VII.

THE SALUTE.

  “She is fair, she is white, and her golden hair
  Sweetly frames her rosy face: 
  The limpid look of her azure eyes
  Beguiles near as much as her half-closed lip.”

  N. CHANNARD (Poesies inedites).

The next day, from break of dawn, the strolling players were already making their preparations for departure.

He saw the fair dancer again.

No longer had she on her gauze dress with golden spangles, nor the tights which displayed her shape, nor her glittering diadem, nor the imitation pearls in her hair.  She had resumed her poor dress of printed cotton, her darned stockings and her coarse shoes; but there was still her blue eye with its strange light, her pleasant face, her silky hair falling in thick tresses on her sunburnt neck, and beneath her cotton bodice the figure of an empress was outlined with the same opulence.

A knot of women was there, laughing and talking scandal.  What were these stupid peasants laughing at?

At length the heavy vehicle began to move, drawn by two broken-winded horses.

The fair girl is at the little window and watches, inquisitive and smiling, the silly scoffing crowd.

“Pass on, daughter of Bohemia, and despise these men who jest at your poverty, these women who cast a look of scorn and hate.  They scorn and hate you, because they have not your splendid hair, nor the brightness of your eyes, nor your white teeth, nor your fresh smile, nor your suppleness, grace and vigour, nor your bewitching shape; despise them in your turn, but envy them not, them who despise and envy you.”

Thus the Cure murmured to himself as the carriage was passing by.

She is there still at her little window, like a youthfull picture by Greuze.  She lifts her eyes and recognizes the priest, and bows with that smile which has already so affected him.  What grace in that simple gesture!  What promises in those gentle eyes!  In the midst of the hostile scornful looks of that foolish crowd she has met a friendly face; she has read sympathy and perhaps a secret admiration on the intelligent countenance of the priest.

The Cure replied to her salute, and for a long while his gaze pursued the carriage.

Meanwhile the good ladies whispered among themselves, and said to one another with a scandalized air:  “Did you see?  He bowed to the mountebank!”

VIII.

THE FEVER.

“Who has not had those troubled nights, when the storm rages within, when the soul, miserably oppressed with shameful desires, floats in the mud of a swamp?”

  MICHELET (L’Amour).

He was quite aware of his imprudence, but was unable to withdraw his eyes from the road, and his thoughts still followed the carriage long after it had disappeared behind the tall poplars.  It seemed to him that it was a portion of himself which was going away for ever.