was contributing so vastly to the mighty change that was impending.
But within his soul there dwelt in that hour no such musty subject
as the metaphysical dreams of old Rousseau. His mood inclined
little to the "Discourses upon the Origin of Inequality" which his
elbow hugged to his side. Rather was it a mood of song and joy and
things of light, and his mind was running on a string of rhymes
which mentally he offered up to his divinity. A high-born lady was
she, daughter to his lordly employer, the most noble Marquis of
Bellecour. And he a secretary, a clerk! Aye, but a clerk with a
great soul, a secretary with a great belief in the things to come,
which in that musty tome beneath his arm were dimly prophesied.

And as he roamed beside the brook, his feet treading the elastic,
velvety turf, and crushing heedlessly late primrose and stray violet,
his blood quickened by the soft spring breeze, fragrant with hawthorn
and the smell of the moist brown earth, La Boulaye's happiness
gathered strength from the joy that on that day of spring seemed to
invest all Nature. An old-world song stole from his firm lips-at
first timidly, like a thing abashed in new surroundings, then in
bolder tones that echoed faintly through the trees

"Si le roi m'avait donne
Paris, sa grande ville,
Et qui'il me fallut quitter
L'amour de ma mie,
Je dirais au roi Louis
Reprenez votre Paris.
J'aime mieux ma mie, O gai!
J'aime mieux ma mie!"