We left the carriage on the skirts of the woods, at the foot of the
hills, or at the gates of the parks in the environs of Paris, and
sought out at Fleury, at Meudon, at Sevres, at Satory, and at Vincennes
the longest and most solitary paths, carpeted with turf and flowers,
untrodden by horses' hoofs, except perhaps on the day of a royal hunt.
We never met any one, save a few children or poor women busy with their
knives digging up endive. Occasionally a startled doe would rustle
through the leaves, and springing across the path, after a glance at
us, dive into the thicket. We walked in silence, sometimes preceding
each other, sometimes arm in arm, or we talked of the future, of the
delight it would be to possess one out of all these untenanted acres,
with a keeper's lodge under one of the old oaks. We dreamed aloud. We
picked violets and the wild periwinkle, which we interchanged as
hieroglyphics and preserved in the smooth leaves of the hellebore. To
each of these flowery letters we linked a meaning, a remembrance, a
look, a sigh, a prayer.
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