Page:Stories by Foreign Authors (French I).djvu/80

Rh the place I liked best in the world. You know how good she was to me after the death of my father and mother. If she had lived I should have been a different man! That room of hers looked out, as you know, on the Place d'Armes. From the windows could be seen the statue of a marshal of the First Empire, in full dress, with his arm extended as though giving an order. Having no friend but you,—and you could not come to me then for fear of disturbing my sister,—this room, which was hung in blue, and where I played alone and silently for hours, was often filled with life and metamorphosed by my fancy. The furniture became persons, to whom I gave gestures, intentions, acts. One of the chairs was you, another Aline; together we played imaginary games while Blanche read, lying on her couch beside the fire, with her poor consumptive face, that was only twenty-five years old. She was my elder by sixteen years. Through the closed window's I could hear the cries of the street boys, playing around the statue of the famous soldier. I was not very fond of going out, and yet, on this occasion, the idea of dining with my Uncle Gaspard pleased me. A secret hope possessed my soul that he would give me a gold-piece, the color of the sabre that lay glittering in the well-known window, the very image of which would often force me to close my eyes. Well, I went to my uncle's. You remember the dining-room