From Bon Port we proceeded towards the high mountains which overlook
the valley between Chambéry and Geneva, going round by the northern
side of the hill of Tresserves. We saw once more the meadows, the
pastures, the cottages hidden beneath the walnut-trees, and the grassy
slopes, where the young heifers play, their little bell tinkles
continually, to give notice of their wandering march through the grass
to the shepherd, who tends them at a distance. We ascended to the
highest chalets; the winter wind had already scorched the tips of the
grass. We remembered the delightful hours we had spent there, the words
we had spoken, the fond delusion we had entertained of an entire
separation from the world, the sighs we had confided to the mountain
winds and rays to waft them to heaven. We recalled all our hours of
peace and happiness so swiftly flown, all our words, dreams, gestures,
looks and wishes, as one strips a dwelling that one leaves of all that
is most precious. We mentally buried all these treasures of memory and
hope within the walls of these wooden chalets which would remain closed
until the spring, to find them entire on our return, if ever we
returned.




XXXIX.


We came down by the wooded slopes to the foaming bed of a cascade.
There we saw a small funereal monument erected to the memory of a young
and lovely woman, Madame de Broc; she fell some years ago into this
whirl-pool, whose foaming waters gave up a long while after a part of