The harvest had been under-way for six weeks when Manana decided to seek advice from Pierre. She approached his wagon, which located in the second ring, was also the smallest in the encampment.

  The caravan itself was rectangular shape, with a wooden base and panelled sides that angled out to join a curved canvass roof waterproofed with pitch. From this roof, a cylindrical metal chimney protruded upwards, from which hazy wisps of smoke drifted lazily sky-wards. Adorning the sides, attached to closed shuttered windows, baskets of hyacinth in full bloom trailed down, their purple-blue bell flowers contrasting tastefully with the red and white paint which decorated the sides.

  As Manana drew near to the small wooden steps in front of the entrance, she wondered how best to formulate her question. She had never before hesitated in asking Pierre for his advice, why she wondered now? Since she could remember, Pierre had been both mentor and surrogate grandfather to her. Over the years, he had taught Manana to read and write, as well as a good working knowledge of the Mediterranean languages.

Maybe he'll think I'm being silly and superstitious, she thought, as she climbed the steps. Her doubts were dispelled, when she heard his firm yet gentle voice calling from inside.

  'Come on in Manana, you must have a problem to make you so indecisive'.

Manana opened the door and entered. Closing the door behind her, she let her eyes adjust to the near darkness inside.

'Light a candle child'. he told her. Manana obeyed. Holding the candle up and in front of her she moved towards him. Pierre was seated on a small three legged stool wedged between his bed and a large wooden table that took up nearly a quarter of the living space.

Scattered over the table were paper parchments, scrolls and books. Books were everywhere. Shelves above the table, groaned under their weight. They were under and on the bed, stacked high in corners. Even the seat Pierre indicated Manana should sit on was nothing more than two piles of books with a wooden plank across them.

  Sitting down, Manana looked at Pierre through the flickering candle light. The face looked ravaged with age. Thin streaks of grey hair, hung down his face in patchy strands and deep lines etched the leathery skin.

    His thin lips were surrounded by what once had been a full beard, but was now just a few scattered tufts of whiskers. From the eyebrows, two dark rings spread down and around to the top of his nose, giving him the look of a wise old owl. Inside the rings, one eye was covered with a small leather patch, while the other looked to Manana with a deep penetrating stare

   'There is chamomile and honey tea on the stove', Pierre informed her, `why don't you pour us both a cup before you tell me what's troubling you'.

  Manana rose to pour the tea. Placing Pierre's in front of him, she sat back down, with the cup held tightly in both hands. Without taking his eyes of the young girl before him, Pierre picked up his cup and took a sip. He would allow her to relax first, he thought. Let her drink and warm up then we'll see what's troubling her. For someone who was "gadiz" (not Gypsy born), Pierre was highly respected among these people. The clan had found him nearer dead than alive over fifty years ago. Born in Paris to the family of a rich merchant, Pierre had been gifted with an incredible intelligence.

  His father, who was quick to notice this, used his influence and power to ensure his son received the best education money could buy. At the age of sixteen, Pierre could read, write and speak fluent Latin, German, Spanish, English and Portuguese. At twenty, Pierre completed his studies in philosophy and science with ease.

  He had only just turned twenty one, when his first major work; 'The influence of science on philosophy;' was published.

  Up until this point, Pierre had avoided the social side of Paris life, preferring his studies. But good looking, intelligent young men do not stay unnoticed for long. Pierre was soon to discover that a new world was opening up for him, away from dark, damp study rooms during the day and endless reading by candlelight at night. Here was a world of bright colours and endless tea houses, night time parties, balls and dazzling women.

Basically, Pierre began to social climb. Extremely careful not to upset either church or crown, he soon found his way to the royal court, where he became personal tutor to the royal prince, who was only six years younger then himself. or Pierre, Life in court became a constant challenge. Inside himself, he resented the many fools and buffoons who surrounded the royal family. It was also easy to make dangerous enemies in the Royal court.

    Plots and schemes for power abounded and many time Pierre was approached by someone wishing to enlist his support. Pierre wisely stayed away from politics.

  What proved to be Pierre's downfall were women. Although highly selective in his affairs, avoiding where possible married women and sisters of friends, Pierre was already building up quite a reputation as a womaniser.

  It was not long before the inevitable scandal appeared. One night, slightly besotted by wine, Pierre fell to the persuasive charms of a senior church-mans daughter. In itself, this would not normally have caused such a problem, but the young lady in question was due to be wed the following week. She had mentioned her "noir-passonelle" with Pierre to her bridesmaid friend, who had in turn told the brides fiancée; who she herself desired.

  The result was an ugly confrontation where the injured party, an officer in the Imperial navy, demanded the satisfaction of a duel.

Pierre who had never learned how to use weapons, knew that to fight would mean his death, and to refuse would bring disgrace on him and his family.

  It was the timely intervention of the Royal Prince that saved Pierre. Before the appointed day, the angry fiancée was ordered to take ship at Brest and thus the duel was averted. Pierre meanwhile was advised that it would be better to leave Paris until this affair was forgotten.

  The king informed Pierre his cousin, the Count del Augi Mortes, needed a tutor for his six children. He also added that it would be wise for Pierre to accept this offer, which Pierre did.

  At first, life in the Camarque was unsettling for Pierre. Used to court intrigue, the noisy bustling city, and cultured conversation. The Camarque could only offer petty disputes among the peasants, a continual hum of insects and intellectual isolation.

As the weeks progressed into months, Pierre slowly found himself being drawn under the enchanting spell of the Camargue's beauty. Mornings were taken up with his teaching duties to the Counts children. But afternoons and evenings were his to do with as he pleased. Agui Mortes itself, could offer little stimulation to Pierre's naturally inquisitive mind. Built as a embarkation point for the holy crusades, the fortified castle had lost its importance when the Mediterranean started to recede. With the disappearance of the sea, trade vanished and the port ceased to exist.

   Now fifty metres of mud and sand flats separated castle and sea and the magnificent castle was no more than an administration centre.

    In contrast, what surrounded Agui Mortes was flourishing. The swampy Camarque was a living study in natural science, which Pierre threw himself into with vigour. He began to catalogue plants, insects and birds. Exploring the countryside both on foot and horseback, he would often stop and sketch any particular sight of immense beauty. Soon his sketches turned into paintings. Pink flamingos darkening the sky, proud white horses racing through swamps and fierce wild bulls all became immortalised on his canvass.

 Pierre would always remember those days as the twigh-light of his romantic youth. This twighlight unfortunately, was about to come to an abrupt and sudden end.

Pierre had been resident in Agui Mortes for over a year. He had settled into a routine and was contented with the world. Of late, he had taken to climbing the castles battlements each evening, with brushes and canvass.

  One evening, as he was capturing the flamingos against a dramatic Spring sunset, he became so engrossed in his work, he failed to hear the approaching figure. It was a shadow spreading over the canvass, and a sweet gentle voice which pierced his concentration; causing him to slip with the brush. Turning to reproach the intruder, he was saw it was the Countess Sylviee Riom, and tactfully stayed his comments. The Countess now bent to examine the picture in more detail.

  'I said, It is very beautiful', she commented.

  Pierre at a temporary loss for words, hurriedly stood and mumbled an appreciative thank you.

 The Countess finished with the examination, straightened up and looked directly at Pierre.

  'You have a fine talent sir', she told him.

  'Thank you', he repeated. Having regained his composure, he returned her direct look. As their eyes locked, Pierre thought how wonderful she would look captured on canvass. He could picture her golden wheat colour hair, haloed by a shining sun. The light blue eyes verging into grey set off by a purple Mediterranean sky. Her full red lips with a permanent smile that twinkled and set her features alight with youth and vitality.