At any moment we may meet the sergeant, who will send
us back. At any moment we may encounter a flying shell, which will
send us somewhere farther off than Grez.
Grez - for that is our destination - has been highly recommended for
its beauty. 'IL Y A DE L'EAU,' people have said, with an emphasis,
as if that settled the question, which, for a French mind, I am
rather led to think it does. And Grez, when we get there, is indeed
a place worthy of some praise. It lies out of the forest, a cluster
of houses, with an old bridge, an old castle in ruin, and a quaint
old church. The inn garden descends in terraces to the river;
stable-yard, kailyard, orchard, and a space of lawn, fringed with
rushes and embellished with a green arbour. On the opposite bank
there is a reach of English-looking plain, set thickly with willows
and poplars. And between the two lies the river, clear and deep, and
full of reeds and floating lilies. Water-plants cluster about the
starlings of the long low bridge, and stand half-way up upon the
piers in green luxuriance. They catch the dipped oar with long
antennae, and chequer the slimy bottom with the shadow of their
leaves.
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