XXIII.


We reached the little mole that stretches out into the lake where the
boats are moored; it is the harbor of Aix, and is situated at about
half a league from the town. It was midnight, and there were no longer
any carriages or donkeys on the pier to convey strangers to the town.
The distance was too great for a delicate suffering woman to walk, and
after knocking fruitlessly at the doors of one or two cottages in the
vicinity of the lake, the boatmen proposed carrying the lady to Aix.
They cheerfully slipped their oars from the rings which fastened them
to the boat, and tied them together with the ropes of their nets; then
they placed one of the cushions of the boat on these ropes, and thus
formed a soft and flexible kind of litter for the stranger. Four of
them then took up the oars, and each placing one end on his shoulder,
they set off with the palanquin, to which they imparted no other motion
than that of their steps. I would have wished to have my share in the
pleasure of bearing their precious burden, but was repulsed by them
with jealous eagerness. I walked beside the litter with my right hand
in hers, so that she might cling to me when the movement of her
conveyance was too rough. I thus prevented her slipping off the narrow
cushion on which she was stretched. We walked in this manner slowly and
silently in the moonlight down the long avenue of poplars. Oh, how
short that avenue seemed to me, and how I wished that it could have led
us on thus to the last step of both our lives! She did not speak, and I
said nothing, but I felt the whole weight of her body trustingly
suspended to my arm; I felt both her cold hands clasp mine, and from
time to time an involuntary pressure, or a warmer breath upon them,