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.