and there, indeed, the sunlight was. when albine had opened the shutters, behind the large curtains, the genial yellow glow once more warmed a patch of the white calico. but that which impelled serge to sit up in bed was the sight of the shadowy bough, the branch that for him heralded the return of life. all the resuscitated earth, with its wealth of greenery, its waters, and its belts of hills, was in that greenish blur that quivered with the faintest breath of air. it no longer disturbed him; he greedily watched it rocking, and hungered for the fortified powers of the vivifying sap which to him it symbolised. albine, happy once more, exclaimed, as she supported him in her arms: 'ah! my dear serge, the winter is over. now we are saved.'

he lay down again, his eyes already brighter, and his voice clearer. 'to-morrow i shall be very strong,' he said. 'you shall draw back the curtains. i want to see everything.'

but on the morrow he was seized with childish fear. he would not hear of the windows being opened wide. 'by-and-by,' he muttered, 'later on.' he was fearful, he dreaded the first beam of light that would flash upon his eyes. evening came on, and still he had been unable to make up his mind to look upon the sun. he remained thus all day long, his face turned towards the curtains, watching on their transparent tissue the pallor of morn, the glow of noon, the violet tint of twilight, all the hues, all the emotions of the sky. there were pictured even the quiverings of the warm air at the light stroke of a bird's wing, even the delight of earth's odours throbbing in a sunbeam. behind that veil, behind that softened phantasm of the mighty life without, he could hear the rise of spring. he even felt stifled at times when in spite of the curtains' barrier the rush of the earth's new blood came upon him too strongly.

the following morning he was still asleep when albine, to hasten his recovery, cried out to him:

'serge! serge! here's the sun!'

she swiftly drew back the curtains and threw the windows wide open. he raised himself and knelt upon his bed, oppressed, swooning, his hands tightly pressed against his breast to keep his heart from breaking. before him stretched the broad sky, all blue, a boundless blue; and in it he washed away his sufferings, surrendering himself to it, and drinking from it sweetness and purity and youth. the bough whose shadow he had noted jutted across the window and alone set against the azure sea its vigorous growth of green; but even this was too much for his sickly fastidiousness; it seemed to him that the very swallows flying past besmeared the purity of the azure. he was being born anew. he raised little involuntary cries, as he felt himself flooded with light, assailed by waves of warm air, while a whirling, whelming torrent of life flowed within him. as last with outstretched hands he sank back upon his pillow in a swoon of joy.

what a happy, delicious day that was! the sun came in from the right, far away from the alcove. throughout the morning serge watched it creeping onward. he could see it coming towards him, yellow as gold, perching here and there on the old furniture, frolicking in corners, at times gliding along the ground like a strip of ribbon. it was a slow deliberate march, the approach of a fond mistress stretching her golden limbs, drawing nigh to the alcove with rhythmic motion, with voluptuous lingering, which roused intense desire. at length, towards two o'clock, the sheet of sunlight left the last armchair, climbed along the coverlet, and spread over the bed like loosened locks of hair. to its glowing fondling serge surrendered his wasted hands: with his eyes half-closed, he could feel fiery kisses thrilling each of his fingers; he lay in a bath of light, in the embrace of a glowing orb. and when albine leaned over smiling, 'let me be,' he stammered, his eyes now shut; 'don't hold me so tightly. how do you manage to hold me like this in your arms?'

but the sun crept down the bed again and slowly retreated to the left; and as serge watched it bend once more and settle on chair after chair, he bitterly regretted that he had not kept it to his breast. albine still sat upon the side of the bed, and the pair of them, an arm round each other's neck, watched the slow paling of the sky. at times a mighty thrill seemed to make it blanch. serge's languid eyes now wandered over it more freely and detected in it exquisite tints of which he had never dreamed. it was not all blue, but rosy blue, lilac blue, tawny blue, living flesh, vast and spotless nudity heaving like a woman's bosom in the breeze. at every glance into space he found a fresh surprise --unknown nooks, coy smiles, bewitching rounded outlines, gauzy veils which were cast over the mighty, glorious forms of goddesses in the depths of peeping paradises. and with his limbs lightened by suffering he winged his way amid that shimmering silk, that stainless down of azure. the sun sank lower and lower, the blue melted into purest gold, the sky's living flesh gleamed fairer still, and then was slowly steeped in all the hues of gloom. not a cloud--nought but gradual disappearance, a disrobing which left behind it but a gleam of modesty on the horizon. and at last the broad sky slumbered.

'oh, the dear baby!' exclaimed albine, as she looked at serge, who had fallen asleep upon her neck at the same time as the heavens.

she laid him down in bed and shut the windows. next morning, however, they were opened at break of day. serge could no longer live without the sunlight. his strength was growing, he was becoming accustomed to the gusts of air which sent the alcove curtains flying. even the azure, the everlasting azure, began to pall upon him. he grew weary of being white and swanlike, of ever swimming on heaven's limpid lake. he came to wish for a pack of black clouds, some crumbling of the skies, that would break upon the monotony of all that purity. and as his health returned, he hungered for keener sensations. he now spent hours in gazing at the verdant bough: he would have liked to see it grow, expand, and throw out its branches to his very bed. it no longer satisfied him, but only roused desires, speaking to him as it did of all the trees whose deep-sounding call he could hear although their crests were hidden from his sight. an endless whispering of leaves, a chattering as of running water, a fluttering as of wings, all blended in one mighty, long-drawn, quivering voice, resounded in his ears.

'when you are able to get up,' said albine, 'you shall sit at the window. you will see the lovely garden!'

he closed his eyes and murmured gently:

'oh! i can see it, i hear it; i know where the trees are, where the water runs, where the violets grow.'

and then he added: 'but i can't see it clearly, i see it without any light. i must be very strong before i shall be able to get as far as the window.'

at times when albine thought him asleep, she would vanish for hours. and on coming in again, she would find him burning with impatience, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.

'where have you been?' he would call to her, taking hold of her arms, and feeling her skirts, her bodice, and her cheeks. 'you smell of all sorts of nice things. ah! you have been walking on the grass?'

at this she would laugh and show him her shoes wet with dew.

'you have been in the garden! you have been in the garden!' he then exclaimed delightedly. 'i knew it. when you came in you seemed like a large flower. you have brought the whole garden in your skirt.'

he would keep her by him, inhaling her like a nosegay. sometimes she came back with briars, leaves, or bits of wood entangled in her clothes. these he would remove and hide under his pillow like relics. one day she brought him a bunch of roses. at the sight of them he was so affected that he wept. he kissed them and went to sleep with them in his arms. but when they faded, he felt so keenly grieved that he forbade albine to gather any more. he preferred her, said he, for she was as fresh and as balmy; and she never faded, her hands, her hair, her cheeks were always fragrant. at last he himself would send her into the garden, telling her not to come back before an hour.

'in that way,' he said, 'i shall get sunlight, fresh air, and roses till to-morrow.'

often, when he saw her coming in out of breath, he would cross-examine her. which path had she taken? had she wandered among the trees, or had she gone round the meadow side? had she seen any nests? had she sat down behind a bush of sweetbriar, or under an oak, or in the shade of a clump of poplars? but when she answered him and tried to describe the garden to him, he would put his hand to her lips.

'no, no,' he said gently. 'it is wrong of me. i don't want to know. i would rather see it myself.'

then he would relapse into his favourite dream of all the greenery which he could feel only a step away. for several days he lived on that dream alone. at first, he said, he had perceived the garden much more distinctly. as he gained strength, the surging blood that warmed his veins seemed to blur his dreamy imaginings. his uncertainties multiplied. he could no longer tell whether the trees were on the right, whether the water flowed at the bottom of the garden, or whether some great rocks were not piled below his windows. he talked softly of all this to himself. on the slightest indication he would rear wondrous plans, which the song of a bird, the creaking of a bough, the scent of a flower, would suddenly make him modify, impelling him to plant a thicket of lilac in one spot, and in another to place flower-beds where formerly there had been a lawn. every hour he designed some new garden, much to the amusement of albine, who, whenever she surprised him at it, would exclaim with a burst of laughter: 'that's not it, i assure you. you can't have any idea of it. it's more beautiful than all the beautiful things you ever saw. so don't go racking your head about it. the garden's mine, and i will give it to you. be easy, it won't run away.'

serge, who had already been so afraid of the light, felt considerable trepidation when he found himself strong enough to go and rest his elbows on the window-sill. every evening he once more repeated, 'to-morrow,' and 'to-morrow.' he would turn away in his bed with a shudder when albine came in, and would cry out that she smelt of hawthorn, that she had scratched her hands in burrowing a hole through a hedge to bring him all its odour. one morning, however, she suddenly took him up in her arms, and almost carrying him to the window, held him there and forced him to look out and see.

'what a coward you are!' she exclaimed with her fine ringing laugh.

and waving one hand all round the landscape, she repeated with an air of triumph, full of tender promise: 'the paradou! the paradou!'

serge looked out upon it, speechless.