"Like this afternoon."
I sit at my window and look out upon the strip of beach, the
hauled-up fishing boats and the nets hung out to dry looming
vague in the starlight, and I hear the surf's rhythmical moan a
few yards beyond; and it beats into my ears the idiot phrase that
has recurred all the evening.
But why should I be mad? For filling my soul with God's utmost
glory of earth and sea and sky? For filling my heart with purest
pleasure in the intimate companionship of fresh and fragrant
maidenhood? For giving myself up for once to a dream of sense
clouded by never a thought that was not serenely fair?
For feeling young again?
I shall read myself to sleep with _La Dame de Monsoreau_, which I
have procured from the circulating library in the Rue Alphonse
Karr--(the literary horticulturist is the genius loci and the
godfather of my landlady)--and I will empty flagons with Pere
Gorenflot and ride on errands of life and death with Chicot,
prince of jesters, and walk lovingly between the valiant Bussy
and Henri Quatre.
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