their hands, jumped, danced, and made such a bustle, that Widow Gostillon, in some consternation, cried out from her chamber to know what was the matter.  And the poor widow wept, too, when she discovered what was going on—­wept solemnly in thinking over Julia’s fidelity to herself, her industry, cleverness, self-denial, sweetness, and, as a proud mother might, of her beauty.  And presently the neighbours brought forth the poor invalid in her chair, and placed her on a pleasant spot beneath the trees, whence she might behold the installation.  Then Julia retired with those appointed to be her attendants—­her tiring-women, the ladies of her court; and when, some time after, she came forth, blushing and trembling, and with happy tears upon her face, wearing her simple holiday dress of white muslin, ornamented, in charming style, with wreaths of roses, the cries of ’Vive la rosiere!’ might have been heard a long way off.

A little while, and sounds of music and of many voices filled the Grande Allee.  The long rows of booths and marquees, dancing-rooms, gymnasiums, toy-tables, bonbon tables, fruit-stalls, &c. &c. were surrounded by busy crowds:  all was activity and cheerfulness.  In a large open space in the midst, a short distance from the front of the chateau, the flowery throne, gorgeous in variety and vividness of colours, was set up on a dais on the greensward.  The band of celebrants, with Julia and her train in their midst, advanced.  Little Cecilia walked by her sister’s side, hand in hand, in proud surprise.  Before them, an aged peasant marched solemnly, bareheaded save for his silver hair, carrying the crown destined for Julia; and with him, also bareheaded, the cure.  A benediction, accompanied by a prayer that the metaphorical ceremony might have some influence in attracting the youthful people present to the practice and pursuit of virtue, having been uttered by the priest, Julia was handed to the throne, and the crown of roses was placed upon her head by the white-haired veteran.  A sweet chorus was then chanted—­Vive, vive la rosiere!—­in the melodious verses of which the signification of the ceremonial and the praises of the fete-queen were recited.

Thus far matters had proceeded happily, when the attention of the gay party was attracted by the apparition of a commissaire of police, who, marching up with the aspect of a man having important and disagreeable business to perform, exclaimed:  ’Eh, bien! we are merry to-day!  Accept my best wishes for your enjoyment.  Can you tell me, friends, where I am likely to find a fair demoiselle—­one Julia, daughter of Mme Veuve Gostillon?’

‘Voila, monsieur!’ cried several, much surprised.  ’Our rosiere is she!’