In these village dances,it is the custom for the young men to kiss their partners,if they can tire them out;but in some cases,when the girl is strong;and an accomplished dancer,she declines to be tired until she wishes to cease dancing.
First one youth danced with Franconnette,then another;but she tired them all.Then came Marcel,the soldier,wearing his sabre,with a cockade in his cap--a tall and stately fellow,determined to win the reward.But he too,after much whirling and dancing,was at last tired out:he was about to fall with dizziness,and then gave in.On goes the dance;Franconnette waits for another partner;Pascal springs to her side,and takes her round the waist.Before they had made a dozen steps,the girl smiles and stops,and turns her blushing cheeks to receive her partner's willing kisses.
Marcel started up in a rage,and drawing himself to his full height,he strode to Pascal."Peasant!"he said,"thou hast supplied my place too quickly,"and then dealt him a thundering blow between the eyes.Pascal was not felled;he raised his arm,and his fist descended on Marcel's head like a bolt.The soldier attempted to draw his sabre.When Pascal saw this,he closed with Marcel,grasped him in his arms,and dashed him to the ground,crushed and senseless.
Marcel was about to rise to renew the duel,when suddenly Montluc,who happened to be passing with the Baron of Roquefort,stepped forward and sternly ordered the combatants to separate.
This terrible encounter put an end to the fete.The girls fled like frightened doves.The young men escorted Pascal to his home preceded by the fifers.Marcel was not discouraged.
On recovering his speech,he stammered out,grinding his teeth:
"They shall pay clearly for this jesting;Franconnette shall have no other husband than myself."Many months passed.The harvest was gathered in.There were no more out-door fetes or dances.The villagers of Estanquet assembled round their firesides.Christmas arrived with it games and carol-singing.Then came the Feast of Lovers,called the Buscou,[4]on the last day of the year,where,in a large chamber,some hundred distaffs were turning,and boys and girls,with nimble fingers,were winding thread of the finest flax.
Franconnette was there,and appointed queen of the games.
After the winding was over,the songs and dances began to the music of a tambourin.The queen,admired by all,sang and danced like the rest.
Pascal was not there;his mother was poor,and she endeavoured to persuade him to remain at home and work.After a short struggle with himself,Pascal yielded.He turned aside to his forge in silent dejection;and soon the anvil was ringing and the sparks were flying,while away down in the village the busking went merrily on."If the prettiest were always the most sensible,"says Jasmin,"how much my Franconnette might have accomplished;"but instead of this,she flitted from place to place,idle and gay,jesting,singing,dancing,and,as usual,bewitching all.
Then Thomas,Pascal's friend,asked leave to sing a few verses;and,fixing his keen eyes upon the coquette,he began in tones of lute-like sweetness the following song,entitled 'The Syren with a Heart of Ice.'We have translated it,as nearly as possible,from the Gascon dialect.
"Faribolo pastouro,Sereno al co de glas,Oh!digo,digo couro Entendren tinda l'houro Oun t'amistouzaras.
Toutjour fariboulejes,Et quand parpailloulejes La foulo que mestrejes,Sur toun cami set met Et te siet.
Mais res d'acos,maynado,Al bounhur pot mena;Qu'es acos d'estre aymado,Quand on sat pas ayma?""Wayward shepherd maid,Syren with heart of ice,Oh!tell us,tell us!when We listen for the hour When thou shalt feel Ever so free and gay,And when you flutter o'er The number you subdue,Upon thy path they fall At thy feet.
But nothing comes of this,young maid,To happiness it never leads;What is it to be loved like this If you ne'er can love again?"Such poetry however defies translation.The more exquisite the mastery of a writer over his own language,the more difficult it is to reproduce it in another.But the spirit of the song is in Miss Costello's translation,[5]as given in Franconnette at the close of this volume.
When reciting Franconnette,Jasmin usually sang The Syren to music of his own composition.We accordingly annex his music.
All were transported with admiration at the beautiful song.
When Thomas had finished,loud shouts were raised for the name of the poet."Who had composed this beautiful lay?""It is Pascal,"replied Thomas."Bravo,Pascal!Long live Pascal!"was the cry of the young people.Franconnette was unwontedly touched by the song."But where is Pascal?"she said."If he loves,why does he not appear?""Oh,"said Laurent,another of his rivals,in a jealous and piqued tone,"he is too poor,he is obliged to stay at home,his father is so infirm that he lives upon alms!""You lie,"cried Thomas."Pascal is unfortunate;he has been six months ill from the wounds he received in defence of Franconnette,and now his family is dependent upon him;but he has industry and courage,and will soon recover from his misfortunes."Franconnette remained quiet,concealing her emotions.Then the games began.They played at Cache Couteau or Hunt the Slipper.
Dancing came next;Franconnette was challenged by Laurent,and after many rounds the girl was tired,and Laurent claimed the kisses that she had forfeited.Franconnette flew away like a bird;Laurent ran after her,caught her,and was claiming the customary forfeit,when,struggling to free herself,Laurent slipped upon the floor,fell heavily,and broke his arm.
Franconnette was again unfortunate.Ill-luck seems to have pursued the girl.The games came to an end,and the young people were about to disperse when,at this unlucky moment,the door was burst open and a sombre apparition appeared.It was the Black Forest sorcerer,the supposed warlock of the neighbourhood.