Opposite La Vigie the shadows of evening were creeping up the slopes of Vimines and Saint Sulpice, coming nearer to the range of Lepine which received the setting sun, and on down the twisting valley of Saint Thibaud de Coux and the Echelles. But the light flooded the vineyard with purple and gold. It showed forth the lines of the women, turned their plain kerchiefs into aureoles, caressed the oxen’s horns, enveloped the grey beard and the ruddy face of the head cultivator in the waggon, illuminated the energetic features of Mr. Roquevillard beneath his hat brim, and still further up flashed on the proud steeple of Montagnole, to rest at last audaciously, like a crown, on the legendary rock of Mount Granier.
The workers, forming a group round some branches that had been set aside and saved, were busy gathering a few last grapes. One more basket was hoisted up, while the voice of old Jeremiah in the waggon announced in triumph:
“There we are, Squire.”
“How many cart-loads have we?” inquired the master.
“A dozen.”
“It’s a good year.”
As the oxen began to move off, followed by all the band of workers, he added:
“Now it’s my turn. This way, everybody.”
With their baskets on their arms and knives or bill-hooks in their hands, the workers climbed to the top of the hill and gathered round Mr. Roquevillard. He planted his iron-shod cane in the ground, and, taking out of his pocket a little bag, began to count money from it, mostly coppers, with some pieces of silver, whereupon even the most talkative of the women stopped. It was a solemn business, this get ting paid. Behind the gathering the windowpanes and slate-roofs reflected the flame of the sun like mirrors.
Friendly and familiar, Mr. Roquevillard called each worker by name, addressing some of them even with affection, for the oldest of them he had always known by sight, and the younger he had been acquainted with from childhood. To the wages of their day’s work he added a pleasant word in every case, and each acknowledged it in turn with a “Thank you, Squire.”