("de l'eau qui rit et gazouille enjouée
parmi les galets....")
The mother of Anglore tells her children of the dangers of the river; of "the blues" of the calm water where it is of profound depth. It is here that the Drac loves to disport himself: a fishlike creature, svelte as a lamprey, twisting himself joyously in the whirl of the waters, with greenish hair which floats on the waves like seaweed. Anglore hears the story of the young woman of Beaucaire beating her linen on the river banks, when she suddenly sees the Drac in the water, and he makes a sign of invitation to his palace of crystal where he promises to show her all his riches, the wreckage of shipping for many a year. And the maiden, unable to resist the strange fascination, is drawn under the waves in a sort of dream; and for seven long years she lives with the Drac in his fresh green grotto filled with watery light.
And Anglore, on one hot, still night, goes down to the banks in the moonlight. In the profound silence she hears the murmur of the river. The glowworms are throwing their strange glamour on the grass and the nightingales are answering one another in the woods; and then suddenly the girl seems to lose her head, and flinging off her few garments, plunges into the stream.
It is a half fearful pleasure as she moves through its cool freshness. If a fish ricochets over the surface in pursuit of a fly, if a little whirlpool makes a tiny sound of in-sucking as it twirls in the rush, if a bat cries, her heart gives a sick beat. But it is joy to be thus clothed by the sumptuous mantle of the torrent; "to be mingled, confounded with the great Rhone." Suddenly, in the moonlight, deep down, stretched upon the moss—the Drac! His eyes fix her, fascinate; and fearful, stupefied, she has to go towards the sorcerer who murmurs words of mysterious love. And then, all at once, Anglore, feeling his cold arms round her, springs up and sees gliding through the water a vague shadow, serpentine and white, and floating on the surface a flowering reed!
A narrow escape! But the quaint part of the story is yet to come. When the barge of Maître Apian makes its return journey the crew throws the rope ashore and Anglore knots it round an old stake. Then Jean Roche takes Anglore in his arms and lifts her on board, and every one crowds round to welcome her.
"Eh bèn, que dis Angloro?" they cry.
"Dise tout bèn de vous," she replies politely.
Then Jean Roche says, "Santo que canto! If thou wert not more sensible than I, Anglore, dost thou know what we would do?"
"Pancaro, digo" (Pas encore, dis).