The time of the year when I was accustomed to join my father and sister
had now arrived, and I did not go; both of them wrote to me frequently,
begging me to come. To these letters I replied as best I could, always
repeating that I was quite well and that I was not in need of money, two
things which, I thought, would console my father for my delay in paying
him my annual visit.
Just then, one fine day in summer, Marguerite was awakened by the
sunlight pouring into her room, and, jumping out of bed, asked me if I
would take her into the country for the whole day.
We sent for Prudence, and all three set off, after Marguerite had given
Nanine orders to tell the duke that she had taken advantage of the fine
day to go into the country with Mme. Duvernoy.
Besides the presence of Mme. Duvernoy being needful on account of the
old duke, Prudence was one of those women who seem made on purpose for
days in the country. With her unchanging good-humour and her eternal
appetite, she never left a dull moment to those whom she was with, and
was perfectly happy in ordering eggs, cherries, milk, stewed rabbit, and
all the rest of the traditional lunch in the country.
We had now only to decide where we should go. It was once more Prudence
who settled the difficulty.
"Do you want to go to the real country?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Well, let us go to Bougival, at the Point du Jour, at Widow Arnould's.
Armand, order an open carriage."
An hour and a half later we were at Widow Arnould's.
Perhaps you know the inn, which is a hotel on week days and a tea garden
on Sundays. There is a magnificent view from the garden, which is at
the height of an ordinary first floor. On the left the Aqueduct of Marly
closes in the horizon, on the right one looks across bill after hill;
the river, almost without current at that spot, unrolls itself like a
large white watered ribbon between the plain of the Gabillons and the
island of Croissy, lulled eternally by the trembling of its high poplars
and the murmur of its willows. Beyond, distinct in the sunlight, rise
little white houses, with red roofs, and manufactories, which, at that
distance, put an admirable finish to the landscape. Beyond that, Paris
in the mist! As Prudence had told us, it was the real country, and, I
must add, it was a real lunch.
It is not only out of gratitude for the happiness I owe it, but
Bougival, in spite of its horrible name, is one of the prettiest places
that it is possible to imagine. I have travelled a good deal, and seen
much grander things, but none more charming than this little village
gaily seated at the foot of the hill which protects it.