Translated from the French by Henry Jordan, for Short Stories. 1892 They arrived at dusk. In the distance Mont Valerien lay quiet and peaceful as a slumbering lion. A light mist enveloped it, falling from the blue sky, across which the setting sun cast golden flames. Two steps away Paris grumbled. The Seine surrounded the Grande Jatte Isle with a low, gentle murmur, a murmur that was one long caress, and there was in the atmosphere a perfume of flowers and freshly mown grass. "Oh, if only I had some bluebells! " "But, dearest," her friend responded, "there are no bluebells here." "Get up, then."