CHAPTER I 



THE CETONLE 



MY hermitage boasts a long, wide lilac- 

 walk. When May is here and the 

 two rows of bushes, bending beneath their 

 load of clustering blooms, form pointed 

 arches overhead, this walk becomes a chapel, 

 in which the loveliest festival of the year is 

 celebrated beneath the kisses of the morning 

 sun: a peaceful festival, with no flags flap- 

 ping at the windows, no expenditure of gun- 

 powder, no drunken squabbles; a festival of 

 simple creatures disturbed neither by the 

 harsh brass band of the dance nor by the 

 shouts of the crowd acclaiming the amateur 

 who has just won a silk handkerchief at the 

 hop, skip and jump. Vulgar delights of 

 drinks and crackers, how far removed are 

 you from this solemn celebration! 



I am one of the worshippers in the chapel 

 of the lilacs. MV orison, which cannot be 

 translated into words, is a tender and inti- 

 mate emotion. Devoutly I make my sta- 

 tions from one column of verdure to another, 



