Nostradamus in love seemed a most profane idea, and it took one some time to recover from the suggestion. And it was almost as much a comedown for Tavèn. It removed so much of her ghoulishness.
We consulted our hostess. Madame knitted her brows. She had heard about "ce Monsieur là," from the instructive Americans who came to St. Remy for a visit of three days and stayed three years—an extravagant American sort of thing to do!
"Mais jamais avait on remarqué que Monsieur Nostradamus était amoureux de la sorcière des Alpilles; jamais, jamais!"
OLD HOUSE, ST. REMY.
By E. M. Synge.
It sounded much more feasible in French and I began almost to tolerate the preposterous theory.
"Néanmoins cela se peut," added Madame, who knew something of life and that even magicians were human.
We were shown various relics and gifts of the American clients and listened to many anecdotes, all testifying to a most happy and unusual relationship, savouring of olden days, between the hosts and guests of an inn. But as a matter of fact, the American, the most modern of all men, is curiously apt to bring about something of old-time relationships, something of the cordiality and freedom, the simple humanness that very old civilisations may tend to weaken.
From talking of her clients, our hostess came to talking of their friends among the Félibres and of Mistral's Mireille, the modern epic of Provence. It breathes the very spirit of the country.