“So you still have vineyards up here?” he asked smilingly, trying to ingratiate himself with this queer little savage. But at the word “vineyards” she sprang to her feet like a goat bitten by an asp, and in a moment her voice struck the full note of indignation. Vines! oh, yes! nice luck they had had with their vineyards! Out of five only one was left to them—the smallest one, too, and that they had to keep under water half the year,—water from the roubine at that, costing them their last sou! And all that—who was to blame for it? the Reds, those swine, those monsters, the Reds and their godless republic, that had let loose all the devils of hell upon the country!
As she spoke in this passionate manner her eyes grew blacker with the murky look of an assassin; her pretty face was all convulsed and disfigured, her mouth was distorted and her black eyebrows made with their knot a big lump in the middle of her brow. The strangest of all was that in spite of her fury she continued her peaceful avocations, making the coffee, blowing the fire, coming and going, gesticulating with whatever was in her hand, the bellows or the coffee-pot, or a blazing brand of vine-wood from the fire, which she brandished like the torch of a Fury. Suddenly she calmed down.
“Here is my brother,” she said.
The rustic curtain, brushed aside, let in a flood of white sunlight against which appeared the tall form of Valmajour, followed by a little old man with a smooth face, sunburned until it was as black and gnarled as the root of a diseased vine. Neither father nor son showed any more excitement at the sight of the visitors than Audiberte.
The first greeting over, they seated themselves at the table, on which had been spread the contents of the two baskets that Roumestan had brought in the carriage, at sight of which the eyes of old Valmajour shone with little joyous sparkles. Roumestan, who could not recover from the want of enthusiasm about himself shown by these peasants, began at once to speak of the great success on the Sunday at the amphitheatre. That must have made him proud of his son!
“Yes, yes,” mumbled the old man, spearing his olives with his knife. “But I too in my time used to get prizes myself for my tabor-playing”—and he smiled the same wicked smile that had played on his daughter’s lips in her recent gust of temper. Very peaceful just now, Audiberte sat upon the hearthstone with her plate upon her knees; for, although she was the mistress of the house and a very tyrannical one at that, she still obeyed the ancient Provençal custom that did not allow the women to sit at the table and eat with their men. But from that humble spot she listened attentively all the while to what they were saying and shook her head when they spoke of the festival at the amphitheatre. She did not care for the tabor, herself—nani! no indeed! Her mother had been killed by the bad blood her father’s love for it had occasioned. It was a profession, look you, fit for drunkards; it kept people from profitable work and cost more money than it made.
“Well then, let him come to Paris,” said Roumestan. “Take my word for it, his tabor will coin money for him there....”
Spurred on by the utter incredulity of the country girl, he tried to make her understand how capricious Paris was and how the city would pay almost anything to gratify its whims. He told her of the success of old Mathurin, who used to play the bagpipes at the “Closerie des Genets,” and how inferior were the Breton bagpipes, coarse and shrieking, fit only for Esquimaux in the Polar Circle to dance to, when compared with the tabor of Provence, so pretty, so delicate and high-bred! He could tell them that all the Parisian women would go wild over it and all wish to dance the farandole. Hortense also grew excited and put in her oar, while the taborist smiled vaguely and twirled his brown moustache with the fatuous air of a lady-killer.
“Well now, come! Give me an idea what he would earn by his music!” cried the peasant girl. Roumestan thought a moment. He could not say precisely. One hundred and fifty to two hundred francs—
“A month?” quoth the old man excitedly.