“I wish I knew the man who called flowers ’the fugitive poetry of Nature.’  That was a sweet carol, which I think I have quoted to you, sung by the Rhodian children of old in spring, bearing in their hands a swallow, and chanting ‘The swallow is come,’ with some other lines, which I have forgotten.  A pretty carol is that, too, which the Hungarian boys, on the islands of the Danube, sing to the returning stork in spring, what time it builds its nests in the chimneys and gracefully diverts the draft of smoke into the interior.  What a thrill of delight in spring-time!  What a joy in being and moving!  Some housekeepers might object to that, and say that there was but imperfect joy in moving; but I am about to propose to you, as soon as I have taken a little more string, a plan of removal that will suit both us and the season.  My friend, the time of storms is flying before the pretty child called April, who pursues it with his blooming thyrsus.  Breathing scent upon the air, he has already awakened some of the trees on the boulevards, and the white locust-blossoms in the garden of Rossini are beginning to hang out their bunches to attract the nightingales.  He calls to the swallows, and they arrive in clouds.

“He knocks at the hard envelope of the chrysalis, which accordingly prepares to take its chance for a precarious metamorphosis—­into the wings of the butterfly or into the bosom of the bird.  How very sweet!

“Strange is the lesson, my friend, which humanity teaches itself from the larva.  Even so do I, methinks, feed in life’s autumn upon the fading foliage of Hope, and, still feeding and weaving, turn it at last into a little grave.  A neat image that, which, by the by, I stole from Drummond of Hawthornden.  Do you recollect his verse?—­but of course I should be provoked if I thought you did—­

  For, with strange thoughts possessed,
        I feed on fading leaves
        Of hope—­which me deceives,
  And thousand webs doth warp within my breast. 
  And thus, in end, unto myself I weave
  A fast-shut prison.  No! but even a Grave!

“To pursue my subject:  April, having thus balanced the affairs of the bird and the worm, proceeds to lay over the meadows a tablecloth for the bees.  He opens all the windows of Paris, and on the streets shows us the sap mounting in carnation in the faces of the girls.

“My dear Hohenfels, I invite you to the festival which Spring is spreading just now in the village of Marly.  My cabin will be gratified to open in your honor.  May it keep you until autumn!  Come, and come at once.”

* * * * *

[Illustration]

Having signed my missive, I tucked it into an envelope, which I blazoned with my favorite seal, the lyre of Hyperion broken, and rang for Charles.  In his stead, in lieu of my faithful Charles, it was Hohenfels himself who entered, fresh from the Hotel Mirabeau.

“Look alive, man!  Can you lend me an umbrella?” said he briskly.