Sidonie’s right hand clasps an important adjunct of the homely game—a little cluster of red raspberries. In the absorbed ardor of pursuit the “Little Crook,” as they call her, holds it quite mechanically, and from her tightly clinched fingers trickle drops of the crimson juice as she runs.
“Good, little one, good,” cries the little old man, who is highly amused at the endeavors of the unfortunate lame girl.
Sidonie makes a fresh start—this time determined to catch the fugitive. The aspect of the afflicted girl as she hobbles about on limbs of unequal length does not engender among these peasants any particular feeling of compassion. None of her companions ever dreamed of offering her pity. She perfectly enjoys the game. She would be utterly astounded and piqued if any one manifested an open sympathy on account of her deformity. With that great endurance so natural among hardy peasants, and often so inexplicable to the city born and bred, she pursues the young man. After running in a straight line a short distance, he suddenly changes his tactics. A tree—several for that matter, but one in particular—stands near by. He runs behind it and awaits Sidonie, his hands clasping the trunk. Reaching the tree she fully expects to seize him. But he pretends to go to the right, and as she confidently advances he makes for another tree to the left, and so the game is prolonged. And the brave girl, always smiling, continues the pursuit, until at length Bruno, the young peasant, slips and falls upon the sward, and before he can recover himself, Sidonie holds him down and daubs his face over and over again with the juice of her crushed raspberries.
Everybody approaches to congratulate “Little Crook,” who laughs in glee at her triumph. Her good-natured adversary joins in the ensuing merriment.
What game are they playing? Indeed, it has no name as yet, for it has just been invented by Catherine, the wife of Madame le Hausseur’s gamekeeper; but its novelty has rendered it at once popular among the country lads and lasses.
The game continues for perhaps an hour, and more than one pretty face is smeared with the bright red juice. If a kiss is taken now and then, who complains of that? Surely not the lovely Catherine, who, though married to the gamekeeper, is not averse to a friendly caress. In truth, it is oftenest after her that the young men give chase—she is so gay, so bright, so little scandalized by the familiarities of her young adorers. Presently her turn comes to play the pursuer’s rôle. She selects Bruno as her victim. Graceful, Diana-like in form, and charming in her abandon, she bounds through the bushes.
In the background of this living picture stand the great trees—chiefly beeches and oaks—as erect as proud sentinels, their wide-spread branches forming a grateful shade where the peasants are sitting in sociable groups. In the clearing, just in front of the older people, who are watching with enjoyment the sport of the younger ones, is a dense mass of raspberry bushes that are fairly loaded down with ripe fruit. Never before have raspberries been so abundant in this locality. Under a tree are ranged all sizes and kinds of baskets. Soon in the hot July sunshine old and young will begin to gather this wild crop, which may be had for the picking. Some have come solely for the purpose of improving each shining hour of this Sunday morning in obtaining as much of the fruit as possible. Others think a little diversion is not out of order on such an occasion. And so the impromptu game proposed by the vivacious wife of the gamekeeper has been eagerly approved by a dozen or more participants.
Bruno now runs breathlessly after Catherine, but she is too fleet of foot to be caught. Animated and happy, the gamekeeper’s wife is wholly absorbed in the sport, and triumphs because she is able to distance her pursuer.
At length, a towering, broad-shouldered fellow, with a confident air, is seen coming along the footpath. By his side walks a queer little being, with uneven steps, misshapen body, short, twisted legs, and enormous arms. Both stop to watch the game—the first like a man who cannot be induced to enter into any such frivolous pastime; the other like a man incapable of doing so by reason of his poor physique.
“Good-morning, Andoche,” salutes Catherine as she passes the deformed little man, who smiles with a wry, disagreeable face.