villages were assembling from every side, crowding to the Giffas road in a cloud of dust and a confusion of cries, sitting at the hedge-sides, clinging to the elms, squeezed in carts—­a living wall for the procession.  Above all a great white sun which scintillated in every direction—­on the copper of a tambourine, on the point of a trident, on the fringe of a banner; and in the midst the great proud Rhone carrying to the sea the moving picture of this royal feast.  Before these marvels, where shone all the gold of his coffers, the Nabob had a sudden feeling of admiration and of pride.

“This is beautiful,” he said, paling; and behind him his mother murmured, “It is too beautiful for man.  It is as if God were coming.”  She was pale, too, but with an unutterable fear.

The sentiment of the old Catholic peasant was indeed that which was vaguely felt by all those people massed upon the roads as though for the passing of a gigantic Corpus Christi procession, and whom this visit of an Eastern prince to a child of their own country reminded of the legends of the Magi, or the advent of Gaspard the Moor, bringing to the carpenter’s son myrrh and the triple crown.

As Jansoulet was being warmly congratulated by every one, Cardailhac, who had not been seen since morning, suddenly appeared, triumphant and perspiring.  “Didn’t I tell you there was something to work on!  Eh?  Isn’t it fine?  What a scene!  I bet our Parisians would pay dear to be at such a first performance as this!” And lowering his voice, on account of the mother who was quite near, “Have you seen our country girls?  No?  Examine them more closely—­the first, the one in front, who is to present the bouquet.”

“Why, it is Amy Ferat!”

“Just so.  You see, old fellow, if the Bey should throw his handkerchief amid that group of loveliness there must be some one to pick it up.  They wouldn’t understand, these innocents.  Oh, I have thought of everything, you will see.  Everything is prepared and regulated just as on the stage.  Garden side—­farm side.”

Here, to give an idea of the perfect organization, the manager raised his stick.  Immediately his gesture was repeated from the top to the bottom of the park, and from the choral societies, from the brass bands, from the tambourines, there burst forth the majestic strains of the popular southern song, Grand Soleil de la Provence.  Voices and instruments rose in the sunlight, the banners filled, the dancers swayed to their first movement, while on the other side of the river a report flew like a breeze that the Bey had arrived unexpectedly by another route.  The manager made another gesture, and the immense orchestra was hushed.  The response was slower this time, there were little delays, a hail of words lost in the leaves; but one could not expect more from a concourse of three thousand people.  Just then the carriages appeared, the state coaches which had been used on the occasion of the last Bey’s visit—­two