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And especially Bories, that under the autumnal sky looked like a phantom of itself, filled me with the deepest sadness. As I gazed at it I recalled the pinkish-yellow butterfly still under its glass in my museum; it had remained there in the same spot, and had preserved its fresh bright hues during the time that I had sailed all round the globe.
Before me, in the midst of fields of corn and buckwheat, was the Bories estate. Its old arched porch, the only one in the neighborhood that was whitewashed, looked like one of those entry-ways that are so common in African villages. This estate, I had been told, belonged to the St. Hermangarde children, who were destined to become my future comrades.
Anyway, the stars are all up in the sky, so you can't go to tea with them." "No," said Jane. "I said if we were little stars." "But we aren't," said George. "No," said Jane, with a sigh. "I know that. I'm not so stupid as you think, George. But the Tory Bories are somewhere at the edge. Couldn't we go and see them?" "Considering you're eight, you haven't much sense."
And from that moment Bories, the pinkish-yellow butterfly, and the sad little refrain of the "good, good story" were inseparably associated in my memory. But I fear that I have said too much about the incoherent impressions and images which came to me so frequently in days gone by; this is the last time that I will speak at length of them.
For many years I had not thought of the association between the two things; but as soon as I remembered the yellow butterfly, which was recalled to my mind by Bories, I heard a small voice within me sing over and over, very softly: "Ah!
As soon as my eyes rested upon it I seemed to hear drawled out lazily, in a mountaineer's treble, the refrain: "Ah! ah! the good, good story!" And again I saw the white porch of Bories in the midst of the silence and the hot sunshine of a summer noon.
They had captured it, they said, in the late-ripening autumn grain fields of Bories, they had caught hold of it so deftly and carefully that their fingers had made no impression upon its brilliant coloring. When, at about noontime, I received it from them I was in the vestibule of my uncle's house, a place always kept tightly closed during the hours of intense heat.
Nine months later, on the 21st of September in the same year, four young non-commissioned officers, Bories, Raoulx, Goubin, and Pommier, condemned to death for the conspiracy of Rochelle, were on the point of undergoing their sentence; M. de La Fayette and the head committee of the Carbonari had vainly endeavoured to effect their escape.
Two boys, both a little older than I, came this time, and contrary to my expectation I took a fancy to them immediately. As they were in the habit of spending a part of each year at their country place they had guns and powder and often went hunting. Thus they brought an entirely new element into our games. Their estate of Bories became one of the centres of our operations.
The same well-known prospect greeted me: the hillsides covered with red vines, the wooded mountains whose trees were rapidly being stripped of their yellow leaves, and above, perched high, the noble reddish-brown ruin of Castelnau. And in the nearer distance was Bories with its old rounded porch white with lime-wash; and as I looked at it I seemed to hear the plaintive refrain: "Ah!
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