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would ruin all of their efforts with what they call my arrogance.”
    “What if my brother refuses?”
    “Do not worry. He will discover that when I want something, I get it sooner or later.”
    It was the first time that serious concerns had arisen to cloud our happiness. We agreed that our assignations should remain a secret, and that he would pretend to have fallen in love at first sight while casually crossing my path in Vic.
    Once at home, I went to work with the help of the maids. The pink and white fabric was sewn into one of the prettiest gowns I ever owned. When I tried it on and looked at my reflection in the mirror, I took a step backwards. I was stunned to see myself for the first time in such finery. I would have liked Pierre-André to see me too, but that was not to be. My mother told me that I had to save the dress for the pilgrimage of Our Lady of Consolation in Thiézac on the 15th of August.
     

7
     
    “Our Lady of August,” Nostro Damo d’Agost , as it is called in the Roman language, is the Festival of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin. On that day, my mother never missed the pilgrimage of Thiézac. During its celebration, a statue, reputed to have miraculous properties, of Our Lady of Consolation carrying in her arms the Divine Child was removed in the morning from its chapel in the mountains and carried with great ceremony to the village church for the day. This was the only opportunity during the entire year for the faithful to worship it.
    I had therefore not been surprised when my mother had asked me to save my new dress for this occasion. For the first time she was paying great attention to my appearance. She harassed the maids while they did my hair. She brought her bottle of rose water and did not spare it. She even lent me, for that occasion only, as she was careful to point out, her best lace kerchief and her gold medal of the Blessed Virgin. The chain was too long for me. The jewel, cold against my skin, rested low on my throat. She arranged the white lace in a manner that uncovered as much of my flesh as decency permitted. She then adjusted a white rose between my breasts as a babarel . That is the name given in Auvergne to flowers arranged between a woman’s breasts. I had never worn any before and was beginning to feel uneasy but kept my suspicions to myself. We left Fontfreyde early to arrive on time to see the statue of Our Lady carried into town.
    Peasants had come down from the most isolated hamlets in the mountains, some in wooden clogs and coats of coarse wool, their hair matted under their broad-brimmed hats. The parish priest, in holiday vestments of gold embroidery, was at the head of the procession, followed by the town aldermen and mounted constables with their sabres drawn. Behind them the statue of Our Lady of Consolation, carved of black wood and dressed in white and gold brocade, was carried on the shoulders of villagers in their Sunday best. All stopped in the square in front of the church. Cabretaïres , the high country bagpipers, started to play traditional airs. Dancers, their hands held aloft, formed the wheel patterns of the bourrées , the men shouting throaty cries of rejoicing I have never heard in any other country. As a child, I had gladly joined in those dances and learned the accompanying songs, some bawdy, some telling of the heartsickness of lost love. The presence of my family now forced me to stay away. My mother, without paying attention to the music or the dancers, was looking around with a worried expression. Suddenly her face softened. A stranger was walking in our direction. The crowd was parting to make way for him, the men taking off their hats and the women curtseying. He bowed to my mother. He and my brother embraced briefly, calling each other “cousin.” The man was introduced to me as the Baron de Peyre.
    The Baron was about three inches taller than me, broad-chested and robustly built. He was dressed rather for hunting than for a high