Adèle, the girl from the village who gave old Louise a hand about the house when Bibi was at home, had just come in from the kitchen with a pile of plates and dishes which she proceeded to range upon the dresser. Hector shrugged his big shoulders. Whoever would think of taking notice of Adèle? A wench who got five sous a day for scrubbing floors! An undersized, plain-faced creature with flat feet and red elbows. Bah!
But Bibi still put up a warning finger:
“Little pitchers have long ears,” he said in a whisper.
“Oh! I know, I know,” Hector rejoined gruffly. “It is the fashion these days for us all to spy on one another. A pretty pass they have brought us to,” he added, “your friends in Paris.”
To this Bibi made no reply. No doubt he knew that it was impossible to argue with Hector, once the worthy épicier was in one of his moods. Adèle had finished her task and glided out of the room, silent, noiseless, furtive as a little rat, which she vaguely resembled with small, keen eyes, and pointed nose and chin. In a corner of the room, by the window, still busy with those flowers which seemingly would not set primly in the vase, Fleurette and Amédé were talking under their breath.
“I’m going away, Mam’zelle Fleurette,” said he.
“Going away, M’sieu’ Amédé? Whither? When?”
“They want me in the army.”
“What for?” she asked naively.
“To fight against the English.”
“But you won’t go, will you, M’sieu’ Amédé?”
“I must, Mam’zelle Fleurette.”
“Oh, but what shall I—I mean what will M’sieu’ Colombe do? You must remain here, to help him in the shop.” And fight against it as she would, there was an uncomfortable little lump in her throat when she pictured how terribly lost M’sieu’ Colombe would be without his son.
“Father is very angry,” Amédé said rather hoarsely, because he too had an uncomfortable lump in his throat now. “But it seems there’s nothing to be done. I have to go.”
“When?” Fleurette murmured, so softly, so softly, that only a lover’s ears could possibly have caught the whisper.
“I have to present myself tomorrow,” Amédé replied, “before M’sieu’ le Commissaire de police at Serres.”
“Tomorrow? And I have been so happy today!”
The cry came from an overburdened little heart, brought face to face with its first sorrow. Fleurette no longer attempted to keep back her tears, and Amédé, not quite sure whether he should cry because he was going away, or dance with joy because it was his going that was making Fleurette cry, put in time by wiping his face which was streaming with perspiration and tears.
“I wish I could at least have seen those children wedded,” the worthy épicier muttered in the interval of blowing his nose with a noise like a cloudburst. “At least,” he added with the good round oath which he reserved for occasions such as these, “before they take my Amédé away.”
Bibi on the other hand appeared to be more philosophical.
“We must wait for better times,” he said, “and anyhow Fleurette is too young to marry.”
V
Parting is not such sweet sorrow as the greatest of all poets would have us believe. At any rate Fleurette did not find it at all sweet, on this her eighteenth birthday, which should have been a very happy one.
It was bad enough saying “adieu” to Bibi. But Fleurette was accustomed to that. Of late Bibi had been so often and so long absent from home; sometimes weeks—nay! months—would elapse and there would be no Bibi to fondle Fleurette and bring life and animation within those whitewashed walls that held all that was dearest to her in the world. It was undoubtedly heartrending to bid Bibi adieu: but in a way, one knew that the darling would come back to Lou Mas as soon as he was able, come for one of those surprise visits that made Fleurette as gay as a linnet all the while they lasted. But to say goodbye to Amédé was a different matter. He was going into the army. He was going to fight the English. Le Bon Dieu alone knew if Amédé would ever come back. Perhaps he would be killed. Perhaps—oh! perhaps—
Never in her life had Fleurette been so sad.
And now the last goodbyes had been said. Bibi, accompanied by M’sieu’ Colombe and Amédé, had walked away in the direction of the village, where he would pick up his horse, and start along the main road that led to Serres and thence to Paris.
Fleurette remained on the bridge for some time, shading her eyes against the sun, because they ached so from all the tears which she had shed. The three men had become mere specks, ’way down the road: old Louise had gone back to her kitchen with Adèle, only Fleurette remained standing on the bridge alone. Tears were still running down her cheeks, whilst with aching eyes she strove to catch a last sight of Bibi as he and his two companions disappeared round the bend of the road. Or was it Amédé she was trying to see?
The afternoon sun had spread a mantle of gold over the snowy crests of Pelvoux: on the sapphire sky myriads of tiny clouds seemed to hold hearts of living flame in their fleecy bosoms. The wavy ribbon of the Buëche was like a giant mirror that reflected a whole gamut of glowing tints, blue and gold, and purple, whilst on the winding road, the infinitesimal atoms of dust seemed like low-lying clouds of powdered topaz. Suddenly in the direction of Sisteron those clouds rose, more dense: something more solid than powdered topaz, animated the distance: grew gradually more tangible and then became definite. Fleurette now could easily distinguish ten or a dozen men coming this way. They all wore red caps on their heads. Ahead of them came a man on horseback. He wore a tricorne hat, adorned with a tricolour cockade, and the
