“Ah, bah!” he said with careless gayety; “who risks nothing has nothing; I have found Farraut—that’s the principal thing. If the grandfather sees us from up there, he ought to be satisfied.”
This reflection, made in an almost indifferent tone, touched Arnold, who held out his hand impetuously to the peasant.
“What you have done was prompted by a good heart,” he said with feeling.
“What? Because I have kept a dog from drowning?” answered Moser. “Dogs and men—thank God I have helped more than one out of a hole since I was born; but I have sometimes had better weather than to-night to do it in. Say, wife, there must be a glass of cognac left; bring the bottle here; there is nothing that dries you better when you’re wet.”
Dorothée brought the bottle to the farmer, who drank to his guest’s health, and then each sought his bed.
The next morning the weather was fine again; the sky was clear, and the birds, shaking their feathers, sang on the still dripping trees.
When he descended from the garret, where a bed had been prepared for him, Arnold found near the door Farraut, who was warming himself in the sun, while little Jean, seated on his crutches, was making him a collar of eglantine berries. A little further on, in the first room, the farmer was clinking glasses with a beggar who had come to collect his weekly tithe; Dorothée was holding his wallet, which she was filling.
“Come, old Henri, one more draught,” said the peasant, refilling the beggar’s glass; “if you mean to finish your round you must take courage.”
“That one always finds here,” said the beggar with a smile; “there are not many houses in the parish where they give more, but there is not one where they give with such good will.”
“Be quiet, will you, Père Henri?” interrupted Moser; “do people talk of such things? Drink and let the good God judge each man’s actions. You, too, have served; we are old comrades.”