"Bravo! bravo! that's splendid; 'topping,' I should say, like
you--'sporting,' I suppose I ought to say, only I'm a hundred-and-one, a
woman of the old school," exclaimed the lady, uttering, on behalf of the
voiceless Champs-Elysees, their thanks to Gilberte for having come,
without letting herself be frightened away by the weather. "You are like
me, faithful at all costs to our old Champs-Elysees; we are two brave
souls! You wouldn't believe me, I dare say, if I told you that I love
them, even like this. This snow (I know, you'll laugh at me), it makes me
think of ermine!" And the old lady began to laugh herself.
The first of these days--to which the snow, a symbol of the powers that
were able to deprive me of the sight of Gilberte, imparted the sadness of
a day of separation, almost the aspect of a day of departure, because it
changed the outward form and almost forbade the use of the customary scene
of our only encounters, now altered, covered, as it were, in
dust-sheets--that day, none the less, marked a stage in the progress of my
love, for it was, in a sense, the first sorrow that she was to share with
me.
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