took the road to Chinon. For the
first time in my life I could sit down under a tree or walk fast or slow as
I pleased without being dictated to by any one. To a poor lad crushed
under all sorts of despotism (which more or less does weigh upon all
youth) the first employment of freedom, even though it be expended
upon nothing, lifts the soul with irrepressible buoyancy. Several
reasons combined to make that day one of enchantment. During my
school years I had never been taken to walk more than two or three
miles from a city; yet there remained in my mind among the earliest
recollections of my childhood that feeling for the beautiful which the
scenery about Tours inspires. Though quite untaught as to the poetry of
such a landscape, I was, unknown to myself, critical upon it, like those
who imagine the ideal of art without