The Catholic World, Vol. 18, October, 1873, to March, 1874. / A Monthly Magazine of General Literature and Science

by Various

THE FARM OF MUICERON.

BY MARIE RHEIL.

FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.

VIII.

Jean-Louis, on leaving the curé, went to pray in the church, which remained open all day for the consolation of devout souls. In the presence of God he reviewed the sad history of his life, shed many tears, but soon felt wonderfully strengthened. This fourteen-year-old boy had a more resolute heart than many a man of thirty. What he swore before the altar of God and the statue of Our Blessed Lady was the oath of a Christian, who knows the value of an engagement made in the face of heaven. It was the contract of his whole life that he then signed, and it will be seen if he knew how to keep it. His first weakness on learning the secret of his birth had passed; he determined to be courageous, humble, and docile, should it cost him his heart's blood; and full of these brave resolutions, he retook the road to Muiceron.

Nevertheless, he failed in one, and you as well as I will excuse him for it.

As he had remained rather long in the village, Pierrette, who had heard him reprimanded, and had seen him depart with his books under his arm, became very anxious, fearing that he had been more hurt than he had shown. She was standing on the threshold of the door, watching the path by which he would return; and when she perceived him, she could not conceal her joy, for the child's face was bright and animated, and seemed the mirror of a happy heart.

"Oh! I am so happy to see you, my Jeannet," cried the good woman in a burst of joy.

"Were you alarmed at my absence?" asked Jean-Louis, running to her.

"Alarmed?" said she. "No ... that is to say, yes, I was a little.... Your father sometimes conceals his great kindness under rather too quick a manner. A child like you, who never deserves to be scolded, will be easily hurt at a severe word; and I thought, on seeing you go away so quickly, you were unhappy. But now you are at home again, are you neither hot, nor hungry, nor troubled? Where do you come from? What do you think of doing? Tell all to your mamma, who loves you so dearly."

These gentle questions pierced the soul of the poor child more than the severest words would have done. Gratitude and grief choked him and prevented him from replying, and made his emotion the greater, as these two sentiments seldom go together. He looked at his dear mother, with his great, black eyes filled with tears, and could only take her hand and press it to his bosom.

Thus they entered the house together, and Ragaud, whom they thought in the fields, but who had returned by the door that opened on the bleaching yard, was standing before the hearth, as if awaiting them. You doubtless know, as you must have many times experienced it, that when one suddenly sees somebody, thought to be half a league away, without wishing it, he looks rather taken aback, as we say. You can well believe that Pierrette and the child so looked, as they remained dumb as fish, like poachers hiding from the forest-guard.

"Well," said the good man in a loud voice, "what is the matter with you both? It seems I was not expected. And the supper, wife?"

"Here it is," Pierrette hastened to reply; "only move a little to one side, that I may take off the pot."

And in the twinkling of an eye, the excellent green-cabbage soup was smoking on the table; but Jeannet, who stood like one petrified, did not move.

"You are not hungry, then?" asked Ragaud. "What is the matter? You look as if you had been crying."

"Excuse me," replied Jeannet. "I do not feel like eating this evening."

"None of that," answered Ragaud; "to punish his stomach is the act of a spoiled child. Sit down and eat; be quick about it, do you hear?"

Jeannet obeyed, but only to sit down; eat, he could not.

"See here," said Ragaud in a joking manner, looking at him, "you are of the true modern style. Formerly, my boy, when parents reproved their children, they did it oftener with the hand than the voice, and things were not the worse for it. My father used to give us blows with his cudgel without counting them; in his opinion, it was a language easily understood, and which he preferred to reasoning, as it saved his time. We rubbed our backs, and it was over; none of us thought of losing our appetites, still less of crying. But nowadays children must be handled with gloves; and even with that they think themselves martyrs. The parents must endure everything without a murmur, even to see the house catch fire. Ha! ha!—is what I say true?"

"Oh! yes," said Jean-Louis, "you have always been good and kind to me; and believe me, believe me when I say that I am truly grateful, that I thank you with my whole soul. I was guilty without knowing it; but I am penitent and sorry for having offended you. I have carried back my books, which, in reality, I did not need, and never again will you have to reproach me about them."

"That is right, that is right," said Ragaud. "You are a good child, Jeannet, and now it is ended. What I said, you see, was to your own interest; so now eat and be cheerful. I don't like tears, above all in a boy who will soon be a man; give me your hand without any bad feeling."

"No, no! embrace him," said Pierrette. "His heart is full; isn't it so, my son?"

"Kiss me, if you wish," said Ragaud, extending his honest, bearded face. "Generally I don't like these baby-kisses; but if it is necessary, in order that you may eat your soup, make yourself happy, boy."

Just at this time it was too much for Jean-Louis; nearly fainting, he fell on his knees by the side of Ragaud; he threw his arms around him, pressed him to his breast, and kissed him in the tenderest manner, to the great astonishment of the good farmer, who could not understand such a wonderful display of affection.

"Good, good," said he; "but be easy, Jeannet. Don't I tell you I am no longer angry?"

"O my father! my dear father!" cried the child, "how can I ever repay you?"

And seeing that Ragaud looked at him in amazement, he added, sobbing,

"Father, mother, I know all...."

"Explain yourself," said Ragaud, beginning to understand what he meant. "What do you know, my child?"

"All" he repeated in a tone which expressed everything.

"There," cried good Pierrette, her heart melting with pity, "I understand. I know now what he means. But after fourteen years that the secret has been so well kept, where has the creature been found wicked enough to make this poor child so unhappy?"

"Dear mother," exclaimed Jean-Louis, "he who told it to me did it from true kindness of heart; you must not be displeased with him. It is to him I owe my life, after God and you. Do not mistake my tears; they do not come from grief, but from the gratitude which will last through all eternity."

"My dear, dear child," said Pierrette, "you have already well repaid us by your tender affection and good conduct. Isn't it true, Ragaud?"

"Yes," replied he; "and I will add, my boy, that the Lord God, through love of whom we received you, made joy and prosperity enter into the house at the same time with you. Thus, although I like the gratitude which comes from a truly filial heart, in good conscience I think we are quits."

"Oh! never, never," cried Jeannet. "At the moment of my death I will still thank you."

"On condition that you die before us, which is scarcely probable," said Ragaud, smiling. "Come, child, get up, and let it all be over. Since, from what I can make out, no other than our curé has told you the story, I am happy to think we are all 'big John, as before'—that is to say, that nothing is changed. You will remain our child, the elder brother of Jeannette, and the prop of my old age."

"Your servant and your slave for ever!" cried Jean-Louis.

"Bah! bah! No slave, Jeannet; that is an accursed word to fall from your lips. Let it all remain in the curé's library, which it never should have left. As for me, I am not learned; but, to my mind, a slave is a man changed into a beast of burden. I ask you if I have brought you up in that way? No, my son, you will serve me—it is my wish—but in working as a free man by my side, according to your strength. Is it well understood?"

"I have no other desire but to please you; and I pray to God, my father, that I may prove it to you every day."

"I hope so, my boy. The past, they say, is the guarantee of the future; and never have you caused me serious displeasure. As for the little affair of this morning, I tell you it was nothing. Don't regret it; the only result will be that we will love each other still more."

"I think so, too," said Pierrette, "if it is possible."

"O my dear parents!" cried Jeannet, kissing them both, "if ever the history of your kindness could be written, who would believe it true?"

"Don't let that trouble you," said Ragaud, laughing heartily, "there is no chance of its being written; and, besides, things do not improve by being known to men, as evil is more easily believed than good."

"It is very well," said Pierrette, "that mademoiselle kept Jeannette at the château this evening; she would have been in the way, dear little thing!"

"As regards that," replied Ragaud, "I request you, Jean-Louis, never to breathe a word to Jeannette of what has just been said. Do you understand me? I have my own idea about it."

"I promise you, my father," answered Jeannet.

The name of the little girl, thus pronounced by chance, led to further conversation about the two children. They remembered the infant plays, where she was so lively and wilful, her great romps with the shepherd's dog, and many other little details, which recalled the innocent pleasures of her infancy and gave such zest to their tranquil country life. Jeannet, well consoled, and with lightened heart, told his parents a crowd of little events, which he loved to relate in praise of Jeannette, and which proved the goodness of her heart and mind, to the great delight of the Ragauds. From that to remarking that the little girl had nearly disappeared from the family was but a step, and which, in my opinion, was a leap easily made. In the meantime, Ragaud, who appeared half asleep—I rather think so as not to talk upon the subject—suddenly awakened, and ended by acknowledging that if Jeannet were not at Muiceron, the house would be as destitute of children as it was fifteen years before.

"My dear husband," said Pierrette, "it is not to-day that we are to learn that parents must sacrifice everything to the happiness of their children."

"For their happiness, yes," replied Ragaud; "but it remains to be seen if Jeannette will always be as happy as she is now."

And as he was clear-sighted, when the momentary vanity had passed, he related with earnestness the conversation with Jacques Michou, which he had so unwillingly heard at the time.

"There," said Pierrette, "is something which does not please me. If people already commence to talk about our daughter, it is a sign that we should think about our course in regard to her, and perhaps change it."

"Think about it we should," replied Ragaud; "but to change it is another question. For then we would have to take Jeannette from mademoiselle; and as her regard for our little girl is a great honor for us and a great happiness for her, never will I behave in that manner to the daughter of our lords, seeing that I owe them everything."

"It is very embarrassing," said Pierrette, who spoke rather from the feelings of the heart than of the head.

"Not so very much," replied Ragaud. "By acting with gentleness and respect, without causing pain to mademoiselle, we can, in the end, make her wishes accord with ours."

"Oh! if Jeannette could return," cried Jean-Louis, "what happiness for us all, dear father!"

"You!" said Ragaud. "You may boast of being very brave in her absence; but I can remember seeing you many and many a time racing together over the meadows; the girl would torment you to her heart's content, and you, like a big simpleton, never once stumbled so as to humbug her in return. Thus you accustomed her to think herself the mistress, which she did not hesitate to show."

"She is so sweet," said Jeannet, "and so good-natured; if she had half killed me, I would not have minded it."

"If you only wished to know Latin that you might talk such nonsense," replied Ragaud, "you did very well to give up the study. You, too," added he, turning towards Pierrette, forgetting he should be the first to accuse himself—"you, too, have so completely spoiled Jeannette, I will be obliged to undertake the difficult task of repairing your work. But patience; to-morrow I will take the shovel and the spade. I will do it."

"What are you going to do?" asked Pierrette, alarmed.

"I am going to see," said Ragaud, "if my daughter is of the good and true blood of her father. I will ask mademoiselle to give her to me for the octave of S. Martin; and during that time I will make her resume her peasant-life as though she should never quit it again. If she becomes sullen and cross, I won't say what I will do; but if, as I believe, she will appear happy and contented, we will know that the château does not injure her, and then we will sleep in peace. How do you like that?"

"Oh! that is a capital idea I never would have dreamt of," said Pierrette, clasping her hands in admiration.

Ragaud appeared pleased at being thought so brilliant; he resettled himself in his big linen collar, drank a glass of good cider, and knelt down to say the Our Father and Hail Mary, which he always did before retiring.

Jeannet made no remark; he had too much sense to think that this little trial would be sufficient and satisfy every one; but he would see Jeannette for a whole week, and he decided to amuse her in such a way that she would not regret her life at the château.

Ragaud's plans were fully carried out. Mademoiselle willingly gave up Jeannette, thinking by that means she would have still stronger claims for keeping her afterwards; and the little one, led by her father, returned to Muiceron the eve of S. Martin's day, which is, among us, the feast of the vine-dressers.

If you are anxious to know how she behaved, I will inform you that the very next day, and without any one having to tell her, she tumbled over the things in the chest to find her woollen skirts and coarse linen apron. She had grown so much, she was obliged to rip and remake for a full hour before she could put them on, which caused much talk and laughter that rang through the house. Her wooden shoes, which had remained in a corner during the past fifteen months, were likewise too small; and as that could not be remedied by the needle and thread, it was a real difficulty; but Jeannette, who had not lost her habit of having an answer for everything, declared she would wear Pierrette's. You can imagine the amusement this caused; and, in fact, at her first step she stumbled, and nearly fell down.

Thereupon Jeannet darted off like an arrow, and brought a new pair from the harness-maker at Ordonniers.

Jeannette was equally well pleased with the eating, sleeping, and all the old habits of her country life. Never had she appeared happier, more active, and better disposed to assist her mother in her household labors. It could be well imagined that, having heard of the gossiping about her, she wished to prove by every means the good people were wrong; and Ragaud had only one wish, which was that the busy-bodies of the village could look through the key-hole and see her at work.

This was scarcely possible; but he could, at least, satisfy Jacques Michou, the first grumbler, whom he had so well repulsed, as you may remember.

For that purpose, without mentioning the return of Jeannette to the farm, with a frank and simple air, he asked his old comrade to come and break bread with him on S. Martin's day. M. le Curé was also invited, and on the morning of the feast Ragaud gave Pierrette her lesson:

"Understand well this day I wish you to be quiet. You can tell the child all that must be done, not only for the cooking, but for the table and the serving of it. I don't wish to have the shame of seeing the children seated at table, whilst the mother is going around the hearth, skirts pinned up, doing the servant's work; which is not proper. It is very well to be a good woman, always ready to sacrifice herself; but it is also well every one should know there is but one mistress of Muiceron."

"Jeannette is too little," Pierrette gently objected; "she could not reach up to the stove, and I am afraid the dishes will be too heavy for her arms to carry, little darling!"

"You will make Marion, the dairy-maid, aid her in the heavy work," said Ragaud. "I don't ask impossibilities, and I would be the first to fear if our little girl ran the risk of burning herself. What I wish is that she, and not you, should have all the trouble."

Pierrette yielded to this good argument, although a little afraid that Jeannette would have too much trouble. As for the little girl, she was very proud to give orders to Marion, and commenced immediately to play her part of mistress of the farm.

Then could be seen how bright she was. She came and went, passing from the barn-yard to the wood-house, from the wood-house to the linen-chests; bravely looking on when they bled the chickens and cut up the meat; selecting the beautiful, white table-cloths; superintending, polishing the glasses, dusting, flying about like a will-o'-the-wisp. Big Marion trotted after her on her heels, scarcely able to follow her, stifled half with heat and half with laughter at the sight of such an active young mistress.

Who would have thought, on seeing her thus occupied, that the very evening before she had been seated at the right of mademoiselle in her beautiful carriage, driving around the country? It was really wonderful to see her so quick at everything, young as she was; and you would have been as much surprised as the Ragauds, who gazed at her in astonished admiration—parental vanity easily forgiven in this case—and asked each other where Jeannette could have learned so much that even housekeepers of thirty hardly knew.

The truth was, she had never learned anything from anybody or anywhere; but she was precocious in every respect. It was enough for her to hear or see a thing once always to remember it; so she had only to think an instant to put in practice what she had observed. Add to this she was as sly as a fox, and ardently loved to give satisfaction, and you will easily understand there was nothing very astonishing in her performance.

About twilight, Jacques Michou made his appearance, accompanied by the curé, whom he had overtaken on the road. Jeannette came forward to meet them, and made a low reverence in true peasant style, totally unlike the bows made in M. le Marquis' salon. It was a great surprise for these honest souls, who had been conversing along the way about the blindness of Ragaud in regard to his daughter, and they were both too frank not to show their satisfaction.

"So you have come back, my child?" said the curé, patting her kindly on the head.

"To wait upon you, M. le Curé," she sweetly replied.

"And your beautiful dresses?" asked Jacques Michou.

"They are hanging up in the wardrobe," said Jeannette, laughing.

"Indeed! And do you like to have them there as much as on your back, my little girl?"

"Why not?" she replied. "I am happy here with my father, my mother, and Jeannet."

"It is your best place," said the curé. "I am delighted, Mme. Ragaud, to see your daughter at home. Is it for some time?"

"If mademoiselle does not reclaim her," said Pierrette, blushing, for she never would speak falsely, "it will be for ever."

"Well, I hope it will be so," said he. "And you, Jeannette, do you desire it also?"

"I am always happy with my dear parents," replied the little one; "but mademoiselle is so kind and good, I am always happy with her also. If my mother sends me to the château, I will go; and if she commands me to return, I will come back."

They could not help being pleased with this speech of the good, obedient little girl, and they took their places at table without any further questions or raillery. Jeannette, during the supper, rose more than twenty times to see that all was right; and Ragaud, you can well imagine, did not fail to inform his guests that everything had been prepared under his daughter's eye. It was strictly true, as they clearly saw; and, consequently, the compliments were freely bestowed. Nevertheless, when the dessert was brought on, Ragaud could not resist saying to Michou, with a significant look, as he held up his glass:

"Well, my old fellow, will you now give me credit for knowing how to bring up my children?"

Jacques nodded his head, and, holding up his glass, replied, "I will come to see you eight years from now, comrade, and then I will answer your question."

"Very good," said Ragaud. "M. le Curé, you will be witness. I promise to give a cow to Jacques Michou, if, at that time, Jeannette is not the best housekeeper in the country."

"I take the bet," replied Jacques, laughing; "and I add that I hope to lose it as surely as the good God has no master."

"Come, come," said the curé gravely, "it is not worth such an oath. Between good men, my friends, it is enough to say yes or no. I consent to be witness, and I also say I hope that Jacques will lose the bet."

They stopped as they saw Jeannette, who returned to the table, crimson with pleasure. Behind her came big Marion, carrying, with great care, a large dish, upon which stood, erect on his claws, a beautiful pheasant that seemed ready to crow. As it was at the end of the meal, every one looked at it with amazement, especially Pierrette, who had not been let into the secret. It was a surprise invented by Jeannette, who clapped her hands and laughed heartily, and then wished them to guess what it was. After she had thoroughly enjoyed their astonishment, she rapidly took out the feathers, and then they saw it was a delicious pudding, stuffed with plums, which she had manufactured, with Marion and Jeannet's assistance, after the style of M. le Marquis' cook. Pierrette, it must be acknowledged, wept tears of admiration; for this was a wonder that surpassed her imagination.

This magnificent performance increased Ragaud's good humor; and I verily believe, but for the presence of M. le Curé, he would have emptied more than one bottle in honor of Jeannette and the pheasant. But our good pastor, without being the least in the world opposed to innocent enjoyment, did not like the gaiety which comes from drinking, as we already know. Consequently, they soon rose from the entertainment, and wished each other a cordial good-night. The little pet was so worn out with her extraordinary efforts, she soon after fell asleep in her chair, and they had to carry her off to bed. She was thoroughly tired, and Pierrette observed it was not surprising, after such a day's work, which, perhaps, she herself could not have stood.

IX.

That night something occurred which appeared of small importance at the time, but that had great results, which many persons never understood, and that I will reveal to you at the proper time and place. For many years it was a great mystery; and I remember, when I was young, my honest and pious father was conversing in a whisper one evening, in the dim twilight, with an old friend, and I hid myself under a chair to find out what he was saying; but not one word of the secret could I make out. Nevertheless, one fearful expression I remembered for a long while. When my father was tired with talking, he dismissed his chum, saying:

"Now we will stop; and be silent as the grave. You know you might lose your head!"

And at these terrible words, the friend replied by placing the finger of his left hand on his lips, and with his right pulled down his cap over his ears, as if to make sure that his head was still safe on his shoulders. It was really a gesture which froze one with terror; and as for me, I shook so I thought I would overturn the chair which served me for a hiding-place.

And now, I beg of you not to be as curious as I was, for you would gain nothing by it. I am only going to tell you what happened the night after the dinner on S. Martin's day.

No matter how late it might be, Ragaud, excellent manager as he was, never went to bed without having carefully made the tour of all his buildings with a dark lantern. He remained seated by the fire, while Pierrette carried off the little girl to bed, and Jean-Louis retired to his room. When all was still, he rose and went out softly to commence his round.

It was a beautiful night, rather dark, but mild for November. Ragaud walked through his little orchard, from whence could be seen the stables and barns, behind which rose the tall fir-trees, unruffled by a breath of wind. He passed into the barn-yard, silent likewise; chickens, geese, ducks, and turkeys slept soundly, heads under their wings, on the perches appropriated to them by Pierrette. All was quiet and in good order, and Ragaud, content with himself and the world, prepared to re-enter, when, accidentally raising his head, he saw in the distance something so astonishing he remained as though nailed to the spot, and nearly dropped his lantern in the excitement of the moment.

The château of Val-Saint, which could be seen from a certain point in the garden, like a great, black mass in the horizon, appeared as though lighted up with sparks of fire. A light would be seen first at one window, then at another, and then disappear as quickly as it came. Good Ragaud could not believe his eyes. Surely something extraordinary was taking place at the château; for M. le Marquis and mademoiselle, with all due respect, went to bed with the chickens, and the servants were not allowed to remain up.

"What the devil is the matter with me to-night?" thought Ragaud. "Am I dreaming on my feet, or must I fancy the two or three glasses of white wine more than usual at dessert have turned my brain?"

Not a bit of it; he saw perfectly clear. The light danced about the windows, as though to mock him, and finally went out entirely. But now comes the crowning mystery. A great, blue star appeared on the summit of the high tower, and rose upward until it was hidden by a cloud.

At the same instant, Ragaud felt two heavy hands resting on his shoulders and something breathe heavily on his neck.

Indeed, only put yourself in his place. There was something to fear; and so the brave fellow, who in his youth had fought in our great battles, was all over goose-flesh. But it was only momentary; for, quickly turning, he saw that he had on his back the soft paws of his dog Pataud, who, making the rounds at his side, took this means of caressing him.

"Down, Pataud, old fellow!" said he gently; "it is not daybreak. Go lie down! Be quick! Be off to your kennel! Do you hear me?"

Pataud heard very well, but obedience was not to his taste that night. He wagged his tail, and appeared in splendid humor; one would think he suspected something was going on at the château.

"So you think there is something in the wind up there, do you?" asked Ragaud, snapping his fingers in the air. "Will you come with me, and see what it is all about?"

At these words, he started as though to leave the garden, and Pataud this time seemed to consent.

"This comes from having an animal well brought up," thought Ragaud. "If you could speak, my cunning old fellow, doubtless you would tell me what I wish to know; but as that can't be expected, I must remain very anxious until the morning."

He re-entered the house after this reflection, having obliged Pataud to remain quiet by giving him a friendly kick over the threshold of the kennel.

To sleep was difficult; he had the faithful heart of an old servant, who could not repose when he feared evil was impending over his masters. He remembered that ten years before, on a similar night in November, lights appeared in every window the whole length of the façade of the château, and on the next day, alas! it was known they had been lighted during the agony of our beloved mistress, Mme. la Marquise de Val-Saint. Was it not enough to make him apprehend some misfortune for his dear lord?

Poor mademoiselle's health was not very robust, and she frequently said, in such a mournful tone, that the country air was not good for her.

"To-morrow," said Ragaud to himself, "I will take back Jeannette the first thing in the morning; if mademoiselle is sick, it will do her good to see her again; and perhaps I would have done better if I had let her remain. Who knows but the dear soul was so fondly attached to the child, she has become ill in consequence?"

You must know Ragaud listened to the voice of his conscience as a devotee hears a sermon; and once persuaded that it was his duty to take back to mademoiselle her favorite plaything, twenty-five notaries could not have shaken his decision. Consequently, at the first break of day, he took from the chest his Sunday clothes, and was in holiday trim when Pierrette came down to go out and milk the cows. You can well imagine her astonishment.

"Wife," said Ragaud, "go and make Jeannette get up quickly, and tell her to put on her château dress."

"Is it possible the child will leave us so soon?" replied Pierrette, deeply grieved.

"I wish it," said the good man, "for reasons, Pierrette, that you will know later."

She obeyed without answering. Jean-Louis, meanwhile, entered the room.

"Light the fire, boy," said Ragaud, "and warm us up something. I must go to the château with your sister, and I will not take her out in the cold, fasting."

"Father," said Jean-Louis, while rapidly breaking up the fagots, "did you see a bright light last night around the big tower of the château?"

"Did you?" asked Ragaud.

"I saw something like a rocket go up from the château," the boy replied.

"Yes, I saw it also," answered Ragaud; "and Pataud did, too. What do you think it could have been, Jeannet?"

"I think," said Jean-Louis, "they illuminated the château and fired off rockets in honor of S. Martin."

"Very probable, child; that is a good idea," said Ragaud laughing. "Perhaps, after all, it is the whole secret; but, any how, I would rather go and find out."

"Shall I go with you, father?" asked Jeannet.

"No, stay and help your mother; if I want you, I will tell you. It is enough that I must carry off the little girl."

Jeannette all this time was dressing as fast as possible, without asking why or wherefore. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, not having had her full sleep; but I think the idea of returning to her godmother was not very disagreeable.

However, she was sufficiently wide awake to swallow down a big bowl of sweetened milk; after which, Pierrette wrapped her up in a warm shawl, and kissed her good-by with a full heart.

All this had taken two hours; and Ragaud not wishing to hurry her, the village clock struck eight when they reached the door of the château.

The first person they saw, contrary to the usual custom, was Master Jean Riponin, who was M. le Marquis' man of business. From his imposing manner and the great fuss he was making—ordering every one here and there with a voice as rough as the captain of a fire-brigade—it was difficult to fancy there was any one above him in the château; Ragaud, sharp fellow that he was, took it in at a glance, and, instead of approaching the steward, as he had always done, without ceremony and a good shake of the hand, he remained at a slight distance, and touched his hat.

"It is you, Master Ragaud?" said Jean Riponin with a patronizing air. "Wait a moment; I will speak to you after I have given my orders to these stupid things."

"Don't disturb yourself," replied Ragaud. "I have not come on business to-day; I only wish to see mademoiselle."

"It is I who have received full power from M. le Marquis at his departure," replied Riponin, a little provoked. "Mademoiselle is not up yet; and, if she were, be assured, Ragaud, she would send you back to me. So let me know what you want without further delay, as I am in a hurry."

"Did you not say M. le Marquis had left?" asked the farmer, as much from interest as to cut short the puffed-up superintendent.

"Yes, this morning before the day-dawn," said he; "and it seems it was something very hurried, for he had only time to hand me all the keys of the house, except those of his desk and safe, which were forgotten in his great haste. But he must have already perceived it, and I expect to receive those two keys by express."

"Indeed," thought Ragaud, "it will be time enough to see them when they come—that is to say, if they will ever come." For he knew Master Riponin was not a man who regarded the marquis' crowns as relics once that he saw the heap. Fortunately, M. le Marquis was of the same opinion; therefore, he kept Riponin in his service on account of many other good qualities that he possessed; but as for the desk and safe, he never saw anything but the key-holes.

While Riponin and Ragaud were conversing, mademoiselle, who had just risen, drew aside her curtains to see what caused such a noise in the court; and the cunning little Jeannette, as soon as she perceived her godmother, kissed her hand to her. In less than a minute, Dame Berthe appeared at the door.

"M. Ragaud," said she, "I am sent by mademoiselle to beg that you will go to her immediately; and you, Jeannette, run and kiss your godmother."

"M. Riponin, I wish you good-morning," said Ragaud, carelessly turning his back on the steward.

The steward watched him enter the château with anything but a pleased expression; but he dared not show his displeasure before Dame Berthe, whom he knew was not friendly to him.

Dear mademoiselle's eyes filled with tears when she saw her darling pet. The little one was tender-hearted, and was deeply moved by this proof of affection. Ragaud, likewise, showed great emotion, and Dame Berthe said it would have been a cruel shame to have longer deprived the château of its chief delight.

"Ragaud," said mademoiselle, "my dear Ragaud, if you had not come to-day, I was going myself to bring back Jeannette. You see, I am so unhappy."

"I did not think you loved the child so much," replied Ragaud; "it is a great honor for Jeannette and for us all, dear mademoiselle, and I desire nothing so much as to contribute to your happiness."

"Only think," said mademoiselle, sighing, "I am always alone; and now that my father has left home, ... and perhaps for such a long time!"

"Will M. le Marquis go far?... Excuse my curiosity," said Ragaud; "but you know, mademoiselle, I only ask the question from the great interest I feel in your dear family."

Mademoiselle was about to reply; but Dame Berthe stopped her short by glancing at Jeannette, who was listening with profound attention.

"I will take her with me," said she in a low tone to her governess, "and then tell everything to Ragaud; our family never keeps a secret from this old servant."

When mademoiselle had withdrawn, under the pretext of showing some new article of the toilet to Jeannette, Dame Berthe carefully closed the door, and approached Ragaud.

"Can I rely on your devotion?" she asked in such a solemn manner Ragaud could only bow his head in assent. "And even on your life?" continued Dame Berthe with a still more serious air.

"If I must give it in exchange for that of my master, yes, certainly," replied the faithful old fellow without any hesitation.

"Very well. Sit down, Ragaud; you are going to learn a secret—the greatest secret a Christian can keep."

Ragaud sat down, rather astonished, his heart beating in spite of himself. However, strictly speaking, the words of Dame Berthe appeared a little exaggerated, and he felt so without being able to account for it, except from his own good sense.

"Master Ragaud," said the governess, who was a devoted reader of newspapers, and had learned to talk in their style, "great events are preparing, and, before long, the face of the world will be changed."

"Ah!" said Ragaud. "Excuse me, my good lady, but the face of the world, ... I don't know what that means."

"When I speak of the world," resumed Dame Berthe, "I mean France—France—Ragaud, our country."

"Now I understand better; yes, I know that France is our country. Well, then, what is going to be changed in France?"

"Everything," said she, rising in a frantic manner. "France, my good Ragaud, is tired of the odious yoke that has weighed her down for ten years."

"My oxen are also sometimes tired of the yoke," said Ragaud dryly; "but that does not pay them while the whip is around."

"Yes, but a nation can't be whipped like a beast of burden," replied Dame Berthe. "Come, Ragaud, I see you do not understand what I am aiming at."

"No, not at all," said he. "I am not learned, my good lady; sometimes I hear such expressions as you use when M. le Curé reads aloud from some public journal; but, between ourselves, it always puts me to sleep. You see, the useful things in the newspapers, for a farmer, are the price of grain and the announcement of the fairs; the rest is all twaddle for me."

"So it appears," answered Dame Berthe, a little hurt. "I am now going to talk in a way that you can understand. Well, then, Ragaud, M. le Marquis left home last night. Where do you think he has gone?"

"It is not my custom to inquire into the private affairs of my masters," replied Ragaud. "By chance I walked through my garden late last night, and I saw the château lighted up. I was afraid mademoiselle was ill; so this morning I brought back Jeannette to amuse her. In the court, M. Riponin told me of the departure of M. le Marquis; and now I do not wish to hear anything further, unless you judge it necessary."

"It will certainly be useful," said Dame Berthe, who was longing to tell all she knew, "you will agree with me, M. Ragaud, when you know that M. le Marquis was called off by a letter, which assured him that they were only waiting for him...."

"To change the face of the world," said Ragaud with dry humor.

"Precisely," replied Berthe seriously. "It appears that the insurrection has broken out near Angers, where there are thousands of armed men. Monsieur, who fought with the Chouans in his youth, will be appointed general, and they will advance to the capture of Paris, where nothing is suspected. The usurper will be driven out, M. Ragaud, and our dear young legitimate prince will ascend the throne. Won't it be magnificent? Dear Eveline will go to court. Poor child! she has been so long tired of the country."

"Hum!" said Ragaud, not the least bit excited. "Are they very sure of all that?"

"Sure? How can it be doubted, when the friend of M. le Marquis in that province declares, do you understand—declares positively—that it only needs a spark to set fire to the powder?"

"To the powder!" cried Ragaud, this time very much frightened. "Are they dreaming of blowing up the magazine at Angers? That would be a terrible misfortune, my dear lady."

"Be easy," replied Dame Berthe, shrugging her shoulders. "I always forget that you don't read the papers. 'Setting fire to the powder' means to kindle the insurrection, to inflame the minds and hearts of the people; and it is expected that, at the first word, the country will rise as one man."

"They are going to fight?" said Ragaud. "Battles are not gay, and the poor fare badly in time of war."

"Fight? Oh! you are blind, my dear M. Ragaud," replied Dame Berthe, laughing with the most charming simplicity. "Do you expect a few little regiments to withstand millions of men? Before a week, the insurgents will be counted by millions. And now, if you wish to know the real truth, ... well, ... the army itself is with us."

"Ah! indeed," said Ragaud. "This is great news."

"Do you think those gentlemen would be so silly as to commence the work without being assured of this support?" replied the governess, clasping her hands. "My God! Ragaud, for whom do you take M. le Marquis and his friends?"

"For brave men, most assuredly," said the farmer, unable to repress a smile; "and since all is so well arranged, Dame Berthe, allow me, with all due respect, to ask you two questions. In the first place, when will the marriage come off? In the second, what does my dear master wish me to do under the circumstances?"

"When will the marriage take place? You mean, when will the king enter Paris?"

"Just so, my good lady."

"I don't think this great event could possibly take place before a month, or three weeks at soonest. Although this revolution, inspired by God, must, I am fully convinced, spread like lightning, time flies rapidly; and then, we must always think of unforeseen accidents."

"Doubtless, doubtless; it is always more prudent," said Ragaud.

"As for what M. le Marquis expects of you, my good Ragaud, it is very easy. It would be shameful, you know, when all France is rising in arms for her true sovereign, to see Val-Saint and the neighborhood sleeping in carelessness and indolence. You are, then, designated—you, Jacques Michou, who for forty years has been the head-keeper of the estate, Master Perdreau, the notary of the family, and some other old servants—you are expected to prepare the people for the change about to take place, and make them cry 'Long live the King!' throughout the commune."

"And if they won't do it?" asked Ragaud innocently; "for, in truth, that is to be well considered."

"They will do it; they will all do it," cried Dame Berthe. "France is burning with the desire of uttering this cry of love and gratitude," she added, remembering that she had just read this expression in her morning paper.

"So much the better," said Ragaud; "and it only remains to thank you for your confidence, my dear lady, and I will do my best to fulfil the wishes of M. le Marquis."

The entrance of mademoiselle, who thought there had been time enough for the secret to be told and retold, cut short the conversation, as she brought Jeannette with her. Ragaud bowed politely to the ladies of the château, kissed his daughter, told her to be good and obedient, and closed the door behind him, his head full of all he had just heard.

Dame Berthe overtook him at the head of the staircase.

"Ragaud," said she, "you told me you were up late last night. Did you not see, about midnight, a blue light go up from the summit of the tower?"

"Yes," replied Ragaud, "and I was dumb with astonishment; I do not conceal it."

"It was the given signal to warn several châteaux of the neighborhood of the departure of M. le Marquis. Watch all these nights, for we expect a messenger, who will come to announce the triumph of the holy cause, and then a second light will go up at the same hour. This one will be red, and, when you see it, you will instantly march, with the armed bands you will have assembled, to join the grand army."

"All right," said Ragaud; "we will do our best."

And he descended the staircase slowly, without appearing the least excited.

"Eveline," said Dame Berthe, pressing mademoiselle to her breast, "thank God, my dear child. I have had the happiness of completely winning over good Ragaud to the holy cause. He is even more ardent than myself, and as well disposed as we could wish. Before long, we will see Val-Saint and Ordonniers rise and march to victory under the command of this brave peasant. Jacques Cathelineau and M. Stofflet should be of the same stamp. What I admire in Ragaud is that cold determination, which would make one fancy he was not enthusiastic; but I am not deceived by appearances."

"Perhaps," said mademoiselle, "all will be over in time for us to go and finish the winter in Paris."

"I have no doubt of it," replied Dame Berthe; "and thus, my dear child, as I have thought the dressmakers might be half crazy with the quantity of court-dresses that would be ordered, I have already decided what your costume is to be on the entrance of the king into Paris; for I expect the daughter of the commander-in-chief to be the first to salute her sovereign; and I will immediately commence to embroider the satin train, so as to be ready."

"How good you are! You think of everything!" said mademoiselle, very much overcome. "I wish I was there now!..."

"Oh!" cried Dame Berthe, "only be patient."

After leaving the château, Ragaud, with his hands in his pockets, went off in search of his old comrade, Jacques Michou, that he might consult with him over Dame Berthe's revelations. Jacques lived alone—being a widower and childless—in a little house close to the edge of the woods that bordered La Range. He had no one about him but a niece of his late wife, whom he fed and clothed; in return for which, she cooked for him and cleaned his hunting-gun. The girl was little trouble to him; she was idiotic and half dumb, and, among other little eccentricities, liked to sleep with the sheep. So, in the summer she camped out on the meadow with the flock, and in winter slept in the sheepfold, which certainly had the advantage of keeping her very warm, but could have had no other charm. From this habit she had acquired the name of Barbette throughout the country; and it was not badly given, as with us a great many shepherd-dogs are called Barbets, on account of the race; and since the poor girl shared their office, she had at least a claim to the name if she so pleased.

Jacques Michou, on his side, had his particular fancies. First of all was the idea (which he would only give up with his life) that, in virtue of his badge and his gun, he was the head-keeper of M. le Marquis de Val-Saint. Now, we must acknowledge it was mere show, there was nothing in it; for our good lord never wished to displease any one, not even the poachers. He said there was always some good in those men; and as in everything he pursued one aim—which was, as you know, to enrol one day or other all our boys in a regiment for the benefit of the king—he preferred to be kind to these bold and cunning rascals, who were not easily hoodwinked. After a while, Jacques Michou became weary of carrying the delinquents before M. le Marquis only to see them graciously dismissed, so it ended by his letting them alone; and at the end of a few years, his principal occupation was to carefully keep to the right of the estate in making his rounds when he knew the poachers were at work on the left. However, he took pride in letting them know that each and every one could be caught at any moment he wished; he knew every path in the woods as well as the bottom of his sauce-pan, and all the thieves as though they belonged to his family. When he met the rascals, he threatened them with loud voice and gesture, and swore tremendous oaths that made heaven and earth tremble. "But," he would shout, "what can I do? Robbers and vagabonds that you are, if M. le Marquis allows himself to be plundered, the servant must obey the master's orders; but for that, you would see!" And the end of the story was—nothing was seen.

You can understand very well that the brave old fellow, having only the title of keeper, and nothing to show for it but the fine silver badge, engraved with the arms of the family of Val-Saint, which he wore on the shoulder-strap of his game-bag, clung all the closer to the empty honor, and allowed no joking on the subject.

When Ragaud entered his friend's house, he found him carving playthings out of cocoanut-shells—something which he did wonderfully well—and in a few words related what had taken place at the château.

"We will find ourselves floundering in the mire," said Ragaud. "As for me, I am ready to promise before the good God that I will give my life to fulfil the commands of our dear master; but it remains to be seen if many around here are of my opinion."

"Many?" exclaimed Jacques, shrugging his shoulders. "Bah! I am very sure you will not find one out of a dozen!"

"If it is true," replied Ragaud, with hesitation; "I wonder if it is really true about the insurrection in Anjou?"

"Nonsense," said Jacques Michou. "That poor M. le Marquis is crazy on one point, which takes him out of the country every five or six years for change of air, and that is good for his health; for every man needs hope to keep him well. That is the truth of the business."

"Do you think, then, we had better not attempt to fulfil his orders?" asked Ragaud.

"As for that, a good master must always be obeyed, old fellow; we can say a few words here and there quietly. You will find the people as stupid as owls, and they will understand you as well as though you spoke Prussian. We shall have done our duty. As to monsieur, he will return before long, a little cross for the moment, but not at all discouraged—take my word for it."

"It is a great pity," said Ragaud, "that a man of such great good sense couldn't listen to reason!"

"Why so?" replied Jacques. "A great lord like him is bound in honor to be devoted, body and soul, to his king; for you see, Ragaud, the king who is not on the throne is the real one—no doubt about that. But often one tumbles over in running too fast; and since it appears not to be the will of the good God that things should return to the old style, it would have been much better not to have sent off letters, gone off at night, and fired off signals. It is just as if they had played the flute. Men stop a moment, listen, and then, the music ended, each one returns to his plough."

"You speak capitally," said Ragaud; "it is just what I think also; so I will do as you say—neither more nor less. But we will agree on one point, old fellow, which is, to have an eye on the château, so that we can defend the doors if the women are threatened."

"Bah! bah! No fear about that," said Michou, shaking him by the hand. "I will give my life for all that belong to the house of Val-Saint, comrade. I would as willingly fire a pistol in defence of monsieur, mademoiselle, and the old fool of a governess, as for the hares and rabbits on the estate. But for these it would be powder thrown away, as monsieur, we must believe, only likes butcher's meat, and prefers to leave his game for those devils of thieves!"

Thereupon the worthy old souls refreshed themselves with a jug of cider, and conversed together for some time longer, principally repeating the same ideas on the same subject, which was the one we have just related—something which often happens to wiser men than they, and, therefore, I consider it useless to tell you any more of their honest gossip.

They separated about mid-day, and I will inform you what was the result of the great insurrection. At Angers, as with us, it was as Michou had predicted. M. le Marquis returned from his trip rather fatigued and thoroughly disgusted with France, which he called a ruined country. Mademoiselle wept for a week that she could not go to Paris. Dame Berthe commenced Novenas to the Blessed Queen Jeanne, in order that the next enterprise, which would not be long delayed, might succeed better than the last; and the result of all was that Jeannette remained more than ever at the château, as she was the greatest consolation to her dear godmother.

X.

I think we will do well, at this period of our story, to pass over several years, during which time nothing of great importance occurred. In the country, days succeed each other in undisturbed tranquillity, unmarked by many great events. According as the spring is rainy or dry, the villagers commence the season by making predictions about the summer, which, twenty times out of twenty-two, are never fulfilled. It must be acknowledged that we peasants seem afraid to appear too well pleased with the good God; and, though it is a great fault, unfortunately it is not rare. Men grumble and swear, first at the sun, and then at the wind, for burning and parching their fields; and when the rain commences, there is another cause for displeasure; and most of all, at the end of summer, when, after these doleful repinings, the harvests have been plentiful, far from thanking the Lord God, who, instead of punishing them, has sent blessings, they instantly commence to worry about the approaching vintage. And so S. Sylvester's day finds them with well-stacked barns and cellars filled with barrels of wine, but not to make them wiser the year after from such experience, which should teach them faith in divine Providence.

Whence I conclude that men are only incorrigible, gabbling children, and that the good God must have great patience and mercy to tolerate them. Much more could be said on this subject; but, not being a priest, I prefer to leave off moralizing, and return to our friends.

Therefore, we will, if you please, resume our narrative about seven years from where we left off, at which time Jeannette Ragaud had nearly completed her sixteenth year and Jean-Louis his twentieth.

Weeks and months, rapidly passing, had brought them from childhood to youth without their knowing it, and they had each followed their inclinations, as might easily have been foreseen. Jeannette, well educated, coquettish, and extremely pretty, was the most charming little blonde in the province. She scarcely ever came to Muiceron, except on Sundays and festivals, between Mass and Vespers; and if you ask me how this could have happened, so contrary, as you know, to the wishes of father and mother Ragaud, I will reply that I know nothing, unless there is a special wind which blows sometimes over men's desires, and prevents their ripening into facts. To be convinced of this truth needs only a little unreserved frankness. See, now, you who listen to me, you may be more learned than a schoolmaster, and more malicious than a hump-back—that I will not dispute; but if you will swear to me that everything in this life has happened as you desired, without change or contradiction, I will not hesitate to think you, but for the charity which should reign among Christians, the greatest liar in your parish.

If any one spoke to Ragaud about the dangerous road in which he had placed his daughter, and that there was no longer chance to retrace his steps, he did not show displeasure or excuse himself, as heretofore. His serious and rather sorrowful air, joined to a very convenient little cough, showed more than by words that he did not know how to reply, and the poor man was truly sensible of his weakness and error; but what could he do? Something always happened to prevent him from carrying out his intention of taking Jeannette from the château.

Sometimes mademoiselle was sick; sometimes it was a festival of the church that needed a reinforcement of skilled embroiderers to make vestments and flowers for the altars; another day Dame Berthe had gone off for a month's vacation. In winter the pretext was that Jeannette's health would be endangered if she resumed her peasant life, as she could not bear the exposure; and when that was over, the summer days were so long, mademoiselle would have died of ennui without her darling Jeannette; and all this mademoiselle explained with such a gentle, winning air, old Ragaud never could refuse her; so that at last he was so accustomed to ask and be refused each time that he went for Jeannette, he finally abandoned the attempt; and seeing that his visits to the château were mere matters of form, he submitted with good grace, by making none at all, at least with that intention.

As for good Pierrette, she remained quiet; but accustomed to submit, and filled besides with admiration for the great good sense of her husband, she told all her troubles to the good God, and awaited, without complaint, the time when he would decree a change. But yet I must say things were not so bad as you might fancy. Life at the château had not spoiled Jeannette's heart. She was rather light-hearted, and the vanity of fine clothes had more effect on her than that of position; but as for her parents, she adored them, and overwhelmed them with embraces and kisses on her visits to the farm, which gave her undisguised pleasure. Our curé, who watched her closely, and who never liked to see country girls quit the stable for the drawing-room, was forced to acknowledge that the affair had not turned out so badly as he apprehended; and although he did not hesitate to scold mademoiselle for spoiling Jeannette—which he had the right to do, as he had known her from her birth, and had also baptized her—it was easy to see, by his fond, paternal air, that he loved the child as much as at the time when Germaine whipped her.

I will also tell you that this good pastor was beginning to feel the weight of years. He lost strength daily, and, like all holy men, his character softened as he drew nearer to the good God. Besides, fearing that soon he would be unable to visit his beloved flock, he thought rightly it was better not to be too severe, as it might wean them from him.

"For," said he, "if it is true that flies are not caught by vinegar, it is still more evident that men are never won by scolding and threats."

It was a sound argument, and, consequently, who was more venerated than the curé of Val-Saint? I will give only one proof. His parishioners, seeing that walking fatigued him, consulted among themselves at a fair, and resolved to buy him a steady animal, with a sheep-skin saddle and leather reins, embroidered in red, according to the country fashion.

It so happened that just at that moment a pedlar, owning a good mule, wished to barter it for a draught-horse, put up for sale by a farmer from Charbonnière. The bargain was made after a short parley, and our good friends returned home joyfully, and, without saying a word, tied their present to the tree before the priest's house. It was too good an act to be kept silent; the next day the curé and all the parish knew it. I need not ask who was deeply moved. The following Sunday our dear curé thanked his flock with words that repaid them a hundred-fold; and really, if you know anything about country people, you must say, without meaning any wrong by it, they are not accustomed to be generous; therefore, a little praise was fully their due.

As for the mule, it was a famous beast. She was black, and sniffed the air at such a rate, she always seemed eager to start off at full gallop; but, fortunately for our dear old curé, it was only a little coquetry she still practised in remembrance of her youthful days, and never went further. After making six or seven paces, she became calmer, dropped her head, and trotted along as quietly as a lady taking up a collection in the church. Otherwise she was gentle and easily managed, except at the sight of water, into which she never could be induced to put her foot.

"But who has not his faults?" as the beadle of Val-Saint was accustomed to say to his wife, when she scolded him for returning home rather the worse for having raised his elbow too often.

In speaking a little here and there about each and every one, don't think that I have forgotten Jean-Louis; on the contrary, I have kept the dear boy as the choicest morsel.

You must not expect me to relate in detail all his acts and gestures. In the first place, he spoke little, and what he said was so kind and gentle that, if he was forced to deal with the noisiest brawler in the neighborhood, he soon conquered him by his mildness. One reason of this was that, having learned so young the painful circumstances of his birth, and being proud by nature, he controlled himself before people, in order not to provoke any insolence. I must also add that the greater part of our young men get into trouble over their wine; and for Jeannet there was nothing to fear in that respect. Why, you can easily guess: because he knew nothing of the tavern, but the entrance and the sign—just what could be seen in passing along the street.

The good fellows, his companions, loved him dearly; the wicked were forced to respect him, and feared him also, as Jeannet had grown up tall, and had arms strong enough to stop a mad bull; and as for work, no one could compete with him. Only one thing on earth he feared, and that was to commit a sin. And do you know, that those who have only this fear can overcome, with a sign, a raging madman? It daily happens, as much in the city, among the black coats, as in the village, among the blouses. Try it, and you will be convinced, and then you will acknowledge I speak the truth.

The Ragauds, as they watched this pearl of a boy grow up, learned to love him more than many parents do their legitimate sons. He was worth five hired men, and Ragaud, with his strict sense of justice, had calculated the value to the last cent, and for the past ten years had placed to his credit in the savings-bank, every 1st of January, one thousand francs, upon which the interest was accruing. Jean-Louis knew nothing of the secret, and never did he dream his labor was worth remuneration. The boy's mind and heart were so thoroughly at ease that, knowing he had not a cent, and nothing to expect on the death of his parents, as they had a daughter, he never troubled himself about the present or the future, believing firmly that the good God, who had given him a family, would provide for his daily wants; for this second blessing was nothing, in his eyes, in comparison with the first.

Pierrette was careful that her Benjamin's pocket was never empty. At Easter and on S. John's day she always gave him a five-franc piece; and even this was often too much, as Jeannet's clothes and linen were always kept in perfect order by his devoted mother, and, consequently, as he never indulged in dissipation, and seldom joined in the village games, he did not know how to spend it. He would have liked sometimes to treat himself to a book when the pedlar—the same who had sold the mule to the farmers for M. le Curé—came around, and Ragaud, sure now of his good conduct, would certainly not have objected; but one day, after having searched over the package, he bought for thirty sous what he thought was a good and entertaining work, as it bore the seal placed by the government on all publications peddled through the country; but, to his horror, he found it filled with villanous sentiments. This saddened and disgusted him for several days; these thirty sous laid heavy on his mind, not from the avaricious thought that he had thrown his money to the wind, but from the idea that he had wronged the poor; for thirty sous was the exact price of a six-pound loaf of bread of the best quality. Between ourselves, I verily believe he accused himself of it in confession, as what I ever heard of the good boy makes me think it most likely he would do so.

Perhaps you would like to know if Jean-Louis had grown up handsome or ugly. Well, he was ugly, at least according to common opinion; we villagers admire red faces and those who look well fed, and dress showily. Jeannet's face was long and pale; his features delicate; teeth white and beautiful, in a large mouth that seldom smiled; and his deep, dark eyes were brilliant as stars; and when those eyes looked in displeasure at any one, they were fearful. Besides, Jean-Louis, who was tall, appeared so thin you would have thought him a young gray-beard, ready to break in two at the first breath of wind. With us, thin people who have not a pound of flesh on their bones are not admired, and it is quite an insult to be called thin. I think that is all nonsense, for vigor does not come from fat, but from good health, flesh strengthened by exercise and good habits; and as Jeannet was acknowledged to be the strongest boy in the neighborhood, he was only called thin from jealousy, as he certainly could thank God for being a sound young man, as strong as the foundation of a barn.

The only amusement he allowed himself was sometimes, on great festivals, to assist at the pigeon-shooting which M. le Marquis had established on the lawn before the château. It was a difficult game, which demanded good sight, coolness, and, above all, great strength of wrist. Jeannet, on two successive years, carried off the prize; the first was a silver goblet, the second a beautiful knife, fork, and spoon of the same metal. On these occasions his pale face became red with pleasure; do you think it was from vanity? Not at all. If his heart beat quickly, it was at the thought of the splendid presents he would make his good mother Pierrette; and, in reality, he made her promise she would never drink a drop or eat a mouthful but out of the goblet or with the knife and fork. We must say, in spite of the crowns heaped up at Muiceron, the earthen pipe and tin cups were alone used. At first Pierrette was ill at ease with her silver service, but she nevertheless accustomed herself to the use of it, so as to please Jeannet; and at last, to make her feel more comfortable, Ragaud, on his next trip to the city, bought himself a similar set, very fine, for eighty-four francs, which he constantly said was rather dear; but at heart he thought it very suitable, as it was not proper for his wife to eat with silver and he with tin; and to Jeannet's mind, who regretted that he had not drawn four prizes instead of two, so as to delight both his dear parents, a brighter idea had never entered his good father's head.

If I relate all these little anecdotes at length, it is to show you Jeannet's good heart; and without speaking ill of little Jeannette, who had also her fine points, I think her brother surpassed her in delicate attention to their parents, which I attribute to the difference in their education. Believe me, it is always better to let a cabbage remain a cabbage, and never attempt to graft a melon upon it. You will make nothing worth eating; for the good God, who created the cabbage on one side, and the melon on the other, likes each to remain in its place, without which you will have a hybrid vegetable, which will not really be of either species.

Pierrette, like a true woman, knowing Jeannet's excellence, often thought he could make some woman very happy, and that it was her duty to speak to him of marriage, since he was twenty years old, and they knew he would never have to enter the army, even though he should draw the fatal number. One evening, when she was spinning beside the hearth, with Jean-Louis near her, making a net for catching birds, she commenced to speak of the happiness of her married life, the blessings she had received from heaven, and her perfect contentment on all points. Jean-Louis listened with pleasure, and acknowledged that a happy marriage was something to be envied, but, according to his custom, never thinking of himself, he did not dream of wishing this fine destiny might one day be his.

"And you, my Jean, would you not like to marry?"

Jean-Louis dropped his shuttle, and looked at Pierrette with astonishment.

"What an idea!" said he. "I have never even thought of it, dear mother."

"It is nevertheless very simple, my son. Ragaud was your age when he married me, and, when his parents asked him the same question, he thought it right, and instantly replied, yes!"

"Doubtless he knew you, and even loved you; then I could easily understand it."

"That is true," replied Pierrette, slightly blushing; "for a year before, the dear man had cast glances at me on Sundays at High Mass; at least, he told me so after we were engaged. Why don't you do likewise?"

"For that, I should be obliged to think of some of the girls around us, and I have never troubled myself about them yet."

"That is queer," said Pierrette innocently. "You are not like other men; for without showing particular attention, it is allowable to look at the girls around when one wishes to be established."

"Bah!" said Jeannet; "but I don't care about anything of the kind. When I am in the village on Sunday, I have something else to think about."

"About what, dear boy?"

"Well, then, I think that we will all be quiet at Muiceron until evening, and I hasten to return, so as to sit down near you, as I am now, and laugh and talk to amuse you; and I don't wish any other pleasure. Besides, it is the only time in the week when we can see Jeannette; and, to speak the truth, dear mother, I would not give that up for all the marriages in the world."

"All very well," replied Pierrette; "but without giving up those pleasures, you can take a wife."

"Oh!" said Jeannet, "I see that you are tired of me, or else you would not speak thus."

"What do you say?" replied Pierrette, kissing him on the forehead. "It is not right to speak so, and surely you do not mean it. On the contrary, whether you marry or remain single, I never wish you to leave me. There is room enough for another woman, and even for children. What I proposed, my Jean, was for your happiness, and nothing else."

"Well, then, dear mother, let me remain as I am; I never can be happier than now."

"But when we come to die, it will be so sad to leave you alone!"

Jeannet started up, and leaned against the mantel. A clap of thunder at the time would not have astonished him more than such a speech. He to be left alone in the world, no longer to have his father and mother beside him! And nevertheless it was something to be anticipated; but his life flowed on so smoothly and happily, the thought of such a misfortune had never before struck terror to his heart.

He remained silent a moment, looking fixedly at the bright wood fire that burned upon the hearth; and suddenly, as it often happens when some remark has penetrated the very soul, he saw, as in a picture, his dear good mother Pierrette and father Ragaud stretched on their biers, and laid in the cold ground, in the dread repose of death that never awakens. But, no! it was not possible; and yet it happens any day, sometimes for one, sometimes for another. Muiceron, where they all lived in tranquil happiness, was truly a paradise on earth, but most assuredly not the celestial paradise where immortality alone exists.

For the first time since the memorable day when he had suffered so cruelly on learning the secret of his birth, Jeannet felt his poor heart ache with a similar grief. Pierrette, who thought it perfectly natural to have opened his eyes to such a desirable event, continued her spinning. Seeing Jean-Louis in deep thought, and receiving no answer, she simply fancied her argument had been conclusive, and that he felt the necessity of establishing himself, and so was debating in his own mind the relative attractions of the girls in the neighborhood. Besides, Jeannet's back was to her, and she did not see the change in his face.

"Think a little," said she, pursuing her idea; "there is no greater pleasure for parents who feel themselves growing old than to see their children well married. Then they can die in peace, thinking that, after they are gone, nothing will be changed; only, instead of the old people, young ones will take their place, the work will go on, all hearts will be happy, and kind prayers and fond recollections will follow them to the tomb."

"Oh!" cried Jean-Louis, covering his face with his hands, "if you say another word, I will die!"

"What!" said Pierrette, "die—of what? Are you ill?"

Jeannet, in spite of his twenty years, burst into tears like a little child; he clasped Pierrette in his arms, fondly embraced her, and said in a tone melting with tenderness:

"My mother, my dear, dear mother, I shall never marry—never, do you hear? And I beg of you never to mention the subject again. I have but one heart, and that I have given you undivided; nothing remains for another. When you speak of marriage, it makes us think of death and the grave; and that is beyond my strength—I cannot speak of it. If the good God calls you before me, my dearest mother, it will not be long before I rejoin you; and thus it will be better for me to die single than to leave a family after me. And now, as I do not wish to marry, and you only desire my happiness, do not urge me further."

"Your heart is too gentle for a man," said Pierrette, feeling the tears of her dear child on her brow; "you make me happy, even while opposing me, and I see that I have made you unhappy without wishing it. Be consoled, my Jeannet; we will never speak of it again. If you change your mind, you will tell me. Meanwhile, we will live as before. Don't be worried; it will be a long time yet before we leave you. I am in good health, and your father also; and so Muiceron will not change masters soon."

"No, no, thank God!" cried Jean-Louis; "the Blessed Virgin will watch over us. We have not lived together for twenty years now to separate, my darling mother!"

Truth to say, this was not very sound argument, for, whether twenty years together, or thirty, or forty, friends must separate, all the same, at the appointed hour; but Jeannet spoke with his heart torn with sorrow, and Pierrette was perfectly willing to acknowledge, in her turn, that she really desired things should happen as he wished.

From that time the question of marriage was put in her pocket, and never taken out again. God and his holy angels looked down with delight upon this innocent household, full of tenderness and kindness, and did not allow evil to overshadow it. However, the child Jeannette deserved to be cured of her little sins of vanity, and you will see the means taken by the Heavenly Father to make her a Christian according to his will.

XI.

About this time came a year which is still remembered, although a good long time has since elapsed. Swarms of locusts devoured the young wheat before it ripened, while the field-mice, moles, and other villanous pests, gnawed and destroyed it at the roots. Corn especially suffered in this unlucky season; not a plant escaped. Before it had grown ten feet in height, it was blighted, and then withered and died. It would take too long to enumerate all the difficulties that overwhelmed the peasants. Hailstorms beat down the meadows at haymaking time; splendid cows died of the pest; sheep were suddenly attacked and perished; and as for the horses, decimated by the glanders, which became epidemic, and was very dangerous, as it often passed from animals to men, it would be impossible to count the victims.

This year, at least, those who had begun the season by prophesying evil had their predictions fully accomplished; but, thank God! such an unfortunate season rarely happens. The poor people were fearfully discouraged; and, in sooth, it was not strange that men dreaded the future, in face of such a present.

Nevertheless, greater activity was never seen in the fields. To save the little that remained, each one did his best, even down to the little children, in reaping, gathering the harvest, piling the carts, in spite of the locusts, the hail, and the devil, who was said to have a great deal to do with the affair, and which I am very much inclined to believe. The people even worked until late in the night. It was a devouring fever, which made every one half crazy, and it was a miracle that no one died of it; for, in our province, we are accustomed to work slowly, without hurry or excitement, and it is commonly believed everything happens when and how it is decreed, but none the worse on that account; but I wish to prove that they could hurry up when occasion required.

Our friend, Jean-Louis, did wonders in these sad circumstances. He seemed to be everywhere at once—in the fields, the stables, at the head of the reapers, at the barn when the carts were unloaded; encouraging some, urging on others, in a friendly way; hurrying up the cattle; when necessary, giving a helping hand to the veterinary surgeon; and, withal, gentle and kind to everybody.

You think that, with order, energy, and intelligence, work will always be rewarded with success. He who first said, "Help yourself, and Heaven will aid you," did not speak falsely. God does not work miracles for those who fold their arms in idleness, but he always gives to humble and persevering labor such abundant reward that, for many centuries, no matter what may be the suffering, the truth of the Holy Scriptures has always been verified, that "never has any one seen the just man die of hunger, or his seed begging their bread."

In virtue of this rule, it came to pass that, at Muiceron, the harvest of hay, as well as of wheat, rye, and corn, was far better than could have been expected by the most sanguine. The unfortunate ones, who lost nearly all their crops, said that Ragaud had dealt in witchcraft to protect himself from the prevailing bad luck. This nonsense made every one laugh, but did not stop their envy and jealousy; and so unjust do men become, when their hearts are envenomed by rage and disappointment, that some of the worst—the laziest, undoubtedly—went so far as to declare openly, in the village inn, that it would be for the good of the public if some of the splendid hay-stacks at Muiceron were burned, as the contrast was too great between the well-kept farm and the ruined fields around.

Fortunately, our friend, Jacques Michou, was drinking in a corner while this delightful conversation took place; he rose from his seat, and, placing his hand on the shoulder of him who had been the loudest in threats, declared he would instantly complain of him to the police; and that, merely for speaking in such a manner, he could be sent to prison for a month. No further grumbling was heard after this speech, and it can be easily understood no wicked attempt was made. So true is it that a little courage will easily defeat the most wicked plans; for vice is very cowardly in its nature.

While all the country around Val-Saint, Ordonniers, and many other neighborhoods, were thus afflicted, M. le Marquis had been busy with some of his grand affairs, of which we have already heard, and started on a journey for some unknown place. He returned this time a little happier than usual, as it was near the beginning of 1847; and it is not necessary to remind you that it preceded 1848. At this time even the stupidest felt that a revolution was approaching, and our good lord and all his friends were doubly certain of the impending storm. He was therefore excusable in having neglected the care of his large estate, so as to devote himself to that which was the first desire of his heart. But he who should have watched over his interests in his absence, the superintendent Riponin, he it was that was every way blamable; for, whether intentionally, that he might continue his orgies in the midst of disorder, or through idleness and negligence, he had allowed the place to fall into a fearful state of ruin. Nothing was to be seen but fields devastated by the ruin, or grain rotting as it stood; the animals that died had not been replaced; and even the vegetable garden of the château presented a most lamentable picture of disorder and neglect. Ragaud and Michou, had seen all this; but they were too insignificant to dare say a word, and too proud, besides, to venture a remonstrance, which certainly would not have been received.

M. le Marquis, on his return, was anything but agreeably surprised. He summoned Riponin before him, and reprimanded him in a manner which he long remembered. Our master was goodness itself, but he could not be unreasonably imposed upon; his old noble blood would fire up, and he could show men that for more than five hundred years his ancestors, as well as he, had been accustomed to command and obey only the laws of the Lord God.

Riponin was a coward; he trembled and asked pardon, promised to do better, and gave a hundred poor excuses. M. le Marquis would not receive any such explanation; he ordered Riponin out of his presence, and seasoned the command with several big military words, which I will not repeat. It was a sign that he was terribly angry. Thus the unfaithful steward was obliged to retire without further reply; and, between ourselves, it was the best he could do.

Thereupon M. le Marquis, still in a fury, sent off for Ragaud, who came in great haste, easily divining what had happened.

"Ragaud," said the master, "you are no better than the rest. I will lose forty thousand francs on my crops; and if you had seen to it, this would not have happened."

"Forty thousand francs!" quietly replied Ragaud. "I beg your pardon, M. le Marquis; but you mean sixty thousand francs, and that, I think, is the lowest calculation."

M. le Marquis was naturally cheerful; this unexpected answer made him smile, instead of increasing his anger. He looked at his old servant, whom he highly esteemed, and, folding his arms, said:

"Is that your opinion? Come, now, let us say fifty thousand; I think that is enough."

"No, no, sixty," replied Ragaud. "I will not take off a crown; but there is yet time to save half."

"Is that so? What can I give you, if you do that much?"

"Nothing, M. le Marquis, but permission to be master here for a week, and the honor of serving you."

"Old fool!" said the marquis. "And your own work, what will become of it?"

"It is all finished," replied the good farmer; "don't be uneasy, my dear master, only give me, as I said before, full power."

"Be off, then. I know your devotion, and I have full confidence in you; but you will not object to my making a present to your children?"

"Presents!" said Ragaud, much moved. "What else have you done for the past twenty years, M. le Marquis? Is it not the least you can do to let me be of some use to you for once in my life? I owe everything to you, down to the roof that shelters me, my wife, and the children. Presents! No, no, if you do not wish to pain me."

"Proud and obstinate man that you are," said the marquis, smiling, "have everything your own way. I am not so proud as you; you offer to save me thirty thousand francs, and I don't make such a fuss about accepting it. Isn't that a present?"

"It is thirty thousand francs that I will prevent you from losing," said the obstinate Ragaud.

"Yes, as though one would say grape-juice was not the juice of the grape," replied the marquis, who was highly amused at the replies of his old servant. "Well, if I ask you to drink a glass of old Bordeaux with me, will you take that as the offer of a present you must refuse?"

"Certainly not," said Ragaud, "but it is too great an honor for me to drink with my lord."

M. le Marquis made them bring refreshments on a silver waiter, and kept Ragaud in close conversation for a full hour, knowing well that this friendly manner of treating him was the greatest reward he could give the good, honest soul, to whom God had given sentiments far above his condition. Afterwards, he dismissed him with such a warm shake of the hand that Ragaud was nearly overcome and could scarcely restrain his tears.

"Well," said he, returning to Muiceron, where he found Jean-Louis occupied with arranging the wood-pile, "what do you think we are going to do, my boy, after having worked like ten men to get in our crops and fill the barns?"

"I was thinking about that," replied Jeannet; "and, meanwhile, I have put the fagots in order, so that mother can easily get at them, when I am not at hand, to make the fire."

"You have never thought to take a little rest?" asked Ragaud, who knew well beforehand what would be the reply.

"Why, yes," said Jean-Louis, "an hour's rest now and then is very pleasant; but after that, my dear father," he continued, laughing, "I like to stretch my legs."

"Well, then, let us imagine nothing was done at Muiceron, and that, at this very moment, we should be obliged to begin; what would you say?"

"All right; and I would instantly begin the work. I hope you don't doubt me?" he replied, with his usual air of quiet resolution.

"No, I do not doubt you, my good boy," resumed Ragaud; "and to prove my confidence in your courage and good-will, I have to-day promised to undertake an enterprise which, in honor, we are bound to accomplish."

And he related to him what we already know.

"Hum!" said Jean-Louis, after having listened attentively; "it will be pretty hard work, but with the help of God nothing is impossible."

"That is just what I think," replied Ragaud; "but for that, I would not have undertaken such a task. Now, Jeannet, we must begin to put the place in order to-morrow at the latest."

"That will be time enough, father, and we will do our best," said Jean-Louis.

The subject was dropped for the rest of the evening. Ragaud did not trouble his head about the means his son would employ; and Jeannet, without being otherwise sure of himself, remained tranquil, like all those who ask the assistance of divine Providence in the management of their affairs. Nevertheless, it was a difficult task, not only on account of the severe manual labor, but also from the certainty of incurring the deadly hatred of Riponin, who was a very wicked man. The thought of it somewhat disquieted Ragaud, and Jean-Louis from the first understood the full danger; but what could be done? Duty before everything.

The next morning Jean-Louis was up before sunrise. During the night, he thought over his plan, like the general of an army; he remembered having read somewhere that a troop can do nothing, unless conducted by able chiefs. He would need one hundred hands, and, for one all alone, that would be a great many. His first care was to knock at the window of a fine young man of his own age, who, from infancy, had been his most intimate friend. He was called Pierre Luguet, and lived in the hamlet of Luchonières, which is a small cluster of twelve or fifteen houses a little lower down than Ordonniers, but on the other side of La Range. By good fortune, the stream at this place is so choked up with a big heap of gravel and old stumps of willow-trees, which serve as stepping-stones across the water, that any one who is light-footed can cross as easily as on a narrow bridge.

This name of Luguet, I suppose, strikes your ear oddly. He was really the nephew of poor Catharine, and thus first cousin of Jean-Louis, who undoubtedly knew it, as you can imagine. Perhaps it was the reason these two young men were so much attached. They say the voice of blood cannot be smothered; and although it is not always true, in this case it was very evident that, whether for that reason or simply from similarity of character and pursuits, good conduct and age, Pierre Luguet was the only one of the neighborhood whom Jeannet ever sought, and that Pierre was never happier than when he could detain Jean-Louis for several hours in conversation or some innocent amusement.

Jean-Louis went straight to the house of his friend, who, recognizing his voice behind the shutter, quickly opened it and let him in. He lived in a little room in front of the farm-buildings, and, consequently, the noise did not awaken his parents. Jeannet entered by the window, and, without losing any time, explained his plans to Pierre, while he rapidly dressed.

"You," said he, "must be my lieutenant. We must get together one hundred young men, each one resolved to do his part. M. le Marquis will not begrudge the crowns; we will promise them good wages, and they must work all night, if necessary; and, to encourage every one, we will keep a roaring fire in Michou's house, so that Barbette will always have the soup warm and a tun of cider ready for tapping. In this manner the laborers will be contented, and not obliged to return home twice a-day for their meals. As for you, Pierre, be assured that M. le Marquis will reward you most generously for your work; and, besides, you will be doing a good action, for it is a great sin to see the estate of the master worse cared for than that of his servants."

"I am not thinking about the price," said Pierre Luguet, putting on his blouse. "I ask no more than you will have."

"That is good; we will see about it," replied Jeannet, laughing in his sleeve; for he knew well that he was going to work for the honor of it, and he did not wish to make Pierre go by the same rule, knowing that he supported his old parents.

They decided upon the places where they would expect to find the best men, and separated, one to the left, the other to the right, promising to meet again at twelve o'clock.

There was really great rejoicing when the young men of Val-Saint and Ordonniers learned that they were required to work for M. le Marquis under the lead of the two best men of the neighborhood. They had nothing to fear from brutality and injustice, as in the time of Riponin; and the news of his disgrace put all the brave fellows in the best humor.

Riponin was cordially detested, and for double the pay not one would have volunteered to serve under him, or have undertaken such a disagreeable and bungled affair; but with Jeannet it was another thing, and although he warned them beforehand that he would allow neither idleness nor bad language, and that they must work long and steadily, they followed him, singing as joyously as though they were going to a wedding.

Before noon, the two bands met on the edge of the wood, where dwelt our old friend, the game-keeper. Pierre Luguet, after leaving home, had taken care to pass by, so as to forewarn him. Jacques Michou threw up his cap at the news; he also despised Riponin, and, more than any other, he had good reason for hating him. He therefore laid his plans, and borrowed from the château a huge kettle, such as is used during the vintage for pressing the grapes, which he put up, for their service, in his little barn. Everything was ready at the appointed hour, and I can assure you the delightful surprise was fully appreciated by our young friends. The two leaders had taken the precaution to tell each one of the boys to bring half a loaf of bread, a piece of goat's cheese, and a slice of pork; so the soup was doubly welcome, as it was not expected, and the cider still more so, as they had counted only on the river-water. This good beginning put them in splendid humor; and when, after being fully refreshed, they marched up to the château to pay their respects to M. le Marquis before beginning their work, one would have said, from the noise and singing, that it was a band of conscripts who had drawn the lucky number.

They instantly put their shoulders to the plough. Jeannet wisely made them commence with the worst fields, so that, when the first excitement was over, and they would be rather fatigued, they could find that they had not eaten the white bread first. Thus, having been well selected, well fed, well paid, and, above all, well led, our boys did wonders, not only that afternoon, but on the following days. The weather, however, was decidedly against them; rain drenched the laborers, and strong winds prevented them from building up the hay-stacks; but their ardor was so great that nothing discouraged them; and often, when Jeannet, moved by sympathy, put it to vote whether they should continue or not, he saw with pleasure that not one man deserted his post.

At the end of a week, half the work was so well under way it could easily be seen that, in spite of the bad season and worse management, M. le Marquis would not lose all his crops this time, but that, on the contrary, his barns would make a very good show, if not in quality, at least in quantity. The worthy gentleman came several times himself to visit the laborers and distribute extra pay. On these occasions it was admirable to see the modesty of Jean-Louis, who always managed to disappear, leaving to Pierre Luguet the honor of showing the progress of the work to M. le Marquis; and as workmen are generally just when they are not found fault with, brow-beaten, or ill-treated, they rendered to Jean-Louis greater honor and respect the more he concealed himself from their applause. In short, everything went on well to the end without interruption.

The given fortnight was not over when the last cart-load, ornamented on top with a huge bouquet of flowers and sheaves of wheat tied with ribbons, was conducted in triumph, accompanied with songs of joy, under the windows of mademoiselle, who appeared on the balcony, with Jeannette Ragaud on her right and Dame Berthe on the left. M. le Marquis was in the court of honor, enchanted with the success of the measure; and Ragaud and Michou could not remain quiet, but clapped their hands, and cried "Bravo!" to the brave young men.

Jean-Louis tried to escape this time also, but was not allowed. His friends raised him in their arms, and placed him on top of the cart with his good comrade, Pierre Luguet; and thus they made their appearance, both standing alongside of the bouquet, Jeannet crimson with shame and vexation, whilst Pierre sang loud enough to crack his throat.

You can imagine that this cart, upon which had been heaped the last gleanings of the harvest, was piled up immensely high, so that the top was on a level with the first floor of the château, and mademoiselle could thus converse at her ease with the young men.

She spoke most graciously to Jean-Louis, and congratulated him with words so complimentary that the poor fellow wished himself under the grain, rather than on top. What embarrassed him still further was to see his sister Jeannette playing the part of great lady as much as her mistress. With his usual good sense, he considered it out of place, and would have been much better pleased if she had appeared ill at ease in her false position; but, far from that, she leaned over the balcony, laughing and talking like a vain little parrot, and even rallied Jean-Louis on his subdued manner.

He did not wish to spoil the affair by looking severe and discontented, but he was grieved at heart, and hastened to put an end to the scene.

Mademoiselle, at the close of her complimentary remarks, presented each of the two friends with a little box of the same size, wrapped in beautiful paper, and tied with pink ribbon.

"They are filled with bonbons," said she in her sweet, gentle voice; "and you will not refuse to eat them in remembrance of me?"

Then she made them a most friendly bow, which they returned with great respect, and the big cart was driven off to the barn to be unloaded.

"Bon-bons!" said Pierre to Jeannet, taking out his box after they had descended from their high post of honor. "What do you think, Jean-Louis? It seems to me this plaything is too heavy only to contain candies."

"At any rate," replied Jean-Louis, "they can't do us any harm, as the boxes are not very large."

They quickly untied the pretty pink ribbon, and found in Pierre's box fifteen bright twenty-franc pieces, while Jeannet's contained a beautiful gold watch, with a chain of equal value.

To add to the general happiness, the sky, which until then had been cloudy as though threatening rain, suddenly cleared, and the sun went down in the full splendor of August, and shed a brilliant light over the bare fields, as Jean-Louis was carried in triumph by his comrades, who cried out that surely he controlled the weather, as the very winds seemed to obey him; and, strange as it may appear, the season continued so fine that never was there a more delightful autumn than after the unfortunate spring and summer.

If I dared express my opinion, I would tell you that, without calling it miraculous, the good God scarcely ever fails to send joy after sorrow, peace after war, heat after cold, as much to the visible things of the earth as to the secret ones of the heart. It is, therefore, well not to throw the handle too quickly after the axe; and, to prove this, I will tell you a short and true story, which I just happen to remember.

It relates to Michel Levrot, of the commune of Saint-Ouaire, who, against everybody's advice, married a woman from near Bichérieux. She was a bad Christian and totally unworthy of the good little man, who was rather too gentle and weak in character. For a year they got along so-so, without any great disturbance; but gradually the wicked creature grew to despise her poor husband, for no other reason but that he was too good for her, and let her have her own way completely. She wasted money at fairs, bought more fine clothes and silver jewelry than she knew what to do with, kept up a row in the house from morning until night, and ended by being nearly always drunk; all which made Michel Levrot so unhappy that one sad day in a moment of despair, without stopping to think of his eternal salvation, he threw himself headlong into the river Coussiau, which, fortunately, was not so deep as La Range, although nearly as wide.

As he was out of his head, and acted without thinking, his good angel most assuredly took care of him; for, if he had been drowned, he certainly would have lost his soul; but, although he did not know how to swim, he floated on his back, and the current carried him to the bank of the stream, where he was picked up, half-dead and in a swoon, by some of the neighbors, who rubbed and warmed him, and managed to bring him back to life. Those who had saved him were good, pious men, who spoke to him in such a Christian manner, they made him feel ashamed of his cowardice and want of confidence in the Heavenly Father; so he promised to go and see our curé, who lifted him upon his beast—that is to say, made peace enter his soul; after which he explained to him that, having no children, he had the right to leave this wicked and perverse woman, who deserved a severe lesson, and not return home until she should be converted or dead.

He left that part of the country, entirely cured of his desire to kill himself, and made the tour of France, honestly earning his bread by working at his trade, which was that of an upholsterer. From time to time the neighbors sent him news of his abominable wife, who led such a scandalous life it was easy to predict she would not make old bones; for, if strong drink and vice soon kill the most robust men, they are still more fatal to women. After a few years, he received the welcome intelligence that his house was rid of its baneful mistress. He then returned to Saint-Ouaire, and was charitable enough to give fifty francs for Masses for the unfortunate soul. Some time after, he married the daughter of Pierre Rufin, a good worker and housekeeper, who, besides other excellent qualities, never drank anything stronger than honey and water that she took for a weak stomach, which she had from childhood. They lived most happily, and had a family of five handsome children. I knew him when he was very old, and he always loved to relate this story of his youth, never failing to return thanks to the good God, who had saved him from drowning.

"For," said he, "my dear children, if I had been drowned that day from want of a little patience, I should have lost my soul, besides the good wife you see here and all my present happiness."

TO BE CONTINUED.

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