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La Folle drew a long, deep breath as she gazed across the country. She walked slowly and uncertainly, like one who hardly knows how, looking about her as she went. The cabins, that yesterday had sent a clamor of voices to pursue her, were quiet now. No one was yet astir at Bellissime. Only the birds that darted here and there from hedges were awake, and singing their matins.
She had more physical strength than most men, and made her patch of cotton and corn and tobacco like the best of them. But of the world beyond the bayou she had long known nothing, save what her morbid fancy conceived. People at Bellissime had grown used to her and her way, and they thought nothing of it.
For Cheri hardly did such things now, since he had become the proud possessor of a gun, and had had his black curls cut off. That summer the summer Cheri gave La Folle two black curls tied with a knot of red ribbon the water ran so low in the bayou that even the little children at Bellissime were able to cross it on foot, and the cattle were sent to pasture down by the river.
Even when "Old Mis'" died, they did not wonder that La Folle had not crossed the bayou, but had stood upon her side of it, wailing and lamenting. P'tit Maitre was now the owner of Bellissime. He was a middle-aged man, with a family of beautiful daughters about him, and a little son whom La Folle loved as if he had been her own. She called him Cheri, and so did every one else because she did.
"They fear the heat, the forestieri!" There was no one to take her place, the woman said. Just the chorus singing would attract but few listeners; the other serenaders would get all the people. This was the harvest time and it must be wasted. Ah! The roses were molto belle, bellissime, Signorina, but it was clear that they offered little consolation for real troubles.
It all looked like enchantment beneath the sparkling sheen of dew. When La Folle had slowly and cautiously mounted the many steps that led up to the veranda, she turned to look back at the perilous ascent she had made. Then she caught sight of the river, bending like a silver bow at the foot of Bellissime. Exultation possessed her soul. La Folle rapped softly upon a door near at hand.
Vasari's description moves our laughter with its jargon about "attitudini bellissime e scorti molto mirabili," when the man, in spite of his honest and enthusiastic admiration, is so little capable of penetrating the painter's thought. Mr.
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