United States or Norway ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Bourcelles was so very friendly; no room for strangers there; a new-comer might remain a mystery, but he could not be unknown. Rogers found his halting French becoming rapidly fluent again. And every one knew so much about him more almost than he knew himself.
Bourcelles was not fashionable; no one ever had appendicitis there. Yet ailments of a milder order were the staple, inexhaustible subjects at meals. Instead of the weather, mon estomac was the inexhaustible tale. The girl brought in the little Cantonal newspaper, and the widow read out selections in a high, shrill voice, regardless who listened. Misfortunes and accidents were her preference.
She blew him a kiss; her hair flew out in a cloud of brown the sunshine turned half golden. He almost saw the shining of her eyes. And then the belt of the forest hid her from view, hid Jimbo and the village too. The last thing he saw of Bourcelles was the top of the church spire and the red roof of the towering Citadelle.
Lo! for there among the flowers and grasses, Only the mightier movement sounds and passes; Only winds and rivers, Life and death. Bourcelles was important as London, yes, while simple as the nursery. The same big questions of life and death, of battle, duty, love, ruled the peaceful inhabitants. Only the noisy shouting, the clatter of superfluous chattering and feverish striving had dropped away.
Both were too numerous to count. All were rushing with the sun towards Hercules at a dizzy speed. 'And this is my friend, Mr. Minks, he heard repeated from time to time, feeling his hand seized and shaken before he knew what he was about. Mother loomed up and gave him a stately welcome too. 'He wears gloves in Bourcelles! some one observed audibly to some one else. 'Excuse me!
The Paris Express, of course, did not stop at little Bourcelles. Minks recognised each one easily from the descriptions in the story.
At the same moment another figure, slight and shadowy, revealed itself, outlined against the white of the gleaming street. It had been hidden in the tangle of the stars. It kept so quiet. 'Countess, may I introduce him to you, he said, seizing the momentary pause. There was little ceremony in Bourcelles. 'This is my cousin I told you about Mr. Henry Rogers. You must know one another at once.
The prophecy of the children that Bourcelles was a difficult place to get away from found its justification next morning, for Rogers slept so heavily that he nearly missed his train. It was six o'clock when he tumbled downstairs, too late for a real breakfast, and only just in time to get his luggage upon the little char that did duty for all transport in this unsophisticated village.
He roamed again among the star fields above the Bourcelles woods. It was true he had not really left Bourcelles. His body was bumping into Dijon, but the important part of him thought, emotion, love lingered with the children, hovered above the Citadelle, floated through the dusky, scented forests. And the haunting picture was ever set in its framework of old burning stars.
The heights of Boudry and La Tourne, that stand like guardian sentries on either side of the mountain gateway, were already cantering by. The precipices flew past. Beyond lay the smiling slopes of vineyard, field, and orchard, sprinkled with farms and villages, of which Bourcelles came first. The Areuse flowed peacefully towards the lake.
Word Of The Day