The Lock and Key Library: the Most Interesting Stories of All Nations: French Novels
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The Lock and Key Library: the Most Interesting Stories of All Nations: French Novels
Detective and mystery stories, French; French fiction -- Translations into English
"See this large paper. You will paint on it, in water colors, a
collection of all the flowers of this region, of all those, at
least, that you may find in your walks. If you don't know their
names, I will teach them to you, or we will seek for them
together."
"Provided that books take no part in it."
"We will dispense with them as much as possible. I will muster up
all my knowledge to tell you the history of these pretty painted
flowers; I will tell you of their families; I will teach you how to
classify them; in short, will give you little by little, all I know
of botany."
He made a hundred absurd objections,--among others, that he found
in all the flowers of the fields and the woods in this country a
creeping and servile air; then this, and then that, expressing
himself in a sharp but sportive tone.
"I shall teach you botany, my wild young colt," I said to myself,
"and not let you break loose."
I have not been able, however, to draw from him any positive
promise.
July 14th.
Victory! By persistent hammering I have succeeded in beating the
idea of the painted herbarium into this naughty, unruly head.
But he has imposed his conditions. He consents to paint only the
flowers that I will gather myself, and bring to him. After some
discussion I yielded the point.
"Ah!" said I, "take care to gather some yourself, for otherwise
Ivan . . ."
Sunday, July 15th.
This afternoon I took a long walk in the woods. I had succeeded in
gathering some labiates, the dead nettle, the pyramidal bell-flower
and the wild thyme, when in the midst of my occupation, I heard the
trot of a horse. It was he, a bunch of herbs and flowers in his
hand. Ivan, who according to his custom, followed him at a
distance of ten paces, regarded me some way off with an uneasy air;
he evidently feared that I would accost them; but having arrived
within a few steps of me, Stephane, turning his head, started his
horse at full gallop, and Ivan, as he passed, smiled upon me with
an expression of triumphant pity. Poor, simple Ivan, did you not
hear our souls speak to each other?
July 16th.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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