‘It’s a bad thing, sweetheart, not to eat,’ said Benoit, by way of commentary on his own proceedings. ‘When I was courting Bathilde, if I had not eaten and drank a great deal I should have died. Love is a terrible thing for the appetite.’
‘We have no honey here, nor oil, like we have at Béziers,’ said Bathilde.
‘Ay! Béziers!’ continued Benoit, with a fond reminiscence. ‘How I used to eat the mulberries there! You know the mulberries at Béziers, Ma’amselle Louise? And the old image of Pierre Pepesuc, that we used to dress up once a year.’
‘And I made ribbons for his hat,’ said Bathilde; ‘because he kept the town by himself, against the English, in the Rue Françoise.’
‘And the orchards on the bank of the Orb, and the vineyards, and the farms all along the river,’ continued Benoit, warming up as he called to mind the principal features of his beautiful Languedoc.
But it produced no corresponding animation in the pale face of Louise. On the contrary, she bent down her head; and they saw the tears falling, although she was evidently endeavouring to conceal her anguish from her hospitable entertainers.
‘I shall never see Languedoc again,’ she said sorrowfully, at length.
‘Oh yes you will, ma belle!’ said Benoit cheeringly; ‘and so we shall all. When autumn arrives, and Jacques Mito will come and mind the mill, we will all start together. I can get a mule who will go the whole way, with easy stages.’
‘And we have been promised a patache,’ observed Bathilde.
‘Ay—a patache. Mass! did you ever travel by a patache? They send you up to the sky every round the wheels make. ’Tis a fine method of seeing the country.’