The day of the wedding there was a gay procession through the parish of
the friends and constituents of Magon Farcinelle. When they came to his
home he joined them, and marched at the head of the procession as had
done many a forefather of his, with ribbons on his hat and others at his
button-hole. After stopping for exchange of courtesies at several houses
in the parish, the procession came to the homestead of the Lavilettes,
and the crowd were now enough excited to forget the pride which had
repelled and offended them for many years.
Monsieur Lavilette made a polite speech, sending round cider and “white
wine” (as native whiskey was called) when he had finished. Later,
Nicolas furnished some good brandy, and Farcinelle sent more. A good
number of people had come out of curiosity to see what manner of man
the Englishman was, well prepared to resent his overbearing
snobbishness--they were inclined to believe every Englishman snobbish.
But Ferrol was so entirely affable, and he drank so freely with everyone
that came to say “A votre sante, M’sieu’ le Baron,” and kept such a
steady head in spite of all those quantities of white wine, brandy and
cider, that they were almost ready to carry him on their shoulders;
though, with their racial prejudice, they would probably have repented
of that indiscretion on the morrow.
Presently, dancing began in a paddock just across the road from
the house; and when Madame Lavilette saw that Mr. Ferrol gave such
undisguised countenance to the primitive rejoicings, she encouraged
the revellers and enlarged her hospitality, sending down hampers of
eatables. She preened with pleasure when she saw Ferrol walking up and
down in very confidential conversation with Christine. If she had been
really observant she would have seen that Ferrol’s tendency was towards
an appearance of confidential friendliness with almost everybody.
Great ideas had entered Madame’s head, but they were vaguely defining
themselves in Christine’s mind also. Where might not this friendship
with Ferrol lead her?
Something occurred in the midst of the dancing which gave a new turn to
affairs. In one of the pauses a song came monotonously lilting down
the street; yet it was not a song, it was only a sort of humming or
chanting. Immediately there was a clapping of hands, a flutter of female
voices, and delighted exclamations of children.
“Oh, it’s a dancing bear, it’s a dancing bear!” they cried.
“Is it Pito?” asked one.
“Is it Adrienne?” cried another.
“But no; I’ll bet it’s Victor!” exclaimed a third. As the man and the
bear came nearer, they saw it was neither of these. The man’s voice
was not unpleasant; it had a rolling, crooning sort of sound, a little
weird, as though he had lived where men see few of their kind and have
much to do with animals.
He was bearded, but young; his hair grew low on his forehead, and,
although it was summer time, a fur cap was set far back, like a fez,
upon his black curly hair. His forehead was corrugated, like that of a
man of sixty who had lived a hard life; his eyes were small, black and
piercing. He wore a thick, short coat, a red sash about his waist, a
blue flannel shirt, and a loose red scarf, like a handkerchief, at his
throat. His feet were bare, and his trousers were rolled half way up to
his knee. In one hand he carried a short pole with a steel pike in it,
in the other a rope fastened to a ring in the bear’s nose.
The bear, a huge brown animal, upright on his hind legs, was dancing
sideways along the road, keeping time to the lazy notes of his leader’s
voice.
In front of the Hotel France they halted, and the bear danced round and
round in a ring, his eyes rolling savagely, his head shaking from side
to side in a bad-tempered way.
Suddenly some one cried out: “It’s Vanne Castine! It’s Vanne!”
People crowded nearer: there was a flurry of exclamations, and then
Christine took a few steps forward where she could see the man’s face,
and as swiftly drew back into the crowd, pale and distraite.
The man watched her until she drew away behind a group, which was
composed of Ferrol, her brother and her sister Sophie. He dropped no
note of his song, and the bear kept jigging on. Children and elders
threw coppers, which he picked up, with a little nod of his head, a
malicious sort of smile on his lips. He kept a vigilant eye on the bear,
however, and his pole was pointed constantly towards it. After about
five minutes of this entertainment he moved along up the road. He spoke
no word to anybody though there were some cries of greeting, but passed
on, still singing the monotonous song, followed by a crowd of children.
Presently he turned a corner, and was lost to sight. For a moment longer
the lullaby floated across the garden and the green fields, then
the cornet and the concertina began again, and Ferrol turned towards
Christine.
He had seen her paleness and her look of consternation, had observed the
sulky, penetrating look of the bear-leader’s eye, and he knew that he
was stumbling upon a story. Her eye met his, then swiftly turned
away. When her look came to his face again it was filled with defiant
laughter, and a hot brilliancy showed where the paleness had been.
“Will you dance with me?” Ferrol asked.
“Dance with you here?” she responded incredulously.
“Yes, just here,” he said, with a dry little laugh, as he ran his arm
round her waist and drew her out upon the green.
“And who is Vanne Castine?” he asked as they swung away in time with the
music.
The rest stopped dancing when they saw these two appear in the
ring-through curiosity or through courtesy.
She did not answer immediately. They danced a little longer, then he
said:
“An old friend, eh?”
After a moment, with a masked defiance still, and a hard laugh, she
answered in English, though his question had been in French:
“De frien’ of an ol frien’.”
“You seem to be strangers now,” he suggested. She did not answer at all,
but suddenly stopped dancing, saying: “I’m tired.”
The dance went on without them. Sophie and Farcinelle presently withdrew
also. In five minutes the crowd had scattered, and the Lavilettes and
Mr. Ferrol returned to the house.
Meanwhile, as they passed up the street, the droning, vibrating voice
of the bear-leader came floating along the air and through the voices of
the crowd like the thread of motive in the movement of an opera.