He
strolled about, scarcely knowing whither, guided by the sound of
splashing water, and coming upon many a beautiful spot in his solitary
ramble, among them that famous Bosquet de la Reine where the
scoundrelly, frightened Rohan had sworn the Queen had stooped to him. He
passed by the place, all unconscious of its unhappy history, and so on
down a broad pathway toward the tapis vert.
As he walked slowly along, charmed with the beauty of the scene around
him, and smiling now and again to think that fortune should have placed
him in the midst of such unaccustomed splendors, he suddenly heard the
sounds of a lute near him, fingered in tentative accord, and an instant
later he recognized St. Aulaire's voice.
"'Twas written for you, Madame, and 'tis called 'Le Pays du Tendre,'" he
said, still fingering the strings. "I would wander in the land with
you, Madame." Suddenly he begins to sing softly, and, in the silence and
perfume of the summer night, his hushed voice sounded like a caress:
Land of the madrigal and ode,
Of rainbow air and cloudless weather,
Tell me what ferny, elfin road
Will lead my eager footsteps thither.
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