Page:Stories by Foreign Authors (French II).djvu/81

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She went to the copse and searched it. Only a blackbird flew out, whistling its soft, melancholy tune. Then she thought he had taken refuge in a hollow in the rocks, where he sometimes used to lie in ambush for game; but the hollow in the rocks was empty. What was the use of looking for him? she would not find him; and, little by little, her desire to find him grew furious, she walked on faster. The notion that he might have climbed up a tree suddenly struck her. From that moment she pushed on with upturned eyes, and, that he might know she was near, she called out to him every fifteen or twenty steps. The cuckoos answered her, a breath of air passing through the branches made her think he was there, and was coming down. Once she even thought she saw him; she stopped, choking, having a good mind to run away. What would she say to him? Had she come, then, to lead him away and have him shot? Oh! no, she would not mention these things. She would cry out to him to escape, not to stay in the neighborhood. Then the thought of her father waiting for her gave her a sharp pang. She fell upon the turf, weeping, repeating aloud,—

——"My God! my God! why am I here?"

She was crazy to have come. And, as if seized with fright, she ran, she tried to find a way out of the forest. Three times she took the wrong path, and she thought she should not find