'mocked themselves' of
my traps, and then carried it in my arms, all bloody as it
was (I could not make out how both its hind legs were broken)
into the salon to show it to the old Marquise. Mademoiselle
Henriette, who was there, gave a little scream (for effect)
at sight of the blood. Everybody was pleased. But when I
overheard Rose's SOTTO VOCE to the Marquise: 'Comme ils sont
gentils!' I indignantly retorted that 'it wasn't kind of the
hare at all: it was entirely due to my skill in setting the
traps. They would catch anything that put its head into
them. Just you try.'
How severe are the shocks of early disillusionment! It was
not until long after the hare was skinned, roasted, served as
CIVET and as PUREE that I discovered the truth. I was not at
all grateful to the gentlemen of the chateau whose dupe I had
been; was even wrath with my dear old 'Maman' for treating
them with extra courtesy for their kindness to her PETIT
CHERI.
That was a happy summer. After it was ended, and it was time
for me to return to England and begin my education for the
Navy I never again set eyes on Larue, or that charming nest
of old ladies who had done their utmost to spoil me. Many
and many a time have I been to Paris, but nothing could tempt
me to visit Larue. So it is with me. Often have I
questioned the truth of the NESSUN MAGGIOR DOLORE than the
memory of happy times in the midst of sorry ones. The
thought of happiness, it would seem, should surely make us
happier, and yet - not of happiness for ever lost. And are
not the deepening shades of our declining sun deepened by
youth's contrast? Whatever our sweetest songs may tell us
of, we are the sadder for our sweetest memories. The grass
can never be as green again to eyes grown watery. The lambs
that skipped when we did were long since served as mutton.
And if
Die Fusse tragen mich so muthig nicht empor
Die hohen Stufen die ich kindisch ubersprang,
why, I will take the fact for granted. My youth is fled, my
friends are dead. The daisies and the snows whiten by turns
the grave of him or her - the dearest I have loved. Shall I
make a pilgrimage to that sepulchre? Drop futile tears upon
it? Will they warm what is no more? I for one have not the
heart for that. Happily life has something else for us to
do. Happily 'tis best to do it.
