She walked before me in the sand with a firm step and such a
charming melange of feminine delicacy and childlike temerity, that I
stopped every few moments to look at her. It seemed that, once started,
she had to accomplish a difficult but sacred task; she walked in front
like a soldier, her arms swinging, her voice ringing through the woods in
song; suddenly she turned, came to me, and kissed me. This was going; on
the return, she leaned on my arm; then more songs; there were
confidences, tender avowals in low tones, although we were alone, two
leagues from anywhere. I do not recall a single word spoken on the return
that was not of love or friendship.
One night, we struck out through the woods, leaving the road which led to
the rock. Brigitte was tramping along so stoutly, her little velvet cap
on her light hair made her look so much like a resolute gamin, that I
forgot that she was a woman when there were no obstacles in our path.
More than once, she was obliged to call me to her aid when I, without
thinking of her, had pushed on ahead. I can not describe the effect
produced on me in the clear night air, in the midst of the forest, by
that voice of a woman, half-joyous and half-plaintive, coming from that
little schoolboy body wedged in between roots and trunks of trees, unable
to advance. I took her in my arms.
"Come, madame," I cried, laughing, "you are a pretty little mountaineer,
but you are blistering your white hands and in spite of your hobnailed
shoes, your stick and your martial air, I see that you must be carried.
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