“You have grown!” Bertrand reiterated somewhat foolishly.
“Do you think so, M. le Comte?” Nicolette murmured shyly.
The fact that she, too, appeared awkward had the effect of dissipating Bertrand’s nervousness in the instant.
“Call me Bertrand at once,” he cried gaily, “you naughty child who would forget her playmate Bertrand, or Tan-tan if you wish, and give me a kiss at once, or I shall think that you have the habit of turning your back on your friends.”
He tried to snatch a kiss, but Nicolette evaded him with a laugh, and at that very moment Bertrand caught sight of Jaume Deydier, whom he greeted a little shamefacedly, but with hearty goodwill. After which it was the turn of Margaï, whom he kissed on both cheeks, despite her grumblings and mutterings, and of the boys and girls whom he had not seen for over five years. Amongst them Ameyric.
“Eh bien, Ameyric!” he cried jovially, and held out a cordial hand to the lad: “are you going to beat me at the bar and the disc now that I am out of practice! Mon Dieu, what bouts we used to have, what? and how we hated one another in those days!”
Every one was delighted with M. le Comte. How handsome he was! How gay! Proud? Why, no one could be more genial, more kindly than he. He shook hands with all the men, kissed one or two of the prettiest girls and all the old women on both cheeks: even Margaï ceased to mutter uncomplimentary remarks about him, and even Jaume Deydier unbent. He admitted to those who stood near him that M. le Comte had changed immensely to his own advantage. And Nicolette leaned against the old orange tree, the doyen of the grove, feeling a little breathless. Her heart was beating furiously beneath her kerchief, because, no doubt, she had not yet rested from that wild Farandoulo. The glow had not left her cheeks, and had added a curious brilliance to her eyes. The mad dancing and running had disarranged her hair, and the brown curls tumbled about her face just as they used to do of old when she was still a child: in her small brown hands she twirled a piece of orange-blossom.
At one moment Bertrand looked round, and their eyes met. In that glance the whole of his childhood seemed to be mirrored: the woods, the long, rafted corridors, the mad, glad pranks of boyhood, the climbs up the mountain-side, the races up the terraced gradients, the slaying of dragons and rescuing of captive maidens. And all at once he threw back his head and laughed, just laughed from the sheer joy of these memories of the past and delight in the present; joy at finding himself here, amidst the mountains of old Provence, whose summits and crags dissolved in the brilliant azure overhead, with the perfume of orange-blossom going to his head like wine.
And because M. le Comte laughed, one by one the boys and girls joined in his merriment: they laughed and sang, no longer the sweet sad chaunt of the “Roussignou,” but rather the gay ditties of La Farandoulo.
“La Farandoulo? La faren