THE DEVIL'S POOL

By George Sand

Translated From The French By Jane Minot Sedgwick And Ellery Sedgwick

With An Etching By E. Abot

1901

THE DEVIL'S POOL

THE AUTHOR TO THE READER

 _A la sueur de ton visaige, Tu gagnerais ta pauvre vie. Après long travail et usaige, Voicy la mort qui te convie. _ *

THIS quaint old French verse, written under one of Holbein's pictures, is profoundly melancholy. The engraving represents a laborer driving hisplow through the middle of a field. Beyond him stretches a vast horizon, dotted with wretched huts; the sun is sinking behind the hill. It is theend of a hard day's work. The peasant is old, bent, and clothed in rags. He is urging onward a team of four thin and exhausted horses; theplowshare sinks into a stony and ungrateful soil. One being only isactive and alert in this scene of toil and sorrow. It is a fantasticcreature. A skeleton armed with a whip, who acts as plowboy to the oldlaborer, and running along through the furrow beside the terrifiedhorses, goads them on. This is the specter Death, whom Holbein hasintroduced allegorically into that series of religious and philosophicsubjects, at once melancholy and grotesque, entitled "The Dance ofDeath. "

 * In toil and sorrow thou shalt eat The bitter bread of poverty. After the burden and the heat, Lo! it is Death who calls for thee. 

In this collection, or rather this mighty composition, where Death, whoplays his part on every page, is the connecting link and predominatingthought, Holbein has called up kings, popes, lovers, gamesters, drunkards, nuns, courtesans, thieves, warriors, monks, Jews, andtravelers, --all the people of his time and our own; and everywhere thespecter Death is among them, taunting, threatening, and triumphing. Heis absent from one picture only, where Lazarus, lying on a dunghill atthe rich man's door, declares that the specter has no terrors for him;probably because he has nothing to lose, and his existence is already alife in death. 

Is there comfort in this stoical thought of the half-pagan Christianityof the Renaissance, and does it satisfy religious souls? The upstart, the rogue, the tyrant, the rake, and all those haughty sinners who makean ill use of life, and whose steps are dogged by Death, will be surelypunished; but can the reflection that death is no evil make amends forthe long hardships of the blind man, the beggar, the madman, and thepoor peasant? No! An inexorable sadness, an appalling fatality broodover the artist's work. It is like a bitter curse, hurled against thefate of humanity. 

Holbein's faithful delineation of the society in which he lived is, indeed, painful satire. His attention was engrossed by crime andcalamity; but what shall we, who are artists of a later date, portray?Shall we look to find the reward of the human beings of to-day inthe contemplation of death, and shall we invoke it as the penalty ofunrighteousness and the compensation of suffering?

No, henceforth, our business is not with death, but with life. Webelieve no longer in the nothingness of the grave, nor in safety boughtwith the price of a forced renunciation; life must be enjoyed in orderto be fruitful. Lazarus must leave his dunghill, so that the poor needno longer exult in the death of the rich. All must be made happy, thatthe good fortune of a few may not be a crime and a curse. As the laborersows his wheat, he must know that he is helping forward the work oflife, instead of rejoicing that Death walks at his side. We mayno longer consider death as the chastisement of prosperity or theconsolation of distress, for God has decreed it neither as thepunishment nor the compensation of life. Life has been blessed by Him, and it is no longer permissible for us to leave the grave as the onlyrefuge for those whom we are unwilling to make happy. 

There are some artists of our own day, who, after a serious survey oftheir surroundings, take pleasure in painting misery, the sordidness ofpoverty, and the dunghill of Lazarus. This may belong to the domain ofart and philosophy; but by depicting poverty as so hideous, so degraded, and sometimes so vicious and criminal, do they gain their end, and isthat end as salutary as they would wish? We dare not pronounce judgment. They may answer that they terrify the unjust rich man by pointing out tohim the yawning pit that lies beneath the frail covering of wealth; justas in the time of the Dance of Death, they showed him his gaping grave, and Death standing ready to fold him in an impure embrace. Now, theyshow him the thief breaking open his doors, and the murderer stealthilywatching his sleep. We confess we cannot understand how we can reconcilehim to the human nature he despises, or make him sensible of thesufferings of the poor wretch whom he dreads, by showing him thiswretch in the guise of the escaped convict or the nocturnal burglar. Thehideous phantom Death, under the repulsive aspect in which he has beenrepresented by Holbein and his predecessors, gnashing his teeth andplaying the fiddle, has been powerless to convert the wicked and consoletheir victims. And does not our literature employ the same means as theartists of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance?

The revelers of Holbein fill their glasses in a frenzy to dispel theidea of Death, who is their cup-bearer, though they do not see him. Theunjust rich of our own day demand cannon and barricades to drive outthe idea of an insurrection of the people which Art shows them as slowlyworking in the dark, getting ready to burst upon the State. The Churchof the Middle Ages met the terrors of the great of the earth with thesale of indulgences. The government of to-day soothes the uneasiness ofthe rich by exacting from them large sums for the support of policemen, jailors, bayonets, and prisons. 

Albert Durer, Michael Angelo, Holbein, Callot, and Goya have madepowerful satires on the evils of their times and countries, and theirimmortal works are historical documents of unquestionable value. Weshall not refuse to artists the right to probe the wounds of societyand lay them bare to our eyes; but is the only function of art stillto threaten and appall? In the literature of the mysteries of iniquity, which talent and imagination have brought into fashion, we prefer thesweet and gentle characters, which can attempt and effect conversions, to the melodramatic villains, who inspire terror; for terror never curesselfishness, but increases it. 

We believe that the mission of art is a mission of sentiment and love, that the novel of to-day should take the place of the parable and thefable of early times, and that the artist has a larger and more poetictask than that of suggesting certain prudential and conciliatorymeasures for the purpose of diminishing the fright caused by hispictures. His aim should be to render attractive the objects he has atheart, and, if necessary, I have no objection to his embellishing thema little. Art is not the study of positive reality, but the search forideal truth, and the "Vicar of Wakefield" was a more useful and healthybook than the "Paysan Perverti, " or the "Liaisons Dangereuses. "

Forgive these reflections of mine, kind reader, and let them stand asa preface, for there will be no other to the little story I am goingto relate to you. My tale is to be so short and so simple, that I feltobliged to make you my apologies for it beforehand, by telling you whatI think of the literature of terror. 

I have allowed myself to be drawn into this digression for the sake of alaborer; and it is the story of a laborer which I have been meaning totell you, and which I shall now tell you at once. 

I -- The Tillage of the Soil

I HAD just been looking long and sadly at Holbein's plowman, and waswalking through the fields, musing on rustic life and the destiny ofthe husbandman. It is certainly tragic for him to spend his days and hisstrength delving in the jealous earth, that so reluctantly yields up herrich treasures when a morsel of coarse black bread, at the end of theday's work, is the sole reward and profit to be reaped from such arduoustoil. The wealth of the soil, the harvests, the fruits, the splendidcattle that grow sleek and fat in the luxuriant grass, are the propertyof the few, and but instruments of the drudgery and slavery of the many. The man of leisure seldom loves, for their own sake, the fields andmeadows, the landscape, or the noble animals which are to be convertedinto gold for his use. He comes to the country for his health or forchange of air, but goes back to town to spend the fruit of his vassal'slabor. 

On the other hand, the peasant is too abject, too wretched, and toofearful of the future to enjoy the beauty of the country and the charmsof pastoral life. To him, also, the yellow harvest-fields, the richmeadows, the fine cattle represent bags of gold; but he knows thatonly an infinitesimal part of their contents, insufficient for his dailyneeds, will ever fall to his share. Yet year by year he must fill thoseaccursed bags, to please his master and buy the right of living on hisland in sordid wretchedness. Yet nature is eternally young, beautiful, and generous. She pours forth poetry and beauty on all creatures andall plants that are allowed free development. 

She owns the secret of happiness, of which no one has ever robbed her. The happiest of men would be he who, knowing the full meaning of hislabor, should, while working with his hands, find his happiness and hisfreedom in the exercise of his intelligence, and, having his heart inunison with his brain, should at once understand his own work and lovethat of God, The artist has such delights as these in contemplating andreproducing the beauties of nature; but if his heart be true and tender, his pleasure is disturbed when he sees the miseries of the men whopeople this paradise of earth. True happiness will be theirs when mind, heart, and hand shall work in concert in the sight of Heaven, and thereshall be a sacred harmony between God's goodness and the joys of hiscreatures. Then, instead of the pitiable and frightful figure of Deathstalking, whip in hand, across the fields, the painter of allegoriesmay place beside the peasant a radiant angel, sowing the blessed grainbroadcast in the smoking furrow. The dream of a serene, free, poetic, laborious, and simple life for the tiller of the soil is not soimpossible that we should banish it as a chimera. The sweet, sad wordsof Virgil: "Oh, happy the peasants of the field, if they knew their ownblessings!" is a regret, but, like all regrets, it is also a prophecy. The day will come when the laborer too may be an artist, and may atleast feel what is beautiful, if he cannot express it, --a matter of farless importance. Do not we know that this mysterious poetic intuitionis already his, in the form of instinct and vague reverie? Among thosepeasants who possess some of the comforts of life, and whose moraland intellectual development is not entirely stifled by extremewretchedness, pure happiness that can be felt and appreciated existsin the elementary stage; and, moreover, since poets have already raisedtheir voices out of the lap of pain and of weariness, why should we saythat the labor of the hands excludes the working of the soul? Withoutdoubt this exclusion is the common result of excessive toil and of deepmisery; but let it not be said that when men shall work moderately andusefully there will be nothing but bad workers and bad poets. The manwho draws in noble joy from the poetic feeling is a true poet, though hehas never written a verse all his life. 

My thoughts had flown in this direction, without my perceiving thatmy confidence in the capacity of man for education was strengthened byexternal influences. I was walking along the edge of a field, which somepeasants were preparing to sow. The space was vast as that in Holbein'spicture; the landscape, too, was vast and framed in a great sweep ofgreen, slightly reddened by the approach of autumn. Here and there inthe great russet field, slender rivulets of water left in the furrows bythe late rains sparkled in the sunlight like silver threads. The day wasclear and mild, and the soil, freshly cleft by the plowshare, sent upa light steam. At the other extremity of the field, an old man, whosebroad shoulders and stern face recalled Holbein's plowman, but whoseclothes carried no suggestion of poverty, was gravely driving his plowof antique shape, drawn by two placid oxen, true patriarchs of themeadow, tall and rather thin, with pale yellow coats and long, droopinghorns. They were those old workers who, through long habit, have grownto be _brothers_, as they are called in our country, and who, when oneloses the other, refuse to work with a new comrade, and pine away withgrief. People who are unfamiliar with the country call the love of theox for his yoke-fellow a fable. Let them come and see in the corner ofthe stable one of these poor beasts, thin and wasted, restlessly lashinghis lean flanks with his tail, violently breathing with mingled terrorand disdain on the food offered him, his eyes always turned toward thedoor, scratching with his hoof the empty place at his side, sniffing theyokes and chains which his fellow used to wear, and incessantly callinghim with melancholy lowings. The ox-herd will say: "There is a pairof oxen gone;' this one will work no more, for his brother is dead. Weought to fatten him for the market, but he will not eat, and will soonstarve himself to death. " The old laborer worked slowly, silently, andwithout waste of effort His docile team were in no greater haste thanhe; but, thanks to the undistracted steadiness of his toil and thejudicious expenditure of his strength, his furrow was as soon plowed asthat of his son, who was driving, at some distance from him, four lessvigorous oxen through a more stubborn and stony piece of ground. 

My attention was next caught by a fine spectacle, a truly noble subjectfor a painter. At the other end of the field a fine-looking youth wasdriving a magnificent team of four pairs of young oxen, through whosesomber coats glanced a ruddy, glow-like name. They had the short, curryheads that belong to the wild bull, the same large, fierce eyes andjerky movements; they worked in an abrupt, nervous way that showed howthey still rebelled against the yoke and goad, and trembled with angeras they obeyed the authority so recently imposed. They were what iscalled "newly yoked" oxen. The man who drove them had to clear a cornerof the field that had formerly been given up to pasture, and wasfilled with old tree-stumps; and his youth and energy, and his eighthalf-broken animals, hardly sufficed for the Herculean task. 

A child of six or seven years old, lovely as an angel, wearing round hisshoulders, over his blouse, a sheepskin that made him look like a littleSaint John the Baptist out of a Renaissance picture, was running alongin the furrow beside the plow, pricking the flanks of the oxen with along, light goad but slightly sharpened. The spirited animals quiveredunder the child's light touch, making their yokes and head-bands creak, and shaking the pole violently. Whenever a root stopped the advanceof the plowshare, the laborer would call every animal by name in hispowerful voice, trying to calm rather than to excite them; for the oxen, irritated by the sudden resistance, bounded, pawed the ground with theirgreat cloven hoofs, and would have jumped aside and dragged the plowacross the fields, if the young man had not kept the first four in orderwith his voice and goad, while the child controlled the four others. The little fellow shouted too, but the voice which he tried to make ofterrible effect, was as sweet as his angelic face. The whole scene wasbeautiful in its grace and strength; the landscape, the man, the child, the oxen under the yoke; and in spite of the mighty struggle by whichthe earth was subdued, a deep feeling of peace and sweetness reignedover all. Each time that an obstacle was surmounted and the plow resumedits even, solemn progress, the laborer, whose pretended violence wasbut a trial of his strength, and an outlet for his energy, instantlyregained that serenity which is the right of simple souls, and lookedwith fatherly pleasure toward his child, who turned to smile back athim. Then the young father would raise his manly voice in the solemnand melancholy chant that ancient tradition transmits, not indeed to allplowmen indiscriminately, but to those who are most perfect in the artof exciting and sustaining the spirit of cattle while at work. Thissong, which was probably sacred in its origin, and to which mysteriousinfluences must once have been attributed, is still thought topossess the virtue of putting animals on their mettle, allaying theirirritation, and of beguiling the weariness of their long, hard toil. It is not enough to guide them skilfully, to trace a perfectly straightfurrow, and to lighten their labor by raising the plowshare or drivingit into the earth; no man can be a consummate husbandman who does notknow how to sing to his oxen, and that is an art that requires tasteand especial gifts. To tell the truth, this chant is only a recitative, broken off and taken up at pleasure. Its irregular form and itsintonations that violate all the rules of musical art make it impossibleto describe. 

But it is none the less a noble song, and so appropriate is it to thenature of the work it accompanies, to the gait of the oxen, to the peaceof the fields, and to the simplicity of the men who sing it, that nogenius unfamiliar with the tillage of the earth, and no man except anaccomplished laborer of our part of the country, could repeat it. At theseason of the year when there is no work or stir afoot except that ofthe plowman, this strong, sweet refrain rises like the voice of thebreeze, to which the key it is sung in gives it some resemblance. Eachphrase ends with a long trill, the final note of which is held withincredible strength of breath, and rises a quarter of a tone, sharpingsystematically. It is barbaric, but possesses an unspeakable charm, andanybody, once accustomed to hear it, cannot conceive of another songtaking its place at the same hour and in the same place, withoutstriking a discord. 

So it was that I had before my eyes a picture the reverse of that ofHolbein, although the scene was similar. Instead of a wretched old man, a young and active one; instead of a team of weary and emaciated horses, four yoke of robust and fiery oxen; instead of death, a beautifulchild; instead of despair and destruction, energy and the possibility ofhappiness. 

Then the old French verse, "À la sueur de ton vis-aige, " etc. , andVirgil's "O fortunatos. . . Agricolas, " returned to my mind, and seeingthis lovely child and his father, under such poetic conditions, and withso much grace and strength, accomplish a task full of such grandand solemn suggestions, I was conscious of deep pity and involuntaryrespect. Happy the peasant of the fields! Yes, and so too should I bein his place, if my arm and voice could be endowed with sudden strength, and I could help to make Nature fruitful, and sing of her gifts, withoutceasing to see with my eyes or understand with my brain harmoniouscolors and sounds, delicate shades and graceful outlines; in short, themysterious beauty of all things. And above all, if my heart continuedto beat in concert with the divine sentiment that presided over theimmortal sublimity of creation. 

But, alas! this man has never understood the mystery of beauty; thischild will never understand it. God forbid that I should not think themsuperior to the animals which are subject to them, or that they have notmoments of rapturous insight that soothe their toil and lull their caresto sleep. I see the seal of the Lord upon their noble brows, for theywere born to inherit the earth far more truly than those who have boughtand paid for it. The proof that they feel this is that they cannot beexiled with impunity, that they love the soil they have watered withtheir tears, and that the true peasant dies of homesickness under thearms of a soldier far from his native field. But he lacks some of myenjoyments, those pure delights which should be his by right, as aworkman in that immense temple which the sky only is vast enoughto embrace. He lacks the consciousness of his sentiment. Those whocondemned him to slavery from his mother's womb, being unable to rob himof his vague dreams, took away from him the power of reflection. 

Yet, imperfect being that he is, sentenced to eternal childhood, he isnobler than the man in whom knowledge has stifled feeling. Do not setyourselves above him, you who believe yourselves invested with a lawfuland inalienable right to rule over him, for your terrible mistake showsthat your brain has destroyed your heart, and that you are the blindestand most incomplete of men! I love the simplicity of his soul more thanthe false lights of yours; and if I had to narrate the story of hislife, the pleasure I should take in bringing out the tender and touchingside of it would be greater than your merit in painting the degradationand contempt into which he is cast by your social code. 

I knew the young man and the beautiful child; I knew their history, forthey had a history. Everybody has his own, and could make the romanceof his life interesting, if he could but understand it. Although but apeasant and a laborer, Germain had always been aware of his duties andaffections. He had related them to me clearly and ingenuously, and I hadlistened with interest. After some time spent in watching him plow, itoccurred to me that I might write his story, though that story were assimple, as straightforward, and unadorned as the furrow he was tracing. 

Next year that furrow will be filled and covered by a fresh one. Thusdisappear most of the footprints made by man in the field of human life. A little earth obliterates them, and the furrows we have dug succeed oneanother like graves in a cemetery. Is not the furrow of the laborer ofas much value as that of the idler, even if that idler, by some absurdchance, have made a little noise in the world, and left behind him anabiding name?

I mean, if possible, to save from oblivion the furrow of Germain, the skilled husbandman. He will never know nor care, but I shall takepleasure in my talk. 

II -- Father Maurice

"GERMAIN, " said his father-in-law one day, "you must decide aboutmarrying again. It is almost two years now since you lost my daughter, and your eldest boy is seven years old! You are almost thirty, my boy, and you know that in our country a man is considered too old to go tohousekeeping again after that age; you have three nice children, andthus far they have not proved a burden to us at all. My wife and mydaughter-in-law have looked after them as well as they could, and lovedthem as they ought. Here is Petit-Pierre almost grown up. He goads theoxen very well; he knows how to look after the cattle; and he is strongenough to drive the horses to the trough. So it is not he that worriesus. But the other two, love them though we do, God knows the poor littleinnocents give us trouble enough this year; my daughter-in-law is aboutto lie in, and she has yet another baby to attend to. When the childwe are expecting comes, she will not be able to look after your littleSolange, and above all your Sylvain, who is not four years old, and whois never quiet day or night. He has a restless disposition like yours;that will make a good workman of him, but it makes a dreadful child, andmy old wife cannot run fast enough to save him when he almost tumblesinto the ditch, or when he throws himself in front of the trampingcattle. And then with this other that my daughter-in-law is going tobring into the world, for a month at least her next older child willfall on my wife's hands. Besides, your children worry us, and give ustoo much to do; we hate to see children badly looked after, and when wethink of the accidents that may befall them, for want of care, we cannotrest. So you need another wife, and I another daughter-in-law. Thinkthis over, my son. I have called it to your mind before. Time flies, and the years will not wait a moment for you. It is your duty to yourchildren and to the rest of us, who wish all well at home, to marry assoon as you can. " "Very well, father, " answered the son-in-law, "if youreally wish it, I must do as you say. But I do not wish to hide it fromyou that it will make me very sad, and that I hardly wish tor anythingbut to drown myself. We know who it is we lose, we never know whom wefind. I had a good wife, a pretty wife, sweet, brave, good to her fatherand mother, good to her husband, good to her children, good to toil inthe fields and in the house, well fitted to work, --in short, good foreverything; and when you had given her to me, and I took her, we didnot place it among our promises that I should go and forget about her ifI had the misfortune to lose her. "

"What you say shows your good heart, Germain, " answered Father Maurice. "I know that you loved my daughter and that you made her happy, andthat had you been able to satisfy Death by going in her place, Catherinewould be alive today, and you would be in the graveyard. She deservedall your love, and if you are not consoled, neither are we. But I do notspeak to you of forgetting her: God wished her to leave us, and we donot let a day go by without telling him in our prayers and thoughts, and words and actions, that we keep her memory and still sorrow for herloss. But if she could speak to you from the other world, and let youknow what she wishes, she would tell you to find a mother for her littleorphans. So the question is to find a woman who will be worthy to takeher place. It will not be easy, but it is not impossible. And whenwe shall find her for you, you will love her as you used to love mydaughter, because you are a good man, and because you will be thankfulto her for helping us and for loving your children. "

"Very well, Father Maurice, I shall do as you wish, as I have alwaysdone. "

"It is only justice, my son, to say that you have always listened to thefriendly advice and good judgment of the head of the house. So let usconsult about your choice of a new wife. First, I don't advise you totake a young girl. That is not what you need. Youth is careless, and, asit is hard work to bring up three children, especially when they are ofanother bed, you must have a good soul, wise and gentle, and well usedto work. If your wife is not about the same age as you, she will haveno reason to accept such a duty. She will find you too old and yourchildren too young. She will be complaining, and your children willsuffer. "

"This is just what makes me uneasy. Suppose the poor little thingsshould be badly treated, hated, beaten?"

"God grant not, " answered the old man. "But bad women are more rare withus than good, and we shall be stupid if we cannot pick out somebody whowill suit us. "

"That is true, father. There are good girls in our village. There isLouise, Sylvaine, Claudie, Marguerite--yes, anybody you want. "

"Gently, gently, my boy. All these girls are too young, or too poof, or too pretty; for surely we must think of that top, my son. A prettywoman is not always as well behaved as another!"

"Then you wish me to take an ugly wife?" said Germain, a little uneasy. 

"No, not ugly at all, for this woman will bear you other children, andthere is nothing more miserable than to have children who are ugly andweak and sickly. But a woman still fresh and in good health, who isneither pretty nor ugly, would suit you exactly. "

"I am quite sure, " said Germain, smiling rather sadly, "that to getsuch a woman as you wish, you must have her made to order. All the morebecause you don't wish her to be poor, and the rich are not easy to get, particularly for a widower. "

"And suppose she were a widow herself, Germain? A widow without childrenand with a good portion?"

"For the moment, I cannot think of anybody like this in our parish. "

"Nor I either. But there are others elsewhere. "

"You have somebody in mind, father. Then tell me, at once, who it is. "

III -- Germain, the Skilled Husbandman

"YES, I have somebody in mind, " replied Father Maurice. "It is aLeonard, the widow of a Guérin. She lives at Fourche. "

"I know neither the woman nor the place, " answered Germain, resigned, but growing more and more melancholy. 

"Her name is Catherine, like your dead wife's. "

"Catherine? Yes, I shall be glad to have to pronounce that name, Catherine; and yet if I cannot love one as much as the other, it willpain me all the more. It will bring her to my mind more often. "

"I tell you, you will love her. She is a good soul, a woman with a warmheart. I have not seen her for a long time. She was not an ugly girlthen. But she is no longer young. She is thirty-two. She comes of a goodfamily, honest people all of them, and for property she has eight or tenthousand francs in land which she would sell gladly in order to investin the place where she settles. For she, too, is thinking of marryingagain, and I know that if your character pleases her, she will not bedissatisfied with your situation. "

"So you have made all the arrangements?"

"Yes, except that I have not had an opinion from either of you, and thatis what you must ask each other when you meet. The woman's father isa distant connection of mine, and he has been a good friend to me. Youknow Father Leonard well?"

"Yes, I have seen you two talking at the market, and at the last youlunched together. Then it was about her that he spoke to you so long?"

"Certainly. He watched you selling your cattle and saw that you drovea shrewd bargain, and that you were a good-looking fellow and appearedactive and intelligent; and when I told him what a good fellow you wereand how well you have behaved toward us, without one word of vexation oranger during the eight years we have been living and working together, he took it into his head to marry you to his daughter. This suits me, too, I admit, when I think of her good reputation and the honesty of herfamily and the prosperous condition I know her affairs are in. "

"I see, Father Maurice, that you have an eye to money. "

"Of course I do; you have, too, have you not?"

"I do look toward it, if you wish, for your sake; but you know that, for my own part, I don't worry whether I gain or not in what we make. Idon't understand about profit-sharing; I have no head for that sortof thing. I understand the ground; I understand cattle, horses, carts, sowing, threshing, and provender. As for sheep, and vineyards, andvegetables, petty profits, and fine gardening, you know that is yourson's business. I don't have much to do with it. As to money, my memoryis short, and I should rather give up everything than fight about whatis yours and what is mine. I should be afraid of making some mistake andclaiming what does not belong to me, and if business were not so clearand simple I should never find my way in it. "

"So much the worse, my son; and this is the reason I wish you to have awife with a clear head to fill my place when I am gone. You never wishedto understand our accounts, and this might lead you into a quarrel withmy son, when you don't have me any longer to keep you in harmony anddecide what is each one's share. "

"May you live long, Father Maurice. But do not worry about what willhappen when you die. I shall never quarrel with your son. I trustJacques as I do you; and as I have no property of my own, and all thatmight accrue to me comes from your daughter and belongs to our children, I can rest easy, and you, too. Jacques would never rob his sister'schildren for the sake of his own, for he loves them all equally. "

"You are right, Germain. Jacques is a good son, a good brother, and aman who loves the truth. But Jacques may die before you, before yourchildren grow up; and in a family we must always remember never toleave children without a head to look after them and govern theirdisagreements; otherwise, the lawyer-people mix themselves up in it, stir them up to fight, and make them eat up everything in law-suits. So we ought not to think of bringing home another person, man or woman, without remembering that some day or other that person may have tocontrol the behavior and business of twenty or thirty children andgrandchildren, sons-in-law and daughters-in-law. We never know how big afamily can grow, and when a hive is so full that the bees must form newswarms, each one wishes to carry off her share of the honey. When I tookyou for my son, although my daughter was rich and you were poor, I neverreproached her for choosing you. I saw that you were a hard worker, andI knew very well that the best fortune for people in such a country asours is a pair of arms and a heart like yours. When a man brings theseinto a family, he brings enough. But with a woman it is different. Herwork indoors saves, but it does not gain. Besides, now that you area father, looking for a second wife, you must remember that your newchildren will have no claim on the property of your children by anotherwife; and if you should happen to die they might suffer very much--atleast, if your wife had no money in her own right. And then the childrenwhich you will add to our colony will cost something to bring up. Ifthat fell on us alone, we should surely take care of them without a wordof complaint; but the comfort of everybody would suffer, and your eldestchildren would bear their share of hardship. When families grow toolarge, if money does not keep pace, misery comes, no matter how bravelyyou bear up. This is what I wished to say, Germain; think it over, and try to make the widow Guérin like you; for her discretion and herdollars will help us now and make us feel easy about the future. "

"That is true, Father. I shall try to please her and to like her. "

"To do that you must go to find her, and see her. "

"At her own place? At Fourche? That is a great way from here, is it not?And we scarcely have time to run off at this season of the year. "

"When it is a question of a love-match you must make up your mind tolose time, but when it is a sensible marriage of two people, who takeno sudden fancies and know what they want, it is very soon decided. To-morrow is Saturday; you will make your day's work a little shorterthan usual. You must start after dinner about two o'clock. You will beat Fourche by nightfall. The moon rises early. The roads are good, andit is not more than three leagues distant. It is near Magnier. Besides, you will take the mare. "

"I had just as lief go afoot in this cool weather. "

"Yes, but the mare is pretty, and a suitor looks better when he comeswell mounted. You must put on your new clothes and carry a nice presentof game to Father Leonard. You will come from me and talk with him, passall of Sunday with his daughter, and come back Monday morning with a yesor no. "

"Very well, " answered Germain calmly, and yet he did not feel very calm. 

Germain had always lived soberly, as industrious peasants do. Marriedat twenty, he had loved but one woman in his life, and after her death, impulsive and gay as his nature was, he had never played nor trifledwith another. He had borne a real sorrow faithfully in his heart, andit was not without misgiving nor without sadness that he yielded to hisfather-in-law; but that father had always governed the family wisely, and Germain, entirely devoted as he was to the common welfare and so, by consequence, to the head of the house, who represented it, could notunderstand that he might have wronged his own good sense and hurt theinterests of all. Nevertheless, he was sad. Few days went by when he didnot cry in secret, for his wife, and although loneliness began to weighon him, he was more afraid of entering into a new marriage than desirousof finding a support in his sorrow. He had a vague idea that love mighthave consoled him by coming to him of a sudden, for this is the only waylove can console. We never find it when we seek it; it comes over usunawares. 

This cold-blooded scheme of marriage that Father Maurice had opened tohim, this unknown woman he was to take for his bride, perhaps even allthat had been said to him of her virtue and good sense, made him pauseto think. And he went away musing as men do whose thoughts are too fewto divide into hostile factions, not scraping up fine arguments forrebellion and selfishness but suffering from a dull grief, submissive toills from which there is no escape. 

Meanwhile, Father Maurice had returned to the farm, while Germain, between sunset and dark, spent the closing hour of the day in repairinggaps the sheep had made in the hedge of a yard near the farm-buildings. He lifted up the branches of the thorn-bushes and held them in placewith clods of earth, whilst the thrushes chattered in the neighboringthicket and seemed to call to him to hurry, for they were eager to comeand see his work as soon as he had gone. 

IV -- Mother Guillette

FATHER MAURICE found at his house an old neighbor who had come to talkwith his wife, seeking at the same time to secure a few embers to lighther fire. Mother Guillette lived in a wretched hut two gunshots awayfrom the farm. Still she was a willing and an orderly woman. Her poordwelling was clean and neat, and the care with which her clothes weremended showed that she respected herself in the midst of her penury. 

"You have come to fetch your evening fire, Mother Guillette, " said theold man to her. "Is there anything else you want?"

"No, Father Maurice, " answered she; "nothing for the present. I am nobeggar, as you know, and I take care not to abuse the kindness of myfriends. "

"That is very true. Besides, your friends are always ready to do you aservice. "

"I was just talking to your wife, and I was asking her if Germain hadfinally decided to marry again. "

"You are no gossip, " replied Father Maurice; "we can talk in yourpresence without having any foolish tale-bearing to fear. So I will tellmy wife and you that Germain has made up his mind absolutely. To-morrowmorning he starts for the farm at Fourche. "

"Good enough!" cried Mother Maurice; "poor child! God grant he may finda woman as good and true as he. "

"So he is going to Fourche?" remarked Mother Guillette; "how lucky thatis! It is exactly what I want. And since you were just asking meif there were anything I wished for, I am going to tell you, FatherMaurice, how you can do me a service. "

"Tell me what it is; we like to help you. "

"I wish Germain would be so kind as to take my daughter along with him. "

"Where? To Fourche?"

"No, not to Fourche, but to Ormeaux. She is to stay there the rest ofthe year. "

"What!" exclaimed Mother Maurice, "are you going to separate from yourdaughter?"

"She must go out to work and earn her living. I am sorry enough, and sheis too, poor soul. We could not make up our minds to part Saint John'sDay, but now that Saint Martin's is upon us, she finds a good place asshepherdess at the farms at Ormeaux. On his way home from the fair theother day, the farmer passed by here. He caught sight of my little Marietending her three sheep on the common. 

"'You have hardly enough to do, my little girl, ' said he; 'three sheepare not enough for a shepherdess: would you like to take care of ahundred? I will take you along. Our shepherdess has fallen sick. She isgoing back to her family, and if you will be at our farm before a weekis over, you shall have fifty francs for the rest of the year up toSaint John's Day. '

"The child refused, but she could not help thinking it over and tellingme about it, when she came home in the evening, and found me downheartedand worried about the winter, which was sure to be hard and long; forthis year the cranes and wild ducks were seen crossing the sky a wholemonth before they generally do. We both of us cried, but after a timewe took heart. We knew that we could not stay together, since it is hardenough for one person to get a living from our little patch of ground. Then since Marie is old enough, --for she is going on to sixteen, --shemust do like the rest, earn her own living and help her poor mother. "

"Mother Guillette, " said the old laborer, "if it were only fifty francsyou needed to help you out of your trouble, and save you from sendingaway your daughter, I should certainly find them for you, althoughfifty francs is no trifle for people like us. But in everything we mustconsult common sense as well as friendship. To be saved from want thisyear will not keep you from want in the future, and the longer yourdaughter takes to make up her mind, the harder you both will find itto part. Little Marie is growing tall and strong. She has not enough athome to keep her busy. She might get into lazy habits. . . "

"Oh, I am not afraid of that!" exclaimed Mother Guillette. "Marie is asactive as a rich girl at the head of a large family can be. She neversits still with her arms folded for an instant, and when we have no workto do, she keeps dusting and polishing our old furniture until it shineslike a mirror. The child is worth her weight in gold, and I should muchrather have her enter your service as a shepherdess than go so far awayto people I don't know. You would have taken her at Saint John's Day;but now you have hired all your hands, and we cannot think of that tillSaint John's Day next year. "

"Yes, I consent with all my heart, Guillette. I shall be very glad totake her. But in the mean time she will do well to learn her work, andaccustom herself to obey others. "

"Yes, that is true, no doubt. The die is cast. The farmer at Ormeauxsent to ask about her this morning; we consented, and she must go. Butthe poor child does not know the way, and I should not like to send herso far alone. Since your son-in-law goes to Fourche to-morrow, perhapshe can take her. It seems that Fourche is close to her journey's end. Atleast, so they tell me, for I have never made the trip myself. "

"It is very near indeed, and my son will show her the way. Naturally, hemight even take her up behind him on the mare. That will save her shoes. Here he comes for supper. Tell me, Germain, Mother Guillette's littleMarie is going to become a shepherdess at Ormeaux. Will you take herthere on your horse?"

"Certainly, " answered Germain, who, troubled as he was, never feltindisposed to do a kindness to his neighbor. 

In our community a mother would not think of such a thing as to trusta girl of sixteen to a man of twenty-eight. For Germain was reallybut twenty-eight, and although according to the notions of thecountry people he was considered rather old to marry, he was still thebest-looking man in the neighborhood. Toil had not wrinkled and worn himas it does most peasants who have passed ten years in till-ing the soil. He was strong enough to labor for ten more years without showing signsof age, and the prejudices of her time must have weighed heavily on themind of a young girl to prevent her from seeing that Germain had a freshcomplexion, eyes sparkling and blue as skies in May, ruddy lips, fineteeth, and a body well shaped and lithe as a young horse that has neveryet left his pasture. 

But purity of manners is a sacred custom in some districts far distantfrom the corrupted life of great cities, and amongst all thehouseholds of Belair, the family of Maurice was known to be honest andtruth-loving. Germain was on his way to find a wife. Marie was a child, too young and too poor to be thought of in this light, and unless hewere a heartless and a bad man he could not entertain one evil thoughtconcerning her. Father Maurice felt no uneasiness at seeing him take thepretty girl on the crupper. Mother Guillette would have thought herselfdoing him a wrong had she asked him to respect her daughter as hissister. Marie embraced her mother and her young friends twenty times, and then mounted the mare in tears. Germain, sad on his own account, felt all the more sympathy for her sorrow, and rode away with amelancholy air, while all the people of the neighborhood waved good-byto Marie without a thought of harm. 

V -- Petit-Pierre

THE gray was young, good-looking, and strong. She carried her doubleburden with ease, laying back her ears and champing her bit like thehigh-spirited mare she was. Passing in front of the pasture, she caughtsight of her mother, whose name was the Old Gray as hers was the YoungGray, and she whinnied in token of good-by. The Old Gray came nearerthe hedge, and striking her shoes together she tried to gallop along theedge of the field in order to follow her daughter; then seeing her fallinto a sharp trot, the mare whinnied in her turn and stood in an uneasyattitude, her nose in the air and her mouth filled with grass that shehad no thought of eating. 

"That poor beast always knows her offspring, " said Germain, trying tokeep Marie's thoughts from her troubles. "That reminds me, I never kissedPetit-Pierre before I started. The naughty boy was not there. Last nighthe wished to make me promise to take him along, and he wept for an hourin bed. This morning again, he tried everything to persuade me. Oh, howsly and coaxing he is! But when he saw that he could not gain his point, the young gentleman got into a temper. He went off to the fields, and Ihave not seen him all day. "

"I have seen him, " said little Marie, striving to keep back her tears;"he was running toward the clearing with Soulas' children, and I feltsure that he had been away from home a long time, for he was hungry andwas eating wild plums and blackberries. I gave him the bread I had forlunch, and he said, 'Thank you, dear Marie; when you come to our house, I will give you some cake. ' He is a dear little child, Germain. "

"Yes, he is, " answered the laborer; "and there is nothing I would not dofor him. If his grandmother had not more sense than I, I could not havehelped taking him with me, when I saw him crying as though his poorlittle heart would burst. "

"Then why did you not take him, Germain? He, would have been very littletrouble. He is so good when you please him. "

"He would probably have been in the way in the place where I am going. At least Father Maurice thought so. On the other hand, I should havethought it well to see how they received him. For no one could helpbeing kind to such a nice child. But at home they said that I must notbegin by showing off all the cares of the household. I don't know why Ispeak of this to you, little Marie; you can't understand. "

"Oh, yes, I do; I know that you are going away to marry; my mother spoketo me about it, and told me not to mention it to a soul, either at homeor at my destination, and you need not be afraid; I shall not breathe aword about it. "

"You are very right. For the deed is n't done yet. Perhaps I shall notsuit this woman. "

"I hope you will, Germain; why should you not suit her?"

"Who knows? I have three children, and that is a heavy burden for awoman who is not their mother. "

"Very true. But are not your children like other children?"

"Do you think so?"

"They are lovely as little angels, and so well brought up that you can'tfind better children. "

"There 's Sylvain. He is none too obedient. "

"He is so very little. He can't help being naughty. But he is verybright. "

"He is bright it is true, and very brave. He is not afraid of cowsnor bulls, and if he were given his own way, he would be climbing onhorseback already with his elder brother. "

"Had I been in your place, I would have taken the eldest boy along. Surely people would have liked you at once for having such a prettychild. "

"Yes, if a woman is fond of children. But if she is not. "

"Are there women who don't love children?"

"Not many, I think, but still there are some, and that is what troublesme. "

"You don't know this woman at all, then?"

"No more than you, and I fear that I shall not know her better after Ihave seen her. I am not suspicious. When people say nice things to me, I believe them, but more than once I have had good reason to repent, forwords are not deeds. "

"They say that she is a very good woman. "

"Who says so? Father Maurice?"

"Yes, your father-in-law. "

"That is all very well. But he knows her no more than I. "

"Well, you will soon see. Pay close attention, and let us hope that youwill not be deceived. "

"I have it. Little Marie, I should be very much obliged if you wouldcome into the house for a minute before you go straight on to Ormeaux. You are quick-witted; you have always shown that you are not stupid, and nothing escapes your notice. Should you see anything to rouse yoursuspicions, you must warn me of it very quietly. "

"Oh! no, Germain, I will not do that; I should be too much afraid ofmaking a mistake; and, besides, if a word lightly spoken were to turnyou against this marriage, your family would bear me a grudge, and Ihave plenty of troubles now without bringing any more on my poor dearmother. "

As they were talking thus, the gray pricked up her ears and shied; thenreturning on her steps, she approached the bushes, where she began torecognize something which had frightened her at first. Germain casthis eye over the thicket, and in a ditch, beneath the branches of ascrub-oak, still thick and green, he saw something which he took for alamb. 

"The little creature is strayed or dead, for it does not move. Perhapssome one is looking for it; we must see. "

"It is not an animal, " cried little Marie; "it is a sleeping child. Itis your Petit-Pierre. "

"Heavens!" exclaimed Germain; "see the little scamp asleep so far awayfrom home, and in a ditch where a snake might bite him!"

He lifted up the child, who smiled as he opened his eyes and threw hisarms about his father's neck, saying: "Dear little father, you are goingto take me with you. "

"Oh, yes; always the same tune. What were you doing there, you naughtyPierre?"

"I was waiting for my little father to go by. I was watching the road, and I watched so hard that I fell asleep. "

"And if I had passed by without seeing you, you would have been out ofdoors all night, and a wolf would have eaten you up. "

"Oh, I knew very well that you would see me, " answered Petit-Pierre, confidently. 

"Well, kiss me now, bid me good-by, and run back quickly to the house, unless you wish them to have supper without you. "

"Are you not going to take me, then?" cried the little boy, beginning torub his eyes to show that he was thinking of tears. 

"You know very well that grandpapa and grand-mama do not wish it, " saidGermain, fortifying himself behind the authority of his elders, like aman who distrusts his own. 

The child would not listen. He began to cry with all his might, sayingthat as long as his father was taking little Marie, he might just aswell take him too. They replied that they must pass through great woodsfilled with wicked beasts who eat up little children. The gray would notcarry three people; she had said so when they were starting, and in thecountry where they were going there was no bed and no supper for littleboys. All these good reasons could not persuade Petit-Pierre; he threwhimself on the ground, and rolled about, shrieking that his littlefather did not love him any more, and that if he did not take him hewould never go back to the house at all, day or night. 

Germain had a father's heart, as soft and weak as a woman's. His-wife'sdeath, and the care which he had been obliged to bestow all alone on hislittle ones, as well as the thought that these poor motherless childrenneeded a great deal of love, combined to make him thus. So such a sharpstruggle went on within him, all the more because he was ashamed of hisweakness and tried to hide his confusion from little Marie, that thesweat started out on his forehead, and his eyes grew red and almostready to weep. At last he tried to get angry, but as he turned towardlittle Marie in order to let her witness his strength of mind, he sawthat the good girls face was wet with tears; all his courage forsook himand he could not keep back his own, scold and threaten as he would. 

"Truly your heart is too hard, " said little Marie at last, "and formyself I know that I never could refuse a child who felt so badly. Come, Germain, let 's take him. Your mare is well used to carrying two peopleand a child, for you know that your brother-in-law and his wife, who ismuch heavier than I, go to market every Saturday with their boy on thisgood beast's back. Take him on the horse in front of you. Besides, Ishould rather walk on foot all alone than give this little boy so muchpain. "

"Never mind, " answered Germain, who was dying to allow himself to giveway. "The gray is strong, and could carry two more if there were room onher back. But what can we do with this child on the way? He will be coldand hungry, and who will take care of him to-night and tomorrow, puthim to bed, wash him, and dress him? I don't dare give this trouble toa woman I don't know, who will think, doubtless, that I am exceedinglyfree and easy with her to begin with. "

"Trust me, Germain, you will know her at once by the kindness or theimpatience that she shows. If she does not care to receive your Pierre, I will take charge of him myself. I will go to her house and dress him, and I will take him to the fields with me to-morrow. I will amuse himall day long, and take good care that he does not want for anything. "

"He will tire you, my poor girl, and give you trouble. A whole day is along time. "

"Not at all; it will give me pleasure; he will keep me company, and thatwill make me less sad the first day that I must pass in a new place. Ishall fancy that I am still at home. "

Seeing that little Marie was pleading for her, the child seized upon herskirt and held it so tight that they must have hurt him in order totear it away. When he perceived that his father was weakening, he tookMarie's hand in both his tiny sunburned fists and kissed her, leapingfor joy, and pulling her toward the mare with the burning impatiencechildren feel in their desires. 

"Come along, " said the young girl, lifting him in her arms; "let us tryto quiet his poor little heart. It is fluttering like a little bird; andif you feel the cold when night comes on, tell me, my Pierre, and I willwrap you in my cape. Kiss your little father, and beg his pardon forbeing naughty. Tell him that you will never, never be so again. Do youhear?"

"Yes, yes, provided that I always do just as he wishes. Is n't itso?" said Germain, drying the little boy's eyes with his handkerchief. "Marie, you are spoiling the little rascal. But really and truly, youare too good, little Marie. I don't know why you did not come to usas shepherdess last Saint John's Day. You would have taken care of mychildren, and I should much rather pay a good price for their sake thantry to find a woman who will think, perhaps, she is doing me a greatkindness if she does not detest them. "

"You must not look on the dark side of things, " answered little Marie, holding the horse's bridle while Germain placed his son in front of thebig pack-saddle covered with goatskin. "If your wife does not care forchildren, take me into your service next year, and you may be sure Ishall amuse them so well that they will not notice anything. "

VI -- On the Heath

"DEAR ME, " said Germain, after they had gone a few steps farther, "whatwill they think at home when they miss the little man? The family willbe worried, and will be looking everywhere for him. "

"You can tell the man who is mending the road up there that you aretaking him along, and ask him to speak to your people. "

"That is very true, Marie; you don't forget anything. It never occurredto me that Jeannie must be there. "

"He lives close to the farm, and he will not fail to do your errand. "

When they had taken this precaution, Germain put the mare to a trot, andPetit-Pierre was so overjoyed that for a time he forgot that he hadgone without his dinner; but the motion of the horse gave him a hollowfeeling in his stomach, and at the end of a league, he began to gape andgrow pale, and confessed that he was dying of hunger. 

"This is the way it begins, " exclaimed Germain. "I was quite sure thatwe should not go far without this young gentleman crying with hunger orthirst. "

"I am thirsty, too!" said Petit-Pierre. 

"Very well, then, let 's go to Mother Rebec's tavern at Corlay, thesign of 'The Dawn'--a pretty sign, but a poor lodging. You will takesomething to drink, too, will you not, Marie?"

"No, no; I don't want anything. I will hold the mare while you go inwith the child. "

"But I remember, my good girl, that this morning you gave the bread fromyour own breakfast to my Pierre. You have had nothing to eat. You wouldnot take dinner with us at home; you would do nothing but cry. "

"Oh, I was not hungry; I felt too sad, and I give you my word that evennow I have no desire to eat. "

"You must oblige yourself to eat, little girl, else you will fall sick. We have a long way to go, and it will not do to arrive half-starved andbeg for bread before we say how d' ye do. I shall set you a good examplemyself, although I am not very hungry: and I am sure that I can, for, after all, I did not eat any dinner. I saw you crying, you and yourmother, and it made me feel sad. Come along. I am going to tie the grayat the door. Get down; I wish you to. "

All three entered the inn, and in less than fifteen minutes the fat, lame hostess was able to place before them a nice-looking omelette, somebrown bread, and a bottle of light wine. 

Peasants do not eat quickly, and little Pierre had such a good appetitethat a whole hour passed before Germain could think of starting outagain. At first little Marie ate in order to be obliging; then littleby little she grew hungry. For, at sixteen, a girl cannot fast for long, and country air is dictatorial. 

The kind words with which Germain knew how to comfort her and strengthenher courage, produced their effect. She tried hard to persuade herselfthat seven months would soon be over, and to think of the pleasure instore for her when she saw once more her family and her hamlet; forFather Maurice and Germain had both promised to take her into theirservice. But just as she began to cheer up and play with little Pierre, Germain was so unfortunate as to point out to her from the inn windowthe lovely view of the valley which can all be seen from this height, and which looks so happy and green and fertile. 

Marie looked and asked if the houses of Belair were in sight. 

"No doubt, " said Germain, "and the farm, too, and even your house--see!that tiny gray spot not far from Godard's big poplar, below the belfry. "

"Ah, I see it, " said the little girl; and then she began to cry. 

"I ought not to have made you think of it, " said Germain. "I can donothing but stupid things today. Come along, Marie; let 's start, and inan hour, when the moon rises, it will not be hot. "

They resumed their journey across the great heath, and for fear oftiring the young girl and the child by too rapid a trot, Germain did notmake the gray go very fast. The sun had set when they left the road toenter the wood. 

Germain knew the way as far as Magnier, but he thought it would beshorter to avoid the Chantaloube road and descend by Presles and LaSépulture, a route he was not in the habit of taking on his way to thefair. He lost his way, and wasted more time before he reached the wood. Even then he did not enter it on the right side, although he did notperceive his mistake, so that he turned his back on Fourche, and took adirection higher up on the way to Ardente. 

He was prevented still further from finding his way by a thick mistwhich rose as the night fell; one of those mists which come on autumnevenings when the whiteness of the moonlight renders them more undefinedand more treacherous. The great pools of water scattered through theglades gave forth a vapor so dense that when the gray crossed them, their presence was known only by a splashing noise, and the difficultywith which she drew her feet from the mud. 

At last they found a good straight road, and when they came to the endof it, and Germain tried to discover where he was, he saw that he waslost. For Father Maurice had told him, when he explained the way, thaton leaving the wood he must descend a very steep hillside, cross a widemeadow, and ford the river twice. He had even warned him to cross thisriver carefully; for, early in the season, there had been great rains, and the water might still be higher than usual. Seeing neither hillsidenor meadows, nor river, but a heath, level and white as a mantle ofsnow, Germain stopped, looked about for a house, and waited for apasser-by, but could find nothing to set him right. Then he retraced hissteps and reentered the wood. But the mist thickened yet more, the moonwas completely hidden, the roads were execrable, and the quagmires deep. Twice the gray almost fell. Her heavy load made her lose courage, andalthough she kept enough sagacity to avoid the tree-trunks, she couldnot prevent her riders from striking the great branches which overhungthe road at the height of their heads and caused them great danger. In one of these collisions Germain lost his hat, and only recovered itafter much difficulty. Petit-Pierre had fallen asleep, and, lying likea log in his father's arms, hampered him so that he could no longer holdup nor direct the horse. 

"I believe we are bewitched, " exclaimed Germain, stopping; "for thewood is not large enough to get lost in, if a man is not drunk, and herewe have been turning round and round for two hours at least, withoutfinding a way out. The gray has but one idea in her head, and that is toget home. It is she who is deceiving me. If we wish to go home, we haveonly to give her the bit. But when we are perhaps but two steps fromour journey's end, it would be foolish to give up and return such a longroad; and yet I am at a loss what to do. I cant see sky or earth, andI am afraid that the child will catch the fever if we remain in thiscursed fog, or that he will be crushed beneath our weight if the horsefalls forward. "

"We must not persist longer, " said little Marie. "Let 's dismount, Germain. Give me the child; I can carry him perfectly well, and I knowbetter than you how to keep the cloak from falling open and leavinghim exposed. You lead the mare by her bridle. Perhaps we shall see moreclearly when we are nearer the ground. "

This precaution was of service only in saving them from a fall, for thefog hung low and seemed to stick to the damp earth. 

Their advance was painfully slow, and they were soon so weary that theyhalted when they reached a dry spot beneath the great oaks. 

Little Marie was in a violent sweat, but she uttered not a word ofcomplaint, nor did she worry about anything. Thinking only of the child, she sat down on the sand and laid it upon her knees, while Germainexplored the neighborhood, after having fastened the gray's reins to thebranch of a tree. 

But the gray was very dissatisfied with the journey. She rearedsuddenly, broke the reins loose, burst her girths, and giving, by way ofreceipt, half a dozen kicks higher than her head, she started across theclearing, showing very plainly that she needed no one to show her theway home. 

"Well, here we are afoot, " said Germain, after a vain attempt to catchthe horse, "and it would do us no good now if we were on the good road, for we should have to ford the river on foot, and since these paths arefilled with water, we may be sure that the meadow is wholly submerged. We don't know the other routes. We must wait until this fog clears. Itcan't last more than an hour or two; as soon as we can see clearly, weshall look about for a house, the first we come to near the edge of thewood. But for the present we can't stir from here. There is a ditchand a pond over there. Heaven knows what is in front of us, and what isbehind us is more than I can say now, for I have forgotten which way wecame. "

VII -- Underneath the Big Oaks

"WELL, we must be patient, Germain, " said little Marie. "We are notbadly off on this little hillock. The rain does not pierce the leaves ofthese big oaks, and we can light a fire, for I can feel old stumps whichstir readily and are dry enough to burn. You have a light, Germain, haveyou not? You were smoking your pipe a few minutes ago. "

"I did have; my tinderbox was in my bag on the saddle with the game thatI was bringing to my bride that is to be, but that devilish mare has runaway with everything, even with my cloak, which she will lose and tearto bits on every branch she comes to. " "No, no, Germain; saddle andcloak and bag are all there on the ground at your feet. The gray bursther girths, and threw off everything as she ran away. "

"That's true, thank God, " exclaimed the laborer; "if we can grope aboutand find a little dead wood, we shall be able to dry ourselves and getwarm. "

"That 's not difficult, " said little Marie; "dead wood always crackswhen you step on it. But will you give me the saddle?"

"What do you want of it?"

"To make a bed for the child. No, not that way. Upside down. He willnot roll off into the hollow, and it is still very warm from the horse'sback. Prop it up all around with the stones that you see there. "

"I can't see a stone; you must have cat's eyes. "

"There, it is all done, Germain. Hand me your cloak so that you can wrapup his little feet, and throw my cape over his body. Just see if he isnot as comfortable as though he were in his own bed, and feel how warmhe is. "

"You certainly know how to take care of children, Marie. "

"I need not be a witch to do that; now get your tinderbox from your bag, and I will arrange the wood. "

"This wood will never catch fire; it is too damp. "

"You are always doubting, Germain. Don't you remember when you were ashepherd, and made big fires in the fields right in the midst of therain?"

"Yes, that is a knack that belongs to children who take care of sheep;but I was made to drive the oxen as soon as I could walk. "

"That is what has made your arms strong and your hands quick! Here, thefire is built; you shall see whether it does not burn. Give me the lightand a handful of dry ferns. That is all right Now blow; you are notconsumptive, are you?"

"Not that I know of, " said Germain, blowing like a smith's bellows. Inan instant the flame leaped up, and throwing out a red glare, it rosefinally in pale blue jets under the oak branches, battling with the fog, and gradually drying the atmosphere for ten feet around. 

"Now I am going to sit by the child, so that the sparks may not fallon him, " said the young girl. "Pile on the wood and stir up the fire, Germain; we shall not catch cold nor fever here, I will answer for it. "

"Upon my word, you are a clever girl, " said Germain; "and you know howto make a fire like a little fairy of the night. I feel quite revived, and my courage has come back again; for with my legs drenched up to theknees, and with the thought of staying this way till daylight, I was ina very bad temper just now. "

"And when people are in a bad temper they don't think of anything, "answered little Marie. 

"And are you never bad-tempered?"

"No, never; what is the good of it?"

"Oh, of course, there is no good; but how can you help it when you havetroubles? Yet Heaven knows that you have not lacked them, my littlegirl; for you have not always been happy. "

"It is true that my mother and I have suffered. We have had sorrows, butwe have never lost heart. "

"I should never lose heart, no matter how hard my work was, " saidGermain, "but poverty would make me very sad; for I have never wantedfor anything. My wife made me rich, and I am rich still; I shall beso as long as I work on the farm; and that will be always, I hope. Buteverybody must suffer his share! I have suffered in another way. "

"Yes; you have lost your wife. That is very sad. "

"Is n't it?"

"Oh! Germain, I have wept for her many a time. She was so very kind! Butdon't let us talk about her longer, for I shall burst out crying. All mytroubles are ready to come back to me to-day. "

"It is true, she loved you dearly, little Marie. She used to make agreat deal of you and your mother. Are you crying? Come, my girl, Idon't want to cry. . . . "

"But you are crying, Germain! You are crying as hard as I. Why shoulda man be ashamed to weep for his wife? Don't let me trouble you. Thatsorrow is mine as well as yours. "

"You have a kind heart, Marie, and it does me good to weep with you. Putyour feet nearer the fire; your skirts are all soaked, too, poor littlegirl. I am going to take your place by the boy. You move nearer thefire. "

"I am hot enough, " said Marie; "and if you wish to sit down, take acorner of the cloak. I am perfectly comfortable. "

"The truth is that it is not so bad here, " said Germain, as he sat downbeside her. "Only I feel very hungry again. It is almost nine o'clock, and I have had such hard work in walking over these vile roads that Ifeel quite tired out. Are you not hungry, too, little Marie?"

"I?--not at all. I am not accustomed like you to four meals a day, andI have been to bed so often without my supper that once more does nottrouble me. "

"A woman like you is very convenient; she costs nothing, " said Germain, smiling. 

"I am not a woman, " exclaimed Marie, naïvely, without perceiving thedirection the husbandman's ideas had taken. "Are you dreaming?"

"Yes, I believe I must be dreaming, " answered Germain. "Perhaps hungeris making my mind wander. "

"How greedy you are, " answered she, brightening in her turn. "Well, ifyou can't live five or six hours without eating, have you not game inyour bag and fire to cook it?"

"By Jove, that's a good idea! But how about the present to my futurefather-in-law?"

"You have six partridges and a hare! I suppose you do not need all ofthem to satisfy your appetite. "

"But how can we cook them without a spit or andirons. They will beburned to a cinder!"

"Not at all, " said little Marie; "I warrant that I can cook them for youunder the cinders without a taste of smoke. Have you never caught larksin the fields, and cooked them between two stones? Oh! that is true--Ikeep forgetting that you have never been a shepherd. Come, pluck thepartridge. Not so hard! You will tear the skin. "

"You might be plucking the other to show me how!"

"Then you wish to eat two? What an ogre you are! They are all plucked. Iam going to cook them. "

"You would make a perfect little sutler's girl, Marie, but unhappily youhave no canteen, and I shall have to drink water from this pool!"

"You would like some wine, would you not? Possibly you might prefercoffee. You imagine yourself under the trees at the fair. Call out thehost. Some wine for the good husbandman of Belair!"

"You little witch, you are making fun of me! Would not you drink somewine if you had it?"

"I? At Mother Rebec's, with you to-night, I drank some for the secondtime in my life. But if you are very good, I shall give you a bottlealmost full, and excellent too. "

"What? Marie, I verily believe you are a witch!"

"Were you not foolish enough to ask for two bottles of wine at the inn?You and your boy drank one, and the other you set before me. I hardlydrank three drops, yet you paid for both without looking. "

"What then?"

"Why, I put the full one in my basket, because I thought that you oryour child would be thirsty on the journey. And here it is. "

"You are the most thoughtful girl I have ever met. Although the poorchild was crying when we left the inn, that did not prevent her fromthinking of others more than of herself. Little Marie, the man whomarries you will be no fool. "

"I hope not, for I am not fond of fools. Come, eat up your partridges;they are done to a turn; and for want of bread, you must be satisfiedwith chestnuts. "

"Where the deuce did you find chestnuts, too?"

"It is extraordinary! All along the road I picked them off the branchesas we went along, and filled my pockets. "

"And are they cooked, too?"

"Where would my wits have been had I not had sense enough to put thechestnuts in the fire as soon as it was lighted? That is the way wealways do in the fields. "

"So we are going to take supper together, little Marie. I want todrink your health and wish you a good husband, just the sort of a manthat will suit you. Tell me what kind you want. "

"I should find that very difficult, Germain, for I have not thoughtabout it yet. "

"What, not at all? Never?" said Germain, as he began to eat with alaborer's appetite, yet stopping to cut off the more tender morsels forhis companion, who persisted in refusing them and contented herself witha few chestnuts. 

"Tell me, little Marie, " he went on, seeing that she had no intentionof answering him, "have you never thought of marrying? Yet you are oldenough?"

"Perhaps, " she said, "but I am too poor. I need at least a hundredcrowns to marry, and I must work five or six years to scrape themtogether. "

"Poor girl, I wish Father Maurice were willing to give me a hundredcrowns to make you a present of. "

"Thank you kindly, Germain. What do you suppose people would say of me?"

"What do you wish them to say of you? They know very well that I am tooold to marry you. They would never believe that I--that you--"

"Look, Germain, your child is waking up, " said little Marie. 

VIII -- The Evening Prayer

PETIT-PIERRE had raised his head and was looking about him with athoughtful air. 

"Oh, that is the way he always does, whenever he hears the sound ofeating, " said Germain. "The explosion of a cannon would not rouse him, but if you work your jaws near him, he opens his eyes at once. "

"You must have been just like him at his age, " said little Marie, witha sly smile. "See! my Petit-Pierre, you are looking for your canopy. To-night it is made all of green, my child; but your father eats hissupper none the less. Do you wish to sup with him? I have not eaten yourshare; I thought that you might claim it. "

"Marie, I wish you to eat, " cried the husbandman; "I shall not touchanother morsel. I am a greedy glutton. You are depriving yourself forour sake. It is not fair. I am ashamed. It takes away all my appetite. Iwill not have my son eat his supper unless you take some too. "

"Leave us alone, " said little Marie; "you have not the key to ourappetites. Mine is tight shut to-day, but your Pierre's is as wide openas a little wolfs. Just see how he seizes his food. He will be a strongworkman too, some day!"

In truth, Petit-Pierre showed very soon whose son he was, and thoughscarcely awake and wholly at a loss to know where he was and how hehad come there, he began to eat ravenously. As soon as his hunger wasappeased, feeling excited as children do who break loose from theirwonted habits, he had more wit, more curiosity, and more good sense thanusual. He made them explain to him where he was, and when he found thathe was in the midst of a forest, he grew a little frightened. 

"Are there wicked beasts in this forest?" he demanded of his father. 

"No, none at all. Don't be afraid. "

"Then you told a story when you said that if I went with you into thegreat forest, the wolves would carry me off. "

"Just see this logician, " said Germain, embarrassed. 

"He is right, " replied little Marie. "That is what you told him. He hasa good memory, and has not forgotten. But, little Pierre, you must learnthat your father never tells a story. We passed through the big forestwhilst you were sleeping, and now we are in the small forest where thereare no wicked beasts. "

"Is the little forest very far away from the big one?"

"Far enough; besides, the wolves never go out of the big forest. Andthen, if some of them should come here, your father would kill them. "

"And you too, little Marie?"

"Yes, we, too, for you would help also, my Pierre. You are notfrightened, are you? You would beat them soundly?"

"Yes, indeed, I would, " said the child, proudly, as he struck a heroicattitude; "we would kill them. "

"There is nobody like you for talking to children and for making themlisten to reason, " said Germain to little Marie. "To be sure, it isnot long ago since you were a small child yourself, and you have notforgotten what your mother used to say to you. I believe that theyounger one is, the better one gets on with children. I am very muchafraid that a woman of thirty who does not yet know what it is to be amother, would find it hard to prattle to children and reason with them. "

"Why, Germain? I don't know why you have such a bad idea of this woman;you will change your mind. "

"The devil take the woman!" exclaimed Germain. "I wish I were going awayfrom her forever. What do I want of a wife whom I don't know?"

"Little father, " said the child, "why is it that you speak so much ofyour wife to-day, since she is dead?"

"Then you have not forgotten your poor, dear mother?"

"No; for I saw her placed in a beautiful box of white wood, and mygrandmother led me up to her to kiss her and say good-by. She was verywhite and very stiff, and every evening my aunt made me pray God thatshe might go to him in Heaven and be warm. Do you think that she isthere now?"

"I hope so, my child; but you must always pray. It shows your motherthat you love her. "

"I am going to say my prayers, " answered the boy. "I forgot themto-night. But I can't say them all alone, for I always forget something. Little Marie must help me. "

"Yes, my Pierre, I will help you, " said the young girl. "Come and kneeldown in my lap. "

The child knelt down on the girl's skirt. He clasped his little handsand began to say his prayers, at first with great care and earnestness, for he knew the beginning very well, then slowly and with morehesitation, and finally repeating word by word after Marie, when he cameto that place in his prayer where sleep overtook him so invariably thathe had never been able to learn the end. This time again the effort ofclose attention and the monotony of his own accent produced their wontedeffect. He pronounced the last syllables with great difficulty, and onlyafter they were thrice repeated. 

His head grew heavy and fell on Marie's breast; his hands unclasped, divided, and fell open on his knees. By the light of the camp-fire, Germain watched his little darling hushed at the heart of the younggirl, who, as she held him in her arms and warmed his fair hair withher sweet breath, had herself fallen into a holy reverie, and prayed inquiet for the soul of Catherine. 

Germain was touched. He tried to express to little Marie the gratefulesteem which he felt for her, but he could find no fitting words. 

He approached her to kiss his son, whom she held close to her breast, and he could scarcely raise his lips from little Pierre's brow. 

"You kiss too hard, " said Marie, gently pushing away the husbandman'shead. "You will wake him. Let me put him back to bed, for the boy hasleft us already for dreams of paradise. "

The child allowed Marie to lay him down, but feeling the goatskin on thesaddle, he asked if he were on the gray. Then opening his big blue eyes, and keeping them fixed on the branches for a minute, he seemed to bedreaming, wide-awake as he was, or to be struck with an idea which hadslipped his mind during the daytime, and only assumed a distinct form atthe approach of sleep. 

"Little father, " said he, "if you wish to give me a new mother, I hopeit will be little Marie. "

And without waiting for an answer, he closed his eyes and slept. 

IX -- Despite the Cold

LITTLE MARIE seemed to give no more heed to the child's odd words thanto regard them as a proof of friendship. She wrapped him up with care, stirred the fire, and as the fog resting on the neighboring pool gaveno sign of lifting, she advised Germain to lie near the fire and take anap. 

"I see that you are sleepy already, " said she, "for you don't say a wordand you gaze into the fire, just as your little boy was doing. "

"It is you who must sleep, " answered the husbandman, "and I will takecare of both of you, for I have never felt less sleepy than I do now. Ihave fifty things to think of. "

"Fifty is a great many, " said the little girl, with a mocking accent. "There are lots of people who would be delighted to have one. "

"Well, if I am too stupid to have fifty, I have one, at least, which hasnot left me for the past hour. "

"And I shall tell it to you as well as I told you those you thought ofbefore. "

"Yes, do tell me if you know, Marie. Tell me yourself. I shall be gladto hear. "

"An hour ago, " she answered, "your idea was to eat--and now it is tosleep. "

"Marie, I am only an ox-driver, but, upon my word, you take me for anox. You are very perverse, and it is easy to see that you do not care totalk to me, so go to sleep. That will be better than to pick flaws in aman who is out of sorts. "

"If you wish to talk, let 's talk, " said the girl, half recliningnear the child and resting her head against the saddle. "You tormentyourself, Germain, and you do not show much courage for a man. Whatwould n't I say if I did n't do my best to fight my own troubles?"

"Yes, that's very true, and that 's just what I am thinking of, mypoor child. You are going to live, away from your friends, in a horridcountry full of moors and fens, where you will catch the autumn fevers. Sheep do not pay well there, and this is always discouraging for ashepherdess if she means well. Then you will be surrounded by strangerswho may not be kind to you and will not know how much you are worth. Itmakes me more sorry than I can tell you, and I have a great desire totake you home to your mother instead of going on to Fourche. "

"You talk very kindly, but there is no reason for your misgivings, mypoor Germain. You ought not to lose heart on your friend's account, andinstead of showing me the dark side of my lot, you should show me thebright side, as you did after lunch at Rebec's. "

"What can I do? That 's the way it appeared to me then, and now my ideasare changed. It is best for you to take a husband. "

"That cannot be, Germain, and as it is out of the question, I think nomore about it. "

"Yet such a thing might happen. Perhaps if you told me what kind of aman you want, I might imagine somebody. "

"Imagining is not finding. For myself, I never imagine, for it does nogood. "

"You are not looking for a rich man?"

"Certainly not, for I am as poor as Job. "

"But if he were comfortably off, you would n't be sorry to have a goodhouse, and good food, and good clothes, and to live with an honestfamily who would allow you to help your mother. "

"Oh, yes indeed! It is my own wish to help my mother. "

"And if this man were to turn up, you would not be too hard to please, even if he were not so very young. "

"Ah! There you must excuse me, Germain. That is just the point I insiston. I could never love an old man. "

"An old man, of course not; but a man of my age, for example!"

"Your age is too old for me, Germain. I should like Bastien's age, though Bastien is not so good-looking as you. "

"Should you rather have Bastien, the swineherd?" said Germain, indignantly. "A fellow with eyes shaped like those of the pigs hedrives!"

"I could excuse his eyes, because he is eighteen. "

Germain felt terribly jealous. 

"Well, " said he, "it's clear that you want Bastien, but, none the less, it 's a queer idea. "

"Yes, that would be a queer idea, " answered little Marie, bursting intoshouts of laughter, "and he would make a queer husband. You could gullhim to your heart's content. For instance, the other day, I had pickedup a tomato in the curate's garden. I told him that it was a fine, redapple, and he bit into it like a glutton. If you had only seen what aface he made. Heavens! how ugly he was!"

"Then you don't love him, since you are making fun of him. "

"That would n't be a reason. But I don't like him. He is unkind to hislittle sister, and he is dirty. " "Don't you care for anybody else?" "Howdoes that concern you, Germain?" "Not at all, except that it gives mesomething to talk about. I see very well, little girl, that you have asweetheart in your mind already. "

"No, Germain, you 're wrong. I have no sweetheart yet. Perhaps one maycome later, but since I cannot marry until I have something laid by, Iam destined to marry late in life and with an old man. " "Then take anold man without delay. " "No. When I am no longer young, I shall notcare; for the present, it is different. " "I see that I displease you, Marie; that's clear enough, " said Germain, impatiently, and withoutstopping to weigh his words. 

Little Marie did not answer. Germain bent over her. She was sleeping. She had fallen back, overcome, stricken down, as it were, by slumber, aschildren are who sleep before they cease to babble. 

Germain was glad that she had not caught his last words. He felt thatthey were unwise, and he turned his back to distract his attention andchange his thoughts. 

It was all in vain. He could neither sleep nor think of anything exceptthe words he had just spoken. He walked about the fire twenty times; hemoved away; he came back. At last, feeling himself tremble as though hehad swallowed gunpowder, he leaned against the tree which sheltered thetwo children, and watched them as they slept. 

"I know not how it is, " thought he; "I have never noticed that littleMarie is the prettiest girl in the countryside. She has not much color, but her little face is fresh as a wild rose. What a charming mouth shehas, and how pretty her little nose is! She is not large for her age, but she is formed like a little quail and is as light as a bird. Icannot understand why they made so much fuss at home over a big, fatwoman with a bright red face. My wife was rather slender and pale, andshe pleased me more than any one else. This girl is very frail, but sheis healthy, and she is pretty to watch as a white kid. And then she hassuch a gentle, frank expression. You can read her good heart in her eyeseven though they are closed in sleep. As to wit, I must confess shehas more than ever my dear Catherine had, and she would never becomewearisome. She is gay, wise, industrious, loving, and she is amusing. Idon't know what more I could wish for. . . . 

"But what is the use of thinking of all this?" Germain went on, tryingto look in another direction. "My father-in-law would not hear of it, and all the family would think me mad! Besides, she would not haveme herself, poor child! She thinks me too old; she told me so. She isunselfish, and does not mind poverty and worry, wearing old clothes, andsuffering from hunger for two or three months every year, so long as shecan satisfy her heart some day and give herself to the man she loves. She is right. I should do the same in her place, and even now, if I hadmy own way, instead of marrying a wife whom I don't care for, I wouldchoose a girl after my own heart. "

The more Germain tried to compose himself by reasoning, the further hewas from succeeding. He walked away a dozen steps, to lose himself inthe fog; then, all of a sudden, he found himself on his knees beside thetwo sleeping children. Once he wished to kiss Petit-Pierre, who hadone arm about Marie's neck, and made such a mistake that Marie felt abreath, hot as fire, cross her lips, and awaking, looked about her witha bewildered expression, totally ignorant of all that was passing withinhis mind. 

"I did n't see you, my poor children, " said Germain, retreating rapidly. "I almost stumbled over you and hurt you. "

Little Marie was so innocent that she believed him, and fell asleepagain. Germain walked to the opposite side of the fire, and swore to Godthat he would not stir until she had waked. He kept his word, but notwithout a struggle. He thought that he would go mad. 

At length, toward midnight, the fog lifted, and Germain could see thestars shining through the trees. The moon freed herself from the mistwhich had hidden her, and began to sow her diamonds over the damp moss. The trunks of the oak-trees remained in impressive darkness, but beyond, the white branches of the birch-trees seemed a long line of phantoms intheir shrouds. The fire cast its reflection in the pool; and the frogs, growing accustomed to the light, hazarded a few shrill and uneasynotes; the rugged branches of the old trees, bristling with dim-coloredlichens, crossed and intertwined themselves, like great gaunt arms, above the travelers' heads. It was a lovely spot, but so lonely andso sad that Germain, unable to endure it more, began to sing and throwstones into the water to forget the dread weariness of solitude. He wasanxious also to wake little Marie, and when he saw her rise and lookabout at the weather, he proposed that they start on their journey. 

"In two hours, " said he, "the approach of morning will chill the air sothat we can't stay here in spite of our fire. Now we can see our way, and we shall soon find a house which will open its doors to us, or atleast a barn where we can pass the rest of the night under shelter. "

Marie had no will of her own, and although she was longing to sleep, shemade ready to follow Germain. The husbandman took his boy in his armswithout awaking him, and beckoned Marie to come nearer, in order tocover her with his cloak. For she would not take her own mantle, whichwas wrapped about the child. 

When he felt the young girl so close to him, Germain, who for a time hadsucceeded in distracting his mind and raising his spirits, began to losehis head once more. Two or three times he strode ahead abruptly, leavingher to walk alone. Then seeing how hard it was for her to follow, hewaited, drew her quickly to his side, and pressed her so tight that shewas surprised, and even angry, though she dared not say so. 

As they knew not the direction whence they had come, they had no idea ofthat in which they were going. So they crossed the wood once more, andfound themselves afresh before the lonely moor. Then they retraced theirsteps, and after much turning and twisting they spied a light across thebranches. 

"Good enough! Here 's a house, " exclaimed Germain. "And the people arealready astir, for the fire is lighted. It must be very late. "

It was no house, but the camp-fire, which they had covered before theyleft, and which had sprung up in the breeze. 

They had tramped for two hours, only to find themselves at the veryplace from which they had started. 

X -- Beneath the Stars

"THIS time I give up, " said Germain, stamping I his foot. "We arebewitched, that is certain, and we shall not get away from here beforebroad day. The devil is in this place!"

"Well, it's of no use to get angry, " said Marie. "We must take what isgiven us. Let us make a big fire. The child is so well wrapped up thathe is in no danger, and we shall not die from a single night out ofdoors. Where have you hidden the saddle, Germain? Right in the midst ofthe holly-bushes, --what a goose you are! It 's very convenient to get itfrom there!"

"Stop, child; hold the boy while I pull his bed from the thorns. I didn't want you to scratch your hands. "

"It 's all done. Here 's the bed, and a few scratches are notsaber-cuts, " replied the brave girl. 

She proceeded to put the child to bed again, and Petit-Pierre was sosound asleep this time that he knew nothing of his last journey. Germainpiled so much wood on the fire that the forest all about glowed with thelight. 

Little Marie had come to the end of her powers, and although she did notcomplain, her legs would support her no longer. She was white, and herteeth chattered with cold and weakness. Germain took her in his arms towarm her. The uneasiness, the compassion, the tenderness of movement hecould not repress, took possession of his heart and stilled his senses. As by a miracle his tongue was loosened, and every feeling of shamevanished. 

"Marie, " said he, "I like you, and I am very sorry that you don't likeme. If you would take me for your husband, there are no fathers, norfamily, nor neighbors, nor arguments which could prevent me from givingmyself to you. I know how happy you would make my children, and that youwould teach them to love the memory of their mother, and with a quietconscience I could satisfy the wishes of my heart. I have always beenfond of you, and now I love you so well that were you to ask me tospend all my life in doing your pleasure, I would swear to do it on theinstant. Please think how much I love you, and try to forget my age. Think that it is a wrong notion to believe that a man of thirty is old. Besides, I am but twenty-eight. A young girl is afraid that people willtalk about her if she takes a man ten or twelve years older than she, simply because that is not the custom in our country, but I have heardsay that in other countries people don't look at it in this light, andthat they had rather allow a sensible man of approved courage to supporta young girl, than trust her to a mere boy, who may go astray, and, fromthe honest fellow they thought him, turn into a good-for-nothing. And then years don't always make age. That depends on the health andstrength a person has. When a man is used up by overwork and poverty, or by a bad life, he is old before twenty-five. While I--but Marie, you are not listening. . . . " "Yes I am, Germain; I hear you perfectly, "answered little Marie, "but I am thinking over what my mother used totell me so often: that a woman of sixty is to be pitied greatly whenher husband is seventy or seventy-five and can no longer work to supporther. He grows feeble, and it becomes her duty to nurse him at the veryage when she begins to feel great need of care and rest herself, and soit is that the end comes in a garret. "

"Parents do well to say so, I admit, " answered Germain, "but thenthey would sacrifice all their youth, the best years of their life, to calculating what will become of them at the age when a person is nolonger good for anything, and when it is a matter of indifference whichway death comes. But I am in no danger of starving in my old age. I ameven going to lay by something, since I live with my wife's parents andspend nothing. And then, you see, I shall love you so well that I cannever grow old. They say that when a man is happy he keeps sound, and Iknow well that in love for you, I am younger than Bastien; for he doesnot love you; he is too stupid, too much of a child to understand howpretty and how good you are, and how you were made for people to court. Do not hate me, Marie. I am not a bad man. I made my Catherine happy, and on her death-bed she swore before God that she had had onlyhappiness of me, and she asked me to marry again. Her spirit must havespoken to her child to-night. Did you not hear the words he said? Howhis little lips quivered as his eyes stared upward, watching somethingthat we could not see! He was surely looking at his mother, and it wasshe who made him say that he wished you to take her place. "

"Germain, " answered Marie, amazed and yet thoughtful, "you speakfrankly, and everything that you say is true. I am sure that I should dowell to love you if it did not displease your parents too much. But whatcan I do? My heart does not speak for you. I am very fond of you, butthough your age does not make you ugly, it makes me afraid. It seems asif you were some such relation to me, as an uncle or a godfather, that Imust be respectful toward you, and that there might be moments when youwould treat me like a little girl rather than like your wife and yourequal. And perhaps my friends would make fun of me, and although itwould be silly to give heed to that, I think that I should be a littlesad on my wedding-day. "

"Those are but childish reasons, Marie; you speak like a child. "

"Yes, that is true; I am a child, " said she, "and it is on that accountI am afraid of too sensible a man. You must see that I am too young foryou, since you just found fault with me for speaking foolishly. I can'thave more sense than my age allows. "

"O Heavens! How unlucky I am to be so clumsy and to express so ill whatI think!" cried Germain. "Marie, you don't love me. That is the longand short of it. You find me too simple and too dull. If you loved meat all, you would not see my faults so clearly. But you do not love me. That is the whole story. "

"That is not my fault, " answered she, a little hurt that he was speakingwith less tenderness. "I am doing my best to hear you, but the more Itry the less I can get it into my head that we ought to be husband andwife. "

Germain did not answer. His head dropped into his hands, and littleMarie could not tell whether he wept or sulked or was fast asleep. Shefelt uneasy when she saw him so cast down, and could not guess what waspassing in his mind. But she dared not speak to him more, and as shewas too astonished at what had passed to have any desire to sleep, shewaited impatiently for dawn, tending the fire with care and watchingover the child, whose existence Germain appeared to forget. Yet Germainwas not asleep. He did not mope over his lot. He made no plans toencourage himself, nor schemes to entrap the girl. He suffered; he felta great weight of grief at his heart. He wished that he were dead. Theworld seemed to turn against him, and if he could have wept at all, histears would have come in floods. But mingled with his sorrow there was afeeling of anger against himself, and he felt choked, without the poweror the wish to complain. 

When morning came, and the sounds of the country brought it to Germain'ssenses, he lifted his head from his hands and rose. He saw that littleMarie had slept no more than he, but he knew no words in which to tellher of his anxiety. He was very discouraged. Hiding the gray's saddleonce more in the thicket, he slung his sack over his shoulder and tookhis son by the hand. 

"Now, Marie, " said he, "we are going to try to end our journey. Do youwish me to take you to Ormeaux?"

"Let us leave the woods together, " answered she, "and when we know wherewe are, we shall separate, and go our different ways. "

Germain did not answer. He felt hurt that the girl did not ask him totake her as far as Ormeaux, and he did not notice that he had asked herin a tone well fitted to provoke a refusal. 

After a few hundred steps, they met a wood-cutter, who pointed out thehighroad, and told them that when they had crossed the plain, onemust turn to the right, the other to the left, to gain their differentdestinations, which were so near together that the houses of Fourchewere in plain sight from the farm of Ormeaux, and _vice versa_. 

When they had thanked him and passed on, the wood-cutter called themback to ask whether they had not lost a horse. 

"Yes, " he said, "I found a pretty gray mare in my yard, where perhaps awolf had driven her to seek refuge; my dogs barked the whole night long, and at daybreak I saw the mare under my shed. She is there now. Comealong with me, and if you recognize her, you may take her. "

When Germain had given a description of the gray, and felt convincedthat it was really she, he started back to find his saddle. Little Marieoffered to take his child to Ormeaux, whither he might go to get himafter he had introduced himself at Fourche. 

"He is rather dirty after the night that we have passed, " said she. "Iwill brush his clothes, wash his pretty face, and comb his hair, andwhen he looks neat and clean, you can present him to your new family. "

"Who told you that I wish to go to Fourche?" answered Germain, petulantly. "Perhaps I shall not go. "

"But truly, Germain, it is your duty to go there. You will go there, "replied the girl. 

"You seem very anxious to have me married off, so that you may be quitesure that I shall not trouble you again?"

"Germain, you must not think of that any more. It is an idea which cameto you in the night, because this unfortunate mishap took away yourspirits. But now you must come to your senses. I promise you to forgeteverything that you said to me, and not to breathe it to a soul. "

"Oh, say what you wish. It is not my custom to deny what I have spoken. What I told you was true and honest, and I shall not blush for it beforeanybody. "

"Yes, but if your wife were to know that just before you came you werethinking of another woman, it would prejudice her against you. So takecare how you speak now. Don't look at me before everybody with such arapt expression. Think of Father Maurice, who relies on your obedience, and who would be enraged at me if I were to turn you from his will. Good-by, Germain. I take Petit-Pierre in order to force you to go toFourche. He is a pledge which I keep on your behalf. "

"So you want to go with her?" said the husbandman to his son, seeingthat the boy had clasped Marie's hands and was following her resolutely. 

"Yes, father, " answered the child, who had heard the conversation andunderstood after his own fashion the words spoken so unguardedly beforehim. "I am going away with my dearest little Marie. You shall come tofind me when you have done marrying, but I wish Marie to be my littlemother. "

"You see how much he wishes it, " said Germain to the girl. "Listen tome, Petit-Pierre, " he added. "I wish her to be your mother and to staywith you always. It is she who does not wish to. Try to make her grantyou what she has denied me. "

"Don't be afraid, father, I shall make her say yes. Little Marie doeseverything that I wish. "

He walked away with the young girl. Germain stood alone, sadder and moreirresolute than ever. 

XI -- The Belle of the Village

AND after all, when he had brushed the dust of travel from his clothesand from his horse's harness, when he had mounted the gray, and when hehad learned the road, he felt that there was no retreat and that he mustforget that anxious night as though it had been a dangerous dream. 

He found Father Leonard seated on a trim bench of spinach-green. The sixstone steps leading up to the door showed that the house had a cellar. The walls of the garden and of the hemp-field were plastered with limeand sand. It was a handsome house, and might almost have been mistakenfor the dwelling of a bourgeois. 

Germain's future father-in-law came forward to meet him, and havingplied him, for five minutes, with questions concerning his entirefamily, he added that conventional phrase with which one passer-byaddresses another concerning the object of his journey: "So you aretaking a little trip in this part of the country?"

"I have come to see you, " replied the husbandman, "to give you thislittle present of game with my father's compliments, and to tell youfrom him that you ought to know with what intentions I come to yourhouse. "

"Oh, ho!" said Father Leonard, laughing and tapping his capaciousstomach, "I see, I understand, I am with you, and, " he added with awink, "you will not be the only one to pay your court, young man. Thereare three already in the house dancing attendance like you. I never turnanybody away, and I should find it hard to say yes or no to any of them, for they are all good matches. Yet, on account of Father Maurice and forthe sake of the rich fields you till, I hope that it may be you. But mydaughter is of age and mistress of her own affairs. She will do asshe likes. Go in and introduce yourself. I hope that you will draw theprize. "

"I beg your pardon, " answered Germain, amazed to find himself an extrawhen he had counted on being alone in the field. "I was not aware thatyour daughter was supplied already with suitors, and I did not come toquarrel over her. "

"If you supposed that because you were slow in coming, my daughter wouldbe left unprovided for, you were greatly mistaken, my son, " repliedFather Leonard with unshaken good humor. "Catherine has the wherewithalto attract suitors, and her only difficulty lies in choosing. But comein; don't lose heart. The woman is worth, a struggle. "

And pushing in Germain by the shoulders with boisterous gaiety, hecalled to his daughter as they entered the house:

"So, Catherine, here is another!"

This cordial but unmannerly method of introduction to the widow, inthe presence of her other devotees, completed Germain's distress andembarrassment. He felt the awkwardness of his position, and stood for afew moments without daring to look upon the beauty and her court. 

The Widow Guérin had a good figure and did not lack freshness, but herexpression and her dress displeased Germain the instant he saw her. She had a bold, self-satisfied look, and her cap, edged with three laceflounces, her silk apron, and her fichu of fine black lace were littlein accord with the staid and sober widow he had pictured to himself. 

Her elaborate dress and forward manners inclined Germain to judge thewidow old and ugly, although she was certainly not either. He thoughtthat such finery and playful manners might well suit little Marie'syears and wit, but that the widow's fun was labored and over bold, andthat she wore her fine clothes in bad taste. 

The three suitors were seated at a table loaded with wines and meatswhich were spread out for their use throughout the Sunday morning; forFather Leonard liked to show off his wealth, and the widow was not sorryto display her pretty china and keep a table like a rich lady. Germain, simple and unsuspecting as he was, watched everything with a penetratingglance, and for the first time in his life he kept on the defensive whenhe drank. Father Leonard obliged him to sit down with his rivals, andtaking a chair opposite he treated him with great politeness, and talkedto him rather than to the others. 

The present of game, despite the breach Germain had made on his ownaccount, was still plenteous enough to produce its effect. The widowdid not look unaware of its presence, and the suitors cast disdainfulglances in its direction. 

Germain felt ill at ease in this company, and did not eat heartily. Father Leonard poked fun at him. 

"You look very melancholy, " said he, "and you are ill-using your glass. You must not allow love to spoil your appetite, for a fasting lover canmake no such pretty speeches as he whose ideas are brightened with adrop of wine. "

Germain was mortified at being thought already in love, and theartificial manner of the widow, who kept lowering her eyes with asmile as a woman does who is sure of her calculations, made him long toprotest against his pretended surrender; but fearing to appear uncivil, he smiled and held his peace. 

He thought the widow's beaus, three bumpkins. They must have been richfor her to admit of their pretensions. One was over forty, and fat asFather Leonard; another had lost an eye, and drank like a sot. Thethird was a young fellow, and nice-looking too; but he kept insisting ondisplaying his wit, and would say things so silly that they werepainful to hear. Yet the widow laughed as though she admired all hisfoolishness, and made small proof of her good taste thereby. At firstGermain thought her infatuated with him, but soon he perceived thathe himself was especially encouraged, and that they wished him to makefresh advances. For this reason he felt an increasing stiffness andseverity which he took no pains to conceal. 

The time came for mass, and they rose from table to go thither incompany. It was necessary to walk as far as Mers, a good half-leagueaway, and Germain was so tired that he longed to take a nap before theywent; but he was not in the habit of missing mass, and he started withthe others. 

The roads were filled with people, and the widow marched proudly along, escorted by her three suitors, taking an arm, first of one and then ofanother, and carrying her head high with an air of importance. She waseager to display the fourth to the eyes of the passers-by; but Germainfelt so ridiculous to be dragged along in the train of a petticoatwhere all the world might see, that he kept at a respectable distance, chatting with Father Leonard, and succeeded in occupying his attentionso well that they did not look at all as if they belonged to the party. 

XII -- The Master

WHEN they reached the village, the widow halted to allow them to catchup. She was bent upon making her entry with all her train; but Germain, denying her this pleasure, deserted Father Leonard, and after conversingwith several acquaintances, he entered the church by another door. Thewidow was vexed. 

When mass was over, she made her appearance in triumph on the lawn, where dancing was going on, and she began her dance with her threelovers in turn. Germain watched her and saw that she danced well, butwith affectation. 

"So, you don't ask my daughter?" said Leonard, tapping him on theshoulder. "You are too easily frightened. "

"I have not danced since I lost my wife, " answered the husbandman. 

"But now that you are looking for another, mourning 's over in heart aswell as in clothes. "

"That 's no reason, Father Leonard. Besides, I am too old and I don'tcare for dancing. "

"Listen, " said Father Leonard, drawing him toward a retired corner, "when you entered my house you were vexed to see the place alreadybesieged, and I see that you are very proud. But that is not reasonable, my boy. My daughter is used to a great deal of attention, particularlysince she left off her mourning two years ago, and it is not her placeto lead you on. "

"Has your daughter been thinking of marrying for two years alreadywithout making her choice?" asked Germain. 

"She does n't wish to hurry, and she is right. Although she has livelymanners, and although you may not think that she reflects a great deal, she is a woman of excellent common sense, and knows very well what sheis about. "

"It does not appear to me so, " said Germain ingenuously, "for she hasthree suitors in her train, and if she knew her own mind, there are twoof them, at least, whom she would find superfluous and request to stayat home. "

"Why, Germain, you don't understand at all. She does n't wish the oldman, nor the blind man, nor the young man, I am quite certain; yet ifshe were to turn them off, people would think that she wished to remaina widow, and nobody else would come. "

"Oh, I see. These three are used for a guide-post. "

"As you like. What is the harm if they are satisfied?"

"Every man to his taste, " said Germain. 

"I see that yours is different. Now supposing that you are chosen, thenthey would leave the coast clear. "

"Yes, supposing! and meanwhile how much time should I have to whistle?"

"That depends on your persuasive tongue, I suppose. Until now, mydaughter has always thought that she would pass the best part of herlife while she was being courted, and she is in no hurry to become theservant of one man when she can order so many others about. So she willplease herself as long as the game amuses her; but if you please hermore than the game, the game will cease. Only you must not lose courage. Come back every Sunday, dance with her, let her know that you areamongst her followers, and if she finds you more agreeable and betterbred than the others, some fine day she will tell you so, no doubt. "

"Excuse me, Father Leonard. Your daughter has the right to do as shepleases, and it is not my business to blame her. If I were in her place, I should do differently. I should be more frank, and should not wastethe time of men who have, doubtless, something better to do than dancingattendance on a woman who makes fun of them. Still, if that is whatamuses her and makes her happy, it is no affair of mine. Only there isone thing I must tell you which is a little embarrassing, since you havemistaken my intentions from the start, for you are so sure of what isnot so, that you have given me no chance to explain. You must know, then, that I did not come here to ask for your daughter in marriage, butmerely to buy a pair of oxen which you are going to take to market nextweek, and which my father-in-law thinks will suit him. "

"I understand, Germain, " answered Leonard very calmly; "you changed yourplans when you saw my daughter with her admirers. It is as you please. It seems that what attracts some people repels others, and youare perfectly welcome to withdraw, for you have not declared yourintentions. If you wish seriously to buy my cattle, come and see them inthe pasture, and whether we make a bargain or not, you will come back todinner with us before you return. "

"I don't wish to trouble you, " answered Germain. "Perhaps you havesomething to do here. I myself am tired of watching the dancing andstanding idle. I will go to see your cattle, and I will soon join you atyour house. "

Then Germain made his escape, and walked away toward the meadows whereLeonard had pointed out to him some of his cattle. It was true thatFather Maurice intended to buy, and Germain thought that if he wereto bring home a fine pair of oxen at a reasonable price, he might moreeasily receive a pardon for wilfully relinquishing the purpose of hisjourney. He walked rapidly, and soon found himself at some distance fromOrmeaux. Then of a sudden, he felt a desire to kiss his son and to seelittle Marie once again, although he had lost all hope and even hadchased away the thought that he might some day owe his happiness to her. Everything that he had heard and seen: this woman, flirtatious and vain;this father, at once shrewd and short-sighted, encouraging his daughterin habits of pride and untruth; this city luxury, which seemed to him atransgression against the dignity of country manners; this time wastedin foolish, empty words; this home so different from his own; and aboveall, that deep uneasiness which comes to a laborer of the fields whenhe leaves his accustomed toil: all the trouble and annoyance of the pastfew hours made Germain long to be with his child and with his littleneighbor. Even had he not been in love, he would have sought her todivert his mind and raise his spirits to their wonted level. 

But he looked in vain over the neighboring meadows. He saw neitherlittle Marie nor little Pierre, and yet it was the hour when shepherdsare in the fields. There was a large flock in a pasture. He asked ofa young boy who tended them whether the sheep belonged to the farm ofOrmeaux. 

"Yes, " said the child. 

"Are you the shepherd? Do boys tend the flocks of the farm, amongstyou?"

"No, I am taking care of them to-day, because the shepherdess went away. She was ill. "

"But have you not a new shepherdess, who came this morning?"

"Yes, surely; but she, too, has gone already. "

"What! gone? Did she not have a child with her?"

"Yes, a little boy who cried. They both went away after they had beenhere two hours. "

"Went away! Where?"

"Where they came from, I suppose. I did n't ask them. "

"But why did they go away?" asked Germain, growing more and more uneasy. 

"How the deuce do I know?"

"Did they not agree about wages? Yet that must have been settledbefore. "

"I can tell you nothing about it I saw them come and go, nothing more. "

Germain walked toward the farm and questioned the farmer. Nobody couldgive him an explanation; but after speaking with the farmer, he feltsure that the girl had gone without saying a word, and had taken theweeping child with her. 

"Can they have been ill-treating my son?" cried Germain. 

"It was your son, then? How did he happen to be with the little girl?Where do you come from, and what is your name?"

Germain, seeing that after the fashion of the country they wereanswering him with questions, stamped his foot impatiently, and asked tospeak with the master. 

The master was away. Usually, he did not spend the whole day when hecame to the farm. He was on horseback, and he had ridden off to one ofhis other farms. 

"But, honestly, " said Germain, growing very anxious, "can't you tell mewhy this girl left?"

The farmer and his wife exchanged an odd smile. Then the former answeredthat he knew nothing, and that it was no business of his. All thatGermain could learn was that both girl and child had started off towardFourche. He rushed back to Fourche. The widow and her lovers were stillaway; so was Father Leonard. The maid told him that a girl and a childhad come to ask for him, but that as she did not know them, she did notwish to let them in, and had advised them to go to Mers. 

"And why did you refuse to let them in?" said Germain, angrily. "Peopleare very suspicious in this country, where nobody opens the door to aneighbor. "

"But you see, " answered the maid, "in a house as rich as this, Imust keep my eyes open. When the master is away, I am responsible foreverything, and I cannot open the door to the first person that comesalong. "

"It is a bad custom, " said Germain, "and I had rather be poor thanto live in constant fear like that. Good-by to you, young woman, andgood-by to your vile country. "

He made inquiries at the neighboring house. The shepherdess and childhad been seen. As the boy had left Belair suddenly, carelessly dressed, with his blouse torn, and his little lambskin over his shoulders, andas little Marie was necessarily poorly clad at all times, they had beentaken for beggars. People had offered them bread. The girl had accepteda crust for the child, who was hungry, then she had walked away with himvery quickly, and had entered the forest. 

Germain thought a minute, then he asked whether the farmer of Ormeauxhad not been at Fourche. 

"Yes, " they answered, "he passed on horseback a few seconds after thegirl. "

"Was he chasing her?"

"Oh, so you understand?" answered the village publican, with a laugh. "Certain it is that he is the devil of a fellow for running after girls. But I don't believe that he caught her; though, after all, if he hadseen her--"

"That is enough, thank you!" And he flew rather than ran to Leonard'sstable. Throwing the saddle on the gray's back, he leaped upon it, andset off at full gallop toward the wood of Chanteloube. 

His heart beat hard with fear and anger; the sweat poured down hisforehead; he spurred the mare till the blood came, though the grayneeded no pressing when she felt herself on the road to her stable. 

XIII -- The Old Woman

GERMAIN came soon to the spot where he had passed the night on theborder of the pool. The fire was smoking still. An old woman wasgathering the remnants of the wood little Marie had piled there. Germainstopped to question her. She was deaf and mistook his inquiries. 

"Yes, my son, " said she, "this is the Devil's Pool. It is an evil spot, and you must not approach it without throwing in three stones with yourleft hand, while you cross yourself with the right. That drives away thespirits. Otherwise trouble comes to those who go around it. "

"I am not asking about that, " said Germain, moving nearer her, andscreaming at the top of his lungs. "Have you seen a girl and a childwalking through the wood?"

"Yes, " said the old woman, "a little child was drowned there. "

Germain shook from head to foot; but happily the hag added:

"That happened a long time ago. In memory of the accident they raiseda handsome cross there. But one stormy night, the bad spirits threw itinto the water. You can still see one end of it. If anybody were unluckyenough to pass the night here, he could never find his way out beforedaylight. He must walk and walk, and though he went two hundred leaguesinto the forest, he must always return to the same place. "

The peasant's imagination was aroused in spite of himself, and thethought of the evils that must come in order that the old woman'sassertions might be vindicated, took so firm a hold of his mind that hefelt chilled through and through. Hopeless of obtaining more news, heremounted, and traversed the woods afresh, calling Pierre with all hismight, whistling, cracking his whip, and snapping the branches that thewhole forest might reëcho with the noise of his coming; then helistened for an answering voice, but he heard no sound save the cowbellsscattered through the glades, and the wild cries of the swine as theyfought over the acorns. 

At length Germain heard behind him the noise of a horse following inhis traces, and a man of middle age, dark, sturdy, and dressed after thecity fashion, called to him to stop. Germain had never seen the farmerof Ormeaux, but his instinctive rage told him at once that this wasthe man. He turned, and eyeing him from head to foot, waited for him tospeak. 

"Have not you seen a young girl of fifteen or sixteen go by with a smallboy?" asked the farmer, with an assumed air of indifference, although hewas evidently ill at ease. 

"What do you want of her?" answered Germain, taking no pains to concealhis anger. 

"I might tell you that that is none of your business, my friend. Butas I have no reasons for secrecy, I shall tell you that she is ashepherdess whom I engaged for a year, before I knew her. When I sawher, she looked too young and frail to work on the farm. I thanked her, but I wished to pay the expenses of her short journey, and while my backwas turned, she went off in a huff. She was in such a hurry that sheforgot even some of her belongings and her purse, which has certainlynot much in it, probably but a few pennies; but since I was going inthis direction, I hoped to meet her, and give her back the things whichshe left behind, as well as what I owe her. "

Germain had too honest a heart not to pause at hearing a story which, however unlikely, was not impossible. He fastened his penetrating gazeon the farmer, who submitted to the examination with a plentiful supplyof impudence or of good faith. 

"I wish to get at the bottom of this matter, " said Germain; "and, "continued he, suppressing his indignation, "the girl lives in myvillage. I know her. She can't be far away. Let 's ride on together; weshall find her, no doubt. "

"You are right, " said the farmer; "let's move on; but if we do not findher before we reach the end of this road, I shall give up, for I mustturn off toward Ardentes. "

"Oh, oh!" thought the peasant, "I shall not part with you, even if Ihave to follow you around the 'Devil's Pool for twenty-four hours. "

"Stop, " said Germain suddenly, fixing his eyes on a clump of broom whichwaved in a peculiar manner. "Halloa! halloa! Petit Pierre, is that you, my child?"

The boy recognized his father's voice, and came out from the broomleaping like a young deer; but when he saw Germain in company with thefarmer, he stopped dismayed, and stood irresolute. "Come, my Pierre, come. It is I, " cried the husbandman, as he leaped from his horse andran toward his boy to take him in his arms; "and where is little Marie?"

"She is hiding there, because she is afraid of that dreadful black man, and so am I. "

"You need n't be afraid. I am here. Marie, Marie. It is I. "

Marie crept toward them, but the moment she saw Germain with the farmerclose behind, she sprang forward, and throwing herself into his arms, clung to him as a daughter to her father. 

"Oh, my brave Germain!" she cried, "you will defend me. I am not afraidwhen you are near. "

Germain shuddered. He looked at Marie. She was pale; her clothes weretorn by the thorns which had scratched her as she passed, rushing towardthe brake like a stag chased by the hunters. But neither shame nordespair were in her face. 

"Your master wishes to speak to you, " said he, his eyes fixed on herfeatures. 

"My master!" she exclaimed fiercely; "that man is no master of mine, andhe never shall be. You, Germain, you are my master. I want you to takeme home with you. I will be your servant for nothing. "

The farmer advanced, feigning impatience. "Little girl, " said he, "youleft something behind at the farm, which I am bringing back to you. "

"No, you are not, sir, " answered little Marie. "I did n't forgetanything, and I have nothing to ask of you. "

"Listen a moment, " returned the farmer. "It 's I who have something totell you. Come with me. Don't be afraid. It's only a word or two. "

"You may say them aloud. I have no secrets with you. "

"At any rate, do take your money. "

"My money? You owe me nothing, thank God!"

"I suspected as much, " said Germain under his breath, "but I don't care, Marie. Listen to what he has to say to you, for--I am curious to know. You can tell me afterward. Go up to his horse. I shall not lose sight ofyou. "

Marie took three steps toward the farmer. He bent over the pommel of hissaddle, and lowering his voice he said:

"Little girl, here is a bright golden louis for you. Don't say anythingabout it; do you hear? I shall say that I found you too frail to workon my farm. There will be no more talk about that. I shall be passing byyour house one of these days; and if you have not said anything, I willgive you something more; and then if you are more sensible, you haveonly to speak. I will take you home with me, or I will come at dusk andtalk with you in the meadows. What present would you like me to bringyou?"

"Here, sir, is the present I have for you, " answered little Marie, aloud, as she threw the golden louis in his face with all her might. "Ithank you heartily, and I beg that if you come anywhere near our house, you will be good enough to let me know. All the boys in the neighborhoodwill go out to welcome you, because, where I live, we are very fond ofgentlemen who try to make love to poor girls. You shall see. They willbe on the lookout for you. "

"You lie with your dirty tongue, " cried the farmer, raising his stickwith a dangerous air. "You wish to make people believe what is not so, but you shall never get a penny out of me. We know what kind of a girlyou are. "

Marie drew back, frightened, and Germain sprang to the bridle of thefarmer's horse and shook it violently. 

"I understand now, " said he; "it is easy to see what is going on. Getdown, my man, get down; I want to talk to you. "

The farmer was not eager to take up the quarrel. Anxious to escape, he set spurs to his horse and tried to loosen the peasant's grasp bystriking down his hands with a cane; but Germain dodged the blow, andseizing hold of his antagonist's leg, he unseated him and flung himto the earth. The farmer regained his feet, but although he defendedhimself vigorously, he was knocked down once more. Germain held him tothe ground. Then he said:

"Poor coward, I could thrash you if I wished. But I don't want to doyou an injury, and, besides, no amount of punishment would help yourconscience--but you shall not stir from this spot until you beg thegirl's pardon, on your knees. "

The farmer understood this sort of thing, and wished to take it all as ajoke. He made believe that his offense was not serious, since it layin words alone, and protested that he was perfectly willing to ask herpardon, provided he might kiss the girl afterward. Finally, he proposedthat they go and drink a pint of wine at the nearest tavern, and so partgood friends. 

"You are disgusting!" answered Germain, rubbing his victim's head in thedirt, "and I never wish to see your nasty face again. So blush, if youare able, and when you come to our village, you had better slink alongSneak's Alley. "*

He picked up the farmer's holly-stick, broke it over his knee to showthe strength of his wrists, and threw away the pieces with disgust Thengiving one hand to his son and the other to little Marie, he walkedaway, still trembling with anger. 

* This is the road, which, diverging from the principal street at theentrance of villages, makes a circuit about them. . Persons who are indread off receiving some well deserved insult, are supposed to take thisroute to escape attention. 

XIV -- The Return to the Farm

AT the end of fifteen minutes they had left the heath behind them. They trotted along the highroad, and the gray whinnied at each familiarobject. Petit-Pierre told his father as much as he could understand ofwhat had passed. 

"When we reached the farm, " said he, "that man came to speak to my Mariein the fold where we had gone to see the pretty sheep. I had climbedinto the manger to play, and that man did not see me. Then he said goodmorning to Marie, and he kissed her. "

"You allowed him to kiss you, Marie?" said Germain, trembling withanger. 

"I thought it was a civility, a custom of the place to new-comers, justas at your farm the grandmother kisses the young girls who enter herservice to show that she adopts them and will be a mother to them. "

"And next, " went on little Pierre, who was proud to have an adventure totell of, "_that man_ told you something wicked, which you have told menever to repeat and not even remember; so I forgot it right away. Still, if father wishes, I will tell him what it was--"

"No, Pierre, I don't wish to hear, and I don't wish you ever to think ofit again. "

"Then I will forget it all over again, " replied the child. "Next, _thatman_ seemed to be growing angry because Marie told him that she wasgoing away. He told her he would give her whatever she wanted, --ahundred francs! And my Marie grew angry too. Then he came toward her asif he wished to hurt her. I was afraid, and I ran to Marie and cried. Then _that man_ said: 'What 's that? Where did that child come from? Putit out, ' and he raised his cane to beat me. But my Marie prevented him, and she spoke to him this way: 'We will talk later, sir; now I must takethis child back to Fourche, and then I shall return. ' And as soon ashe had left the fold, my Marie spoke to me this way: 'We must run, myPierre; we must get away as quickly as we can, for this is a wickedman and he is trying to do us harm. ' Then when we had gone back of thefarm-houses, we crossed a little meadow, and we went to Fourche to findyou. But you were not there, and they would n't let us wait. And then_that man_, riding his black horse, came behind us, and we ran on asfast as we could and hid in the woods. And then he followed us, andwhen we heard him coming, we hid again. And then, when he had passed, we began to run toward home, and then you came and found us, and that ishow it all happened. I have n't forgotten anything, have I, my Marie?"

"No, my Pierre, that is the whole truth. Now, Germain, you must be mywitness, and tell everybody in the village that if I did not stay thereit was not from want of courage and industry. "

"And, Marie, I want to ask of you whether a man of twenty-eight is tooold when there is a woman to be defended and an insult to be revenged. I should like to know whether Bastien or any other pretty boy, ten yearsbetter off than I, would not have been knocked to pieces by _that man_, as Petit-Pierre says. What do you think?"

"I think, Germain, that you have done me a great service, and that Ishall be grateful all my life. "

"Is that all?"

"Little father, " said the child, "I forgot to ask little Marie what Ipromised. I have not had time yet, but I will speak to her at home, and Iwill speak to my grandmother too. "

The child's promise set Germain to thinking He must explain his conductto his family and give his objections to the widow Guam, and all thewhile conceal the true reasons which had made him so judicious and sodecided. When a man is proud and happy, it seems an easy task to thrusthis happiness upon others, but to be repulsed on one side and blamed onthe other is not a very pleasant position. 

Fortunately, Petit-Pierre was fast asleep when they reached the farm, and Germain put him to bed undisturbed. Then he began upon all sorts ofexplanations, Father Maurice, seated on a three-legged stool before thedoor, listened with gravity; and, although he was ill-content withthe result of the journey, when Germain told him about the widow'ssystematic coquetry, and demanded of his father-in-law whether he hadthe time to go and pay his court fifty-two Sundays in the year at therisk of being dismissed in the end, the old man nodded his head inassent and answered: "You were not wrong, Germain; that could never be. "And then, when Germain described how he had been obliged to bring backlittle Marie, with the utmost haste, in order to protect her from theinsults or perhaps from the violence of a wicked master, Father Mauricenodded approvingly again and said: "You were not wrong, Germain; thatwas right. "

When Germain had told his story, and had set forth all his reasons, theold farmer and his wife heaved deep, simultaneous sighs of resignation, and looked at each other. Then the head of the house rose and said:"God's will be done. Love can't be made to order. "

"Come to supper, Germain, " said his mother-in-law. "It is unfortunatethat this did not come to a better end, but, after all, it seems thatGod did not wish it. We must look elsewhere. "

"Yes, " added the old man, "as my wife says, we must look elsewhere. "

There was no more noise at the house, and on the morrow, whenPetit-Pierre rose with the larks at dawn, he was no longer excitedby the extraordinary events of the preceding days. Like other littlepeasants of his age, he became indifferent, forgot everything that hadbeen running in his head, and thought only of playing with his brothers, and of pretending to drive the horses and oxen like a man. Germainplunged into his work, and tried to forget, too; but he became soabsent-minded and so sad that everybody noticed it. He never spoke tolittle Marie, he never even looked at her, and yet had anybody asked himin what meadow she was, or by what road she had passed, there was not amoment in the day when he could not have answered if he would. He darednot ask his family to take her in at the farm during the winter, and yethe knew well how she must suffer from want. But she did not suffer; andMother Guillette could not understand how her little store of wood nevergrew less, and how her shed was full in the morning, although shehad left it almost empty at night It was the same with the wheat andpotatoes. Somebody entered by the garret window, and emptied a sack onthe floor without awaking a soul or leaving a trace of his coming. Thewidow was at once uneasy and delighted. She made her daughter promise totell nobody, and said that were people to know of the miracle performedat her house they would take her for a witch. She felt confident thatthe devil had a share in it, but she was in no hurry to pick a quarrelwith him by calling down the priest's exorcisms on the house. It wouldbe time enough, she said, when Satan should come to demand her soul inreturn for his gifts. 

Little Marie understood the truth better, but she dared not speak toGermain, for fear of seeing him return to his dreams of marriage, and, before him, she pretended to perceive nothing. 

XV -- Mother Maurice

ONE day, Mother Maurice was alone in the orchard with Germain, and spoketo him kindly:

"My poor son, I believe you are not well. You don't eat as well asusual; you never laugh; you talk less and less. Perhaps one of us, orall of us, have hurt your feelings, without knowing and without wishingit. "

"No, my mother, " answered Germain, "you have always been as kind tome as the mother who brought me into the world, and I should be veryungrateful if I were to complain of you or your husband, or of anybodyin the household. "

"Then, my child, it is the sorrow for your wife's death which comes backto you. Instead of growing lighter with time, your grief becomes worse, and as your father has said very wisely, it is absolutely necessary foryou to marry again. "

"Yes, my mother, that is my opinion, but the women whom you advisedme to ask don't suit me. Whenever I see them, instead of forgetting myCatherine, I think of her all the more. "

"Apparently that 's because we have n't been able to understand yourtaste. You must help us by telling us the truth. There must be a womansomewhere who is made for you, for God does n't make anybody withoutplacing his happiness in somebody else. So if you know where to findthis woman whom you need, take her, and be she pretty or ugly, young orold, rich or poor, we have made up our minds, my husband and I, to giveour consent, for we are tired of seeing you so sad, and we can never behappy while you are sorrowful. "

"My mother, you are as kind as the kind Lord, and so is my father, "answered Germain; "but your compassion brings small help to my troubles, for the girl I love does n't care for me. "

"She is too young, then? It's foolish for you to love a young girl. "

"Yes, mother dear, I have been foolish enough to love a young girl, andit 's my fault. I do my best to stop thinking of it, but, working orsleeping, at mass or in bed, with my children or with you, I can thinkof nothing else. "

"Then it 's like a fate cast over you, Germain. There 's but one remedy, and it is that this girl must change her mind and listen to you. It's myduty to look into this, and see whether it 's practicable. Tell me whereshe lives, and what 's her name. "

"Oh, my dear mother, I dare not, " said Germain, "because you will makefun of me. "

"I shall not make fun of you, Germain, because you are in trouble, and Idon't wish to make it harder for you. Is it Fanchette?"

"No, mother, of course not. "

"Or Rosette?"

"No. "

"Tell me, then, for I shall never finish if I must name every girl inthe country-side. "

Germain bowed his head, and could not bring himself to answer. 

"Very good, " said Mother Maurice, "I shall let you alone for to-day;to-morrow, perhaps, you will be more confidential with me, or possiblyyour sister-in-law will question you more cleverly. " And she picked upher basket to go and spread her linen on the bushes. 

Germain acted like children who make up their minds when they see thatthey are no longer attracting attention. He followed his mother, and atlength, trembling, he named Marie of Guillette. 

Great was the surprise of Mother Maurice. Marie was the last person shewould have dreamed of. But she had the delicacy not to cry out, and madeher comments to herself. Then seeing that her silence hurt Germain, shestretched out her basket toward him and said:

"Is there any reason for not helping me at my work. Carry this load, andcome and talk with me. Have you reflected well, Germain? Are you fullydecided?"

"Alas, dear mother, you must n't speak in that way. I should be decidedif I had a chance of success, but as I could never be heard, I have onlymade up my mind to cure myself, if I can. "

"And if you can't. "

"There is an end to everything, Mother Maurice: when the horse is ladentoo heavily, he falls, and when the cow has nothing to eat, she dies. "

"Do you mean to say that you will die, if you do not succeed. God grantnot, Germain. I don't like to hear a man like you talk of those things;for what he says, he thinks. You are very brave, and weaknessis dangerous for strong men. Take heart; I can't conceive that apoverty-stricken girl, whom you have honored so much as to ask her tomarry you, will refuse you. "

"Yet it 's the truth: she does refuse me. "

"And what reasons does she give you?"

"That you have always been kind to her, and that her family owes a greatdeal to yours, and that she does n't wish to displease you by turning meaway from a rich marriage. "

"If she says that, she proves her good sense, and shows what an honestgirl she is. But, Germain, she does n't cure you; for of course shetells you that she loves you and would marry you if we were willing?"

"That's the worst part of all. She says that her heart can never bemine. "

"If she says what she does n't think in order to keep you at a saferdistance, the child deserves our love, and we should pass over her youthon account of her great good sense. "

"Yes, " said Germain, struck by a hope he had never held before; "thatwould be very wise and right of her! But if she is so sensible, I amsure it is because I displease her. "

"Germain, " said Mother Maurice, "you must promise me not to worry for awhole week. Keep from tormenting yourself, eat, sleep, and be as gay asyou used to be. For my part, I 'll speak to my husband, and if I gainhis consent, you shall know the girl's real feelings toward you. "

Germain promised, and the week passed without a single word in privatefrom Father Maurice, who seemed to suspect nothing. The husbandman didhis best to look calm, but he grew ever paler and more troubled. 

XVI -- Little Marie

AT length, on Sunday morning, when mass was over, his mother-in-lawasked Germain what encouragement he had had from his sweetheart sincethe conversation in the orchard. 

"Why, none at all, " answered he; "I have n't spoken to her. "

"How can you expect to win her if you don't speak to her?"

"I have spoken to her but once, " replied Germain. "That was when we weretogether at Fourche, and since then I have n't said a single word. Herrefusal gave me so much pain that I had rather not hear her begin againto tell me that she does n't love me. "

"But, my son, you must speak to her now; your father gives his approval. So make up your mind. I tell you to do it, and, if need be, I shallorder you to do it, for you can't rest in this uncertainty. "

Germain obeyed. He reached Mother Guillette's house, hanging hishead with a hopeless air. Little Marie sat alone before the hearth sothoughtful that she did not hear Germain's step. When she saw him beforeher, she started from her chair in surprise and grew very red. 

"Little Marie, " said he, sitting down near her, "I come to trouble youand to give you pain. I know it very well, but the man and his wife athome [it was thus after the peasant fashion that he designated the headsof the house] wish me to speak to you, and beg you to marry me. Youdon't care for me. I am prepared for it. "

"Germain, " answered little Marie, "are you sure that you love me?"

"It pains you, I know, but it is n't my fault. If you could change yourmind, I should be so very happy, and certain it is that I don't deserveit. Look at me, Marie; am I very terrible?"

"No, Germain, " she answered, with a smile, "you are better looking thanI. "

"Don't make fun of me; look at me charitably; as yet, I have never losta single hair nor a single tooth. My eyes tell you plainly how much Ilove you. Look straight into my eyes. It is written there, and everygirl knows how to read that writing. "

Marie looked into Germain's eyes with playful boldness; then of a suddenshe turned away her head and trembled. 

"Good God, " exclaimed Germain, "I make you afraid; you look at me asthough I were the farmer of Ormeaux. Don't be afraid of me, pleasedon't; that hurts me too much. I shall not say any bad words to you, Ishall not kiss you if you will not have me, and when you wish me to goaway, you have only to show me the door. Must I go in order to stop yourtrembling?"

Marie held out her hand toward the husbandman, but without turning herhead, which was bent on the fireplace, and without saying a word. 

"I understand, " said Germain. "You pity me, for you are kind; you aresorry to make me unhappy; but you cant love me. "

"Why do you say these things to me, Germain?" answered little Marie, after a pause. "Do you wish to make me cry?"

"Poor little girl, you have a kind heart, I know; but you don't love me, and you are hiding your face for fear of letting me see your dislike andyour repugnance. And I? I dare not even clasp your hand! In the forest, when my boy was asleep and you were sleeping too, I almost kissed youvery gently. But I would have died of shame rather than ask it of you, and that night I suffered as a man burning over a slow fire. Sincethat time I have dreamed of you every night. Ah! how I have kissed you, Marie! Yet during all that time you have slept without a dream. And now, do you know what I think? I think that were you to turn and look at mewith the eyes I have for you, and were you to move your face close tomine, I believe I should fall dead for joy. And you, you think that ifsuch a thing were to happen, you would die of anger and shame!"

Germain spoke as in a dream, not hearing the words he said. Little Mariewas trembling all the time, but he was shaking yet more and did notnotice it. Of a sudden, she turned. Her eyes were filled with tears, andshe looked at him reproachfully. The poor husbandman thought that thiswas the last blow, and without waiting for his sentence, he rose to go, but the girl stopped him, and throwing both her arms about him, she hidher face in his breast. 

"Oh, Germain, " she sobbed, "did n't you feel that I loved you?"

Then Germain had gone mad, if his son, who came galloping into thecottage on a stick, with his little sister on the crupper, scourging theimaginary steed with a willow branch, had not brought him to his senses. He lifted the boy and placed him in the girl's arms. 

"See, " said he, "by loving me, you have made more than one personhappy. "

APPENDIX

I -- A Country Wedding

HERE ends the history of Germain's marriage as he told it to me himself, good husbandman that he is. I ask your forgiveness, kind reader, that Iknow not how to translate it better; for it is a real translation thatis needed by this old-fashioned and artless language of the peasantsof the country "that I sing, " as they used to say. These people speakFrench that is too true for us, and since Rabelais and Montaigne, theadvance of the language has lost for us many of its old riches. Thusit is with every advance, and we must make the best of it. Yet it isa pleasure still to hear those picturesque idioms used in the olddistricts in the center of France; all the more because it is thegenuine expression of the laughing, quiet, and delightfully talkativecharacter of the people who make use of it. Touraine has preserveda certain precious number of patriarchal phrases. But Touraine wascivilized greatly during the Renaissance, and since its decline sheis filled with fine houses and highroads, with foreigners and traffic. Berry remained as she was, and I think that after Brittany and a fewprovinces in the far south of France, it is the best preserved districtto be found at the present day. Some of the costumes are so strange andso curious that I hope to amuse you a few minutes more, kind reader, if you will allow me to describe to you in detail a countrywedding--Germain's, for example--at which I had the pleasure ofassisting several years ago. 

For, alas! everything passes. During my life alone, more change hastaken place in the ideas and in the customs of my village than hadbeen seen in the centuries before the Revolution. Already half theceremonies, Celtic, Pagan, or of the Middle Ages, that in my childhood Ihave seen in their full vigor, have disappeared. In a year or two more, perhaps, the railroads will lay their level tracks across our deepvalleys, and will carry away, with the swiftness of lightning, all ourold traditions and our wonderful legends. 

It was in winter about the carnival season, the time of year when, inour country, it is fitting and proper to have weddings. In summer thetime can hardly be spared, and the work of the farm cannot suffer threedays' delay, not to speak of the additional days impaired to a greateror to a less degree by the moral and physical drunkenness whichfollows a gala-day. I was seated beneath the great mantelpiece of theold-fashioned kitchen fireplace when shots of pistols, barking of dogs, and the piercing notes of the bagpipe told me that the bridal pair wereapproaching. Very soon Father and Mother Maurice, Germain, and littleMarie, followed by Jacques and his wife, the closer relatives, and thegodfathers and godmothers of the bride and groom, all made their entryinto the yard. 

Little Marie had not yet received her wedding-gifts, --favors, as theycall them, --and was dressed in the best of her simple clothes, a dressof dark, heavy cloth, a white fichu with great spots of brilliant color, an apron of carnation, --an Indian red much in vogue at the time, butdespised nowadays, --a cap of very white muslin after that pattern, happily still preserved, which calls to mind the head-dress of AnneBoleyn and of Agnes Sorrel. She was fresh and laughing, but not atall vain, though she had good reason to be so. Beside her was Germain, serious and tender, like young Jacob greeting Rebecca at the wells ofLaban. Another girl would have assumed an important air and struck anattitude of triumph, for in every rank it is something to be marriedfor a fair face alone. Yet the girl's eyes were moist and shone withtenderness. It was plain that she was deep in love and had no time tothink of the opinions of others. Her little air of determination was notabsent, but everything about her denoted frankness and good-will. Therewas nothing impertinent in her success, nothing selfish in her senseof power. Never have I seen so lovely a bride, when she answered withfrankness her young friends who asked if she were happy:

"Surely I have nothing to complain of the good Lord. "

Father Maurice was spokesman. He came forward to pay his compliments, and give the customary invitations. First he fastened to the mantelpiecea branch of laurel decked out with ribbons; this is known as the_writ_--that is to say, the letter of announcement. Next he gaveto every guest a tiny cross made of a bit of blue ribbon sewn to atransverse bit of pink ribbon--pink for the bride, blue for the groom. The guests of both sexes were expected to keep this badge to adorn theircaps or their button-holes on the wedding-day. This is the letter ofinvitation, the admission ticket. 

Then Father Maurice paid his congratulations. He invited the head of thehouse and all his _company_, --that is to say, all his children, all hisfriends, and all his servants, --to the benediction, _to the feast, tothe sports, to the dance, and to everything that follows_. He did notfail to say, "I have come _to do you the honor of inviting you_"; a veryright manner of speech, even though it appears to us to convey the wrongmeaning, for it expresses the idea of doing honor to those who seemworthy of it. 

Despite the generosity of the invitation carried from house to housethroughout the parish, politeness, which is very cautious amongstpeasants, demands that only two persons from each family take advantageof it--one of the heads of the house, and one from the number of theirchildren. 

After the invitations were made, the betrothed couple and their familiestook dinner together at the farm. 

Little Marie kept her three sheep on the common, and Germain tilled thesoil as though nothing had happened. 

About two in the afternoon before the day set for the wedding, the musiccame. The music means the players of the bagpipe and hurdy-gurdy, their instruments decorated with long streaming ribbons, playing anappropriate march to a measure which would have been rather slow forfeet foreign to the soil, but admirably adapted to the heavy ground andhilly roads of the country. 

Pistol-shots, fired by the young people and the children, announcedthe beginning of the wedding ceremonies. Little by little the guestsassembled, and danced on the grass-plot before the house in order toenter into the spirit of the occasion. When evening was come they beganstrange preparations; they divided into two bands, and when night hadsettled down they proceeded to the ceremony of the _favors_. 

All this passed at the dwelling of the bride, Mother Guillette'scottage. Mother Guillette took with her her daughter, a dozen prettyshepherdesses, friends and relatives of her daughter, two or threerespectable housewives, talkative neighbors, quick of wit and strictguardians of ancient customs. Next she chose a dozen stout fellows, her relatives and friends; and last of all the parish hemp-dresser, agarrulous old man, and as good a talker as ever there was. 

The part which, in Brittany, is played by the bazvalon, the villagetailor, is taken in our part of the country by the hemp-dresser and thewool-carder, two professions which are unusually combined in one. Heis present at all ceremonies, sad or gay, for he is very learned anda fluent talker, and on these occasions he must always figure asspokesman, in order to fulfil with exactitude certain formalities usedfrom time immemorial. Traveling occupations, which bring a man into themidst of other families, without allowing him to shut himself up withinhis own, are well fitted to make him talker, wit, storyteller, andsinger. 

The hemp-dresser is peculiarly skeptical. He and another villagefunctionary, of whom we have spoken before, the grave-digger, are alwaysthe daring spirits of the neighborhood. They have talked so much aboutghosts, and they know so well all the tricks of which these maliciousspirits are capable, that they fear them scarcely at all. It isespecially at night that all of them--grave-diggers, hemp-dressers, andghosts--do their work. It is also at night when the hemp-dresser tellshis melancholy stories. Permit me to make a digression. 

When the hemp has reached the right stage, that is to say, when it hasbeen steeped sufficiently in running water, and half dried on the bank, it is brought into the yard and arranged in little upright sheaves, which, with their stalks divided at the base, and their heads bound inballs, bear in the dusk some small resemblance to a long processionof little white phantoms, standing on their slender legs, and movingnoiselessly along the wall. 

It is at the end of September, when the nights are still warm, that theybegin to beat it by the pale light of the moon. By day the hemp has beenheated in the oven; at night they take it out to beat it while it isstill hot. For this they use a kind of horse surmounted by a woodenlever which falls into grooves and breaks the plant without cutting it. It is then that you hear in the night that sudden, sharp noise of threeblows in quick succession. Then there is silence; it is the movement ofthe arm drawing out the handful of hemp to break it in a fresh spot. Thethree blows begin again; the other arm works the lever, and thus it goeson until the moon is hidden by the early streaks of dawn. As the workcontinues but a few days in the year, the dogs are not accustomed to it, and yelp their plaintive howls toward every point of the horizon. 

It is the time of unwonted and mysterious sounds in the country. Themigrating cranes fly so high that by day they are scarcely visible. Bynight they are only heard, and their hoarse wailing voices, lost in theclouds, sound like the parting cry of souls in torment, striving to findthe road to heaven, yet forced by an unconquerable fate to wander nearthe earth about the haunts of men; for these errant birds have strangeuncertainties, and many a mysterious anxiety in the course of their airyflight. Sometimes they lose the wind when the capricious gusts battle, or come and go in the upper regions. When this confusion comes by day, you can see the leader of the file fluttering aimlessly in the air, thenturn about and take his place at the tail of the triangular phalanx, while a skilful manoeuver of his companions forms them soon in goodorder behind him. Often, after vain efforts, the exhausted leaderrelinquishes the guidance of the caravan; another comes forward, triesin his turn, and yields his place to a third, who finds the breeze, andcontinues the march in triumph. But what cries, what reproaches, whatprotests, what wild curses or anxious questionings are exchanged in anunknown tongue amongst these winged pilgrims!

Sometimes, in the resonant night, you can hear these sinister noiseswhirling for a long time above the housetops, and as you can seenothing, you feel, despite your efforts, a kind of dread and kindreddiscomfort, until the sobbing multitude is lost in boundless space. 

There are other noises too which belong to this time of year, and whichsound usually in the orchards. Gathering the fruit is not yet over, andthe thousand unaccustomed cracklings make the tree seem alive. A branchgroans as it bends beneath a burden which has reached, of a sudden, the last stage of growth; or perhaps an apple breaks from the twig, andfalls on the damp earth at your feet with a dull sound. Then you hearrush by, brushing the branches and the grass, a creature you cannotsee; it is the peasant's dog, that prowling and uneasy rover, at onceimpudent and cowardly, always wandering, never sleeping, ever seekingyou know not what, spying upon you, hiding in the brush, and takingflight at the sound of a falling apple, which he thinks a stone that youare throwing at him. 

It is during those nights, nights misty and gray, that the hemp-dressertells his weird stories of will-o'-the-wisps and milk-white hares, ofsouls in torment and wizards changed to wolves, of witches' vigils atthe cross-roads, and screech-owls, prophetesses of the graveyard. Iremember passing the early hours of such a night while the hemp-dressingwas going on, and the pitiless strokes, interrupting the dresser's storyat its most awful place, sent icy shivers through our veins. And oftentoo the good man continued his story as he worked, and four or fivewords were lost, terrible words, no doubt, which we dared not make himrepeat, and whose omission added a mystery yet more fearful to thedark mysteries of the story which had gone before. It was in vain theservants warned us that it was too late to stay without doors, and thatbedtime had sounded for us long since; they too were dying to hear more;and then with what terror we crossed the hamlet on our way home! Howdeep did the church porch appear to us, and how thick and black theshadows of the old trees! The graveyard we dared not see; we shut oureyes tight as we passed it. 

But no more than the sacristan is the hemp-dresser gifted solelywith the desire of frightening; he loves to make people laugh; he issarcastic and sentimental at need, when love and marriage are to besung. It is he who collects and keeps stored in his memory the oldestsongs, and who transmits them to posterity. And so it is he who acts atweddings the part we shall see him play at the presentation of littleMarie's favors. 

II -- The Wedding Favors

WHEN all the guests were met together in the house, the doors andwindows were closed with the utmost care; even the garret window wasbarricaded; boards and benches, logs and tables were placed behind everyentrance, just as if the inhabitants were making ready to sustain asiege; and within these fortifications solemn stillness prevailed untilat a distance were heard songs and laughter and the sounds of rusticmusic. It was the band of the bridegroom, Germain at the head, followedby his most trusty companions and by the grave-digger, relatives, friends, and servants, who formed a compact and merry train. Meanwhile, as they came nearer the house they slackened their pace, held a councilof war, and became silent. The girls, shut up in the house, had arrangedlittle loop-holes at the windows by which they could see the enemyapproach and deploy in battle array. A fine, cold rain was falling, which added zest to the situation, while a great tire blazed on thehearth within. Marie wished to cut short the inevitable slowness of thiswell-ordered siege; she had no desire to see her lover catch cold, but not being in authority she had to take an ostensible share in themischievous cruelty of her companions. 

When the two armies met, a discharge of firearms on the part of thebesiegers set all the dogs in the neighborhood to barking. Those withinthe house dashed at the door with loud yelps, thinking that the attackwas in earnest, and the children, little reassured by the efforts oftheir mothers, began to weep and to tremble. The whole scene was playedso well that a stranger would have been deceived, and would have madehis preparations to tight a band of brigands. Then the grave-digger, bard and orator of the groom, took his stand before the door, and witha rueful voice, exchanged the following dialogue with the hemp-dresser, who was stationed above the same door:

_The Grave-digger_: "Ah, my good people, my fellow-townsmen, for thelove of Heaven, open the door. "

_The Hemp-dresser_: "Who are you, and what right have you to call usyour dear fellow-townsmen? We don't know you. "

_The Grave-digger_: "We are worthy folk in great distress. Don't beafraid of us, my friends. Extend us your hospitality. Sleet is falling;our poor feet are frozen, and our journey home has been so long that oursabots are split. "

_The Hemp-dresser_: "If your sabots are split, you can look onthe ground; you will find very soon a sprig of willow to make some_arcelets_ [small curved blades of iron which are fastened on splitsabots to hold them together]. "

_The Grave-digger_: "Willow _arcelets_ are scarcely strong enough. Youare making fun of us, good people, and you would do better to open yourdoors. We can see a splendid fire blazing in your dwelling. The spitmust be turning, and we can make merry with you, heart and belly. Soopen your doors to poor pilgrims who will die on the threshold if youare not merciful. "

_The Hemp-dresser_: "Ah ha! so you are pilgrims? You never told us that. And what pilgrimage do you come from, may I ask?"

_The Grave-digger_: "We shall tell you that when you open the door, forwe come from so far that you would never believe it. "

_The Hemp-dresser_: "Open the door to you? I rather think not. We can'ttrust you. Tell us, is it from Saint Sylvain of Pouligny that you come?"

_The Grave-digger_: "We have been at Saint Sylvain of Pouligny, but wehave been farther still. "

_The Hemp-dresser_: "Then you have been as far as Saint Solange?"

_The Grave-digger_: "At Saint Solange we have been, sure enough, but wehave been farther yet. "

_The Hemp-dresser_: "You are lying. You have never been as far as SaintSolange. "

_The Grave-digger_: "We have been farther, for now we are come fromSaint Jacques of Compostelle. "

_The Hemp-dresser_: "What absurdity are you telling us? We don't knowthat parish. We can easily see that you are bad people, brigands, nobodies, and liars. Go away with your nonsense. We are on our guard. You can't come in. "

_The Grave-digger_: "Ah, my poor fellow, take pity on us. We are notpilgrims, as you have guessed, but we are unlucky poachers pursued bythe keepers. Even the police are after us, and if you don't hide us inyour hay-loft, we shall be taken and led off to prison. "

_The Hemp-dresser_: "And who will prove you are what you say youare, this time? For you have told us one lie already that you can'tmaintain. "

_The Grave-digger_: "If you will let us in, we shall show you a prettypiece of game we have killed. "

_The Hemp-dresser_: "Show it right away, for we have our suspicions. "

_The Grave-digger_: "All right, open the door or a window to let us passthe creature in. "

_The Hemp-dresser_: "Oh, no, not quite so foolish. I am looking at youthrough a little chink, and I can see neither hunters nor game amongstyou. "

Here an ox-driver, a thick-set fellow of herculean strength, detachedhimself from a group where he had stood unperceived, and raised towardthe window a plucked goose, spitted on a strong iron bar decorated withtufts of straw and ribbons. 

"Ho, ho!" cried the hemp-dresser, after cautiously extending an arm tofeel the roast. "That is n't a quail nor a partridge; it is n't a harenor a rabbit; it 's something like a goose or a turkey. Upon my word, you 're clever hunters, and that game did n't make you run very far. Move on, you rogues; we know all your lies, and you had best go home andcook your supper. You are not going to eat ours. "

_The Grave-digger_: "O Heavens, where can we go to cook our game? It isvery little for so many as we, and, besides, we have neither place norfire. At this time every door is closed, and every soul asleep. You arethe only people who are celebrating a wedding at home, and you must hehardhearted indeed to let us freeze outside. Once again, good people, open the door; we shall not cost you anything. You can see that we bringour own meat; only a little room at your hearth, a little blaze to cookwith, and we shall go on our way rejoicing. "

_The Hemp-dresser_: "Do you suppose that we have too much room here, andthat wood is bought tor nothing?"

_The Grave-digger_: "We have here a small bundle of hay to make thefire. We shall be satisfied with that; only grant us leave to place thespit across your fireplace. "

_The Hemp-dresser_: "That will never do. We are disgusted, and don'tpity you at all. It is my opinion that you are drunk, that you neednothing, and that you only wish to come in and steal away our fire andour daughters. "

_The Grave-digger_: "Since you won't listen to reason, we shall make ourway in by force. "

_The Hemp-dresser_: "Try, if you want; we are shut in well enough tohave no fear of you, and since you are impudent fellows, we shall notanswer you again. "

Thereupon the hemp-dresser shut the garret window with a bang, and camedown into the room below by a step-ladder. Then he took the bride bythe hand, the young people of both sexes followed, and they all began tosing and chatter merrily, while the matrons sang in piercing voices, andshrieked with laughter in derision and bravado at those without who wereattempting an attack. 

The besiegers, on their side, made a great hubbub. They discharged theirpistols at the doors, made the dogs growl, whacked the walls, shookthe blinds, and uttered frightful shrieks. In short, there was such apandemonium that nobody could hear, and such a cloud of dust that nobodycould see. 

And yet this attack was all a sham. The time had not come for breakingthrough the etiquette. If, in prowling about, anybody were to find anunguarded aperture, or any opening whatsoever, he might try to slip inunobserved, and then, if the carrier of the spit succeeded in placinghis roast before the fire, and thus prove the capture of the hearth, thecomedy was over and the bridegroom had conquered. 

The entrances of the house, however, were not numerous enough for any tobe neglected in the customary precautions, and nobody might use violencebefore the moment fixed for the struggle. 

When they were weary of dancing and screams, the hemp-dresser beganto think of capitulation. He went up to his window, opened it withprecaution, and greeted the baffled assailants with a burst of laughter. 

"Well, my boys, " said he, "you look very sheep-faced. You thought therewas nothing easier than to come in, and you see that our defense isgood. But we are beginning to have pity on you, if you will submit andaccept our conditions. "

_The Grave-digger_: "Speak, good people. Tell us what we must do toapproach your hearth. "

_The Hemp-dresser_: "You must sing, my friends; but sing a song we don'tknow, --one that we can't answer by a better. "

"That 's not hard to do, " answered the grave-digger, and he thundered ina powerful voice: "'Six months ago, 'twas in the spring. . . '"

"'I wandered through the sprouting grass, '" answered the hemp-dresserin a slightly hoarse but terrible voice. "You must be jesting, my poorfriends, singing us such time-worn songs. You see very well that we canstop you at the first word. "

 "'She was a prince's daughter. . . '"

"'Right gladly would she wed, '" answered the hemp-dresser. "Come, moveon to the next; we know that a little too well. "

_The Grave-digger_: "How do you like this one?--

 "'As I was journeying home from Nantes. '"

_The Hemp-dresser_:

 "'Weary, oh, weary, was I, was I. '"

"That dates from my grandmother's time. Let's have another. "

 _The Grave-digger_:

 "'One day I went a-walking. . . '"

_The Hemp-dresser_:

 "'Along a lovely wood!'"

"That one is too stupid! Our little children would n't take the troubleto answer you. What! Are these all you know?"

_The Grave-digger_: "Oh, we shall sing you so many that you will neverbe able to hear them all. "

In this way a full hour passed. As the two antagonists were championsof the country round in the matter of songs, and as their store seemedinexhaustible, the contest might last all night with ease, all themore because the hemp-dresser, with a touch of malice, allowed severalballads of ten, twenty, or thirty couplets to be sung through, feigningby his silence to admit his defeat. Then the bridegroom's camp rejoicedand sang aloud in chorus, and thought that this time the foe wasworsted; but at the first line of the last couplet, they heard thehoarse croaking of the old hemp-dresser bellow forth the second rhyme. Then he cried:

"You need not tire yourselves by singing such a long one, mychildren--we know that one to our finger-tips. "

Once or twice, however, the hemp-dresser made a wry face, contracted hisbrow, and turned toward the expectant housewives with a baffled air. The grave-digger was singing something so old that his adversary hadforgotten it, or perhaps had never even heard it; but instantly the goodgossips chanted the victorious refrain through their noses with voicesshrill as a sea-mew's, and the grave-digger, forced to surrender, wenton to fresh attempts. 

It would have taken too long to wait for a decision of the victory. Thebride's party declared itself disposed to be merciful, provided that thebride were given a present worthy of her. 

Then began the song of the favors to a tune solemn as a church chant. 

The men without sang together in bass voices:

 "'Open the door, true love, Open the door; I have presents for you, love, Oh, say not adieu, love. '"

To this the women answered from within in falsetto, with mournfulvoices:

 "'My father is sorry, my mother is sad, And I am a maiden too kind by far At such an hour my gate to unbar. '"

The men took up the first verse as far as the fourth line and modifiedit thus:

 "'And a handkerchief new, love. '"

But, on behalf of the bride, the women answered in the same way as atfirst. 

For twenty couplets, at least, the men enumerated all thewedding-presents, always mentioning something new in the last line: ahandsome apron, pretty ribbons, a cloth dress, laces, a golden cross, and even a hundred pins to complete the modest list of wedding-presents. The refusal of the women could not be shaken, but at length the mendecided to speak of

 "A good husband, too, love. "

And the women answered, turning toward the bride and singing in unisonwith the men:

 "'Open the door, true love, Open the door; Here's a sweetheart for you, love, Pray let us enter, too, love. '"

III -- The Wedding

IMMEDIATELY the hemp-dresser drew back the wooden bolt which barred thedoor within. At this time it was still the only fastening known in mostof the dwellings of our hamlet. The groom's band burst into the bride'shouse, but not without a struggle; for the young men quartered within, and even the old hemp-dresser and the gossips, made it their duty todefend the hearth. The spit-bearer, upheld by his supporters, had toplant the roast before the fireplace. It was a regular battle, althoughpeople abstained from striking, and there was no anger shown in thisstruggle. But everybody was pushing and shoving so hard, and there wasso much playful pride in this display of muscular strength, that theresults might well have been serious, although they did not appear soacross the laughs and songs. The poor old hemp-dresser, fighting like alion, was pinned to the wall and squeezed by the crowd until his breathalmost left him. More than one champion was upset and trodden under footinvoluntarily; more than one hand, jammed against the spit, was coveredwith blood. These games are dangerous, and latterly the accidents havebeen so severe that our peasants have determined to allow the ceremonyof the favors to fall into disuse; I believe we saw the last at themarriage of François Meillant, although there was no real struggle onthat occasion. 

The battle was earnest enough, however, at Germain's wedding. It wasa point of honor on one side to invade, on the other to defend, MotherGuillette's hearth. The great spit was twisted like a screw beneaththe strong fists which fought for it A pistol-shot set fire to a smallquantity of hemp arranged in sheaves and laid on a wicker shelf nearthe ceiling. This incident created a diversion, and while some of thecompany crowded about to extinguish the sparks, the grave-digger, whohad climbed unbeknown into the garret, came down the chimney and seizedthe spit, at the very moment when the ox-driver, who was defending itnear the hearth, raised it above his head to prevent it from being tornaway. Some time before the attack, the women had taken the precautionto put out the fire lest in the struggle somebody should fall in and getburned. The jocular grave-digger, in league with the ox-driver, graspedthe trophy and tossed it easily across the andirons. It was done! Nobodymight interfere. The grave-digger sprang to the middle of the roomand lighted a few wisps of straw, which he placed about the spit underpretense of cooking the roast, for the goose was in pieces and the floorwas strewn with its scattered fragments. 

Then there was a great deal of laughter and much boastful dispute. Everybody showed the marks of the blows he had received, and as itwas often a friend's hand that had struck them, there was no word ofcomplaint nor of quarreling. The hemp-dresser, half flattened out, keptrubbing the small of his back and saying that, although it made smalldifference to him, he protested against the ruse of his friend, thegrave-digger, and that if he had not been half dead, the hearth hadnever been captured so easily. The women swept the floor and orderwas restored. The table was covered with jugs of new wine. When thecontestants had drunk together and taken breath, the bridegroom was ledto the middle of the chamber, and, armed with a wand, he was obliged tosubmit to a fresh trial. 

During the struggle, the bride and three of her companions had beenhidden by her mother, godmother, and aunts, who had made the four girlssit down in a remote corner of the room while they covered them witha large white cloth. Three friends of Marie's height, with caps of auniform size, were chosen, so that when they were enveloped from head totoe by the cloth it was impossible to tell them apart. 

The bridegroom might not touch them, except with the tip of his staff, and then merely to designate which he thought to be his wife. Theyallowed him time enough to make an examination with no other help thanhis eyes afforded, and the women, placed on either side, kept zealouswatch lest cheating should occur. Should he guess wrong, he might notdance, with his bride, but only with her he had chosen by mistake. 

When Germain stood in front of these ghosts wrapped in the same shroud, he feared he should make a wrong choice; and, in truth, that hadhappened to many another, so carefully and conscientiously were theprecautions made. His heart beat loud. Little Marie did her best tobreathe hard and shake the cloth a little, but her malicious companionsfollowed her example, and kept poking the cloth with their fingers, sothat there were as many mysterious signals as there were girls beneaththe canopy. The square head-dresses upheld the cloth so evenly that itwas impossible to discern the contour of a brow outlined by its folds. 

After ten minutes' hesitation, Germain shut his eyes, commended his soulto God, and stretched out the wand at random. It touched the foreheadof little Marie, who cast the cloth from her, and shouted with triumph. Then it was his right to kiss her, and lifting her in his strong arms, he bore her to the middle of the room, where together they opened thedance, which lasted until two in the morning. The company separated tomeet again at eight. As many people had come from the country round, andas there were not beds enough for everybody, each of the villagemaidens took to her bed two or three other girls, while the men spreadthemselves pell-mell on the hay in the barn-loft. You can imagine wellthat they had little sleep, for they did nothing but wrestle and joke, and tell foolish stories. Properly, there were three sleepless nights atweddings, and these we cannot regret. 

At the time appointed for departure, when they had partaken ofmilk-soup, seasoned with a strong dose of pepper to stimulate theappetite, --for the wedding-feast gave promise of great bounty, --theguests assembled in the farm-yard. Since our parish had been abolished, we had to go half a league from home to receive the marriage blessing. It was cool and pleasant weather, but the roads were in such wretchedcondition that everybody was on horseback, and each man took a companionon his crupper, whether she were young or old. Germain started on thegray, and the mare, well-groomed, freshly shod, and decked outwith ribbons, pranced about and snorted fire from her nostrils. Thehusbandman went to the cottage for his bride in company with hisbrother-in-law, Jacques, who rode the old gray, and carried MotherGuillette on the crupper, while Germain returned to the farm-yard intriumph, holding his dear little wife before him. 

Then the merry cavalcade set out, escorted by the children, who ranahead and fired off their pistols to make the horses jump. MotherMaurice was seated in a small cart, with Germain's three children andthe fiddlers. They led the march to the sound of their instruments. Petit-Pierre was so handsome that his old grandmother was pride itself. But the eager child did not stay long at her side. During a moment'shalt made on the journey, before passing through a difficult piece ofroad, he slipped away and ran to beg his father to carry him in front onthe gray. 

"No, no, " replied Germain, "that will call forth some disagreeable joke;we must n't do it. "

"It's little that I care what the people of Saint Chartier say, " saidlittle Marie. "Take him up, Germain, please do; I shall be prouder ofhim than I am of my wedding-gown. "

Germain yielded, and the pretty trio darted into the crowd borne by thetriumphant gallop of the gray. 

And so it was; the people of Saint Chartier, although they were verysarcastic, and somewhat disdainful of the neighboring parishes which hadbeen annexed to theirs, never thought of laughing when they saw sucha handsome husband, such a lovely wife, and a child that a king's wifemight court. Petit-Pierre was all dressed in light blue cloth, with asmart red waistcoat so short that it descended scarcely below his chin. The village tailor had fitted his armholes so tight that he could notbring his two little hands together. But, oh, how proud he was! He worea round hat, with a black-and-gold cord, and a peacock's plume whichstuck out proudly from a tuft of guinea feathers. A bunch of flowers, bigger than his head, covered his shoulder, and ribbons fluttered to hisfeet The hemp-dresser, who was also the barber and hair-dresser of thedistrict, had cut his hair evenly, by covering his head with a bowl, andclipping off the protruding locks, an infallible method for guiding theshears. Thus arrayed, the poor child was less poetic, certainly, thanwith his curls streaming in the wind, and his Saint John Baptist'ssheepskin about him; but he knew nothing of this, and everybody admiredhim and said that he had quite the air of a little man. His beautytriumphed over everything, for what is there over which the exceedingbeauty of childhood could not triumph?

His little sister, Solange, had, for the first time in her life, apeasant's cap in place of the calico hood which little girls wear untilthey are two or three years old. And what a cap it was! Longer andlarger than the poor little thing's whole body. How beautiful shethought it! She dared not even turn her head; so she kept quite stilland thought the people would take her for the bride. 

As for little Sylvain, he was still in long clothes, and, fast asleep onhis grandmother's knees, he did not even know what a wedding was. 

Germain looked at his children tenderly, and when they reached the townhall, he said to his bride:

"Marie, I have come here with a happier heart than I had the day when Ibrought you home from the forest of Chanteloube, thinking that you couldnever love me. I took you in my arms to put you on the ground as I dohere; but I thought that never again should we be mounted on the goodgray with the child on our knees. I love you so dearly, I love theselittle creatures so dearly, I am so happy that you love me and that youlove them, and that my family love you, and I love your mother so welland all my friends so well, and everybody else so well today, that Iwish I had three or four hearts to fill all of them; for surely one istoo small to hold so much love and so much happiness. It almost makes mystomach ache. "

There was a crowd at the door of the town hall and another at the churchto see the pretty bride. Why should we not tell about her dress? itbecame her so well. Her muslin cap, without spot and covered withembroidery, had lappets trimmed with lace. At that time peasant womennever allowed a single lock to be seen, and, although they concealbeneath their caps splendid coils of hair tied up with tape to hold thecoif in place, even to-day it would be thought a scandal and a shame forthem to show themselves bareheaded to men. Nowadays, however, they allowa slender braid to appear over their foreheads, and this improves theirappearance very much. Yet I regret the classic head-dress of my time;its spotless laces next the bare skin gave an effect of pristine puritywhich seemed to me very solemn; and when a face looked beautiful thus itwas with a beauty of which nothing can express the charm and unaffectedmajesty. 

Little Marie wore her cap thus, and her forehead was so white and sopure that it defied the whiteness of linen to cast it in the shade. Although she had not closed an eye the night before, the morning airand, yet more, the joy within of a soul pure as the heaven, and, morethan all, a small secret flame guarded with the modesty of girlhood, caused a bloom to mount to her cheeks delicate as the peach-blossom inthe first beams of an April sun. 

Her white scarf, modestly crossed over her breast, left visible only thesoft curves of a neck rounded like a turtle-dove's; her home-made clothgown of myrtle-green outlined her pretty figure, which looked alreadyperfect, yet which must still grow and develop, for she was butseventeen. She wore an apron of violet silk with the bib our peasantwomen were so foolish as to suppress, which added so much elegance anddecency to the breast. Nowadays they display their scarfs more proudly, but there is no longer in their dress that delicate flower of the purityof long ago, which made them look like Holbein's virgins. They are moreforward and more profuse in their courtesies. The good old custom usedto be a kind of staid reserve which made their rare smile deeper andmore ideal. 

During the offertory, after the fashion of the day, Germain placed the"thirteen"--that is to say, thirteen pieces of silver--in his bride'shand. He slipped over her finger a silver ring of a form unchangedfor centuries, but which is replaced for henceforth by the goldenwedding-ring. As they walked out of church, Marie said in a low voice:

"Is this really the ring I wanted? Is it the one I asked you for, Germain?"

"Yes, " answered he, "my Catherine wore it on her finger when she died. There is but one ring for both my weddings. "

"Thank you, Germain, " said the young woman, in a serious and impressivetone. "I shall die with it on, and if I go before you, you must keep itfor the marriage of your little Solange. "

IV -- The Cabbage

THEY mounted and returned very quickly to Belair. The feast wasbountiful, and, mingled with songs and dances, it lasted untilmidnight. For fourteen hours the old people did not leave the table. Thegrave-digger did the cooking, and did it very well. He was celebratedfor this, and he would leave his fire to come in and dance and singbefore and after every course. And yet this poor Father Bontemps wasepileptic. Who would have thought it? He was fresh and strong, and merryas a young man. One day we found him in a ditch, struck down by hismalady at nightfall. We carried him home with us, in a wheelbarrow, andwe spent all night in caring for him. Three days afterward, he was at awedding, singing like a thrush, jumping like a kid, and bustling aboutafter his old fashion. When he left a marriage, he would go to dig agrave, and nail up a coffin. Then he would become very grave, andthough nothing of this appeared in his gay humor, it left a melancholyimpression which hastened the return of his attacks. His wife wasparalyzed, and had not stirred from her chair for twenty years. Hismother is living yet, at a hundred and forty, but he, poor man, so happyand good and amusing, was killed last year by falling from his loftto the sidewalk. Doubtless he died a victim to a fatal attack of hisdisease, and, as was his habit, had hidden in the hay, so as not tofrighten and distress his family. In this tragic manner he ended a lifestrange as his disposition--a medley of things sad and mad, awful andgay; and, in the midst of all, his heart was ever good and his naturekind. 

Now we come to the third day of the wedding, the most curious of all, which is kept to-day in all its vigor. We shall not speak of the roastwhich they carry to the bridal bed; it is a very silly custom, and hurtsthe self-respect of the bride, while it tends to ruin the modesty ofthe attendant girls. Besides, I believe that it is practised in all theprovinces, and does not belong peculiarly to our own. 

Just as the ceremony of the wedding favors is a symbol that the heartand home of the bride are won, that of the cabbage is a symbol of thefruit-fulness of marriage. When breakfast is over on the day after thewedding, this fantastic representation begins. Originally of Gallicderivation, it has passed through primitive Christianity, and little bylittle it has become a kind of mystery, or droll morality-play of theMiddle Ages. 

Two boys, the merriest and most intelligent of the company, disappearfrom breakfast, and after costuming themselves, return escorted by dogs, children, and pistol-shots. They represent a pair of beggars--husbandand wife--dressed in rags. The husband is the filthier of the two; it isvice which has brought him so low; the wife is unhappy and degraded onlythrough the misdeeds of her husband. 

They are called the gardener and the gardener's wife, and they pretendit is their duty to guard and care for the sacred cabbage. The husbandhas several names, each with a meaning. Sometimes they call him the"scarecrow, " because his head is covered with straw or hemp, and becausehis legs and a portion of his body are surrounded with straw to hidehis nakedness, ill concealed by his rags. He has also a great belly, or hump, constructed of straw or hay underneath his blouse. Then he isknown as the "ragamuffin, " on account of his covering of rags. Lastly heis termed the "infidel, " and this is most significant of all, because byhis cynicism and his debauchery he is supposed to typify the opposite ofevery Christian virtue. 

He comes with his face all smeared with soot and the lees of wine, andsometimes made yet more hideous by a grotesque mask. An earthenware cup, notched and broken, or an old sabot attached to his girdle by a cord, shows that he has come to beg for alms of wine. Nobody refuses him, andhe pretends to drink; then he pours the wine on the ground by way oflibation. At every step he falls, rolls in the mud, and feigns to bea prey to the most shameful drunkenness. His poor wife runs after him, picks him up, calls for help, arranges his hempen locks, which straggleforth in unkempt wisps from beneath his filthy hat, sheds tears over herhusband's degradation, and pours forth pathetic reproaches. 

"Wretched man, " she cries, "see the misery to which your wickednesshas brought us. I have to spend all my time sewing and working for you, mending your clothes. You tear and bedraggle yourself incessantly. Youhave eaten up all my little property; our six children lie on straw, andwe are living in a stable with the beasts. Here we are forced to beg foralms, and, besides, you are so ugly and vile and despicable that verysoon they will be tossing us bread as if we were dogs. Ah, my poorpeople, take pity on us! Take pity on me! I have n't deserved my lot, and never had woman a more dirty and detestable husband. Help me topick him up, else the wagons will run over him as they run over brokenbottles, and I shall be a widow, and that will end by killing me withgrief, though all the world says it would be an excellent riddancefor me. " Such is the part of the gardener's wife, and her continuedlamentations last during the entire play. For it is a genuinespontaneous comedy acted on the spur of the moment in the open air, along the roads and across the fields, aided by every chance occurrencethat presents itself. Everybody shares in the acting, people within thewedding-party and people without, wayfarers and dwellers in houses, forthree or four hours of the day, as we shall see. The theme is always thesame, but the variations are infinite; and it is here that we can seethe instinct of mimicry, the abundance of droll ideas, the fluency, thewit at repartee, and even the natural eloquence of our peasants. 

The rôle of gardener's wife is intrusted commonly to a slender man, beardless and fresh of face, who can give a great appearance of truth tohis personification and plays the burlesque despair naturally enough tomake people sad and glad at once, as they are in real life. These thin, beardless men are not rare among us, and, strangely enough, they aresometimes most remarkable for their muscular strength. 

When the wife's misfortunes have been explained, the young men of thecompany try to persuade her to leave her drunken husband and to amuseherself with them. They offer her their arms and drag her away. Littleby little she gives way; her spirits rise, and she begins to run about, first with one and then with another, and grows more scandalous in herbehavior: a fresh "morality"; the ill-conduct of the husband excites andaggravates the evil in the wife. 

Then the "infidel" wakes from his drunkenness. He looks about for hiscompanion, arms himself with a rope and a stick and rushes after her. They make him run, they hide, they pass the wife from one to another, they try to divert her attention and to deceive her jealous spouse. Hisfriends try to get him drunk. At length he catches his unfaithful wife, and wishes to beat her. What is truest and most carefully portrayed inthis play is that the jealous husband never attacks the men who carryoff his wife. He is very polite and prudent with them, and wishes onlyto take vengeance on the sinning woman, because she is supposed to betoo feeble to offer resistance. 

At the moment, however, when he raises his stick and prepares his cordto strike the delinquent, all the men in the party interpose and throwthemselves between husband and wife. 

"Don't strike her! Never strike your wife, " is the formula repeated tosatiety during these scenes. They disarm the husband, and force him topardon and to kiss his wife, and soon he pretends to love her betterthan ever. He walks along, his arm linked in hers, singing and dancinguntil, in a new access of drunkenness, he rolls upon the ground, and then begin all over again the lamentations of the wife, herdiscouragements, her pretended unfaithfulness, her husband's jealousy, the interference of the neighbors, and the reconciliation. In allthis there is a simple and even coarse lesson, which, though it savorsstrongly of its Middle-Age origin, does not fail to fix its impressionif not on the married folk, who are too loving or too sensible tohave need of it, at least upon the children and the young people. The"infidel, " racing after young girls and pretending to wish to kiss them, frightens and disgusts them to such a degree that they fly in unaffectedterror. His dirty face and his great stick, harmless as it is, makethe children shriek aloud. It is the comedy of customs in their mostelementary but their most striking state. 

When this farce is well under way, people make ready to hunt for thecabbage. They bring a stretcher and place upon it the "infidel, " armedwith a spade, a cord, and a large basket. Four powerful men raise himon their shoulders. His wife follows on foot, and after her comethe "elders" in a body with serious and thoughtful looks; then thewedding-march begins by couples to a step tuned to music. Pistol-shotsbegin anew, and dogs bark louder than ever at the sight of the filthy"infidel" borne aloft in triumph. The children swing incense in derisionwith sabots fastened at the end of a cord. 

But why this ovation to an object so repulsive? They are marching to thecapture of the sacred cabbage, emblem of the fruitfulness of marriage, and it is this drunkard alone who can bear the symbolic plant in hishand. Doubtless, there is in it a pre-Christian mystery which recallsthe Saturnalian feasts or some rout of the Bacchanals. Perhaps this"infidel, " who is, at the same time, preeminently a gardener, isnone other than Priapus himself, god of gardens and of drunkenness, adivinity who must have been pure and serious in his origin as is themystery of birth, but who has been degraded bit by bit through licenseof manners and distraction of thought. 

However this may be, the triumphal procession arrives at the bride'shouse, and enters the garden. Then they select the choicest cabbage, andthis is not done very quickly, for the old people keep consulting anddisputing interminably, each one pleading for the cabbage he thinks mostsuitable. They put it to vote, and when the choice is made the gardenerfastens his cord to the stalk, and moves away as far as the size of thegarden permits. The gardener's wife takes care that the sacredvegetable shall not be hurt in its fall. The wits of the wedding, thehemp-dresser, the grave-digger, the carpenter, and the sabot-maker, forma ring about the cabbage, for men who do not till the soil, but passtheir lives in other people's houses, are thought to be, and are really, wittier and more talkative than simple farmhands. One digs, with aspade, a ditch deep enough to uproot an oak. Another places on hisnose a pair of wooden or cardboard spectacles. He fulfils the duties of"engineer, " walks up and down, constructs a plan, stares at the workmenthrough his glasses, plays the pedant, cries out that everything will bespoiled, has the work stopped and begun afresh as his fancy directs, andmakes the whole performance as long and ridiculous as he can. This isan addition to the formula of an ancient ceremony held in mockery oftheorists in general, for peasants despise them royally, or from hatredof the surveyors who decide boundaries and regulate taxes, or of theworkmen employed on bridges and causeways, who transform commons intohighways, and suppress old abuses which the peasants love. Be this as itmay, this character in the comedy is called the "geometrician, " anddoes his best to make himself unbearable to those who are toiling withpickaxe and shovel. 

After a quarter of an hour spent in mummery, and difficulties raised inorder to avoid cutting the roots, and to transplant the cabbage withoutinjury, while shovelfuls of dirt are tossed into the faces of theonlookers, --so much the worse for him who does not retreat in time, for were he bishop or prince he must receive the baptism of earth, --the"infidel" pulls the rope, the "infidel's wife" holds her apron, and thecabbage falls majestically amidst the applause of the spectators. Then abasket is brought, and the "infidel" pair plant the cabbage thereinwith every care and precaution. They surround it with fresh earth, andsupport it with sticks and strings, such as city florists use for theirsplendid potted camellias; they fix red apples to the points of thesticks, and twist sprigs of thyme, sage, and laurel all about them; theybedeck the whole with ribbons and streamers; they place the trophyupon the stretcher with the "infidel, " whose duty it is to maintain itsequilibrium and preserve it from harm; and, at length, they move awayfrom the garden in good order and in marching step. 

But when they are about to pass the gate, and again when they enter theyard of the bridegroom's house, an imaginary obstacle blocks the way. The bearers of the burden stagger, utter loud cries, retreat, advanceonce more, and, as though crushed by a resistless force, they pretendto sink beneath its weight. While this is going on, the bystanders shoutloudly, exciting and steadying this human team. 

"Slowly, slowly, my child. There, there, courage! Look out! Be patient!Lower your head; the door is too low! Close up; it's too narrow! A littlemore to the left; now to the right; on with you; don't be afraid; you're almost there. "

Thus it is that in years of plentiful harvest, the ox-cart, loaded tooverflowing with hay or corn, is too broad or too high to enter thebarn door. Thus it is that the driver shouts at the strong beasts, torestrain them or to urge them on; thus it is that with skill and mightyefforts they force this mountain of riches beneath the rustic arch oftriumph. It is, above all, the last load, called "the cart of sheaves, "which requires these precautions, for this is a rural festival, andthe last sheaf lifted from the last furrow is placed on the top of thecart-load ornamented with ribbons and flowers, while the foreheads ofthe oxen and the whip of the driver are decorated also. The triumphantand toilsome entry of the cabbage into the house is a symbol of theprosperity and fruitfulness it represents. 

Safe within the bridegroom's yard, the cabbage is taken from itsstretcher and borne to the topmost peak of the house or barn. Whether itbe a chimney, a gable, or a dove-cote that crowns the roof, the burdenmust, at any risk, be carried to the very highest point of the building. The "infidel" accompanies it as far as this, sets it down securely, andwaters it with a great pitcher of wine, while a salvo of pistol-shotsand demonstrations of joy from the "infidel's wife" proclaim itsinauguration. 

Without delay, the same ceremony is repeated all over again. Anothercabbage is dug from the garden of the husband and is carried with thesame formalities and laid upon the roof which his wife has deserted tofollow him. These trophies remain in their places until the wind and therain destroy the baskets and carry away the cabbage. Yet their lives arelong enough to give some chance of fulfilment to the prophecies whichthe old men and women make with bows and courtesies. 

"Beautiful cabbage, " they say, "live and flourish that our young bridemay have a fine baby before a year is over; for if you die too quicklyit is a sign of barrenness, and you will stick up there like an illomen. "

The day is already far gone when all these things are accomplished. Allthat remains undone is to take home the godfathers and godmothers of thenewly married couple. When the so-called parents dwell at a distance, they are accompanied by the music and the whole wedding procession asfar as the limits of the parish; there they dance anew on the highroad, and everybody kisses them good-by. The "infidel" and his wife are thenwashed and dressed decently, if the fatigue of their parts has notalready driven them away to take a nap. 

Everybody was still dancing and singing and eating in the Town Hall ofBelair at midnight on this third day of the wedding when Germain wasmarried. The old men at table could not stir, and for good reason. Theyrecovered neither their legs nor their wits until dawn on the morrow. While they were regaining their dwellings, silently and with uncertainsteps, Germain, proud and active, went out to hitch his oxen, leavinghis young wife to slumber until daylight. The lark, caroling as itmounted to the skies, seemed to him the voice of his heart returningthanks to Providence. The hoar-frost, sparkling on the leafless bushes, seemed to him the whiteness of April flowers that comes before thebudding leaves. Everything in nature was laughing and happy for him. Little Pierre had laughed and jumped so much the evening before that hedid not come to help lead his oxen; but Germain was glad to be alone. He fell on his knees in the furrow he was about to plow afresh, and saidhis morning prayer with such a burst of feeling that two tears rolleddown his cheeks, still moist with sweat. 

Afar off he heard the songs of the boys from neighboring villages, whowere starting on their return home, singing again in their hoarse voicesthe happy tunes of the night before. 

THE END.