Thus was Jean Baptiste, like thistle-down, blown about by every breeze, now rising, now falling, now suspended in mid-air, able neither to rise to the heavens nor to sink to rest on solid ground. It was a most unsatisfactory condition, and Jean found no peace for his soul. The decision that finally came to him is a curious example of the trifles that frequently determine the course of human life.
One afternoon, on his way home from school, where Mademoiselle Angers had been giving him advanced lessons in preparation for college, Jean was crossing the bridge of logs over the mountain torrent called La Branche, when he saw a little girl seated on the end of one of the logs, her feet dangling over the stream.
"Holloa, there, little red-head!" he called. "You will fall in the river if you don't take care. It is dangerous."
The "little red-head" made no reply, but gazed on the stream as though fascinated by the swirling water.
"Gabrielle, my little one," persisted Jean, "come away from that place. Are you not afraid of being drowned?"
"You know, Jean, you know very well that my hair is not red," said Gabrielle, looking up with a smile of mischief.
"Maybe not, Gabrielle. It is yellow, if you like, though it changes often. But come away at once. You frighten me."
"And I am not a 'little one' either, for I shall be ten years old to-morrow."
"True, Gabrielle, you are a young lady, almost. But do not fall in there, for the love of God."
"You are very strong and brave, Jean," said the little imp.