Each family at Saintes-Maries is entitled to one or two jars of water each day, according to the number of its members.—The water had not begun to flow.
Livette, sitting upon her horse, thoughtful and sad amid the chatter, was still awaiting her friends.
“What were you saying just now?” asked some late comers.
And having been informed, each one of them proceeded to expound her ideas upon the subject of the saints and Sara the bondwoman, paying no heed to what the others were saying—so that the jabbering of the women and girls seemed like a Ramadan of magpies and jays assembled in one of the isolated clumps of pines so often seen in Camargue.
“I would like to know if it’s fair,” cried one of the women, “not to put in Saint Sara’s portrait, too! A saint’s a saint, and where there’s a saint there isn’t any servant!”
“The saints aren’t proud! and Saint Sara cares mighty little whether her picture’s there or not!”
“She may not care, but it was an insult to her!”
“Oh!” said another, “good King René and the Pope knew what they were doing when they arranged things so. Sara was Pontius Pilate’s wife, and she was the one who advised her husband to wash his hands of the heathens’ crime!”
A murmur of reproof ran from mouth to mouth among the gossips.
“Ah! here’s old Rosine, she’ll set us right.”