“Pardon me, madame,” I stammered, “might I go through your garden--in memory of--old friends?” “Certainly, monsieur, go where you will.” Further on a girl was on a ladder gathering pears. I bowed and passed on, pushing my way through the bushes, now so neglected, and cutting a branch of syringa to hide next my heart. As I came to the open door, I paused on the threshold to look in. The maiden of the pear tree, no doubt warned by her mother, came forward and courteously asked me in. That little room, looking over the wide valley, that _she_ had so proudly shown me when I was twelve years old--the same furniture, the same----I tore my handkerchief with my teeth. The girl watched me uneasily. “Do not mind me, mademoiselle. All is so strange--I have not--been here for forty-nine years!” And, bursting into tears, I fled. What could those ladies have thought of that strange scene, to which they never got a key? Reader, do I repeat myself? In sooth it is always so; remembrance, regret, a weary soul clutching at the past, fighting despairingly to retain the flying present. Always this useless struggle against time, always this wild desire to realise the impossible, always this frantic thirst for perfect love! How can I help repeating myself? The sea repeats itself; are not all its waves akin? * * * * * That night I reached Lyons and spent a sleepless night thinking of my meeting with Madame F. I decided to go at noon, and to send the following letter to prepare her for her visitor: “MADAME,--I have just come from Meylan, from my second pilgrimage to the hallowed haunts of my childhood’s dreams. It has been even more painful than that of sixteen years ago, after which I wrote to you at Vif. This time I ask for more; I dare to beg you to see me. I can control myself; you need fear no transports from a heart out-worn and crushed by the pressure of cruel Fate. Give me but a few moments! Let me see you, I implore. “_23rd September 1864._ HECTOR BERLIOZ.” I could not wait till noon. At half-past eleven I rang; gave her maid my card and the letter. She was at home. I ought only to have sent up the letter, but I was past knowing what I was doing. Without hesitation she came to meet me. I at once recognised her graceful yet stately air--the step of a goddess. But, ah! how changed her face! Her complexion darkened, her hair silvered. Yet my heart went out to my idol as though she had been in all the freshness of her youthful beauty. Holding my note, she led the way to her drawing-room. My emotions choked me, I was dumb; with gentle dignity she began: “We are old acquaintances, M. Berlioz----” Silence. “We were but children then----” Still silence. Feeble as the cry of a drowning man came my halting voice: “My letter--madame--explains this visit; would you but read it----” [Illustration: GRENOBLE] She opened and read it, then laid it on the chimney-piece.