“Never mind, let us walk; Joseph can take care of the tilbury; we shall easily find it again.”

Emile and the countess plunged into the forest, and soon reached a small interior cleared space, such as is often met with in the woods.  Twenty years earlier the charcoal-burners had made it their kiln, and the place still remained open, quite a large circumference having been burned over.  But during those twenty years Nature had made herself a garden of flowers, a blooming “parterre” for her own enjoyment, just as an artist gives himself the delight of painting a picture for his own happiness.  The enchanting spot was surrounded by fine trees, whose tops hung over like vast fringes and made a dais above this flowery couch where slept the goddess.  The charcoal-burners had followed a path to a pond, always full of water.  The path is there still; it invites you to step into it by a turn full of mystery; then suddenly it stops short and you come upon a bank where a thousand roots run down to the water and make a sort of canvas in the air.  This hidden pond has a narrow grassy edge, where a few willows and poplars lend their fickle shade to a bank of turf which some lazy or pensive charcoal-burner must have made for his enjoyment.  The frogs hop about, the teal bathe in the pond, the water-fowl come and go, a hare starts; you are the master of this delicious bath, decorated with iris and bulrushes.  Above your head the trees take many attitudes; here the trunks twine down like boa-constrictors, there the beeches stand erect as a Greek column.  The snails and the slugs move peacefully about.  A tench shows its gills, a squirrel looks at you; and at last, after Emile and the countess, tired with her walk, were seated, a bird, but I know not what bird it was, sang its autumn song, its farewell song, to which the other songsters listened,—­a song welcome to love, and heard by every organ of the being.

“What silence!” said the countess, with emotion and in a whisper, as if not to trouble this deep peace.

They looked at the green patches on the water,—­worlds where life was organizing; they pointed to the lizard playing in the sun and escaping at their approach,—­behavior which has won him the title of “the friend of man.”  “Proving, too, how well he knows him,” said Emile.  They watched the frogs, who, less distrustful, returned to the surface of the pond, winking their carbuncle eyes as they sat upon the water-cresses.  The sweet and simple poetry of Nature permeated these two souls surfeited with the conventional things of life, and filled them with contemplative emotion.  Suddenly Blondet shuddered.  Turning to the countess he said,—­

“Did you hear that?”

“What?” she asked.

“A curious noise.”

“Ah, you literary men who live in your studies and know nothing of the country! that is only a woodpecker tapping a tree.  I dare say you don’t even know the most curious fact in the history of that bird.  As soon as he has given his tap, and he gives millions to pierce an oak, he flies behind the tree to see if he is yet through it; and he does this every instant.”