One day, one of the last fine days of the season, Jean, squatted
on the ground, was busy sticking up bits of plane-tree bark in
the fine wet sand. That faculty of "pretending," by which children
are able to make their lives one unending miracle, transformed a
handful of soil and a few bits of wood into wondrous galleries and
fairy castles to the lad's imagination; he clapped his hands and
leapt for joy. Then suddenly he felt himself wrapped in something
soft and scented. It was a lady's gown; he saw nothing except
that she smiled as she put him gently out of her way and walked
on. He ran to tell his aunt:

"How good she smells, that lady!"

Mademoiselle Servien only muttered that great ladies were no
better than others, and that she thought more of herself with
her merino skirt than all those set-up minxes in their flounces
and finery, adding:

"Better a good name than a gilt girdle."

But this talk was beyond little Jean's comprehension. The perfumed
silk that had swept his face left behind a vague sweetness, a
memory as of a gentle, ghostly caress.




III

One evening in summer the bookbinder was enjoying the fresh air