This singer, who was young, fell in love with the fair Rose, and faith, she fell in love with him. Then, one fine day, these two children, without much ado, were married, and the little Rose became Madame Bordas. Good-bye to Monteux! They went away together. Ah! how delightful it was, free as the air and young as the bubbling spring of water, to live without a care, in the full tide of love, and sing for a living. The beautiful fête where Rose first sang was that of Sainte-Agathe, the patroness of Maillane. It was at the Café de la Paix (now Café du Soleil), and the room was full as an egg. Rose, not more frightened than a sparrow on a wayside willow, stood straight up on the platform, with her fair hair, and pretty bare arms, her husband at her feet accompanying her on the guitar. The place was thick with smoke, for it was full of peasants, from Graveson, Saint-Rémy, Eyrague, besides those of Maillane. But one heard not a word of rough language. They only said: “Isn’t she pretty! And such a fine style! She sings like an organ! and she does not come from afar--only just from Monteux.” It is true that Rose only gave them beautiful songs. She sang of her native land, the flag, battles, liberty and glory, and with such passionate fervour and enthusiasm it stirred all hearts. Then, when she had finished she cried, “Long live Saint Gent!” Applause followed enough to bring down the house. The girl descended among the audience and smiling, made the collection. The sous rained into the wooden bowl, and smiling and content as though she had a hundred thousand francs, she poured the money into her husband’s guitar, saying to him: “Here--see--if this lasts, we shall soon be rich!” II When Madame Bordas had done all the fêtes of our neighbourhood, she became ambitious to try the towns. There, as in the villages, the Montelaise shone. She sang “la Pologne” with her flag in her hand, she put into it so much soul, such emotion, that she made every one tremble with excitement. At Avignon, at Cette, Toulouse and Bordeaux she was adored by the people. At last she said: “Now only Paris remains.” So she went to Paris. Paris is the pinnacle to which all aspire. There as in the provinces she soon became the idol of the people. It was during the last days of the Empire; ‘the chestnut was commencing to smoke,’ and Rose Bordas sang the _Marseillaise_. Never had a singer given this song with such enthusiasm, such frenzy; to the workmen of the barricades she represented an incarnation of joyous liberty, and Tony Révillon, a Parisian poet of the day, wrote of her in glowing strains in the newspaper. III