Whence all these tear-drops rare?
The nightingale away will fly!”
sang Nicolette, and the last high note, pure indeed as that of a bird, lingered on the perfumed air like a long-drawn-out sigh, then softly died away as if carried to the mountain heights on the wings of the nightingale that flies.
“Lou roussignou che volà—volà!”
A hush had fallen on the merry throng: a happy hush wherein hands sought hands and curly head leaned on willing breast, and lips sought eyes and closed them with a kiss. Nicolette was standing under the big orange tree, her eyes fastened on the slopes of Luberon, where between olive trees and pines rose the dark cypress trees that marked the grounds of the old château. When she ceased to sing some of the lads shouted enthusiastically: “Encore! Encore!” and M. le Curé clapped his hands, and said she must come over to Pertuis and sing at high Mass on the Feast of Pentecost. Jaume Deydier was at great pains to explain how highly the great music-teacher at Avignon thought of Nicolette’s voice; but Ameyric in the meanwhile had swarmed up the big orange tree. It had not yet been picked and was laden with blossom. The fragrance from it was such that it was oppressive, and once Ameyric felt as if he would swoon and fall off the tree. But this feeling soon passed, and sitting astride upon a bough, he picked off all the blossoms, gathering them into his blouse. Then when his blouse was full, he held on to it with one hand, and with the other started pelting Nicolette with the flowers: he threw them down in huge handfuls one after the other, and Nicolette stood there and never moved; she just let the petals fall about her like snow, until Ameyric suddenly loosened the corner of his blouse, and down came the blossoms, buds, flowers, petals, leaves, twigs, and Nicolette had to bend her head lest these struck her in the face. She put up her arms and started to run, but Ameyric was down on the ground and after her within a second. And as he was the swiftest runner of the country-side, he soon overtook her and seized her hand, and went on running, dragging her after him: a lad jumped to his feet and seized her other hand and then dragged another girl after him. The next moment every one had joined in this merry race: young and old, grey heads and fair heads and bald heads, all holding hands and running, running, for this was the Farandoulo, and the whole band was dragged along by Ameyric, who was the leader and who had hold of Nicolette’s hand. They ran and they ran, the long band that grew longer and longer every moment, as one after another every one joined in: the girls, the boys, the men, Jaume Deydier, Margaï, and even Mossou le Curé. No one can refuse to join in the Farandoulo. In and out of the orange trees, round and round and up and down!—follow my leader!—and woe betide him or her who first gets breathless. The laughter, the shouts were deafening.
“Keep up, Magdeleine!”
“Thou’rt breaking my arm, Glayse!”
“Take care, Mossou le Curé will fall!”
“Fall! No! and if he does we’ll pick him up again!”
And so the mad Farandoulo winds its way in the fragrant grove that borders the dusty road. And down that road coming from Luberon two riders—a man and a woman—draw rein, and hold their horses in, while they gaze toward the valley.