[CHAPTER I]
ONE morning, when Madeleine Blanchet, the young wife of the miller of Cormouer, went down to the end of her meadow to wash her linen in the fountain, she found a little child sitting in front of her washing-board playing with the straw she used as a cushion for her knees. Madeleine Blanchet looked at the child, and was surprised not to recognize him, for the road which runs near by is unfrequented, and few strangers are to be met with in the neighborhood.
"Who are you, my boy?" said she to the little boy, who turned confidingly toward her, but did not seem to understand her question. "What is your name?" Madeleine Blanchet went on, as she made him sit down beside her, and knelt down to begin to wash.
"François," answered the child.
"François who?"
"Who?" said the child stupidly.
"Whose son are you?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know your father's name?"