142 A TOUR ROUND MT GARDEN. 



ing, and which the peasantry call the violet of the dead. But 

 there are other flowers which associate themselves with certain 

 joys, and certain dead griefs likewise; for forgetfulness is the 

 death of things which no longer live but in the heart. 



These flowers return every year, at a fixed period, like 

 anniversaries, to repeat to me many recitals of the past, of 

 perished trust and dead hope, of which nothing more remains 

 than that which remains of the beloved dead — a tender sad- 

 ness, and a melancholy which softens the heart. 



These ideas come back to me on seeing these forget-me- 

 nots, these pretty little blue flowers, creeping almost into the 

 water. 



Perhaps to all the world but me this large lime-tree is a 

 magnificent tent of transparent green; you see birds hop 

 about in its branches, and butterflies, which love silence and 

 shade, flirt among the leaves like nymphs and fauns, and you 

 inhale the sweet odour of its flowers. But for me, it seems 

 that the wind which agitates these leaves, repeats to me all 

 the things I have said and heard at the foot of another lime- 

 tree, in far bygone times; the shade of the leaves of the tree, 

 and the rays of the sun which they break, form for me images 

 which I can only see there; that odour intoxicates me, 

 troubles my reason, and plunges me into ecstasies and visions. 

 The Pythoness of old saw the future at the moment of inspi- 

 ration ; I behold the past again, but not as past ; I tread over 

 again every one of the steps I have made in life, every- 

 thing lives again for me, with the colours of the vestments, 

 the words that were spoken and the sound of the voice. I do 

 not forget the least circumstance of a single instant; by re- 

 calling a word, I see again a thousand details which I did not 

 know I had remarked; I behold the folds of her robe and 

 the reflection of her hair ; I see how the sun and the shade 

 played upon her countenance, and what flowers blossomed in 

 the grass, and what odours were exhaled in the air, and what 

 distant noise was heard; I see, I breathe, I hear aU this ! 



If my eyes fall upon one of those ravenelles, of those gilly- 

 flowers which blossom on the walls, if I breathe its balsamic 

 perfume, I become the prey of an enchantment. I am twenty 

 years old; I find myself no longer in this garden; I aseend 

 a flight of stone steps, green with moss, in the crevices of 



