He had a fine voice, smooth and clear, powerful without effort, and of wide range.
“Avignon est la reine——
Passe encor;
Tu ne verras qu’en Arles
Tes amours——
“La plaine est belle et grande,
Compagnon——
Prends tes amours en croupe,
En avant!”[1]
Livette had stopped her horse, to hear better. It was in the morning. In the light there was the reflection that tells that the day is young, that makes hope dance in hearts of sixteen, and sows hope anew even in the hearts of the old.
A vague hope that is naught but the desire to love; but its loss, bitterer than death, makes the thought of death a consolation!
“Prends tes amours en croupe——
En avant!”
the singer repeated, and the little one involuntarily urged her horse toward the song that called to her to come.
“Aha!” said Renaud, pausing in his work, “aha! young lady! you are astir early!—with a white horse that will soon be all red!”
“Yes,” she said, laughing, “with gnats and gadflies; there are swarms of them! too many, by my faith in God!”
“You are covered with them, young lady, as a bit of honey is covered with bees, or a tuft of flowering genesta! But what brings you here?”