It was like some enchanted park with cascades falling
from every portion.
Below the meadows were damp. Gigantic chestnut trees cast dark shadows.
On the borders of the meadows long hedges of poplars exhibited in lines
their rustling branches. Two avenues of enormous plane trees stretched
across the fields toward the ancient Chateau de Gagny, then a mass
of ruins. In this constantly watered district the grass grew to an
extraordinary height. It resembled a garden between two wooded hills,
a natural garden, of which the meadows were the lawns, the giant trees
marking the colossal flower beds. When the sun's rays at noon poured
straight downward the shadows assumed a bluish tint; scorched grass
slept in the heat, while an icy shiver passed beneath the foliage.
And there it was that Pere Merlier's mill enlivened with its ticktack
a corner of wild verdure. The structure, built of plaster and planks,
seemed as old as the world. It dipped partially in the Morelle, which
rounded at that point into a transparent basin. A sluice had been made,
and the water fell from a height of several meters upon the mill wheel,
which cracked as it turned, with the asthmatic cough of a faithful
servant grown old in the house.
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