eleven years old then, and I was very friendly with the goats, and
I was as shrill as a cicada and as slender as a match. Heavens!

When I overhear myself speaking sometimes, or look at my limbs, it
doesn't seem to be possible. And yet it is the same one. I do

remember every single goat. They were very clever. Goats are no
trouble really; they don't scatter much. Mine never did even if I

had to hide myself out of their sight for ever so long."
It was but natural to ask her why she wanted to hide, and she

uttered vaguely what was rather a comment on my question:
"It was like fate." But I chose to take it otherwise, teasingly,

because we were often like a pair of children.
"Oh, really," I said, "you talk like a pagan. What could you know

of fate at that time? What was it like? Did it come down from
Heaven?"

"Don't be stupid. It used to come along a cart-track that was
there and it looked like a boy. Wasn't he a little devil though.

You understand, I couldn't know that. He was a wealthy cousin of
mine. Round there we are all related, all cousins - as in

Brittany. He wasn't much bigger than myself but he was older, just
a boy in blue breeches and with good shoes on his feet, which of

course interested and impressed me. He yelled to me from below, I
screamed to him from above, he came up and sat down near me on a

stone, never said a word, let me look at him for half an hour
before he condescended to ask me who I was. And the airs he gave

himself! He quite intimidated me sitting there perfectly dumb. I
remember trying to hide my bare feet under the edge of my skirt as

I sat below him on the ground.
"C'est comique, eh!" she interrupted herself to comment in a

melancholy tone. I looked at her sympathetically and she went on:
"He was the only son from a rich farmhouse two miles down the

slope. In winter they used to send him to school at Tolosa. He
had an enormous opinion of himself; he was going to keep a shop in

a town by and by and he was about the most dissatisfied creature I
have ever seen. He had an unhappy mouth and unhappy eyes and he

was always wretched about something: about the treatment he
received, about being kept in the country and chained to work. He

was moaning and complaining and threatening all the world,
including his father and mother. He used to curse God, yes, that

boy, sitting there on a piece of rock like a wretched little
Prometheus with a sparrow peeking at his miserable little liver.

And the grand scenery of mountains all round, ha, ha, ha!"
She laughed in contralto: a penetrating sound with something

generous in it; not infectious, but in others provoking a smile.
"Of course I, poor little animal, I didn't know what to make of it,

and I was even a little frightened. But at first because of his
miserable eyes I was sorry for him, almost as much as if he had

been a sick goat. But, frightened or sorry, I don't know how it
is, I always wanted to laugh at him, too, I mean from the very

first day when he let me admire him for half an hour. Yes, even
then I had to put my hand over my mouth more than once for the sake

of good manners, you understand. And yet, you know, I was never a
laughing child.

"One day he came up and sat down very dignified a little bit away
from me and told me he had been thrashed for wandering in the

hills.
"'To be with me?' I asked. And he said: 'To be with you! No. My

people don't know what I do.' I can't tell why, but I was annoyed.
So instead of raising a clamour of pity over him, which I suppose

he expected me to do, I asked him if the thrashing hurt very much.
He got up, he had a switch in his hand, and walked up to me,

saying, 'I will soon show you.' I went stiff with fright; but
instead of slashing at me he dropped down by my side and kissed me

on the cheek. Then he did it again, and by that time I was gone
dead all over and he could have done what he liked with the corpse

but he left off suddenly and then I came to life again and I bolted
away. Not very far. I couldn't leave the goats altogether. He

chased me round and about the rocks, but of course I was too quick
for him in his nice town boots. When he got tired of that game he

started throwing stones. After that he made my life very lively
for me. Sometimes he used to come on me unawares and then I had to

sit still and listen to his miserable ravings, because he would
catch me round the waist and hold me very tight. And yet, I often

felt inclined to laugh. But if I caught sight of him at a distance
and tried to dodge out of the way he would start stoning me into a

shelter I knew of and then sit outside with a heap of stones at
hand so that I daren't show the end of my nose for hours. He would

sit there and rave and abuse me till I would burst into a crazy
laugh in my hole; and then I could see him through the leaves

rolling on the ground and biting his fists with rage. Didn't he
hate me! At the same time I was often terrified. I am convinced

now that if I had started crying he would have rushed in and
perhaps strangled me there. Then as the sun was about to set he

would make me swear that I would marry him when I was grown up.
'Swear, you little wretched beggar,' he would yell to me. And I

would swear. I was hungry, and I didn't want to be made black and
blue all over with stones. Oh, I swore ever so many times to be

his wife. Thirty times a month for two months. I couldn't help
myself. It was no use complaining to my sister Therese. When I

showed her my bruises and tried to tell her a little about my
trouble she was quite scandalized. She called me a sinful girl, a

shameless creature. I assure you it puzzled my head so that,
between Therese my sister and Jose the boy, I lived in a state of

idiocy almost. But luckily at the end of the two months they sent
him away from home for good. Curious story to happen to a goatherd

living all her days out under God's eye, as my uncle the Cura might
have said. My sister Therese was keeping house in the Presbytery.

She's a terrible person."
"I have heard of your sister Therese," I said.

"Oh, you have! Of my big sister Therese, six, ten years older than
myself perhaps? She just comes a little above my shoulder, but

then I was always a long thing. I never knew my mother. I don't
even know how she looked. There are no paintings or photographs in

our farmhouses amongst the hills. I haven't even heard her
described to me. I believe I was never good enough to be told

these things. Therese decided that I was a lump of wickedness, and
now she believes that I will lose my soul altogether unless I take

some steps to save it. Well, I have no particular taste that way.
I suppose it is annoying to have a sister going fast to eternal

perdition, but there are compensations. The funniest thing is that
it's Therese, I believe, who managed to keep me out of the

Presbytery when I went out of my way to look in on them on my
return from my visit to the Quartel Real last year. I couldn't

have stayed much more than half an hour with them anyway, but still
I would have liked to get over the old doorstep. I am certain that

Therese persuaded my uncle to go out and meet me at the bottom of
the hill. I saw the old man a long way off and I understood how it

was. I dismounted at once and met him on foot. We had half an
hour together walking up and down the road. He is a peasant

priest, he didn't know how to treat me. And of course I was
uncomfortable, too. There wasn't a single goat about to keep me in

countenance. I ought to have embraced him. I was always fond of
the stern, simple old man. But he drew himself up when I

approached him and actually took off his hat to me. So simple as
that! I bowed my head and asked for his blessing. And he said 'I