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:
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 mad