Then they weep and embrace each other without taking any notice of the hermit in his cowl asking alms as he leans against the station fence and mumbles his pater-noster; then, enraged at receiving nothing, turns to go as he throws his sack upon his back.
“Well, there’s another pater gone to pot!”
That phrase catches and is understood, all tears are dried and the whole company roars with laughter, the begging monk harder than the rest.
Hidden away in his coach in order to escape ovations, Roumestan enjoyed immensely all this jollity, pleased with the sight of these countenances all brown and hooked-nosed and alive with emotion and sarcasm, these big fellows with their smart air, these chatos as amber-colored as the long berries of the muscat grape, who as they grow older will turn into these crones, black and dried by the sun, who seem to scatter a dust as from the tomb every time they make one of their habitual gestures. So zou then! and allons! and all the en avants in the world! Here he found once more his own people, his changeable and nervous Provence, that race of brown crickets always at the door and always singing!
But he himself was certainly a type of them, already recovered from his terrible despair of that morning, from his disgust and his love—all swept away at the first puff of the mistral which was growling in a lively fashion through the valley of the Rhône. It met the train midway, retarding its advance and driving everything before it, the trees bent over in an attitude of flight as well as the far-away Alpilles, the sun shaken by the sudden eclipses, whilst in the distance under a rapid gleam of sunshine the town of Aps grouped its monuments about the ancient tower of the Antonines, just as a herd of cattle huddles on the wide plain of the Camargue about the oldest bull in order to break the force of the wind.
So it was that Numa made his entrance into the station to the sound of that magnificent trumpeting of the mistral.
The family had kept his arrival secret through a feeling of delicacy like his own, in order to avoid the Orpheons and banners and solemn deputations. Aunt Portal alone awaited him, majestically installed in the arm-chair belonging to the keeper of the station, with a warmer under her feet. As soon as she perceived her nephew the big rosy face of the stout lady, which had expanded in her reposeful position, took on a despairing expression and swelled up under the white lace cap, and stretching out her arms she burst into sobs and lamentations:
“Aie de nous, what a misfortune!... Such a pretty little thing, péchère!... and so good!... and so gentle!... you would take your bread from your mouth for her sake....”
“Great Heavens, is it all over?” thought Roumestan as he reverted quickly to the real purpose of his journey.
His aunt suddenly interrupted her vociferations and said coldly and in a hard tone to the servant who had forgotten the foot-warmer: