l.siiT. 



THE AMERICAN BEE KEEPER. 



247 



know, too, the place at table occupied 

 by each member of the family aud to 

 hear of those eveuiugs wheu he sat be- 

 neath the lamp reading aloud, while the 

 old mother, iisteuiug, would fall asleep 

 in the great armchair, her feet upon the 

 fender. 



But the garden interested her most of 

 all. She at once recognized the well, 

 and she in her turn dropped in stonea 

 to hear them splash in the water. 



There were no more doves' nests in 

 the tulip tree. "What a pity!" 



Behind the hedge ran the road to the 

 schoolhouse. Cecile stained her red 

 lips nearly black with the juice of the 

 mulberries, and so happy was she that 

 her eyes became clouded w^ith tears of 

 joy. She fcxlowed where Roger led. 

 He was charmed to see her so teuderlj' 

 affected. He, however, was very silent 

 and smiled but little, trying in vain to 

 hide a feeling of deep sadness. Yes, tru- 

 ly, after they had returned to the little 

 village he was pensive aud morose. 



One morning he dressed in haste and 

 quickly left the inn where Cecile wasi 

 still sleeping. He did not even place 

 upon her forehead or lips the kiss that 

 would have awakened her. 



He traversed the village, passed the 

 last house and entered a graveyard. 



He stopped in front of a slab of stone 

 upon which was inscribed a name, 

 "Denise," and the age, "15 years." 

 Here he fell upon his knees, his face 

 buried in his hands. Roger had not 

 told all to Cecile. He had not related 

 all his youthful memories. She did not 

 know that he had loved when a child 

 another child; that the poor little one 



had died in the autumn, before having 

 received his first kiss. But Roger had 

 never forgotten her. Now, before this 

 grave where he had knelt down, he 

 seemed to see her again alive, and so 

 pretty, with her sweet, pale eyes and 

 delicate lips \vhich would never again 

 be red. He lived ovfr again those fur- 

 tive hours of their rendezvous behind 

 the garden hedge, the hope, the impa- 

 tience with which be awaited the let- 

 ter which Denise every day as she re- 

 tnrned from school would slip beneath 

 the gate. Here in the silence of the 

 graveyard he .^eeoaed to hear her voice. 

 But the bitter certainty that she was 

 dead, a vision of the head as it rested 



upon a pi iow of flowers, of the pale 

 forehead an,', closed eyes, overwhelmed 

 bim. HesuiTered again, after ten years, 

 fts he suffered before. His eyes closed 

 aud tears fell from beneath his lashts. 



There was a noise behind him. He 

 turned. Cecile, who had followed him, 

 was standing there close to him. Sje 

 looked at him. She looked at the grave. 

 She must have read the inscription, aud 

 surely she had divined all. He arose 

 trembling. He dared not say a word to 

 his ^yife no. ti.ke her hand. He moved 

 aside, walked away from her and pass- 

 ed out of the graveyard with the air of 

 a child that, being caught in some fo. 

 bidden act, takes to flight. 



He walked a louj' time — it mattered 

 not where — across the fields, not know- 

 ing whither he went, not having th» 

 courage to enter the village. He feared 

 to meet Cecile, for, loving and jealous 

 as he knew her to be, she would be furi- 

 ous — or sad, which would be still worse. 

 Surely she knew now what he had so 

 long hidden from her. She knew that 

 he had loved a young girl — that he had 

 loved her tenderly, since he still wept 

 for her. Perhaps she would have par- 

 doned him this early love — this love 

 that he had felt before he met her, but 

 she would never pardon the tears that 

 the old love revived. No, she would 

 never forgive that. He thought of the 

 reproaches, the cruel words with which 

 she w^ould shortly receive him. Vainly 

 he told himself that this youthful ten- 

 derness had left in him only a languish- 

 ing remembrance, a very vague one, re- 

 vived by his return to the village and 

 by the sight of the barren and nearly 

 forgotten grave. Was there the slightest 

 resemblance between this dream of a 

 child, faded and vanished, and the man- 

 ly reality of the ardent and imperish- 

 able passion which he felt for her, Ce- 

 cile? She jealous? Jealous of a little 

 girl who had died before her heart had 

 opened ! What folly ! It would be well 

 enough to say these things and many 

 others to Cecile. But she would never 

 listen to him. She would repeat with 

 sobs and tears, "You have loved her," 

 or else (and this would be much worse) 

 she would sit unmoved and look at him 

 coldly — silently. 



Neverthele.ss he could not remain all 

 day in the fields. He must return to 

 the tavern, where Cecile had already 



