"_C'est un bon garcon_," remarked the cure, when the bowings and
politenesses were over, and they had got away. "A strange world this! He
is the last of one of the greatest and oldest families of Southern
France. For generations they have been in ruin, reduced to the life of
peasants. Jacques cares not at all, and hardly remembers that he has in
his veins blood nobler than some kings can boast. What would you? It is
as well for him. We are not snobs, we southerners, Principino. And he is
quite happy, with his little cab, his little white horse, and his little
dog. He will marry a peasant--I think I know who, for she has
embroidered a blanket for Pomponette. At one time he was conductor on
the trams; but he was _triste_ because few of the passengers said good
morning or good evening to him--and he is a friendly fellow. So he gave
up his position on the trams. One would not find that in the north. They
have their faults, these people, but I love them."
The woods of Cap Martin seemed to be populated by the cure's friends. As
he and Vanno walked away from the picnickers, a woman, bareheaded,
carrying a large basket, came toward them, followed by a very old man
with his arms full of bundles. She too was of the peasant class, a noble
creature past her youth, with the face of a middle-aged Madonna, and the
bearing of a Roman matron of distinction. The old man, whose profile
was clear as that of a king on a copper coin, was deeply lined and
darkly sunburnt.
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