A quiet deep old pond in a past French forest, hallowed by such
memories! What _can_ be more enchanting? Oh, soft and sweet nostalgia,
so soon to be relieved!
Up springs the mellow sun, the light of other days, to its appointed
place in the heavens--zenith, or east or west, according to order. A
light wind blows from the south--everything is properly disinfected, and
made warm and bright and comfortable--and lo! old Peter Ibbetson appears
upon the scene, absolute monarch of all he surveys for the next eight
hours--one whose right there are literally none to dispute.
I do not encourage noisy gatherings there as a rule, nor by the pond; I
like to keep the sweet place pretty much to myself; there is no
selfishness in this, for I am really depriving nobody. Whoever comes
there now, comes there nearly fifty years ago and does not know it; they
must have all died long since.
Sometimes it is a _garde champetre_ in Louis Philippe's blue and silver,
with his black pipe, his gaiters, his old flint gun, and his
embroidered game-bag. He does well in the landscape.
Sometimes it is a pair of lovers, if they are good-looking and
well-behaved, or else the boys from Saindou's school to play fly the
garter--_la raie_.
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