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WDS Publishing
The Burning Glass by Marjorie Bowen
The Burning Glass by Marjorie Bowen
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On a May evening a woman was walking in a delicious garden that was formed out of the little islands on the waters of the Seine, near Paris.
There was a number of people moving about among the lofty elms, Italian poplars and weeping willows that seemed as if untouched by Art, and yet which had been cunningly disposed by the hand of man, for the owner of this pleasant place was holding one of those fêtes which had become recently so fashionable in the capital.
But this woman walked alone.
She was very famous, very sought after, and generally the centre of a brilliant company; but to-night she had fled all her usual associates for that part of the island farthest from the chateau, where she might hope to be undisturbed. For her heart was full of sad emotions and a passionate melancholy pervaded her being. Solitude and the sweetness of the hour in some degree soothed her; she walked yet farther away from the festivities, and the lamps and music, and at last stood at the edge of the island and paused, looking across the darkening river towards the ferry house at Bezons, where the boats waited to take away the guests of M. Watelet. The evening was warm and perfumed by the first divine freshness of spring, a few stars were out in a sky that was fading to a translucent green hue; these sparkled in their crystal colors and pure brightness as if they pulsed with intense vitality.
A low breeze ruffled the waters of the Seine and sent little waves to break against the flowery banks of M. Watelet's domain.
All, in deference to that passion for nature which was the reaction after centuries of artificiality, the nostalgia of a society too highly cultured, over-civilized, was studiously arranged to appear a piece of untouched country.
There was a number of people moving about among the lofty elms, Italian poplars and weeping willows that seemed as if untouched by Art, and yet which had been cunningly disposed by the hand of man, for the owner of this pleasant place was holding one of those fêtes which had become recently so fashionable in the capital.
But this woman walked alone.
She was very famous, very sought after, and generally the centre of a brilliant company; but to-night she had fled all her usual associates for that part of the island farthest from the chateau, where she might hope to be undisturbed. For her heart was full of sad emotions and a passionate melancholy pervaded her being. Solitude and the sweetness of the hour in some degree soothed her; she walked yet farther away from the festivities, and the lamps and music, and at last stood at the edge of the island and paused, looking across the darkening river towards the ferry house at Bezons, where the boats waited to take away the guests of M. Watelet. The evening was warm and perfumed by the first divine freshness of spring, a few stars were out in a sky that was fading to a translucent green hue; these sparkled in their crystal colors and pure brightness as if they pulsed with intense vitality.
A low breeze ruffled the waters of the Seine and sent little waves to break against the flowery banks of M. Watelet's domain.
All, in deference to that passion for nature which was the reaction after centuries of artificiality, the nostalgia of a society too highly cultured, over-civilized, was studiously arranged to appear a piece of untouched country.
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