"Yes, I was there," I replied. "Sing, my dear, I beg of you. Let me hear
your sweet voice."
She continued her song without a word; she noticed my emotion as well as
Smith's; her voice faltered. With the last notes, she arose and came to
me and kissed me.
On another occasion, I had bought an album containing views of
Switzerland. We were looking at them, all three of us, and when Brigitte
found a site that pleased her, she would stop to examine it. There was
one view that seemed to please her more than all the others; it was a
certain spot in the canton of Vaud, some distance from Brigues; some
trees with cows grazing in the shade; in the distance, a village
consisting of some dozen houses, scattered here and there. In the
foreground, a young girl with a large straw hat, seated under a tree, and
a farmer's boy standing before her, apparently pointing out, with his
iron-tipped stick, the route over which he had come; he was directing her
attention to a winding path that led to the mountain. Above them were the
Alps, and the picture was crowned by three snow-capped summits. Nothing
could be more simple or more beautiful than this landscape. The valley
resembled a lake of verdure and the eye followed its contour with
delight.
"Shall we go there?" I asked Brigitte. I took a pencil and traced some
figures on the picture.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I am trying to see if I can not change that face slightly and make it
resemble yours.
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