ORANGE-BLOSSOM
And now it is spring once again: a glorious May-day with the sky of an
intense blue, and every invisible atom in the translucent air quivering
in the heat of the noon-day sun. All around the country-side the
harvesting of orange-blossom has begun, and the whole atmosphere is
filled with such fragrance that the workers who carry the great baskets
filled to the brim with ambrosial petals feel the intoxicating perfume
rising to their heads like wine.
At the mas they are harvesting the big grove to-day, the one that lies
down in the valley, close to the road-side. There are over five hundred
trees, so laden with flowers that, even after heavy thinning down, there
will be a huge crop of fruit at Christmas-time. Through the fragrant
air, the fresh young voices of the gatherers resound, echoing against
the distant hills, chattering, shouting, laughing, oh! laughing all the
time, for they are boys and girls together and all are betrothed to one
another in accordance to old Provençal traditions which decrees that
lads and maidens be tokened from the time when they emerge out of
childhood and the life of labour on a farm begins: so that Meon is best
known as the betrothed of Pétrone or Magdeleine as the fiancée of
Gaucelme.
Large sheets are spread under the trees, and the boys, on ladders, pick
the flowers and drop them lightly down. It requires a very gentle hand
to be a good picker, because the delicate petals must on no account be
bruised and all around the trees where the girls stand, holding up the
sheet, the air is filled as with myriads of sweet-scented fluttering
snowflakes.
Jaume Deydier, in addition to his special process for the manufacture of
olive oil, has a secret one for the extraction of neroli, a sweet oil
obtained from orange-blossom, and for distilling orange-flower water, a
specific famed throughout the world for the cure of those attacks of
nerves to which great ladies are subject. Therefore, at the mas, the
fragrant harvest is of great importance.
And what a feast it is for the eye. Beneath the brilliant canopy above,
a veritable riot of colour, an orgy of movement and of life! There
stands Jaume Deydier himself in blouse and linen trousers, out from
earliest dawn, tablets and pencil in hand, counting and checking the
bags as they are carried from the grove to the road, where a row of
carts is waiting to convey them to the distillery at Pertuis: the horses
are gorgeously decked out with scarlet and blue ribbons plaited into
their manes and tails, the bosses on their harness scintillating like
gold in the sunshine: their drivers with bunches of lilac or
lily-of-the-valley tied to their whips. Then the girls in red or pink or
green kirtles, the tiny muslin caps on their heads embellished with a
sprig of blue gentian or wild geranium that nestles against their curls
or above the heavy plaits that hang like streamers down their backs; and
the lads in grey or blue blouses, with gay kerchiefs tied loosely round
their necks, and through it all from time to time a trenchant note of
deep maroon or purple, a shawl, a kerchief, a piece of embroidery; or
again ’tis M. le Curé’s soutane, a note of sober black, as he moves from
group to group, admonishing, chaffing, bestowing blessings as he goes
by, his well-worn soutane held high above his buckled shoes, his
three-cornered hat pushed back above his streaming forehead.
“Eh! Mossou le Curé!” comes in a ringing shout from a chorus of young
voices, “this way, Mossou le Curé, this way! bless this tree for us that
it may yield the heaviest crop of the year.”
For there is a dole on every tree, according to the crop it yields to
deft fingers, and M. le Curé hurries along, raises his wrinkled hand and
murmurs a quick blessing, whilst for a minute or two dark heads and fair
are bent in silent reverence and lips murmur a short prayer, only to
break the next moment into irresponsible laughter again.
And in the midst of this merry throng Nicolette moves—the fairest, the
merriest of all. She has pinned a white camellia into her cap: it
nestles against her brown curls on the crown of her head, snow-white
with just a splash or two of vivid crimson on the outer petals. Ameyric
Barnadou is in close attendance upon her. He is the most desirable
_parti_ in the neighbourhood for he is the only son of the rich farmer
over at La Bastide, who is also the mayor of the commune, and a well-set
up, handsome lad with bold, dark eyes calculated to bring a quick blush
to any damask cheek. Glances of admiration and approval were freely
bestowed on the young couple: and more than one sigh of longing or
regret followed them as they moved about amongst the trees, for Ameyric
had eyes only for Nicolette.
Nicolette had in truth grown into a very beautiful woman, with the rich
beauty of the South, the sun-kissed brown hair, and mellow, dark hazel
eyes, with a gleam in them beneath their lashes, as of a golden topaz.
That she was habitually cool and distant with the lads of the
country-side—some said that she was proud—made her all the more
desirable to those who, like Ameyric, made easy conquests where they
chose to woo. So far, certainly Nicolette had not been known to favour
any one, and it was in vain that her girl friends teased her, calling
her: Nicolette, no man’s fiancée.
To-day with a background of light colour, with the May-day sun above
her, and the scent of orange-blossom in his nostrils, Ameyric Barnadou
felt that life would be for him a poor thing indeed if he could not
share it with Nicolette. But though he found in his simple poetic soul,
words of love that should have melted a heart of stone, exquisite
Nicolette did no more than smile upon him with a gentle kind of pity,
which was exasperating to his pride and fuel to his ardour.
“Nicolette,” Ameyric pleaded at one time when he had succeeded by dint
of clever strategy in isolating her from the groups of noisy harvesters,
“if you only knew how good it is to love.”
She was leaning up against a tree, and the leaves and branches cast
trenchant, irregular shadows on her muslin kerchief and the creamy satin
of her shoulders: she was twirling a piece of orange-blossom between her
fingers and now and then she raised it to her cheeks, caressing it and
inhaling its dewy fragrance.
“Don’t do that, Nicolette!” the lad cried out with a touch of
exasperation.
She turned great, wondering eyes on him.
“What am I doing, Ameyric,” she asked, “that irritates you?”
“Letting that flower kiss your cheek,” he replied, “when I——”
“Poor Ameyric,” she sighed.
“Alas! poor Ameyric!” he assented. “You must think that I am made of
stone, Nicolette, or you would not tease me so.”
“I?” she exclaimed, genuinely astonished: “I tease you? How?”
But Ameyric had not a great power of expressing himself. Just now he
looked shy, awkward, and mumbled haltingly:
“By—by being you—yourself—so lovely—so fresh—then kissing that flower.
You must know that it makes me mad!” he added almost roughly. He tried
to capture her hand; but she succeeded in freeing it, and flung the twig
away.
“Poor Ameyric,” she reiterated with a sigh.
He had already darted after the flower and, kneeling, he picked it up
and pressed it to his lips. She looked down on his eager, flushed face,
and there crept a soft, almost motherly look in her eyes.
“If you only knew,” he said moodily, “how it hurts!”
“Just now you wished me to know how good it was to love,” she riposted
lightly.
“That is just the trouble, Nicolette,” the lad assented, and rose slowly
to his feet; “it is good but it also hurts; and when the loved one is
unkind, or worse still, indifferent, then it is real hell!”
Then, as she said nothing, but stood quite still, her little head thrown
back, breathing in the delicious scented air, which had become almost
oppressive in its fragrance, he exclaimed passionately:
“I love you so, Nicolette!”
He put out his arms and drew her to him, longing to fasten his lips on
that round white throat, which gleamed like rose-tinted marble.
“Nicolette,” he pleaded, because she had pushed him away quickly—almost
roughly. “Are you quite sure that you cannot bring yourself to love me?”
“Quite sure,” she replied firmly.
“But you cannot go on like this,” he argued, “loving no one. It is not
natural. Every girl has a lad. Look at them how happy they are.”
Instinctively she turned to look.
In truth they were a happy crowd these children of Provence. It was the
hour after _déjeuner_, and in groups of half a dozen or more, boys and
girls, men and women squatted upon the ground under the orange trees,
having polished off their bread and cheese, drunk their wine and
revelled in the cakes which Margaï always baked expressly for the
harvesters. There was an hour’s rest before afternoon work began. Every
girl was with her lad. Ameyric was quite right: there they were,
unfettered in their naïve love-making; the boys for the most part were
lying full length on the ground, their hats over their eyes, tired out
after the long morning’s work: the girls squatted beside them, teasing,
chaffing, laughing, yielding to a kiss when a kiss was demanded, on full
red lips or blue-veined, half-closed lids.
Anon, one or two of the men, skilled in music, picked up their galoubets
whilst others slung their beribboned tambours round their shoulders.
They began to beat time, softly at first, then a little louder, and the
soft-toned galoubets intoned the tender melody of “_Lou Roussignou_”
(“The Nightingale”), one of the sweetest of the national songs of
Provence. And one by one the fresh young voices of men and maids also
rose in song, and soon the mountains gave echo to the sweet, sad tune,
with its quaint burden and its haunting rhythm, and to the clapping of
soft, moist hands, the droning of galoubets and murmur of tambours.
“Whence come you, oh, fair maiden?
The nightingale that flies,
Your arm with basket laden,
The nightingale that flies, that flies,
Your arm with basket laden,
The nightingale that soon will fly.”
One young voice after another took up the refrain, and soon the sound
rose and rose higher and ever higher, growing in magnitude and volume
till every mountain crag and every crevasse on distant Luberon seemed to
join in the chorus, and to throw back in numberless echoes the naïve
burden of the song that holds in its music the very heart and soul of
this land of romance and of tears.
Nicolette listened for awhile, standing still under the orange tree,
with the sun playing upon her hair, drinking in the intoxicating perfume
of orange-blossoms that lulled her mind to dreams of what could never,
never be. But anon she, too, joined in the song, and as her voice had
been trained by a celebrated music-master of Avignon, and was of a
peculiarly pure and rich quality, it rose above the quaint, harsh tones
that came from untutored throats, until one by one these became hushed,
and boys and girls ceased to laugh and to chatter, and listened.
“What ails thee, maiden fair?
The nightingale that flies!
Whence all these tears and care?
The nightingale that flies, that flies!
Whence all these tear-drops rare?
The nightingale away will fly!”
sang Nicolette, and the last high note, pure indeed as that of a bird,
lingered on the perfumed air like a long-drawn-out sigh, then softly
died away as if carried to the mountain heights on the wings of the
nightingale that flies.
“Lou roussignou che volà—volà!”
A hush had fallen on the merry throng: a happy hush wherein hands sought
hands and curly head leaned on willing breast, and lips sought eyes and
closed them with a kiss. Nicolette was standing under the big orange
tree, her eyes fastened on the slopes of Luberon, where between olive
trees and pines rose the dark cypress trees that marked the grounds of
the old château. When she ceased to sing some of the lads shouted
enthusiastically: “Encore! Encore!” and M. le Curé clapped his hands,
and said she must come over to Pertuis and sing at high Mass on the
Feast of Pentecost. Jaume Deydier was at great pains to explain how
highly the great music-teacher at Avignon thought of Nicolette’s voice;
but Ameyric in the meanwhile had swarmed up the big orange tree. It had
not yet been picked and was laden with blossom. The fragrance from it
was such that it was oppressive, and once Ameyric felt as if he would
swoon and fall off the tree. But this feeling soon passed, and sitting
astride upon a bough, he picked off all the blossoms, gathering them
into his blouse. Then when his blouse was full, he held on to it with
one hand, and with the other started pelting Nicolette with the flowers:
he threw them down in huge handfuls one after the other, and Nicolette
stood there and never moved; she just let the petals fall about her like
snow, until Ameyric suddenly loosened the corner of his blouse, and down
came the blossoms, buds, flowers, petals, leaves, twigs, and Nicolette
had to bend her head lest these struck her in the face. She put up her
arms and started to run, but Ameyric was down on the ground and after
her within a second. And as he was the swiftest runner of the
country-side, he soon overtook her and seized her hand, and went on
running, dragging her after him: a lad jumped to his feet and seized her
other hand and then dragged another girl after him. The next moment
every one had joined in this merry race: young and old, grey heads and
fair heads and bald heads, all holding hands and running, running, for
this was the _Farandoulo_, and the whole band was dragged along by
Ameyric, who was the leader and who had hold of Nicolette’s hand. They
ran and they ran, the long band that grew longer and longer every
moment, as one after another every one joined in: the girls, the boys,
the men, Jaume Deydier, Margaï, and even Mossou le Curé. No one can
refuse to join in the _Farandoulo_. In and out of the orange trees,
round and round and up and down!—follow my leader!—and woe betide him or
her who first gets breathless. The laughter, the shouts were deafening.
“Keep up, Magdeleine!”
“Thou’rt breaking my arm, Glayse!”
“Take care, Mossou le Curé will fall!”
“Fall! No! and if he does we’ll pick him up again!”
And so the mad _Farandoulo_ winds its way in the fragrant grove that
borders the dusty road. And down that road coming from Luberon two
riders—a man and a woman—draw rein, and hold their horses in, while they
gaze toward the valley.
“Now, what in Heaven’s name is happening over there?” a high-pitched
feminine voice asks somewhat querulously.
“I should not wonder they were dancing a _Farandoulo_!” the man replies.
“What in the world is that?”
“The oldest custom in Provence. A national dance——”
“A dance, _bon Dieu_! I should call it a vulgar brawl!”
“It is quaint and original, Rixende. Come! It will amuse you to watch.”
The lady shrugs her pretty shoulders and the riders put their horses to
a gentle trot. Bertrand’s eyes fixed upon that serpentine band of
humanity, still winding its merry way amidst the trees, have taken on an
eager, excited glance. The Provençal blood in his veins leaps in face of
this ancient custom of his native land. Rixende, smothering her ennui,
rides silently by his side. Then suddenly one or two amongst that
riotous throng have perceived the riders: the inborn shyness of the
peasant before his seigneur seems to check the laughter on their lips,
their shyness is communicated to others, and gradually one by one, they
fall away; Mossou le Curé, shamefaced, is the first to let go; he mops
his streaming forehead and watches with some anxiety the approach of the
strange lady in her gorgeous riding habit of crimson velvet, her fair
curls half concealed beneath a coquettish _tricorne_ adorned with a
falling white plume.
“_Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!_” he mutters. “I trust they did not perceive me.
M. le Comte and this strange lady: what will they think?”
“Bah!” Jaume Deydier replies with a somewhat ironic laugh, “’tis not so
many years ago that young Bertrand would have been proud to lead the
_Farandoulo_ himself.”
“Ah!” the old curé murmurs with a grave shake of his old head, “but he
has changed since then.”
“Yes,” Deydier assents dryly: “he has changed.”
The curé would have said something more, but a loud, rather shrill, cry
checks the words on his lips.
“_Mon Dieu!_ What has happened?”
Nothing! Only that Ameyric, the leader of the _Farandoulo_, and
Nicolette with him had been about the only ones who had not perceived
the approach of the elegant riders. It is an understood thing that one
by one the band of rioters becomes shorter and shorter, as some fall
out, breathless after awhile, and Ameyric, who was half wild with
excitement to-day, and Nicolette, whose senses were reeling in the
excitement of this wild rush through perfume-laden space went on
running, running, for the longer the _Farandoulo_ can be kept up by the
leaders the greater is the honour that awaits them in the end; and so
they ran, these two, until their mad progress was suddenly arrested by a
loud, shrill cry, followed less than a second later by another terrified
one, and the pawing and clanging of a horse’s hoofs upon the hard stony
road. Ameyric was only just in time to drag Nicolette, with a violent
jerk, away from the spot where she had fallen on her knees right under
the hoofs of a scared and maddened animal. The beautiful rider in
gorgeous velvet habit was vainly trying to pacify her horse, who,
startled by a sudden clash of tambours, was boring and champing and
threatening to rear. Rixende, not a very experienced rider, had further
goaded him by her screams and by her nervous tugging at the bridle: she
did indeed present a piteous spectacle—her elegant hat had slipped down
from her head and hung by its ribbon round her neck, her hair had become
disarranged and her pretty face looked crimson and hot, whilst her small
hands, encased in richly embroidered gloves, clung desperately to the
reins. The untoward incident, however, only lasted a few seconds.
Already one of Deydier’s men had seized the bridle of the fidgety animal
and Bertrand, bending over in his saddle, succeeded not only in quieting
the horse, but also in soothing his loved one’s temper; he helped her to
readjust her hat and to regain her seat, he rearranged the tumbled folds
of her skirt, and saw to her stirrup leather and the comfort of her
small, exquisitely shod feet.
But Rixende would not allow herself to be coaxed back into good humour.
“These ignorant louts!” she murmured fretfully, “don’t they know that
their silly din will frighten a highly strung beast?”
“It was an accident, Rixende,” Bertrand protested: “and here,” he added,
“comes M. le Curé to offer you an apology for his flock.”
“_Hélas_, mademoiselle,” M. le Curé said, with hands held up in genuine
concern, as he hurried to greet M. le Comte and his fair companion, “we
must humbly beg your pardon for this unfortunate accident. In the heat
and excitement of the dance, I fear me the boys and girls lost their
heads a bit.”
“Lost their heads, M. le Curé,” Rixende retorted dryly. “I might have
lost my life by what you are pleased to call this unfortunate accident.
Had my horse taken the bit between his teeth....”
She shrugged her pretty shoulders in order to express all the grim
possibilities that her words had conjured up.
“Oh! Mademoiselle,” le curé protested benignly, “with M. le Comte by
your side, you were as safe as in your own boudoir; and every lad here
knows how to stay a runaway horse.”
“Nay!” Mademoiselle rejoined with just a thought of resentment in her
tone, “methinks every one was too much occupied in attending to that
wench yonder, to pay much heed to me.”
For a moment it seemed as if the old priest would say something more,
but he certainly thought better of it and pressed his lips tightly
together, as if to check the words which perhaps were best left unsaid.
Indeed there appeared to be some truth in Rixende’s complaint, for while
she certainly was the object of Bertrand’s tender solicitude, and the
old curé stood beside her to offer sympathy and apology for the
potential accident, all the boys and girls, the men and women, were
crowding around the group composed of Nicolette, Ameyric, Margaï and
Jaume Deydier.
Nicolette had not been hurt, thanks to Ameyric’s promptitude, but she
had been in serious danger from the fretful, maddened horse, whom his
rider was powerless to check. She had fallen on her knees and was
bruised and shaken, but already she was laughing quite gaily, and joking
over her father’s anxiety and Margaï’s fussy ways. Margaï was preparing
bandages for the bruised knee and a glass of orange-flower water for her
darling’s nerves, whilst rows of flushed and sympathising faces peered
down anxiously upon the unwilling patient.
“Eh! Margaï, let me be,” Nicolette cried, and jumped to her feet, to
show that she was in no way hurt. “What a to-do, to be sure. One would
think it was I who nearly fell from a horse.”
“Women,” muttered Margaï crossly, “who don’t know how to sit a horse
should not be allowed to ride.”
And rows of wise young heads nodded sagely in assent.
Rixende, watching this little scene from the road, felt querulous and
irritated.
“Who,” she asked peremptorily, “was that fool of a girl who threw
herself between my horse’s feet?”
“It was our little Nicolette,” the curé replied gently. “The child was
running and dancing, and Ameyric dragged her so fast in the _Farandoulo_
that she lost her footing and fell. She might have been killed,” the old
man added gravely.
“Fortunately I had my horse in hand,” Rixende riposted dryly. “’Twas I
who might have been killed.”
But this last doleful remark of hers Bertrand did not hear. He was at
the moment engaged in fastening his horse’s bridle to a convenient tree,
for at sound of Nicolette’s name he had jumped out of the saddle.
Nicolette! Poor little Nicolette hurt! He must know, he must know at
once. Just for the next few seconds he forgot Rixende, yes! forgot her!
and sped across the road and through the orange-grove in the direction
of that distant, agitated group, in the midst of which he feared to find
poor little Nicolette mangled and bleeding.
Rixende called peremptorily after him. She thought Bertrand indifferent
to the danger which she had run, and indifference was a manlike
condition which she could not tolerate.
“Bertrand,” she called, “Bertrand, come back.”
But he did not hear her, which further exasperated her nerves. She
turned to the old curé who was standing by rather uncomfortably, longing
for an excuse to go and see how Nicolette was faring.
“M. le Curé,” Rixende said tartly, “I pray you tell M. le Comte that my
nerves are on edge, and that I must return home immediately. If he’ll
not accompany me, then must I go alone.”
“At your service, mademoiselle,” the old priest responded readily
enough, and picked up his soutane ready to follow M. le Comte through
the grove. For the moment he had disappeared, but a few seconds later
the group of harvesters parted and disclosed Bertrand standing beside
Nicolette.
“Nicolette!” Bertrand had exclaimed as soon as he saw her. He felt
immensely relieved to find that she was not hurt, but at sight of her he
suddenly felt shy and awkward; he who was accustomed to meet the
grandest and most beautiful ladies of the Court at Versailles.
“Why,” he went on with a nervous little laugh, “how you have grown.”
Nicolette looked a little pale, which was no wonder, seeing what a
fright she had had: but at sight of Bertrand a deep glow ran right up
her cheeks, and tinged even her round young throat down to her shoulders
under the transparent fichu. The boys and girls who had been crowding
round her fell back respectfully as M. le Comte approached, and even
Ameyric stood aside, only Margaï and Jaume Deydier remained beside
Nicolette.
“You have grown!” Bertrand reiterated somewhat foolishly.
“Do you think so, M. le Comte?” Nicolette murmured shyly.
The fact that she, too, appeared awkward had the effect of dissipating
Bertrand’s nervousness in the instant.
“Call me Bertrand at once,” he cried gaily, “you naughty child who would
forget her playmate Bertrand, or Tan-tan if you wish, and give me a kiss
at once, or I shall think that you have the habit of turning your back
on your friends.”
He tried to snatch a kiss, but Nicolette evaded him with a laugh, and at
that very moment Bertrand caught sight of Jaume Deydier, whom he greeted
a little shamefacedly, but with hearty goodwill. After which it was the
turn of Margaï, whom he kissed on both cheeks, despite her grumblings
and mutterings, and of the boys and girls whom he had not seen for over
five years. Amongst them Ameyric.
“_Eh bien_, Ameyric!” he cried jovially, and held out a cordial hand to
the lad: “are you going to beat me at the bar and the disc now that I am
out of practice! _Mon Dieu_, what bouts we used to have, what? and how
we hated one another in those days!”
Every one was delighted with M. le Comte. How handsome he was! How gay!
Proud? Why, no one could be more genial, more kindly than he. He shook
hands with all the men, kissed one or two of the prettiest girls and all
the old women on both cheeks: even Margaï ceased to mutter
uncomplimentary remarks about him, and even Jaume Deydier unbent. He
admitted to those who stood near him that M. le Comte had changed
immensely to his own advantage. And Nicolette leaned against the old
orange tree, the doyen of the grove, feeling a little breathless. Her
heart was beating furiously beneath her kerchief, because, no doubt, she
had not yet rested from that wild _Farandoulo_. The glow had not left
her cheeks, and had added a curious brilliance to her eyes. The mad
dancing and running had disarranged her hair, and the brown curls
tumbled about her face just as they used to do of old when she was still
a child: in her small brown hands she twirled a piece of orange-blossom.
At one moment Bertrand looked round, and their eyes met. In that glance
the whole of his childhood seemed to be mirrored: the woods, the long,
rafted corridors, the mad, glad pranks of boyhood, the climbs up the
mountain-side, the races up the terraced gradients, the slaying of
dragons and rescuing of captive maidens. And all at once he threw back
his head and laughed, just laughed from the sheer joy of these memories
of the past and delight in the present; joy at finding himself here,
amidst the mountains of old Provence, whose summits and crags dissolved
in the brilliant azure overhead, with the perfume of orange-blossom
going to his head like wine.
And because M. le Comte laughed, one by one the boys and girls joined in
his merriment: they laughed and sang, no longer the sweet sad chaunt of
the “_Roussignou_,” but rather the gay ditties of _La Farandoulo_.
“La Farandoulo? La faren
Lou cor gai la tèsto flourido
E la faren tant que voudren
En aio! En aio!”
It was, in truth, most unfortunate that it all happened so: for Rixende
had watched the whole of the scene from the moment when she sent the old
curé peremptorily to order Bertrand to come back to her. But instead of
delivering the message he seemed to have mixed himself up with all those
noisy louts, and to have become a part of that group that stood gaping
around the girl Nicolette. Rixende saw how Bertrand greeted the girl,
how he was soon surrounded by a rowdy, chattering throng, she saw how he
tried to kiss the girls, how he embraced the women, how happy he seemed
amongst all these people: so happy, in fact, that he appeared wholly to
have forgotten her, Rixende. And she was forced to wait till it was his
good pleasure to remember her. No wonder that this spoilt child of
fashionable Versailles lost her temper the while. Her horse was still
restive, his boring tired her: she could not trot off by herself,
chiefly because she would not have cared to ride alone in this strange
and dour country where she was a complete stranger. True! it was selfish
and thoughtless of Bertrand thus to forget her. He was only away from
her side a few minutes—six at most—but these were magnified into half an
hour, and she was really not altogether to blame for greeting him with
black looks, when presently he came back to her, leading that stupid
peasant wench by the hand, and speaking just as if nothing had happened,
and he had done nothing that required forgiveness.
“This is Nicolette Deydier, my Rixende,” he said quite unconcernedly.
“Though she is so young, she is my oldest friend. I sincerely hope that
you and she——”
“Mademoiselle Deydier and I,” Rixende broke in tartly, “can make
acquaintance at a more propitious time. But I have been kept too long
for conversation with strangers now. I pray you let us go hence,
Bertrand; the heat, the sun, and all the noise have given me a
headache.”
At the first petulant words Nicolette had quietly withdrawn her hand
from Bertrand’s grasp. She stood by silent, deeply hurt by the other’s
rudeness, vaguely commiserating with Bertrand for the sorry figure which
he was made to cut. He did his best to pacify his somewhat
vixenish-tempered fiancée, and in his efforts did certainly forget to
make amends to Nicolette, and after a hasty, kindly pressure of her
hand, he paid no further heed to her.
Only when Rixende, with a vicious cut at her horse with her riding-crop,
gave the signal for departure, did Bertrand send back a farewell smile
to Nicolette. She stood there for a long, long while on the edge of the
road; even while a cloud of white dust hid the two riders from her view,
she gazed out in the direction where they had vanished.
So this was the lovely Rixende, the woman whom Bertrand had loved even
before he had set eyes on her: the lady of his dreams, whom he was going
to nickname Riande, because she would be always laughing; and he would
love her so much and so tenderly that she would never long for the
gaieties of Paris and Versailles, but be content to live with him in his
fair home of Provence, where the flower of the gentian in the spring and
the dome of heaven above would seem but the mirrors of her blue eyes.
With a tightening at her heart-strings, Nicolette thought of the dainty
face with its delicate, porcelain-like skin puckered up with lines of
petulance, the gentian-blue eyes with their hard, metallic glitter, and
the tiny mouth with the thin red lips set into a pout. And she sighed,
because she had also noticed at the same time that there was a look of
discontent and weariness in Bertrand’s face when he finally rode away at
the bidding of his imperious queen.
“Oh! Holy Virgin, Mother of God,” Nicolette murmured fervently under her
breath, “pray to our Lord that He may allow Bertrand to be happy.”
The next moment her father’s voice from the distance roused her from her
dreams:
“Nicolette! Hey, Nicolette! Don’t stand there dreaming, child!”
She turned and ran back to the grove; the day was still young, and the
harvesters were at work already. But every one noticed that for the rest
of the afternoon Mademoiselle Nicolette was more silent than was her
wont.