"It is only a bluff," he declared, "like so many we have had for the
last thirty years; we get them regularly every spring and summer; just
bullying and sabre-rattling." People did not believe in war, no one
wanted it; war had been proved to be impossible,--it was a bugbear
that must be got out of the heads of free democracies ... and he
enlarged on this theme. The night was calm and sweet; all around
familiar sounds and sights; the chirp of crickets in the fields, a
glow-worm shining in the grass,--delicious perfume of honey-suckle.
Far away the noise of a distant train; the little fountain tinkled,
and in the moonless sky revolved the luminous track of the light on
the Eiffel Tower.
The two women went into the house, and Maxime, tired of sitting down,
ran about the garden with his little dog, while through the open
windows floated out an air of Schumann's, which Rosine, full of timid
emotion, was playing on the piano. Clerambault left alone, threw
himself back in his wicker chair, glad to be a man, to be alive,
breathing in the balm of this summer night with a thankful heart.
Six days later ... Clerambault had spent the afternoon in the woods,
and like the monk in the legend, lying under an oak tree, drinking in
the song of a lark, a hundred years might have gone by him like a day.
Pages:
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26