The Salt Smugglers by Gérard de Nerval Page B

majestic sweep of this road that reaches all the way to Flanders and that now and then climbs to a vantage point from which you can glimpse a wide vista of misty forests, — all this plunged me into a reverie. When I got to Senlis, the town was in the midst of festivities. The bells, — the very bells which Rousseau used to love hearing in the distance, — were ringing out on all sides. Groups of young girls were promenading down the streets or were gathered in front of doorways giggling and chattering away. Perhaps I am the victim of an illusion, but I have yet to come across
an ugly girl in Senlis ... or maybe it’s just that the ugly ones never show their faces!
    No; — the blood tends to be very good here, no doubt on account of the purity of the air, the quality of the water, and the quantity of food. Senlis has been protected from the great rush of the Northern Line, whose rails are sweeping the local populations toward Germany. — I have never been able to figure out why the Northern Line avoids this region, — and instead makes a huge loop around the area that includes Montmorency, Luzarches, Gonesse, and a number of other towns that might have profited by the direct rail link. The reason may be that the people with influence over the railroad wanted it to pass through their own properties. — A quick glance at any map will bear out the accuracy of this observation.
    It is only fitting to pay a visit to the cathedral of Senlis on a feast day such as this. It has recently been restored and its fine escutcheon with the town’s coat of arms on a field of fleur-de-lis has been remounted on the lateral portal. The bishop himself was officiating, — and the nave was crowded with the local nobles and gentry who still live in the region.
    Upon leaving the cathedral, I admired the last rays of the setting sun upon the crumbling, ivy-covered towers of the Roman fortifications. — As I passed by the priory, I noticed a group of young girls sitting on its doorsteps.
    They were all singing; the oldest one among them was acting as the conductor, standing in front of them, clapping her hands to indicate the beat.
    Â« Come on, young ladies, let’s start at the top; the littlest girls are not following! ... I want to hear that little girl over there on the left, the first one over on the second step: — come on, let’s hear you sing it alone. »
    In a soft yet resonant voice the little girl sang:
    The ducks in the stream ... etc.
    Yet another tune I had grown up with! Childhood memories surge back more vividly midway through life, — like some palimpsest whose original text suddenly reappears after the manuscript has been chemically treated.
    The little girls then launched into another song, — one more memory:
    Three girls in the grass ...
How my heart beats!
How my heart beats!
For my pretty little lass!
    Â« Oh you little devils, said a solid old peasant who was standing next to me all ears, you’re just too adorable for words! ... What about dancing for us now? »
    The little girls got up from the steps and proceeded to perform an unusual dance that reminded me of the dances I had seen girls doing in the Greek isles.
    They all lined up, — as we say in the region, — à la queue leleu , that is, Indian file. Then a boy takes the hands of the girl who is first in line and leads her backwards, while the other girls all hold on to each other’s arms from behind. This creates a snake which first uncoils in a spiral and then turns into a circle, before recoiling itself ever more tightly around the spectator who stands there in the middle listening to the singing and who, as the round dance draws ever closer to him,
then kisses the various children who have offered this kindly gift to the passing stranger.
    I was no stranger, but I was moved to tears upon hearing these tiny voices sing with the same intonations, the same trills, the same