Father Rameau was not ambitious, far from it; if he had been alone in the world, without relations depending on him, he would have been quite content to live on black bread every day of the week, with an occasional glass of wine from the charitable folk of the neighbourhood. But Father Rameau had a younger sister married to a vine-dresser of Perreuse, and he was god-father to their daughter; she was just growing up into a woman, and was so pretty and modest and intelligent, that every one had a good word for her, and now she was engaged to be married to a young man called George, a capital worker, but without a penny in the world. The wedding was to take place as soon as she was twenty; and they had given each other engagement rings—common leaden rings, bought from one of the pedlars who visit the hamlets of the district.
Humble as he was where he himself only was concerned, Father Rameau was proud indeed in matters connected with his niece.
"A leaden ring," he murmured, "when so many other girls, not half as good as my god-daughter, have a gold one! How I wish Madeleine could choose the one she liked best from the jeweller's shop in Saint-Sauveur! Ah, it's not much use wishing. If I put by every penny I could spare for years and years I could never afford it. Madeleine's poor, George is poor, I am poor, and always shall be. Well, we're honest, that's one comfort, and we needn't be jealous, at any rate."
As the old broomseller was thinking all this, he met George, who was driving a pair of oxen, their nostrils steaming in the first rays of the morning sun. "Good-day, lad," said he.
"Good-day, Father Rameau."
"Off to work already?"
"Yes, father. I'm just going over the master's fields for the last time before seed sowing; we shall begin next week. We're rather behind hand you know."
"So you are; October's nearly over."
"Can you guess what I was thinking of as I came along?"
"What you were thinking of? You mean who," said Father Rameau, rather crossly.