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always youngcome herebébéebébée went after him a little awedint

publish 2022-05-13,browse 6
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always young. come here, bébée. bébée went after him a little awed, into the dusky interior, that smelt of stored apples and of dried herbs that hung from the roof. there was a walnutwood press, such as the peasants of france and the low countries keep their homespun linen in and their old lace that serves for the nuptials and baptisms of half a score of generations. the old man unlocked it with a trembling hand, and there came from it an odor of dead lavender and of withered rose leaves. on the shelves there were a girls set of clothes, and a girls sabots, and a girls communion veil and wreath. they are all hers, he whispered,all hers. and sometimes in the evening time i see her coming along the lane for themdo you not know? there is nothing changed; nothing changed; the grass, and the trees, and the huts, and the pond are all here; why should she only be gone away? antoine is gone. yes. but he was old; my girl is young. he stood a moment, with the press door open, a perplexed trouble in his dim eyes; the divine faith of love and the mulelike stupidity of ignorance made him cling to this one thought without power of judgment in it. they say she would be sixty, he said, with a little dreary smile. but that is absurd, you know. why, she had cheeks like yours, and she would runno lapwing could fly faster over corn. these are her things, you see; yesall of them. that is the sprig of sweetbrier she wore in her belt the day before the wagon knocked her down and killed her. i have never touched the things. but look here, bébée, you are a good child and true, and like her just a little. i mean to give you her silver clasps. they were her greatgreatgreatgrandmothers before her. god knows how old they are not. and a girl should have some little wealth of that sort; and for antoines sake the old man stayed behind, closing the press door upon the lavenderscented clothes, and sitting down in the dull shadow of the hut to think of his daughter, dead forty summers and more. bébée went out with the brave broad silver clasps about her waist, and the tears wet on her cheeks for a grief not her own. to be killed just when one was young, and was loved liked that, and all the world was in its mayday flower! the silver felt cold to her touchas cold as though it were the dead girls hands that held her. the garlands that the children strung of daisies and hung about her had never chilled her so. but little jeanne, the youngest of the charcoalburners little tribe, running to meet her, screamed with glee, and danced in the gay morning. oh, bébée! how you glitter! did the virgin send you that off her own altar? let me seelet me touch! is it made of the stars or of the sun? and bébée danced with the child, and the silver gleamed and sparkled, and all the people came running out to see, and the milk carts were half an hour later for town, and the hens cackled loud unfed, and the men even stopped on their way to the fields and paused, with their scythes on their shoulders, to stare at the splendid gift. there is not such another set of clasps in brabant; old work you could make a fortune of in the curiosity shops in the montagne, said trine krebs, going up the steps of her mill house. but, all the same, you know, bébée, things off a dead body bring mischance sometimes. but bébée danced with the child, and did not hear. whose fête day had ever begun like this one of hers? she was a little poet at heart, and should not have cared for such vanities; but when one is only sixteen, and has only a little rough woollen frock, and sits in the market place or the laceroom, with other girls around, how should one be altogether indifferent to a broad, embossed, beautiful shield of silver that sparkled with each step one took? a quarter of an hour idle thus was all, however, that bébée or her friends could spare at five oclock on a summer morning, when the city was waiting for its eggs, its honey, its flowers, its cream, and its butter, and tambour was shaking his leather harness in impatience to be off with his milkcans. so bébée, all holiday though it was, and heroine though she felt herself, ran indoors, put up her cakes and cherries, cut her two basketfuls out of the garden, locked her hut, and went on her quick and happy little feet along the grassy paths toward the city. the sorting and tying up of the flowers she always left until she was sitting under the awning in front of the broodhuis; the same awning, tawny as an autumn pear and weatherblown as an old sail, which had served to shelter antoine mäes from heat and rain through all the years of his life. go to the madeleine; you will make money there, with your pretty blue eyes, bébée, people had said to her of late; but bébée had shaken her head. where she had sat in her babyhood at antoines feet, she would sit so long as she sold flowers in brussels,here, underneath the shadow of the gothic towers that saw egmont die. old antoine had never gone into the grand market that is fashioned after the madeleine of paris, and where in the cool, wet, sweetsmelling halls, all the flowers of brabant are spread in bouquets fit for the bridal of una, and large as the shield of the redcross knight. antoine could not compete with all those treasures of greenhouse and stove.he had always had his little stall among those which spread their tawny awnings and their merry hardy blossoms under the shadow of the hôtel de ville, in the midst of the buyings and sellings, the games and the quarrels, the auctions and the cheap johns, the mountebank and the marriage parties, that daily and hourly throng the grande place. here bébée, from three years old, had been used to sit beside him. by nature she was as gay as a lark. the people always heard her singing as they passed the garden. the children never found their games so merry as when she danced their rounds with them; and though she dreamed so much out there in the air among the carnations and the roses, or in the long, low workroom in the town, high against the crocketed pinnacles of the cathedral, yet her dreams, if vaguely wistful, were all bright of hue and sunny in their fantasies. still, bébée had one sad unsatisfied desire: she wanted to know so much, and she knew nothing. she did not care for the grand gay people. when the band played, and the park filled, and the bright little cafés were thronged with pleasure seekers, and the crowds flocked hither and thither to the woods, to the theatres, to the galleries, to the guinguettes, bébée, going gravely along with her emptied baskets homeward, envied none of these. when at noël the little children hugged their loads of puppets and sugarplums; when at the fête dieu the whole people flocked out beribboned and varicolored like any bed of spring anemones; when in the merry midsummer the charsabancs trundled away into the forest with laughing loads of students and maidens; when in the rough winters the carriages left furred and jewelled women at the doors of the operas or the palaces,bébée, going and coming through the city to her flower stall or lace work, looked at them all, and never thought of envy or desire. she had her little hut: she could get her bread; she lived with the flowers; the neighbors were good to her, and now and then, on a saints day, she too got her day in the woods; it never occurred to her that her lot could be better. but sometimes sitting, looking at the dark old beauty of the broodhuis, or at the wondrous carven fronts of other spanish houses, or at the painted stories of the cathedral windows, or at the quaint colors of the shipping on the quay, or at the long dark aisles of trees that went away through the forest, where her steps had never wandered,sometimes bébée would get pondering on all this unknown world that lay before and behind and around her, and a sense of her own utter ignorance would steal on her; and she would say to herself, if only i knew a littlejust a very little! but it is not easy to know even a very little when you have to work for your bread from sunrise to nightfall, and when none of your friends know how to read or write, and even your old priest is one of a family of peasants, and can just teach you the alphabet, and that is all. for father francis could do no more than this; and all his spare time was taken up in digging his cabbage plot and seeing to his beehives; and the only books that bébée ever beheld were a few tattered lives of saints that lay motheaten on a shelf of his cottage. but brussels has stones that are sermons, or rather that are quaint, touching, illuminated legends of the middle ages, which those who run may read

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