While I was arranging everything in my attic, my eyes rested on the little almanac hanging over my chimney-piece.  I looked for the day of the month, and I saw these words written in large letters:  “Fete dieu!”

It is to-day!  In this great city, where there are no longer any public religious solemnities, there is nothing to remind us of it; but it is, in truth, the period so happily chosen by the primitive church.  “The day kept in honor of the Creator,” says Chateaubriand, “happens at a time when the heaven and the earth declare His power, when the woods and fields are full of new life, and all are united by the happiest ties; there is not a single widowed plant in the fields.”

What recollections these words have just awakened!  I left off what I was about, I leaned my elbows on the windowsill, and, with my head between my two hands, I went back in thought to the little town where the first days of my childhood were passed.

The ‘Fete Dieu’ was then one of the great events of my life!  It was necessary to be diligent and obedient a long time beforehand, to deserve to share in it.  I still recollect with what raptures of expectation I got up on the morning of the day.  There was a holy joy in the air.  The neighbors, up earlier than usual, hung cloths with flowers or figures, worked in tapestry, along the streets.  I went from one to another, by turns admiring religious scenes of the Middle Ages, mythological compositions of the Renaissance, old battles in the style of Louis XIV, and the Arcadias of Madame de Pompadour.  All this world of phantoms seemed to be coming forth from the dust of past ages, to assist—­silent and motionless—­at the holy ceremony.  I looked, alternately in fear and wonder, at those terrible warriors with their swords always raised, those beautiful huntresses shooting the arrow which never left the bow, and those shepherds in satin breeches always playing the flute at the feet of the perpetually smiling shepherdess.  Sometimes, when the wind blew behind these hanging pictures, it seemed to me that the figures themselves moved, and I watched to see them detach themselves from the wall, and take their places in the procession!  But these impressions were vague and transitory.  The feeling that predominated over every other was that of an overflowing yet quiet joy.  In the midst of all the floating draperies, the scattered flowers, the voices of the maidens, and the gladness which, like a perfume, exhaled from everything, you felt transported in spite of yourself.  The joyful sounds of the festival were repeated in your heart, in a thousand melodious echoes.  You were more indulgent, more holy, more loving!  For God was not only manifesting himself without, but also within us.

And then the altars for the occasion! the flowery arbors! the triumphal arches made of green boughs!  What competition among the different parishes for the erection of the resting-places where the procession was to halt!  It was who should contribute the rarest and the most beautiful of his possessions!