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Updated: May 27, 2025
Awhile I listened to the lullaby of bees humming in the berceau, and watched, through the glass door and the tender, lightly-strewn spring foliage, Madame Beck and a gay party of friends, whom she had entertained that day at dinner after morning mass, walking in the centre-alley under orchard boughs dressed at this season in blossom, and wearing a colouring as pure and warm as mountain-snow at sun-rise.
They paced the centre-alley for nearly an hour, talking earnestly: he looking grave, yet restless; she wearing an amazed, expostulatory, dissuasive air. I wondered what was under discussion; and when Madame Beck re-entered the house as it darkened, leaving her kinsman Paul yet lingering in the garden, I said to myself "He called me 'petite soeur' this morning.
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