of the heat, to the meadow-lands for another sight of the Indre and
its isles, the valley and its slopes, of which I seemed so passionate
an admirer. But once there, thanks to a swiftness of foot like that of
a loose horse, I returned to my punt, the willows, and Clochegourde.
All was silent and palpitating, as a landscape is at midday in summer.
The still foliage lay sharply defined on the blue of the sky; the
insects that live by light, the dragon-flies, the cantharides, were
flying among the reeds and the ash-trees; cattle chewed the cud in the
shade, the ruddy earth of the vineyards glowed, the adders glided up
and down the banks. What a change in the sparkling and coquettish
landscape while I slept! I sprang suddenly from the boat and ran up
the road which went round Clochegourde for I fancied that I saw the
count coming out. I was not mistaken; he was walking beside the hedge,
evidently making for a gate on the road to Azay which followed the
bank of the river.

"How are you this morning, Monsieur le comte?"

He looked at me pleasantly, not being used to hear himself thus
addressed.

"Quite well," he answered. "You must love the country, to be rambling
about in this heat!"

"I was sent here to live in the open air."

"Then what do you say to coming with me to see them cut my rye?"

"Gladly," I replied. "I'll own to you that my ignorance is past
belief; I don't know rye from wheat, nor a poplar from an aspen; I