Jasmin: Barber, Poet, Philanthropist

by Samuel Smiles

The village lads praised her and tried to win her affections; but, like beauties in general, surrounded by admirers, she was a bit of a flirt.

At length two rivals appeared—one Marcel, a soldier under Montluc, favoured by Franconnette's grandmother, and Pascal, the village blacksmith, favoured by the girl herself. One Sunday afternoon a number of young men and maidens assembled at the foot of Montluc's castle of Estellac on the votive festival of St. Jacques at Roquefort. Franconnette was there, as well as Marcel and Pascal, her special admirers. Dancing began to the music of the fife; but Pascal, the handsomest of the young men, seemed to avoid the village beauty. Franconnette was indignant at his neglect, but was anxious to secure his attention and devotion. She danced away, sliding, whirling, and pirouetting. What would not the admiring youths have given to impress two kisses on her lovely cheek!{3}

In these village dances, it is the custom for the young men to kiss their partners, if they can tire them out; but in some cases, when the girl is strong; and an accomplished dancer, she declines to be tired until she wishes to cease dancing. First one youth danced with Franconnette, then another; but she tired them all. Then came Marcel, the soldier, wearing his sabre, with a cockade in his cap—a tall and stately fellow, determined to win the reward. But he too, after much whirling and dancing, was at last tired out: he was about to fall with dizziness, and then gave in. On goes the dance; Franconnette waits for another partner; Pascal springs to her side, and takes her round the waist. Before they had made a dozen steps, the girl smiles and stops, and turns her blushing cheeks to receive her partner's willing kisses.

Marcel started up in a rage, and drawing himself to his full height, he strode to Pascal. "Peasant!" he said, "thou hast supplied my place too quickly," and then dealt him a thundering blow between the eyes. Pascal was not felled; he raised his arm, and his fist descended on Marcel's head like a bolt. The soldier attempted to draw his sabre. When Pascal saw this, he closed with Marcel, grasped him in his arms, and dashed him to the ground, crushed and senseless.

Marcel was about to rise to renew the duel, when suddenly Montluc, who happened to be passing with the Baron of Roquefort, stepped forward and sternly ordered the combatants to separate. This terrible encounter put an end to the fete. The girls fled like frightened doves. The young men escorted Pascal to his home preceded by the fifers. Marcel was not discouraged. On recovering his speech, he stammered out, grinding his teeth: "They shall pay clearly for this jesting; Franconnette shall have no other husband than myself."

Many months passed. The harvest was gathered in. There were no more out-door fetes or dances. The villagers of Estanquet assembled round their firesides. Christmas arrived with it games and carol-singing. Then came the Feast of Lovers, called the Buscou,{4} on the last day of the year, where, in a large chamber, some hundred distaffs were turning, and boys and girls, with nimble fingers, were winding thread of the finest flax. Franconnette was there, and appointed queen of the games. After the winding was over, the songs and dances began to the music of a tambourin. The queen, admired by all, sang and danced like the rest.

Pascal was not there; his mother was poor, and she endeavoured to persuade him to remain at home and work. After a short struggle with himself, Pascal yielded. He turned aside to his forge in silent dejection; and soon the anvil was ringing and the sparks were flying, while away down in the village the busking went merrily on. "If the prettiest were always the most sensible," says Jasmin, "how much my Franconnette might have accomplished;" but instead of this, she flitted from place to place, idle and gay, jesting, singing, dancing, and, as usual, bewitching all.

Then Thomas, Pascal's friend, asked leave to sing a few verses; and, fixing his keen eyes upon the coquette, he began in tones of lute-like sweetness the following song, entitled 'The Syren with a Heart of Ice.' We have translated it, as nearly as possible, from the Gascon dialect.

"Faribolo pastouro,
Sereno al co de glas,
Oh! digo, digo couro
Entendren tinda l'houro
Oun t'amistouzaras.
Toutjour fariboulejes,
Et quand parpailloulejes
La foulo que mestrejes,
Sur toun cami set met
Et te siet.
Mais res d'acos, maynado,
Al bounhur pot mena;
Qu'es acos d'estre aymado,
Quand on sat pas ayma?"
"Wayward shepherd maid,
Syren with heart of ice,
Oh! tell us, tell us! when
We listen for the hour
When thou shalt feel
Ever so free and gay,
And when you flutter o'er
The number you subdue,
Upon thy path they fall
At thy feet.
But nothing comes of this, young maid,
To happiness it never leads;
What is it to be loved like this
If you ne'er can love again?"

Such poetry however defies translation. The more exquisite the mastery of a writer over his own language, the more difficult it is to reproduce it in another. But the spirit of the song is in Miss Costello's translation,{5} as given in Franconnette at the close of this volume.