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Page 50
'Oh, this is where we used to waste half our lives when we were
children. That's all. This was our favourite nook.'
'Perfect then for the story you're going to tell me.'
'What story?'
'You said it was a long story.'
'There's really no story at all.' His eyes were fastened upon her
hands, small and tapering, in their tan gauntlets. The point of a
patent-leather boot glanced from the edge of her skirt. A short gold
watch-chain dangled from her breast, a cluster of charms at the end.
'You said it was a long story,' she repeated sternly.
'It would be a dull one. We knew each other when we were infants, and
used to play together. That is all.'
'But what was she like? Describe her to me. I adore _souvenirs
d'enfance_.' Her eyes were bright with eagerness.
'Oh, she was very pretty. The prettiest little girl I've ever seen.
She had the most wonderful eyes--deep, deep, into which you could look
a hundred miles; you know the sort; dreamy, poetical, sad; oh, lovely
eyes. And she used to wear her hair down her back; it was very long,
and soft--soft as smoke, almost; almost impalpable. She always dressed
in white--short white frocks, with broad sashes, red or blue. That
was the fashion then for little girls. Perhaps it is still--I've never
noticed.'
'Yes. Don't stop. Go on.'
'Dear me, I don't know what to say. I used to see her a good deal,
because they were our neighbours. Her father used to ask me over to
stay at Granjolaye. She needed a playmate, and I was the only one
available. Sometimes she would come and spend a day at Saint-Graal. Do
you know Granjolaye? The castle? It's worth going over. It used to
belong to the Kings of Navarre, you know. We used to play together in
the great audience chamber, and chase each other through the secret
passages in the walls. At Saint-Graal we confined ourselves to the
garden. Her head was full of the queerest romantic notions. You
couldn't persuade her that the white irises that grew about our pond
weren't enchanted princesses. One day we filled a bottle with holy
water at the Church, and then she sprinkled them with it, pronouncing
an incantation. "If ye were born as ye are, remain as ye are; but if
ye were born otherwise, resume your original shapes." They remained
as they were; but that didn't shake her faith. Something was amiss
with the holy water, or with the form of her incantation.'
She laughed softly. 'Then she was nice? You liked her?' she asked.
'Oh, I was passionately in love with her. All children are
passionately in love with somebody, aren't they? A real _grande
passion_. It began when I was about ten.' He broke off, to laugh. 'Do
you care for love stories? I'm a weary, wayworn man; but upon my word,
I've never in all my life felt any such intense emotion for a woman,
anything that so nearly deserved to be called _love_, as I felt for
H�l�ne de la Granjolaye when I was an infant. Night after night I used
to lie awake thinking how I loved her--longing to tell her
so--planning how I would, next day--composing tremendous
declarations--imagining her response--and waiting in a fever of
impatience for the day to come. But then, when I met her, I didn't
dare. Bless me, how I used to thrill at sight of her, with love, with
fear. How I used to look at her face, and pine to kiss her. If her
hand touched mine, I almost fainted. It's very strange that children
before their teens should be able to experience the whole gamut of the
spiritual side of love; and yet it's certain.'
She was looking at him with intent eyes, her lips parted a little.
'But you did tell her at last, I hope?' she said, anxiously.
He had got warmed to his subject, and her interest inspired him. 'Oh,
at last! It was here--in this very spot. I had picked a lot of
celandine, and stuck them about in her hair, where they shone like
stars. Oh, the joy of being allowed to touch her hair! It made
utterance a necessity. I fumbled and stammered, and blushed and
thrilled, and almost choked. And at last I blurted it out. "I love you
so. I love you so." That--after the eloquent declarations I had
composed overnight!'
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