CHAPTER LXXIX.
Vacation came again, and for the third time we took the journey to the
South, and there in the glorious August and September sunshine all
passed off in the same fashion as during preceding summers; the same
games with my loyal band, the expeditions to the vineyards and
mountains; in the ruins of Castelnau, the same brooding over mediaeval
times, and, in the sequestered woodland path where we had struck our
vein of silver, we still eagerly turned up the red soil, putting on
meantime the airs of bold adventurers,--the little Peyrals, however,
no longer believed in the mines.
These beginnings of summer, always so alike, deluded me into thinking
that in spite of my occasional fears my childhood would be
indefinitely prolonged; but I no longer felt "joy at waking;" a sort
of disquietude, such as oppresses one when he has left his duty
undone, weighed upon me more and more heavily each morning when I
thought that time was flying, that the vacation would soon be over,
and that I still lacked the courage to come to a decision in regard to
my future.
