“Now, what in Heaven’s name is happening over there?” a high-pitched feminine voice asks somewhat querulously.
“I should not wonder they were dancing a Farandoulo!” the man replies.
“What in the world is that?”
“The oldest custom in Provence. A national dance——”
“A dance, bon Dieu! I should call it a vulgar brawl!”
“It is quaint and original, Rixende. Come! It will amuse you to watch.”
The lady shrugs her pretty shoulders and the riders put their horses to a gentle trot. Bertrand’s eyes fixed upon that serpentine band of humanity, still winding its merry way amidst the trees, have taken on an eager, excited glance. The Provençal blood in his veins leaps in face of this ancient custom of his native land. Rixende, smothering her ennui, rides silently by his side. Then suddenly one or two amongst that riotous throng have perceived the riders: the inborn shyness of the peasant before his seigneur seems to check the laughter on their lips, their shyness is communicated to others, and gradually one by one, they fall away; Mossou le Curé, shamefaced, is the first to let go; he mops his streaming forehead and watches with some anxiety the approach of the strange lady in her gorgeous riding habit of crimson velvet, her fair curls half concealed beneath a coquettish tricorne adorned with a falling white plume.
“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” he mutters. “I trust they did not perceive me. M. le Comte and this strange lady: what will they think?”
“Bah!” Jaume Deydier replies with a somewhat ironic laugh, “’tis not so many years ago that young Bertrand would have been proud to lead the Farandoulo himself.”
“Ah!” the old curé murmurs with a grave shake of his old head, “but he has changed since then.”