And in a village, at the foot of a strong castle, one Sunday, a band of lovers were dancing on the votive feast of Roquefort, and, to the sound of the fife, celebrated St.Jacques and the month of August--that lovely month, which, by the freshness of its dew, and the fire of its sun, ripens our figs and grapes.
There had never been seen a finer fete.

Under the large parasol of foliage, where the crowd were every year seen in groups--all was full to overflowing.

From the heights of the rocks to the depths of the valleys, from Montagnac and Sainte Colombe, new troops of visitors arrived; still they come--still they come--and the sun is high in heaven, like a torch.
There is no lack of room where they are met, for the meadows here serve for chambers, and the banks of turf for seats.
What enjoyment!--the heat makes the air sparkle: nothing is more pleasing than to see those fife-players blowing, and the dancers whirling along.

Cakes and sweetmeats are taken from baskets; fresh lemonade! how eagerly the thirsty drink it down! Crowds hurry to see Polichinelle--crowds hurry to the merchant whose cymbals announce his treasures--crowds everywhere! But who is she advancing this way?
Joy, joy! It is the young Queen of the Meadows.

It is she--it is Franconnette.