got marked, she went into the compound, to
look at the place where I slept. The straw crib with its lambskin
cover, my long cape hanging on the wall, my shepherd's crook, and my
catapult; all these things fascinated her.

--So, this is where you live, my little shepherd? How tedious it must
be to be alone all the time. What do you do with yourself? What do you
think about?

I wanted to say, "About you, my lady," and I wouldn't have been lying,
but I was so greatly nonplussed that I couldn't find a single word by
way of a reply. Obviously, she picked this up, and certainly she would
now take some gentle malicious pleasure in turning the screw:

--What about your girlfriend, shepherd, doesn't she come up to see you
sometimes? Of course, it would have to be the fairy Esterelle, who only
runs at the top of the mountain, or the fabled, golden she-goat....

As she talked on, she seemed to me like the real fairy Esterelle. She
threw her head back with a cheeky laugh and hurried away, which made
her visit seem like a dream.

--Goodbye, shepherd.

--Bye, Bye, lady.

And there she was--gone--taking the empty baskets with her.

As she disappeared along the steep path, stones disturbed by the mule's
hooves, seemed to take my heart with them as they rolled away. I could
hear them for a very long time. For the rest of the day, I stood there
daydreaming, hardly daring to move, fearing to break the spell. Towards
the evening, as the base of the valleys became a deeper blue, and the
bleating animals flocked together for their return to the compound, I
heard someone calling to me on the way down, and there she was;
mademoiselle herself. But she wasn't laughing any more; she was
trembling, and wet, and fearful, and cold. She would have me believe
that at the bottom of the hill, she had found the River Sorgue was
swollen by the rain storm and, wanting to cross at all costs, had
risked getting drowned. The worse thing, was that at that time of
night, there was no chance of her getting back to the farm. She would
never be able to find the way to the crossing place alone, and I
couldn't leave the flock. The thought of staying the night on the
mountain troubled her a great deal, particularly as her family would
worry about her. I reassured her as best I could:

--The nights are short in July, my Lady. It's only going to seem like a
passing, unpleasant moment.

I quickly lit a good fire to dry her feet and her dress soaked by the