Timidly my eyes sought the little horsewoman, though I should have preferred not to find her. I had looked too far away; she was at my side, peeling potatoes with a broken knife. Instead of her golden tunic, she was in an ugly striped gown. Her bare feet--that had been shod with gold--were covered with dust. But in this humiliation she seemed to me as beautiful as in her glory, on the pedestal of her large saddle, springing through hoops amid multitudinous applause. My eyes still enlightened by illusion, I found her just as beautiful, and yet my first impulse was to move away, of course from timidity--but also, I confess, because I had got from Aunt Deen, in the matter of gipsies and beggars, her fear of vermin, which she always said, are easily caught. Let him who can explain these inconsistencies. I found a new and obscure feeling awaking within me, merely from the shame I felt at that recoil, and in my eagerness to be able to forgive myself, I could at once have shared with her even her insects. I admired the nobility and also the dexterity with which she peeled her potatoes, never making two beginnings, but removing an entire skin with a single operation. She was condescending without impatience to this mean occupation, and I was grateful to her for her humility. As the other day in the ring, during her hippie exercises, she was serious and impassive, absorbed in her work. Yet did she not observe my fixed observation? She deigned to be the first to speak. “Peeling is slow work,” she observed. “Yes, indeed,” I replied, at the very summit of happiness; “peeling is slow work.” I should have liked to help her. I ought to have helped her, but I dared not. A pharisaic scruple withheld me. Though my zeal might carry me even to the vermin which you catch without knowing it, I had not the courage to endure the obloquy of peeling potatoes in the public square, before all those _roulottes_. Our mutual confidences went no further. Suddenly a guttural voice called, “Nazzarena!” She left her vegetables and went away without saying good-bye. I was greatly moved; at least I knew her name. I rushed back to the house at a gallop, leaving behind me grandfather, waving his arms and crying, “Halloa! Wait!” It was impossible for me not to run. Wings had sprouted from my shoulders, and during my wild race my whole being was surging, like our music box when the spring was released. I rushed into the garden, bumping against Tem Bossette, who had not stepped aside quickly enough, and who shouted, “What’s the matter with you, Master Francis?” I replied laughing, but without checking my speed: “Why, nothing at all. Nothing is the matter with me.” I leaped over the cannas, flew to the orchard like a run-away chicken, and threw myself, breathless, against a young apple tree. The trees were in blossom--it was springtime. The branches trembled at the shock, and a shower of rosy petals rained down upon me.