The truth is, the poet was homesick. But he was not alone in this
affliction.
Breton was sitting by the port-hole in his master's berthroom. He was
reading from his favorite book. Time after time he would look toward
the bunk where the Chevalier lay dozing. Finally he closed the book
and rose to gaze out upon the sea. In fancy he could see the hills of
Perigny. The snow had left them by now. They were green and soft,
rolling eastward as far as the eye could see. Old Martin's daughter
was with the kine in the meadows. The shepherd dog was rolling in the
grass at her feet. Was she thinking of Breton, who was on his way to a
strange land, who had left her with never a good by to dull the edge of
separation? He sobbed noiselessly. The book slipped from his fingers
to the floor, and the noise of it brought the Chevalier out of his
gentle dreaming.
"Is it you, lad?"
"Yes, Monsieur Paul," swallowing desperately.
"What is the matter?"
"I was thinking how the snow has left the hills of Perigny. I can see
my uncle puttering in the gardens at the chateau. Do you remember the
lilacs which grew by the western gates? They will soon be filling the
park with fragrance.
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