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 feet, and hold him prisoner, singing his eternal love-song; and I held Belette's hand, saying: "The tendrils are around us, and like them we cling to each other."

Then we went back down the hill again, still hand in hand, till we reached her cottage.

That was the last time that our fingers clung thus together, but the nightingale's note still sounds, the vine puts forth its branches, and love still twists young hearts in its supple tendrils. Night came on, as I stood there, gazing up at the silvered treetops. I could not tear myself away from that magic shadow which dimmed my homeward path, and even destroyed the wish to find it. Three times I tried, but found myself back where I started, so I gave it up, and took a lodging for that night at the sign of the Moonbeam. It was not a very good inn to sleep in: I lay there turning over the pages of my life, thinking of what I had done and left undone, and of the dreams from which I had awakened. In such dark hours what sadness rises from the depths of our hearts, what vanished hopes!—How far off seem the bright visions of early boyhood, and how poor and bare the reality looks. I thought of all my expectations, and the small results of my labors; of my wife, who certainly cannot be called either