two leagues from spa, on the road bordered by gnarled trees and bushes, vierselin tigoboth, an ambulant musician who was coming on foot from liège, struck his flint to light his pipe. a woman's voice cried:

he lifted his head, and a wild laugh burst out: "hahaba! hohoho! hihihi! thine eyelids are the color of egyptian lentils! my name is macarée. i want a tom-cat."

vierselin tigoboth perceived by the roadside a young woman, brunette and formed of nice curves. how charming she seemed in her short bicyclist's skirt! and holding her bicycle with one hand, while gathering sloes with the other, she ardently fixed her great golden eyes on the flemish musician.

"vs'estez one belle bacelle," said vierselin tigoboth, smacking his tongue. "but, my god, if you eat all those sloes, you will have the colic tonight, i'm sure."

"i want a tom-cat," repeated macarée and unclasping her bodice she showed vierselin tigoboth her breasts, sweet as the buttocks of the angels, and whose aureole was the tender color of the rose clouds of sunset.

"oh! oh!" cried vierselin tigoboth, "as pretty as the pearls of amblevia, give them to me. i shall gather a big bouquet of ferns for you and of irises, color of the moon."

vierselin tigoboth approached to seize this miraculous flesh which was being offered to him for nothing, like the holy bread at mass; but then he restrained himself.

"you're a sweet lass, by god, you're nicer than the fair of liège. you're a nicer little girl than donnaye, than tatenne, than victoire, whose gallant i have been, and nicer than rénier's daughters, whom old rénier always has for sale. mind you, if you want to be my love, 'ware o' the crablouse, by god."

macarée

they are the color of the moon

and round as the wheel of fortune.

vierselin tigoboth

if you fear not to catch the louse

then i should love to be your spouse.

and vierselin tigoboth approached, his lips full of kisses: "i love you! it is pooh! o beloved!"

soon there were nothing but sighs, the songs of birds and of russet and horned little hares, like elves, fleet as the seven-league boots, passing by vierselin tigoboth and macarée, prone under the power of love behind the plumtrees.

then macarée was off on the old contraption.

and sad unto death, vierselin tigoboth cursed the instrument of velocity which rolled away and vanished behind the terraced rotunda, at the same moment that the musician began to make water while humming a jingle...

andré dérain