Part 40 (1/2)
Blue Demoiselles that glisten, Listen, I love!
Wind of the west, oh, listen, I am in love!
Sing my song, ye little gold bees!
Opal bubbles around my knees All afloat in the soap-sud broth, Whisper it low to the snowy froth; And Thou who rulest the skies above, Mary, adored--I love--I love!”
Slap-slap! went her paddle; the sud-spume flew like shreds of cotton; iridescent foam set with bubbles swirled in the stone-edged basin, constantly swept away down stream by the current, constantly renewed as she soaped and scrubbed, kneeling there in the meadow gra.s.s above the pool.
The blackbird came quite near to watch her; the bullfinch, attracted by her childish voice as she sang the song she was making, whistled bold response, silent only when the echoing slap of the paddle startled him where he sat on the trembling tip of an aspen.
Blue dragon flies drifted on glimmering wings; she put them into her song; the meadow was gay with b.u.t.terflies' painted wings; she sang about them, too. Cloud and azure sky, tree tops and clover, the tiny rivulet dancing through deep gra.s.ses, the wind furrowing the fields, all these she put into her _chansonnette de laveuse_. And always in the clear gla.s.s of the stream she seemed to see the smiling face of her friend, Djack--her lover who had opened her eyes of a child to all things beautiful in the world.
Once or twice, from very far away, she fancied she heard the distant singing of the negro muleteers sunning themselves down by the corral. She heard, at quarter-hour intervals, her bells melodiously recording time as it sped by; then there were intervals of that sweet stillness which is but a composite harmony of summer--the murmur of insects, the whisper of leaves and water, capricious seconds of intense silence, then the hushed voice of life exquisitely audible again.
War, wickedness, the rage and cruelty of the Beast--all the vile and filthy ferocity of the ferocious Swine of the North became to her as unreal as a tragic legend half-forgotten. And death seemed very far away.
Her was.h.i.+ng was done; the wet clothing piled in her basket. Perspiration powdered her forehead and delicate little nose.
Hot, flushed, breathing deeply and irregularly from her efforts under a vertical sun, she stood erect, loosening the blouse over her bosom to the breeze and pus.h.i.+ng back the cl.u.s.tering ma.s.ses of hair above her brow.
The water laughed up at her, invitingly; the last floating castle of white foam swept past her feet down stream. On the impulse of the moment she unlaced her blue wool skirt, dropped it around her feet, stepped from it; unbuckled both garters, stripped slippers and stockings from her feet, and waded out into the pool.
The fresh, delicious coolness of the water thrilled and encouraged her to further adventure; she twisted up her splendid hair, bound it with her blue kerchief, flung blouse and chemisette from her, and gave herself to the sparkling stream with a sigh of ecstasy.
Alders swept the eastern edges of the current where the rivulet widened beyond the basin and ran south along the meadow's edge to the Wood of Sainte Lesse--a cool, unruffled flow, breast deep, floored with sand as soft as silver velvet.
She waded, floated, swam a little, or, erect, roamed leisurely along the alder fringe, exploring the dim green haunts of frog and water-hen, stoat and beca.s.sine--a slim, wet dryad, gliding silently through sun and dappled shadow.
Where the stream comes to Sainte Lesse Wood, there is a hill set thick with hazel and clumps of fern, haunted by one roe-deer and numerous rabbits and pheasants.
She was close to its base, now, gliding through the shade like some lithe creature of the forest; making no sound save where the current curled around her supple body in twisted necklaces of liquid light.
Then, as she stood, peering cautiously through tangled branches for a glimpse of the little roe-deer, she heard a curious sound up on the hill--an inexplicable sound like metal striking stone.
She stood as though frozen; clink, clink came the distant sound. Then all was still. But presently she saw a scared c.o.c.k-pheasant, crouching low with flattened neck outstretched, run like a huge rat through the hazel growth, out across the meadow.
She remained motionless, scarcely daring to draw her breath. Somebody had pa.s.sed over the hill--if, indeed, he or she had actually continued on their mysterious way. Had they? But finally the intense quiet rea.s.sured her, and she concluded that whoever had made that metallic sound had continued on toward Sainte Lesse Wood.
She had taken with her a cake of soap. Now, here in the green shade, she made her ablutions, soaping herself from head to foot, turning her head leisurely from time to time to survey her leafy environment, or watch the flight of some tiny woodland bird, or study with pretty and speculative eyes the soap-suds swirling in a dimpled whirlpool around her thighs.
The bubbles fascinated her; she played with them, capriciously, touching one here, one there, with tentative finger to see them explode in a tiny rainbow shower.
Finally she chose a hollow stem from among a cl.u.s.ter of scented rushes, cleared it with a vigorous breath, soaped one end, and, touching it to the water, blew from it a prodigious bubble, all swimming with gold and purple hues.
Into the air she tossed it, from the end of the hollow reed; the breeze caught it and wafted it upward until it burst.
_Then a strange thing happened!_ Before her upturned eyes another bubble slowly arose from a clump of aspens out of the hazel thickets on the hill--a big, pearl-tinted, translucent bubble, as large as a melon. Upward it floated, slowly ascending to the tree-tops. There the wind caught it, drove it east, but it still mounted skyward, higher, higher, sailing always eastward, until it dwindled to the size of a thistledown and faded away in mid-air.
Astounded, the little mistress-of-the-bells stood motionless, waist deep in the stream, lips parted, eyes straining to pierce the dazzling ether above.