Part 19 (1/2)
Oh! how the young girls and youths proclaimed in every quarter the news of the old crier! his news was of that kind which, rapid as a bird, lends wings to speech. Scarcely, therefore, was the air warmed by the sun's rays, than his intelligence was spread from hearth to hearth, from table to table, from cottage to cottage.
Friday came; and, in the dusk of the evening, seated beside a cold forge, a mother was complaining: and thus she spoke to her son:--
”Have you, then, forgotten the day when, before our shop, I saw you arrive, with the sound of music, faint, wounded, and bleeding? I have suffered much since, for the wound was envenomed; we feared you must lose your arm. Let me entreat, go not out to-night--for I dreamt of flowers--what do they always announce, Pascal?--but sorrows and tears.”
”Dear mother, you are too timid; all seems gloomy in your eyes; you know Marcel comes no more amongst us; there is now no reason for your fears.”
”Take heed of yourself, nevertheless. The sorcerer of the Black Wood has been wandering in this neighbourhood,--you recollect the great mischief he did last year. Well, it is said that a soldier was seen to leave his cave yesterday, at day-break. Should it be Marcel! Beware, my child.
Every mother gives relics to her child--take you mine, and oh, my son, go not forth.”
”I only ask one little hour, to see my friend, Thomas.”
”Your friend!--ah, tell the truth, and say to see Franconnette; for you, too, love her, like all the rest. You think I see it not--away!--I have long read it in your eyes. You fear to distress me, you sing, you seem gay; but you weep in secret, you suffer, you are wretched, and I am unhappy for your sake. I pine away. Hold, Pascal! something tells me a great misfortune awaits you. She has such power over those who love her, one would say she was a witch; but with her magic what does she seek?
Can it be fortune?--it has been offered her twenty times, and she refuses all; however, they say she now pretends to be attached to rich Laurent de Brax, and they are soon to be betrothed. Oh, what confusion she will make this evening, vain creature! Think no more of her, Pascal; leave her, it is for your good;--hear me! she would hold a poor blacksmith in contempt, whose father is old, infirm, and poor,--for we are poor, indeed; alas! you know it well. We have parted with all; we have only a scythe left. It has been a dark time with us since you fell sick; now that you are well, go, dearest, and work. What do I say? we can suffer still; rest yourself, if you please, but, for the love of G.o.d, go not forth this evening.”
And the poor mother in despair wept, as she implored her son, who, leaning against the forge, stifled a sigh which rose from his oppressed heart, and said, ”You are right, mother: I had forgotten all,--we are poor, indeed. I will go and work.”
Two minutes after, the anvil was ringing; but whoever had seen how often the young blacksmith struck the iron falsely, would have easily seen that he thought of something besides the hammer he held in his hand.
Meantime few had failed at the Buscou, and every one came from all parts to divide their skein at the Fete of Lovers.
In a large chamber, where already a hundred windles were turning, loaded with flax, girls and youths, with nimble fingers, were winding thread as fine as hair.
It was soon all finished; and white wine and _rimottes_ were placed, boiling, in gla.s.ses and basins, from which rose a burning smoke which set the love-powder in a flame. If the prettiest there had been the most rapid, I should have pointed out Franconnette; but the Queen of the Games is the last at work, and this is the time when her reign begins.
Only listen; how she amuses every one,--how she governs and regulates all; one would say she had spirit enough for three. She dances, she speaks, she sings; she is all-in-all. When she sings, you would say she had the soul of the dove; when she talks, the wit of an angel: when she dances, you would imagine she had, the wings of the swallow: and this evening she sang, and danced, and talked--oh! it was enough to turn the wisest head!
Her triumph is complete; all eyes are upon her. The poor young men can resist no more; and her bright eyes, which enchant them, s.h.i.+ne and sparkle as they see how the spell works. Then Thomas rose, and, looking at the lovely coquette with tender glances, sang, in a flute-toned voice, this new song:
”Oh tell us, charming maid, With heart of ice unmoved, When shall we hear the sound Of bells that ring around, To say that you have loved?
Always so free and gay, Those wings of dazzling ray, Are spread to ev'ry air,-- And all your favour share; Attracted by their light, All follow in your flight.
But, ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss, Such triumphs do but purchase pain; What is it to be loved like this, To her who cannot love again?
”You've seen how full of joy We've marked the sun arise; Even so each Sunday morn, When you, before our eyes, Bring us such sweet surprise, With us new life is born: We love your angel face, Your step so debonaire, Your mien of maiden grace, Your voice, your lip, your hair: Your eyes of gentle fire, All these we all admire!
But, ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss, Such triumphs do but purchase pain; What is it to be loved like this, To her who cannot love again.
”Alas! our groves are dull, When widowed of thy sight, And neither hedge nor field Their perfume seem to yield; The blue sky is not bright: When you return once more, All that was sad is gone, All nature you restore; We breathe in you alone.
We could your rosy lingers cover With kisses of delight all over!
But ah! believe me, 'tis not bliss, Such triumphs do but purchase pain; What is it to be loved like this, To her who cannot love again!
”The dove you lost of late, Might warn you, by her flight; She sought in woods her mate, And has forgot you quite; She has become more fair, Since love has been her care.
'Tis love makes all things gay, Oh follow where he leads-- When beauteous looks decay, What dreary life succeeds!
And ah! believe me, perfect bliss, A joy, where peace and triumph reign, Is when a maiden loved like this, Has learnt 'tis sweet to love again.”
The song is ended; and the crowd, delighted at its meaning, are full of applause, and clap their hands in praise.
”Heavens! what a song!--how appropriate! who composed so sweet a lay?”