You must know that the peasants, in general, do not kiss except on great occasions--weddings or baptisms. Only the mothers kiss their young children. The man of the soil is of stern mould. "Audiffret," the grandmother suddenly said to her son, laying her knitting on the table and her spectacles on her knitting;--"Audiffret, every day brings me a little nearer the end, and I would like to see this marriage take place before I die. You must hurry it as much as possible, now that it's decided on. And if I can't be present on the wedding-day, don't forget, my children, that the old woman blessed you from the bottom of her heart to-night." And, without another word, she calmly took up the stockings and needles. She had spoken almost without inflection, in a grave, calm tone, moving her lips only. Every one was deeply moved. Livette looked at Renaud. He, carried away by his emotion, forgot everything except this new family that offered itself to him, the orphan. Livette saw it and was grateful to him for it. She felt that he was won back, like the stolen horse, and she sprang to her feet in a burst of enthusiasm. "Kiss me, my betrothed!" said she proudly. He kissed her with heartfelt sincerity. The father and the grandmother looked on with eyes that gradually became dim with tears. When he had pressed the father's hand, Renaud turned to the grandmother, as she stuck her knitting-needle into the white hair that fluttered about her temples. "Kiss me, grandmother!" he said, with a smile. The old woman gave a leap, then stood erect, recoiling a little as if in fear: "Since my husband died, no man has ever kissed me," she said, "not even my son there! Let young people kiss. Life is before them. I," she added, "am already with the dead." And with that, the old peasant-woman, straight and stiff and withered,--the image of a by-gone time, when it was deemed a praiseworthy thing to remain true to a single sentiment,--sought the bed of her old age, which was soon to see her lying dead, with the tranquillity of a simple, loving, faithful heart upon her parchment-like face. XVIII THE BLESSED RELICS The great day has arrived. From all parts of Languedoc and Provence, pilgrims, rich and poor, have come to Saintes-Maries. There are fully ten thousand strangers in the town. For three days past they have been arriving in vehicles of all shapes and of all ages. Many of these pilgrims lodge with the villagers at extraordinary, princely rates. A bunch of straw on the floor brings twenty francs. The villager himself sleeps on a chair, or passes the night in the open air on the warm sand of the dunes. If the bulls arrive during the night for the sports of the following day, he assists the drovers to drive them into the compound, in the wake of the _dondaïre_, the enormous ox with a bell.