Marie | Page 2

a face as his girl's, who carried round the dish. No more! And La
Patronne would be sorry perhaps a little,--she had the good heart, La
Patronne, under all the fat,--and Old Billy, he would be too sorry, she
was sure. Poor Old Billy! it was cruel to leave him, when he had such
joy of her playing, the good old man, and a hard life taking care of the
beasts, and bearing all the blame if any of them died through hunger.
But it would have been sadder for Old Billy to see her die, Marie, and
she would have died, of course she would! To live without the Lady, a
pretty life that would be! far sooner would one go at once to the good
God, where the angels played all day, even if one were not allowed to
play oneself just at first. Afterward, of course, when they found out
how she had played down here, it would be otherwise.
Meanwhile, all these thoughts did not keep Marie from being tired, and
hungry too; and she was glad enough to see some brown roofs clustered
together at a little distance, as she turned a corner of the road. A village!
good! Here would be children, without doubt; and where there were
children, Marie was among friends. She stopped for a moment, to push
back her hair, which had fallen down in the course of her night, and to
tie the blue handkerchief neatly over it, and shake the dust from her
bare feet. They were pretty feet, so brown and slender! She had shoes,
but they were in the wagon; La Patronne took care of all the Sunday
clothes, and there had been no chance to get at anything, even if she
could have been hampered by such things as shoes, with the Lady to
carry. It did not in the least matter about shoes, when it was summer:
when the road was hot, one walked in the cool grass at the side; when
there was no grass--eh, one waited till one came to some. They were
only for state, these shoes. They were stiff and hard, and the heel-places
hurt: it was different for La Patronne, who wore stockings under hers.
But here were the houses, and it was time to play. They were
pleasant-looking houses, Marie thought, they looked as if persons lived

in them who stayed at home and spun, as the women did in Brittany.
Ah, that it was far away, Brittany! she had almost forgotten it, and now
it all seemed to come back to her, as she gazed about her at the houses,
some white, some brown, all with an air of thrift and comfort, as
becomes a New England village. That white house there, with the
bright green blinds! That pleased her eye. And see! there was a child's
toy lying on the step, a child's face peeping out of the window.
Decidedly, she had arrived.
Marie took out her violin, and tuned it softly, with little rustling,
whispering notes, speaking of perfect accord between owner and
instrument; then she looked up at the child and smiled, and began to
play "En revenant d'Auvergne." It was a tune that the little people
always loved, and when one heard it, the feet began to dance before the
head. Sure enough, the door opened in another moment, and the child
came slipping out: not with flying steps, as a city child would come, to
whom wandering musicians were a thing of every day; but shyly, with
sidelong movements, clinging to the wall as it advanced, and only
daring by stealth to lift its eyes to the strange woman with the fiddle, a
sight never seen before in its little life. But Marie knew all about the
things that children think. What was she but a child herself? she had
little knowledge of grown persons, and regarded them all as ogres,
more or less, except Old Billy, and La Patronne, who really meant to be
kind.
"Come, lit' girl!" she said in her clear soft voice. "Come and dance! for
you I play, for you I sing too, if you will. Ah, the pretty song, 'En
revenant d'Auvergne!'" And she began to sing as she played:
"Eh, gai, Coco! Eh, gai, Coco! Eh, venez voir la danse Du petit marmot!
Eh, venez voir la danse Du petit marmot!"
The little girl pressed closer against the wall, her eyes wide open, her
finger in her mouth, yet came nearer and nearer, drawn by the smile as
well as the music. Presently another came running up, and another;
then the boys, who had just brought their cows home and were playing
marbles on the sly, behind the brown barn, heard the sound of the
fiddle and