108 GOLDEN DAYS 



tell us nothing, save that a grand-seigneur 

 from Spain once built this house of bricks, 

 and here he died. We know so little; 

 even his name is lost. There is no clue 

 in the ancient church records nor likely 

 stone within the cemetery. 



Only there is, behind the house, a 

 small walled garden, a place of soft green 

 peace and dappled sunlight, where old- 

 fashioned flowers now bloom untended. 

 There you will find an overgrowth of 

 musk-scented rose, rosemary, and thyme, 

 and below that small flower that the 

 French call desespoir - du - peintre (in 

 England we style it " London -pride "). 

 Perhaps the Spaniard named it just 

 " despair," who knows ? Amongst the 

 tangle stands a nameless grave, bearing a 

 following date, 1621. It may be that 

 this Spaniard had a favourite hound, who 

 knows ? Alas ! we know so little. Had 

 he no kith or kin when he came (I had 

 almost written Jied, for Suzanne and I 

 between us have worked his history out. 

 It is very secret. Suzanne, moreover, is 

 certain it is true) to sad grey Brittany ? 

 Was there no other who once upon a 



