In the encampment of the adventurers Gilles, a young Frenchman proceeding from obscure vilarejo of the Gasconha met. Its linguajar funny age, in the constant mixture of terms of languedoc. They turn over, they had been known, they are landed on water. With the devotion and the wonderful inconseqncia of the adolescents that already to the twenty years nobody would obtain to repeat. It was the sluggish time of the beginning of summer, when the spikes still are green in caules and the land is hot, in the feverish work to ripen them. The remaining portion of the nature seems to stop, to the wait of the fruits, that soon will come, bringing work and prosperity. But in those weeks, everything it turned to devagar, as the shovels of the mills. The boyfriends passed hours when the captain and the father of the young woman allowed speaking of its lives, it of the adventures and it of the flour bags, only thing that its life fulled; When it stopped, it counted of the wars that fight in strange lands; she showed to its wounds, exaggerating the gravity, the number of enemies, the clangor of the battles.
there, it paraded, balancing on a mysterious wire, its dreams, its hopes. It counted to it as in the Midi the flowers were different; they were thousand of roses; they confided it the sun and to the clida breeze of the Mediterranean and if they pavoneavam, magnificent in its beauty, fulling air with its perfume and the eyes with its opulentas forms. Here, in polder, the flowers were others: modest, hidden, humble, owners of an interior beauty, whom they did not show, as if they did not want to appear; thus was it, Roxanne. The two soon lost the voice, the thought; they forgot who were and where they were. Loucamente gotten passionate.