Even now parts of it are peaceful, often the very spots marked by
history, where it seems as if each tree should be decorated by a Croix
de Guerre. For instance, there was the place--a junction of roads--where
the Uhlans with a glitter of helmets came proudly galloping toward
Paris, and to their blank amazement and rage had to turn back. As we
halted to take in the scene, it was mysterious as dreamland in the
morning mist. Nothing moved save two teams of cream-coloured oxen, their
moon-white sides dazzling behind a silver veil. The pale road stretched
before us so straight and far that it seemed to descend from the sky
like a waterfall. Only the trees had a martial look, like tall, dark
soldiers drawn up in line for parade.
It was not till we plunged into forest depths that I said to myself: "We
must be coming near Senlis!" For the very name "Senlis" fills the mind
with forest pictures. No wonder, since it lies walled away from the
outer world--like the Sleeping Beauty--by woods, and woods, and woods:
the forests of Hallette, Chantilly, and Ermenonville, each as full of
history as it is now of aromatic scents, and used to be of wild boars
for kings to kill!
I think the best of the forest pictures has Henri de Navarre for its
principal figure. Brian and I turned over the pages of our memory for
the Becketts, who listened like children to fairy tales--or as we
listened when you used to embroider history for us in those evening
_causeries_ in the dear old "den," Padre.
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