And what a feast it is for the eye. Beneath the brilliant canopy above, a veritable riot of colour, an orgy of movement and of life! There stands Jaume Deydier himself in blouse and linen trousers, out from earliest dawn, tablets and pencil in hand, counting and checking the bags as they are carried from the grove to the road, where a row of carts is waiting to convey them to the distillery at Pertuis: the horses are gorgeously decked out with scarlet and blue ribbons plaited into their manes and tails, the bosses on their harness scintillating like gold in the sunshine: their drivers with bunches of lilac or lily-of-the-valley tied to their whips. Then the girls in red or pink or green kirtles, the tiny muslin caps on their heads embellished with a sprig of blue gentian or wild geranium that nestles against their curls or above the heavy plaits that hang like streamers down their backs; and the lads in grey or blue blouses, with gay kerchiefs tied loosely round their necks, and through it all from time to time a trenchant note of deep maroon or purple, a shawl, a kerchief, a piece of embroidery; or again ’tis M. le Curé’s soutane, a note of sober black, as he moves from group to group, admonishing, chaffing, bestowing blessings as he goes by, his well-worn soutane held high above his buckled shoes, his three-cornered hat pushed back above his streaming forehead.
“Eh! Mossou le Curé!” comes in a ringing shout from a chorus of young voices, “this way, Mossou le Curé, this way! bless this tree for us that it may yield the heaviest crop of the year.”
For there is a dole on every tree, according to the crop it yields to deft fingers, and M. le Curé hurries along, raises his wrinkled hand and murmurs a quick blessing, whilst for a minute or two dark heads and fair are bent in silent reverence and lips murmur a short prayer, only to break the next moment into irresponsible laughter again.
And in the midst of this merry throng Nicolette moves—the fairest, the merriest of all. She has pinned a white camellia into her cap: it nestles against her brown curls on the crown of her head, snow-white with just a splash or two of vivid crimson on the outer petals. Ameyric Barnadou is in close attendance upon her. He is the most desirable _parti_ in the neighbourhood for he is the only son of the rich farmer over at La Bastide, who is also the mayor of the commune, and a well-set up, handsome lad with bold, dark eyes calculated to bring a quick blush to any damask cheek. Glances of admiration and approval were freely bestowed on the young couple: and more than one sigh of longing or regret followed them as they moved about amongst the trees, for Ameyric had eyes only for Nicolette.