Bertrand stood quite still watching the glint of her white cap and her fichu between the olive trees. She seemed indeed a sprite: he could not see her feet, but her movements were so swift that he was sure they could not touch the ground, but that she was floating upwards on the bosom of a cloud. The little white cap from afar looked like a tiny light on the crown of her head and the ends of her fichu trailed behind her like wings. Soon she was gone. He could no longer see her. The slope was steep and the scrub was dense. It had enfolded her and hidden her as the wood hides its nymphs, and the voice of the mountain stream mocked him because his eyes were not keen enough to see. Overhead the stars with myriads of eyes could watch her progress up the heights, whilst he remained below and could no longer see. But the air remained fragrant with the odour of dried lavender and sun-kissed herbs, and from the woods around there came in sweet, lulling waves, wafted to his nostrils, the scent of rosemary which is for remembrance.
Bertrand waited awhile. The moon veiled her radiance behind a mantle of gossamer clouds, which she had tinged with lemon-gold, the sharp, trenchant shadows of glistening lights gave place to a uniform tone of silvery-grey. The trees sighed and bowed their crests under a sudden gust of wind, which came soughing down the valley, and all at once the air grew chill as if under a breath from an ice-cold mouth. Bertrand shivered a little and buttoned his coat. He thought that Nicolette must have reached the mas by now. Perhaps Margaï was keeping her talking downstairs, or she had forgotten to put her light in her bedroom window.
Perhaps the trees had grown of late and were obstructing the view, or perhaps he had made a mistake and from where he stood the windows of the mas could not be seen. It was so long, so very long ago since he had been here, he had really forgotten his bearings.
And with a shrug of the shoulders he turned to walk away.
But over at the mas Nicolette had thrown her arms around old Margaï’s shoulders:
“Thou wert wrong, Margaï,” she cried, “thou wert wrong. He meant to come. He wished to come. He had decided to come to-morrow——”
“Ta, ta, ta,” Margaï broke in crossly, “what is all that nonsense about now? And why those glistening eyes, I would like to know. Who is it that had decided to come to-morrow?”
“Tan-tan, of course!” Nicolette cried, and clapped her hands together, and her dark eyes glistened, glistened with an expression that of a surety the old woman could not have defined.
“Oh! go away with your Tan-tans,” Margaï retorted gruffly. “You know you must not say that.”
“I’ll say M. le Comte then, an thou wilt,” the girl retorted, for her joy was not to be marred by any grumblings or wet blankets. “But he was coming here, all the same, whatever thou mayest choose to call him.”