Copyright 1903 by G. Barrie & Sons

PAUL AND THE CROSS IN THE RAVINE

They then saw the owner of the Tower on his knees beside a grassy mound at one side of the road, in the centre of which stood a wooden cross.

NOVELS
BY
Paul de Kock
VOLUME XIV
PAUL AND HIS DOG
VOL. II

THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK

Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons.

PAUL AND HIS DOG
PART II
THE CHAMOUREAUS

CONTENTS

[I, ] [II, ] [III, ] [IV, ] [V, ] [VI, ] [VII]
[VIII, ] [IX, ] [X, ] [XI, ] [XII, ] [XIII, ] [XIV, ] [XV, ] [XVI, ] [XVII, ] [XVIII, ] [XIX, ] [XX, ] [XXI, ] [XXII, ] [XXIII, ] [XXIV, ] [XXV]

I
THE INSTINCT OF DOGS

“You have not told us yet, monsieur le docteur,” said Agathe, “how the little fellow fell into the water. I fancy that he was not trying to play a trick on himself?”

“Oh, no! mademoiselle; but still that accident happened to him as a result of his evil disposition. In the first place, he did not fall into the water—he went in himself. My young gentleman was pleased to bathe, although it isn’t warm enough yet for bathing in the river; but he had been forbidden to do it, and that was a sufficient reason for him to do it. He had also been told, when he did bathe, not to go to that particular part of the Marne, because, on account of the eddies and currents, it was very dangerous and even the best swimmer might be drowned.

“My little scamp, who is afraid of nothing, did not fail to go to that spot to bathe, about three days ago. But when he tried to swim, he found that he was being drawn under; his strength failed him and he shouted for help. Ami happened to be passing—his master was not far away, probably—and in two bounds the dog was in the water. He swam toward the child, who was sinking, caught him by the hair and carried him to the bank. The little fellow had nothing worse than a fright.”

“Of course he patted and fondled the dog, to thank him for the service he had rendered him?”

“He? He called him a nasty beast and said: ‘You fool, to grab me by the hair and make my head ache! you deserve to be licked!’ That was the young gentleman’s gratitude!”

“Oh, dear! he certainly is a wicked little boy.”

“If my son had lived,” sighed Honorine, “I am sure he wouldn’t have been naughty like that!”

“Probably not, madame; for children generally take after their father and mother more or less, although there have been great criminals who were born of most estimable parents. But you would have taken care of your child, madame; you would have repressed his evil tendencies, corrected his faults, early in life; and that is just what poor Jacqueline could not do. The good woman, being obliged to work for her living, could not keep her eye on the boy, who, no doubt, passed his days in the village street with the other children, from the moment he was able to walk. And here it is the same: Jacqueline works for her sister, and little Emile does what he pleases, for there is no way of keeping him in the house. Mère Tourniquoi undertook to make him go to school,—but no; the rascal beat his schoolmates, laughed at his teachers, played tricks on them, concealed or destroyed the school-books—so that they turned him out of the school.”

“He’s a promising child!” cried Agathe; “still, I am curious to see him.”

“And so am I,” said Honorine; “if only we might by gentle treatment and reasoning bring him around to better sentiments!—for he will be a man some day! There are too many people who enjoy doing evil; and it is blameworthy to allow the number to increase!”

“What you say is very true, madame, but in truth I believe that you would waste your time with the lost child; not that he is without intelligence and doesn’t understand what is said to him;—oh! no, indeed! On the contrary, the little rascal has plenty of wit, and he often proves it by what he says; but it’s an evil kind of wit, mischievous and wicked!”

“Oh! doctor, consider that he is not eight years old, so you told us! One would think, to hear you talk, that you do not love children.”

“I do love them dearly until they are two years old; but very little when they are growing up.”

“If this one has intelligence, there is still hope; only the unintelligent are hopeless.”

“Ah! but what I love,” cried Agathe, “is that splendid dog, who throws himself into the water as soon as he sees anyone in danger; that is magnificent!”

“That is not at all extraordinary, mademoiselle, in a dog of that breed. I do not mean to decry Ami’s merit, I acknowledge that it is very great—although our acquaintance began in such strange fashion, as you remember. I simply mean to say that history, both ancient and modern, relates such astounding facts with respect to dogs that one would be tempted to doubt them, if they did not come from authors deserving of credit. Moreover, we ourselves constantly witness actions which do honor to the canine race. I have read not a little—for one must do something with one’s time, and in this small place my profession leaves me a great deal of leisure. If I were not afraid of making myself a bore, I would tell you some of these remarkable stories.”

“Far from boring us, it will interest us deeply; but you will allow us to work while we listen.”

The doctor, having taken a pinch of snuff, bowed to the ladies, because he thought that he was going to sneeze, and continued, with that supremely happy expression which appears upon the faces of people who are given to gossiping when they see that their listeners are profoundly attentive:

“What I am about to tell you, mesdames, you know already, perhaps; for, I say again, they are facts reported by historians or travellers; you will please stop me if I tell what is familiar to you.

“In a history of the Indies, by Oviedo, I have read that a man who was guilty of a heinous crime was abandoned to a dog who was accustomed to eat the poor devils who were placed at his mercy. Well, the criminal having thrown himself at the dog’s feet, praying for mercy, the beast took pity on him and did him no injury. The authorities, believing that they saw the hand of God in the incident, pardoned the culprit. To my mind this is far more wonderful than the story of Androcles; for Androcles had previously rendered the lion a service by removing a thorn from his foot, and the king of beasts recognized his benefactor; whereas the dog had never before seen the man who knelt at his feet. The learned men of those days—who were men of merit too—declared that this miracle was to be attributed to the power of the man’s eyes over those of the dog; and this is the opinion of modern scholars as well; they attribute to the human glance a mighty power of intimidation, let us rather say of fascination, over all animals; and it is this power of the glance which enables men to subdue the wildest horses; but I return to the dog.

“A tyrant of a small principality in Italy had a pack of hounds trained to hunt men and regularly fed on human flesh. A child was tossed to this pack and the dogs did not touch it. In this case it may have been that the victim’s tender age awoke a secret compassion in their hearts. We often have proofs that dogs are very fond of children; they display with respect to them a gentleness and patience really extraordinary. Jean-Jacques Rousseau saw a child bite a poodle until it yelped with pain, and yet it did not manifest the slightest temper. The Genevan philosopher, who claimed to be a friend of mankind, did not fail to draw this conclusion: that dogs are superior to men.

“The dog displays unwavering attachment to his master; he understands his wishes, knows his habits, always submits to his will: to serve him is a necessity of his existence. In Siberia, during the summer, the dogs are allowed to run wild, so that they may provide themselves with food. No matter how much they may be overworked, brutally treated, beaten even, they return to their masters none the less, at the approach of winter, to be harnessed anew to the sledge and resume their laborious service.

“In India there are the pariah dogs, which have neither master, nor friend, nor home. They try to attach themselves to strangers, they exhaust every means of persuasion to induce them to adopt them. It often happens that one of them will follow for a long distance the palanquin of the traveller whose service he begs to enter, and he does not leave it until he falls in his tracks, utterly exhausted.

“According to Cuvier, mankind made the most useful and complete of all conquests when it domesticated the dog. ‘Without the dog,’ he says, ‘men would have fallen victims to the wild beasts they have subdued.’ Other animals surpass the dog in strength and beauty, but throughout the world the dog alone is the ally of man, because his nature makes him susceptible to man’s advances and obedient to his will. He is a turncoat, who has deserted the ranks of our enemies and passed into our camp, in order to aid us to become masters of the other animals.

“To obtain a just idea of the dog’s real worth, we must take note of the value which savage races attach to him. In Australia, women have been known to give the breast to puppies. I hasten to add that this has never been seen in France, because the women here are not savages.

“Men in general are very fond of hunting; there are some men indeed who cannot exist without it; hunting is the first instinct of the dog. In unsettled countries they join in troops to hunt the buffalo, the wild boar, and sometimes even the lion and the tiger.

“Pliny relates the anecdote of Alexander’s Albanian dog, who conquered a lion and an elephant in succession, and whose tail, paws and ears were cut off, one after another, without making him give the slightest indication of pain.

“The terrier holds his own against beasts fifteen times as large as himself; no matter how cruelly his adversary may tear him, he dies without a groan. Few of the domesticated breeds possess courage and contempt of pain in so high a degree.

“Nature develops in dogs faculties suited to the countries in which they live. The dogs of the banks of the Nile drink while running, in order not to fall into the jaws of the crocodile. The dogs of New Orleans, when they wish to cross the Mississippi, stand barking on the bank to attract the alligators; and when they feel sure that the reptiles have all assembled at that point, they scamper away at the top of their speed and jump into the stream half a mile farther up.

“Dogs have been known to resort to ingenious wiles to increase their allowance of food; they scatter it all about, then pretend to sleep, in order to attract birds and rats, which by this means they add to their repast. As a proof of their intelligence, we are told of the setter who went into partnership with a greyhound for the purpose of hunting; the one having a keener scent, undertook to discover the game; the other, fleeter of foot, to run it down. The owner of the setter conceived some suspicion, and fastened a chain to his leg in order to make locomotion difficult. As he continued his wandering life none the less, they watched him, and soon discovered that his partner, the greyhound, in order to make it easier for him to perform his part of the task, carried the end of the chain in his mouth until it was time for himself to start in chase of the game.

“One of the most difficult services which the dog is called upon to perform is that of smuggler, in the contraband trade. In that dangerous service, which is often fatal to him, he displays the most surprising sagacity. He ordinarily sets out at night, laden with merchandise; he scents the customs officer in the distance, and attacks him if he feels that he can gain the victory; otherwise he hides behind a tree, a hedge, a clump of bushes. And when he has reached his destination, he does not show himself until he has made sure that he is in no danger of being seen.

“Everybody is familiar with the intelligence and fidelity of the shepherd dog; we see examples of it every day as we walk about the country; but I cannot resist the temptation to mention one incident related by James Hogg.

“Seven hundred lambs, in charge of a single shepherd, escaped one fine summer night, divided into several bands, and scattered among the valleys and fields and mountains. ‘Sirrah, my boy, my lambs have gone!’ said Hogg disconsolately to his dog, simply putting his thought into words, with no idea of giving him an order. Then the shepherd went hither and thither in search of his flock; while the dog disappeared, without a sound, and without the knowledge of his master, who could see nothing in the darkness. When the day broke, the poor shepherd, exhausted by fatigue and distress, was preparing to return to the farm, when he spied his faithful dog Sirrah, in a neighboring valley, guarding not simply a few lambs that he had found, as one might have supposed at first; but the whole flock, with not one missing. ‘That,’ says James Hogg, ‘is the most amazing fact in my whole experience.’—And, in truth, how can we comprehend the patience, the sagacity and the labor which enabled that dog, in the brief space of a summer night, to collect that whole band of fugitives! It was more than several shepherds together could have done.

“Hogg also relates how a sheep-stealer carried on his unlawful trade with the help of his dog. The thief would pretend to want to buy some sheep, and while he examined the flock, he would indicate to his dog, by a sign which he never mistook, which ones he desired to appropriate. During the night the dog would return alone, often from a considerable distance, and would never fail to detach from the flock and drive to his master the sheep he had designated, which were always the best and fattest of the flock.

“If a sheepfold takes fire, the sheep refuse to go out, but the shepherd dog saves a great part of them by rushing into the fold and barking and snapping at them until he induces them to go out.

“In Turkey, where the dogs are very numerous, every person who meets one at night is attacked unless he is provided with a lantern; for they look upon him as a stranger with evil intentions.

“Petrarch had a dog that snatched a naked sword from the hand of a cutthroat who attacked his master. We have many servants who would not do as much!

“Plutarch relates an anecdote which proves that the dog never forgets his master’s murderers and never forgives them: King Pyrrhus caused his whole army to march past a dog who had watched for three months the body of his murdered master, refusing to eat or drink; he seized the murderer as he passed, and would not relax his hold until the man had confessed his crime.

“You must surely have heard of the dog of Montargis, who pointed out the place where his master had been buried, and jumped at the assassin whenever he saw him; the result being that the king ordered a duel between the man and the dog, in which the latter was the victor and slew the murderer.

“In the memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini, we find this anecdote: A malefactor had forced his way into the artist’s shop at night; the dog that was on guard there tried at first to contend against him, although he was armed with a dagger. Being wounded, and feeling that his strength was failing him, he hastened to the apprentices’ room, found them sleeping soundly, and, to rouse them, pulled off the bedclothes. As they could not understand the dog’s persistence in uncovering them, they drove him from the room and locked the door. Thereupon the poor dog, wounded as he was, returned to the robber; but he, being young and active, succeeded in making his escape. Some time after, Cellini happened to be walking one day in Rome, when his faithful dog suddenly darted at a fine gentleman who was passing, and clung savagely to him despite the swords and staves of the bystanders. At last they succeeded in forcing him to let go, but the fine gentleman, hurrying away, dropped from beneath his cloak several valuable jewels, among which Benvenuto recognized a ring belonging to him. He instantly cried out: ‘That is the villain who broke into my house at night and robbed me; my dog recognized him.’—And he was about to set the animal on the robber again, when he confessed his crime and begged for mercy.

“One of the most astounding and most mysterious faculties of the dog—but not all dogs possess it—is that of divination. When the regicide Jacques Clément appeared before Henri III, intending to assassinate him, a favorite dog of the king flew into a perfect paroxysm of rage, and only with the greatest difficulty could they succeed in keeping him in an adjoining room; had they not done so, he would have hurled himself upon the monk and the crime which the latter meditated would not have been consummated.

“On September 10, 1419, the Duc de Bourgogne, Jean-sans-Peur, mounted his horse in the courtyard of the house he occupied at Bray-sur-Seine, to ride to the interview he was to have with the Dauphin of France at the bridge of Montereau. His dog had howled piteously all night, and when he saw that his master was about to start, he darted from the kennel where he was fastened, with gleaming eyes and hair erect; finally, when the duke, after a parting salutation to Madame de Gyac who was looking on from her window, rode forth from the courtyard, the dog made such a mighty effort that he broke his double iron chain, and as the horse passed under the gateway, he threw himself at his chest and bit him so cruelly that the beast reared and nearly unhorsed his rider. The grooms tried to drive him away with whips, but the dog paid no heed to the blows he received and threw himself again at the neck of the duke’s horse. The duke, thinking that he was mad, seized a small battle axe which he carried at his saddle-bow, and laid open his head; the dog gave a yell and fell dying in the gateway, as if still forbidding his master to go forth. The duke, with a sigh of regret, jumped his horse over the faithful creature’s body and rode to the bridge of Montereau—where he was assassinated.

“Lastly, they tell of an equally admirable and equally incomprehensible act of an English bull dog, who followed his master to his bedroom one night. The latter, who had never paid much attention to the dog, refused to let him enter the bedroom; but the animal was so persistent in begging to remain with him that he finally consented to allow him to take up his quarters there. That same night, a servant stole into this same bedroom, with the intention of killing his master and then robbing him; but he was prevented by the faithful dog, who had insisted upon doing sentry duty, and who saved his master’s life by seizing the robber.

“These, mesdames, are a few of the anecdotes which I have collected concerning the canine race and which show the exceptional claims of this faithful animal. I will add that the fine dog belonging to the owner of the Tower, for which mademoiselle feels such a strong liking, is, according to his master,—he didn’t tell me so, but his old servant has often heard him say it,—it seems, endowed with this faculty of divining affection or hatred, of which I have just cited to you some extraordinary proofs. Thus Ami, when in the presence of strangers, divines their feeling for his master; he fawns on those who are inclined to like him; he growls and grumbles at those who would rather do him an injury than a good turn.

“You must agree, madame, that such a dog is exceedingly valuable; with him it is impossible to be led astray by the manifestations of affection we receive from a person; he unmasks false friends and unfaithful or deceitful women. Many people would pay an exorbitant price for such an animal, and in my opinion they would make a mistake, for it would be very melancholy to know the truth always.”

Honorine and Agathe listened to the doctor with interest, so that he went away well pleased with their society.

“Good!” exclaimed the girl when he had gone, “it isn’t a bore to listen to him. Now I would like right well to meet the dog from the Tower and see whether he will fawn on me as he did the other time.”

“For my part,” said Honorine, “I am curious to see this little boy, whom they call the lost child.”

“And who is said to be so naughty.”

“Ah! my dear girl, we must forgive him much; his parents deserted him.”

II
A COW

Not long after this day of visits, on one of those lovely mornings which invite one to wander about the country, the heat not being sufficient as yet to make walking tiresome, the two friends, who had finished breakfast at nine o’clock because they rose at six, took their straw bonnets, threw light silk mantles over their shoulders, and having instructed Poucette not to leave the house, started off in high spirits, saying:

“We will walk in the direction of the Tower.”

Agathe remembered the road, which they had already taken once. On leaving Chelles they crossed the railroad and followed the Gournay road bordered by ditches full of water. That road was short; on turning to the left they soon reached the bank of the Marne at the bridge where there was a toll of one sou for each person. This charge, apparently very trifling, made that part of the country very unfrequented; for the peasant looks a long while before spending a sou—two, in fact, when one is obliged to return; they preferred to take a route which was often much longer, but which did not force them to put their hands into their pockets.

The two friends crossed the bridge; since leaving Chelles they had not met a living soul—not a peasant, not a carter, not an ass. The bridge, which was long and solidly built, was also deserted. Nor was there a sign of life on the Marne—not a boat, not a fisherman was to be seen.

But they had already observed that solitude the first time that they had come in that direction; and now that the aspect of the country was changed, the trees having renewed their foliage, the meadows their verdure, the fields their grasses and flowers, the more solitary the spot, the more inclined they were to admire all the majesty of nature, all the beauties of creation.

“Why, we were misinformed as to having to pay to cross this bridge!” said Agathe; “here we are at the end of it, and I see no one at all. Do you suppose we are to toss the sou into the water; that would be decidedly amusing.”

The words were hardly out of her mouth when a man suddenly appeared in front of her. He came from a house at the left which belonged to a beautiful estate called the Maison Blanche, of which this same man was the concierge; to this function he added that of collector of tolls at the bridge.

“Monsieur,” said Honorine, after paying her two sous, “which road must we take to go to the estate called the Tower?”

“Pass through the village of Gournay, straight ahead, then turn to the left.”

“Is it very far?”

“It’s close by. The village of Gournay’s so small that it don’t take long to walk through it; then you take the road to Noisy-le-Grand.”

The two young women walked on, and soon found themselves in the village square, where there was a pretty bourgeois house embellished with the name of the Château Vert, probably because of the color of its blinds.

Next to it was a dealer in wines, the only one in the district; which fact spoke well for the sobriety of the people.

Opposite was a little church and beside that a small cemetery. The toll-gatherer was right: everything was diminutive in that place, which had less than a hundred and thirty inhabitants.

The little square was shaded by noble trees which gave it a charm of its own. Trees are not proud; they grow as well in a small village as on the fashionable promenade of a city; ordinarily indeed they are finer in the village; everything has its compensations.

Our travellers found some children on the square, who pointed out the road to Noisy-le-Grand. As they walked in that direction the country became more picturesque, less monotonous, and the ladies soon spied, on a slight eminence, a very pretty house, flanked by a graceful turret which overlooked the whole country.

“That is where Paul and his dog live!” cried Agathe.

“Hush, child!” said Honorine; “if that gentleman should happen to be passing, and should hear you speak of him in that way, what would he think of us?”

“Why, my dear love, I am simply repeating what they say at Chelles; how do you want me to speak of him, since nobody knows him by any other name? No matter, this estate of his makes a very fine appearance; it’s like a château. Let us walk along this road—it will bring us nearer.”

As she spoke Agathe ran ahead. Honorine followed her, but more slowly. They were then on rather a narrow road, shaded on one side by walnut trees, and intersected by numerous paths.

Suddenly Agathe heard a shriek; recognizing her friend’s voice, she turned and saw, about a hundred yards behind her, a cow coming from one of the paths, at full speed, and rushing straight at Honorine, who had an excessive fear of cows and dared not advance or retreat; she simply stood where she was and shrieked.

Agathe instantly ran back, to try to protect her friend; but she was too far away to reach her in advance of the cow, and the animal was within a few feet of Honorine, when suddenly an enormous dog, rushing down from a hill near by, arrived on the scene and jumped in front of the cow, barking furiously as if to forbid her to take another step. Ami’s frantic barking—for it was Ami who had come to their assistance—did in fact terrify the cow; she stopped, turned tail and retreated by the path by which she had come.

“Oh! thanks! thanks! good dog!” cried Agathe, who had been terribly frightened for her friend, and who came up at that moment. But Honorine’s fright had been so great that it had deprived her of consciousness; she had fallen to the ground in a swoon.

“Oh! mon Dieu! she is unconscious! Honorine! dear love! come to yourself! the danger is all over. She doesn’t hear me—she doesn’t open her eyes! And no one near! How can I obtain help here?”

Ami walked about the unconscious woman, then gazed at Agathe, who was in dire distress; he seemed to be trying to read in her eyes what she wanted of him. Suddenly he bounded away and disappeared.

The girl knelt beside her companion, raised her head and rested it against her breast, took her hands and called her name. But Honorine did not recover consciousness, and Agathe, in despair, cast her eyes over the deserted fields, crying:

“Mon Dieu! no one will come to our help!”

At that moment a small boy, poorly clad, with bare feet and hair waving in the wind, appeared on a piece of rising ground from which he could see the path.

Agathe saw him and called to him:

“Go and bring us some water, I beg you, my friend; call someone to come and help me take care of my friend.”

The boy’s only reply was a sneering laugh; then he went away, leaping in the air and crying:

“They’re afraid of the cow! that’s good! I’ll throw stones at the cow again and make her run at folks.”

The small boy disappeared, but the girl’s wishes had been understood by Ami; he ran where he knew that he would find his master, and by pulling persistently at his jacket made him understand that it was urgently necessary that he should go with him.

When Agathe was beginning to lose hope she saw the noble beast returning toward her, while his eyes seemed to say:

“Help is coming!”

And his master was soon by his side.

“Oh! monsieur—I beg you—my dear friend has fainted!” cried Agathe.

Paul had already taken a phial from his pocket, and he held it to Honorine’s nose, saying to the girl:

“It’s nothing; don’t be alarmed; your friend will come to herself in a moment. What was the cause of this accident?”

“Fright; a cow came running straight toward my friend, who is terribly afraid of them; and but for your good dog, who ran up and drove the cow away, she would certainly have been wounded.”

“See, she is coming to herself.”

Honorine opened her eyes at that moment. The first person she saw was Agathe, who was leaning over her and gazing anxiously into her face. The young woman smiled as she muttered:

“I am an awful coward, am I not? But it isn’t my fault; I was so frightened that——”

Honorine interrupted herself, for she had caught sight of Ami’s master, who was standing a few steps away, regarding her attentively; he still held in his hand the little phial he had used to restore her to consciousness.

It was an easy matter for the two ladies to examine at their ease the individual of whom they had heard so much; and the result of their examination was not unfavorable to him; for although, when seen at a distance, his bushy beard gave him a somewhat forbidding aspect, on looking at him nearer at hand and at leisure, one saw that his features were handsome and distinguished, that his eyes were not always fierce, that his expression was neither threatening nor calculated to inspire alarm.

Agathe, divining her friend’s amazement, made haste to say:

“This gentleman came to my assistance, for you didn’t come to yourself—I did not know what to do—oh! I was very unhappy!”

“But that cow that was running at me—how did I escape being hurt?”

“Because this good old dog here ran up to defend you, threw himself in front of her and barked and jumped at her nose! Oh! it was magnificent! And then, after putting the cow to flight, he ran to fetch his master to help me bring you to yourself.—Oh! how fine that was, Ami! Come, come here and let me embrace you!”

The girl put her arms about the dog’s neck and patted and caressed him; he submitted with a very good grace, wagging his tail, and looking at his master from time to time, as if to inform him that he already knew the two ladies.

Honorine rose and bowed gracefully to the owner of the Tower, saying:

“Pray accept all my thanks, monsieur, and excuse me for having disturbed you in your walk.”

“You owe me no thanks, madame; it is a duty to make oneself of use when one has the opportunity. You do not need this phial any more?”

“No, monsieur, I feel much better; but—this is very strange—I don’t know whether it is the result of my fright, but I seem to have no legs, they give way under me; I feel as if I were going to fall.”

“Well! that would be nice!” cried Agathe, doing her utmost to support her companion. “What are we to do if you can’t walk? There are no cabs or omnibuses here, and we are quite a long way from home.”

Ami’s master, who, after offering his flask, had started to walk away, stopped when he discovered the embarrassment of the two friends. He realized that they still needed him, but it was evident that he hesitated, that it was hard for him not to be guided by his ordinary instinct of aloofness. But Agathe, without speaking, looked at him with an almost imploring expression, and her eyes expressed her thought so fully that Paul walked back toward them, murmuring:

“If I can be of any further use to you—take my arm, madame; lean on it without fear, and I will help you to walk.”

“Oh! you are too kind, monsieur! I am afraid of abusing——”

“No, no, take monsieur’s arm, since he is kind enough to offer it,” cried Agathe; “for if you had only mine to support you, we might both fall by the way; it is a long way from here to Chelles.”

Honorine decided to put her arm through the arm which their new acquaintance offered her. Agathe supported her friend on the other side, and they started.

“Where were you ladies going when the cow frightened you?”

“We will return to Chelles, monsieur, if you please. When we came out this morning, we had no definite destination; we just set out for a walk.—That is to say,” continued Agathe, “we came this way in order to see the estate of the Tower, of which we have heard a great deal since we came to Chelles.”

Honorine nudged her friend, to bid her keep silent, but Agathe paid no heed.

“We had just caught sight of it as we turned into that road; and as it seemed to us very pretty at a distance, we were going nearer in order to see it at closer quarters. We did not expect to make the acquaintance of its owner,—for monsieur is the owner of the Tower, I believe?”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” replied Ami’s master curtly, while Honorine nudged her friend again to make her keep silent; but she continued to pay no heed to the admonition.

“Oh! I recognized monsieur at once; we met him one day when we were looking for a certain field. It was then that your dog came to me and made advances. He doesn’t do that to everybody, does he, monsieur?”

“Assuredly not, mademoiselle. He is not lavish of his friendship! And he has one great advantage over men, in that he never gives it except to those who deserve it.”

“Then I ought to be proud of his friendship for me. Oh! you splendid dog! you good old dog! Look, Honorine; see how he walks around us, and how pleased he looks!”

It was a fact that Ami kept circling about the three persons who were walking along arm-in-arm. Sometimes he darted ahead, but he very soon returned, looked up in his master’s face with a joyous yelp or two, then made the circuit of the little group anew, as if to make sure that they had not separated.

This pantomime on Ami’s part did not escape his master, whose face, which wore an expression of annoyance when he first offered his arm to Honorine, began to be less severe.

Honorine, who still felt very weak, was forced to lean heavily on the arm of her escort, and she apologized therefor:

“I beg pardon, monsieur,” she murmured; “I am tiring you, I am obliged to lean so heavily on you. But I am not very strong, and the slightest shock is enough to make me ill.”

“Lean on me, madame; it does not tire me in the least.”

“We have had bad luck for our first walk; do you often meet cows alone in the fields?”

“Very rarely, madame; and I am much surprised that that cow, which probably belongs to a good woman who lives near me, should have escaped and attacked you, for I know that she is not vicious; she must herself have been attacked or irritated by some one, to behave so.”

“Oh! wait, monsieur,” cried Agathe; “I remember now; while my dear friend was unconscious, and I was looking all about and calling for help, a little boy seven or eight years old appeared on a mound near by; he stared at me and laughed, and when I asked him to go for help, he laughed louder and sneered at me and made faces; then he ran away, jumping about and crying:

“‘That’s good! I like that!’ ”

“All is explained then, madame; that little boy probably played some cruel trick on the cow, which thereupon fled from the pasture where she was peacefully grazing.”

“Oh! that was very naughty of the little fellow!”

“Mon Dieu!” said Honorine, “I wonder if it was the child whom they call at Chelles the lost child?”

“Yes, madame, it was he undoubtedly. I saw him prowling about in the direction of Noisy-le-Grand. I am not surprised to find that he has been up to some mischief.”

“Why, in that case, the boy must be naturally perverse,” said Agathe; “is there no way of reforming him?”

“I have tried, without success; he defies punishment, he is insensible to entreaties; he has a most intractable disposition. If age and common sense do not change him, he will be a detestable man.”

While conversing thus they had reached Chelles, and as they entered the village they met Monsieur and Madame Droguet, accompanied by Monsieur Luminot and Doctor Antoine, who were going for a walk in the country. When she espied the new sojourners at Chelles arm-in-arm with the owner of the Tower, Madame Droguet nearly fell backward; she stepped on the feet of Monsieur Luminot, her escort, saying:

“Great heaven! just look! what does this mean?”

On his side the former dealer in wines dug his elbow into Monsieur Droguet’s ribs.

“On my word!” he exclaimed; “will you look! this is surprising!”

Thereupon Monsieur Droguet, always ready to dance, made a pirouette which brought him nose to nose with the doctor, crying:

“What is it that’s so surprising? what’s the matter? why did Luminot say that?”

As for the doctor, having no one to attack, he contented himself with bowing to Honorine and Agathe, although his face betrayed the surprise he felt at meeting them in the company of Paul and his dog.

Monsieur Luminot also bowed. Père Droguet was on the point of following their example, but his wife suddenly caught his arm.

“Well, monsieur, what are you going to do?” she demanded; “can you think of such a thing as bowing to people who have never been to call on me since they have lived in the neighborhood? It’s very uncivil of them! I have a very poor opinion of those women; and they’re hardly settled here before they go about with that ill-licked cub, that Monsieur Paul who also has treated us all very rudely! That was all that was necessary to confirm my opinion concerning those women. Let us go on, messieurs; forward, march! You see, that wretched fellow didn’t even bow to us.”

“The ladies bowed,” said Monsieur Luminot.

“Because you bowed first; it would have been very pretty if they hadn’t returned your bow! Come, Monsieur Luminot, let us go on, I beg; do you propose to remain in admiring contemplation before the skirts of those ladies?”

And Madame Droguet, having given her husband a push to make him go forward, dragged Monsieur Luminot and the doctor away, and almost made them run.

“Oh! what a strange woman!” cried Agathe with a laugh; “what eyes she made at us! Did you see, Honorine? One would say she wanted to turn us to stone.”

“Doubtless that is Madame Droguet, whom Doctor Antoine has often mentioned to us.”

“And that little slim man who stands on one leg when he looks at you is probably her husband.”

When the ladies reached their house, Honorine took her arm from her escort’s, saying:

“This is our modest abode; would you not like to come in a moment and rest, monsieur? I must have fatigued you terribly.”

“I thank you, madame,” Paul replied, bowing, “but I will continue my walk.”

“Oh! do come in a moment, monsieur,” said Agathe; “see, your good dog seems to invite you; he has already gone in.”

Paul’s only reply was to call his dog which quickly returned to his side; then he hurried away, after saluting the ladies.

“What a strange man!” murmured Honorine.

“All the same, my dear love, we were very lucky to meet him; and he doesn’t frighten me at all now. Do you still think that he has a terrifying look?”

“No, oh, no! but he went away very abruptly.”

III
THE EFFECTS OF MUSIC AND OF A MATELOTE

It was a magnificent morning and the clock had just struck nine, when Edmond Didier appeared, very carefully dressed, at his friend Freluchon’s, who had just left his bed.

“What, you lazy fellow! not dressed yet! And it’s nine o’clock, and the weather is superb, and the first days of June are the finest of the whole year!”

“Bah! what do I care for all that? It matters little to me what time it is. I rise late because I sat up very late. A little egg-supper, with some very interesting ladies from the Folies-Dramatiques. Artistes, you see—they are the only really agreeable women!”

“You exaggerate, Freluchon, my dear fellow! We have artistes also who put on airs and are forever posing in company.”

“To them we say zut!—dramatic style.—But how fine you are this morning! Have you something on hand for to-day?”

“Certainly; this is the day that we are going to Chelles, to see those ladies I spoke to you about.”

“We are going is very pretty! you are going, perhaps—that’s all right. But why should I, who don’t know the ladies in question—why should I go with you?”

“Because it’s somewhere to go; it will give you a chance to see that part of the suburbs of Paris, which is very beautiful. We will dine there; we will have a matelote; Gournay is famous for them and it’s close by.”

“That’s an inducement; I am passionately fond of matelote. In Parisian restaurants it’s execrable, as a general rule; you can’t get a good one unless you are right on the water.”

“While I go to call on the ladies, you can find out the best restaurant and order the dinner.”

“The best place to get a matelote is ordinarily the house of some fisherman who sells wine.”

“Oh! Freluchon, if you knew with what pleasure I shall see the lovely Agathe again! Her name is Agathe——”

“So you told me.”

“She has dark-blue eyes with such a sweet, amiable expression; a slender, graceful figure; perfect grace in every movement——”

“Like a cat.”

“Come, dress quickly, and we will go to the Strasbourg station.”

“Are we going to Strasbourg first? That will be the longest way.”

“Pshaw! if you began to talk nonsense!——”

“I hope to continue.—Well, if it must be, I proceed to sacrifice myself. After all, a day in the country will do me good, and I shall not be sorry to form a little acquaintance with some rustic beauty. A woman of nature—that will be a novelty; for the stage is very far from nature.—Speaking of nature, do you know what has happened to Chamoureau?”

“I have heard that he has made a fortune—or inherited one; twenty thousand francs a year; is it true?”

“Quite true; and, what is even truer, since he became rich, he doesn’t speak to his old friends. He hardly looks at me—at me, whom he never used to quit! He puts on the airs of a great noble! As you can imagine, it amuses me beyond words; and so, not long ago, I said to him in the foyer at the Opéra, where he seemed to be in deadly terror that I would take his arm:

“‘My poor Chamoureau, how is it that, in becoming rich, you have become a bigger fool than you were? I assure you that wealth doesn’t require a man to be insolent; I know that it often makes them so, but there’s no obligation about it.’

“Chamoureau stood there like an utter idiot; he mumbled a lot of words that had no sort of connection with one another, and ended by saying that it was proper for him to adopt a different demeanor, as he was going to be married.”

“Aha! he is going to be married! and to whom?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“Some wealthy retired groceress?”

“No, no! he would do much better to marry a groceress. The drivelling idiot! he is going to marry the lovely brunette, Madame Sainte-Suzanne.”

“Thélénie! is it possible?”

“It’s a fact; he told me under the seal of secrecy; he tells everybody—under the same seal.”

“But it was your duty to impress it upon him that he is doing an insane thing, that this marriage will make him very unhappy, that all the men with any good looks in Paris have known Madame Sainte-Suzanne intimately.”

“I was careful to do nothing of the kind; he would have believed that I said it from envy, from spite; and then, d’ye see, I am not sorry to see him do this crazy thing. If Chamoureau were a good fellow, if he had shown himself in prosperity a man of heart, devoted to his friends, then I would have done my utmost to prevent him from tying himself to that lady. But as he did nothing of the kind, as he is nothing better than an ass, a selfish fool overflowing with vanity, who pretended to mourn for his wife in order to make himself interesting, why, let him roll in the muck, let him swallow with his eyes closed all the lies his lovely Thélénie tells him; let him roll there till he falls into a ditch, into which that lady will not fail to push him! it will be a good thing! There’s no harm done if fools are punished from time to time. I never pity the discomfiture of those people who are insolent in prosperity.—Now I am ready; let us go; that is to say, let us go to the Café Anglais to breakfast—just a cutlet; I shall save myself for the matelote—and then to the station.”

The two friends breakfasted together. But Edmond gave Freluchon hardly time to eat; he said to him every minute:

“Let us go; you have eaten enough; if you eat any more, you won’t do honor to the matelote.”

“I assure you that I shall; the journey, you know, and the country air; and then we shall not dine as soon as we arrive.—Garçon! a cup of chocolate.”

“Great heaven! he is going to drink chocolate too! Why, it will make you ill!”

“On the contrary, it will do me good; it’s a habit which I learned from a little Spanish dancer, who danced the yota, bolera, et cetera, at the Folies-Nouvelles, and who quivered so when she looked at her feet. Ah! my dear fellow, such a quivering!”

“That is no reason for drinking chocolate! I have known English women, but I don’t eat plum-pudding!”

“Well! you make a mistake; you should always adopt the tastes of your lady friends; then you end by eating everything.”

At last Edmond succeeded in dragging Freluchon from the café; but the little man, as a precautionary measure, put in his pocket the rolls that he had not had time to eat. They arrived at the station, only to find that they had three-quarters of an hour to wait for the train.

“You see, I should have had plenty of time to soak my rolls in my chocolate!” cried Freluchon as they paced the floor of the waiting room. “Oh! these lovers! how unpleasant they are at table!—I say! they sell cake here; I am going to fill my pockets in case of accidents.—If this fellow Edmond were only amiable! I do whatever he wants, I follow him to a place where I don’t know a cat, and he doesn’t say a word, he looks as dismal as a night cap! Are you going to be like this all the way to Chelles?”

“Oh! Freluchon, if you knew what I feel when I think that I am going to see that fascinating girl again! It seems to me that when I am with her, I shall not dare to say a word.”

“Well! that will be lovely! You will give them a very pretty idea of your intelligence!”

“A man ceases to have any when he is in love!”

“In that case, I have an excellent reason for never falling in love. Fichtre! I don’t propose to lose my intelligence; it’s a thing that can’t be replaced.”

“Do you think she’ll be glad to see me?”

“What a question! It’s as if you should ask me if I know how many times I blew my nose yesterday.”

“If they should receive me coldly—with that frigid courtesy that means: ‘Monsieur, you are welcome this once—it’s all right—but you will gratify us by not coming again’——”

“Why, you would say to them: ‘Mesdames, you will be the losers; I improve rapidly on acquaintance’——”

“Ah! there’s the bell, the signal for the train; let’s hurry.”

“Hurry! what an extraordinary man! What’s the use of hurrying? there’s always room in the cars; as the saying goes: ‘When there’s no more room, there is still some.’ ”

The two friends took their seats, and the train started. Freluchon scrutinized their travelling companions. Two elderly women, a child, and three men, two of whom instantly began to smoke, in the teeth of the regulations, deeming it perfectly natural to gratify a brutish taste at the risk of setting the carriage on fire and roasting a considerable number of travellers. What vile cads such people are!

Freluchon admired the landscape, as much as one can admire it from a railway train. The country was very pretty through Raincy; but Edmond looked at nothing, saw nothing. Whenever the train stopped, he wanted to alight, thinking that they had arrived; Freluchon was obliged to hold him back by the coat, saying:

“We are not at Chelles; do you mean to go the rest of the way on foot?”

At last they reached the Chelles station. The two friends alighted and Edmond asked a peasant woman:

“Which way to Chelles, if you please?”

“To your left, up the hill.”

“And the matelote country, madame?” asked Freluchon.

“To your right, monsieur; follow the main road, take the first road to the left, cross the bridge, and you’re in Gournay.”

“Infinitely obliged. I will go in that direction, Edmond, while you go to Chelles; you will find me at the best restaurant, cabaret or grill-room in Gournay. It is now one o’clock; I trust that I shall see you again by four; three hours to pay your respects is a very generous allowance. I am going to try to find a shepherdess of the Florian type; if it come to the worst I will be content with a bather of the Courbet type.—Bah! he isn’t listening; he’s already on his way; he continues to be amiable!”

Agathe was at the piano, singing and accompanying herself. Honorine, seated by the window, was working at embroidery, glancing frequently in the direction of the Tower.

Several days had passed since the adventure of the cow; they had seen neither Paul nor his dog, and Madame Dalmont had just observed:

“I am sure that that gentleman was sorely annoyed to be obliged to walk home with us; that was why he ran away without listening, I think, to my invitation to him to rest a moment.”

“Why, yes, he did listen, because he answered: ‘I must continue my walk.’—Ah! the dog is more agreeable than his master!”

And the two friends had relapsed into silence.

Poucette entered the salon.

“Mesdames, here’s a fine young man who wants to know if he can have the honor of seeing you.”

“A young man—did he give his name?”

“Monsieur Edmond Didier.”

“Edmond Didier! Oh! my dear friend, that’s the young man, who—the young man, who—you know—who took so much trouble to help you to buy this house.”

“Yes, yes; I remember very well; but that’s no reason why you should blush so. Why, you are all confused. Come, come, Agathe, control yourself.—Show the gentleman in, Poucette.”

“Oh! my dear love, does my hair look nice? I didn’t have time to braid it this morning.”

“You look very sweet. But do sit still, don’t jump about on your chair like that; this young man will think that you have nervous spasms.”

“O Honorine! how unkind you are!”

Edmond’s appearance put an end to this conversation. He entered the room very modestly, apologizing for his presumption. One is generally well received when one displays some fear of coming inopportunely. The young man’s courteous, gentlemanly demeanor and his reserved manners prepossessed Honorine in his favor. As for Agathe, the flush that overspread her cheeks, her confusion, her eyes, which she was afraid to turn upon the new arrival, demonstrated clearly enough that his presence caused her the most intense emotion; and her voice was almost inaudible when she replied to Edmond’s greeting and inquiry for her health.

But when the first awkward moment had passed, the young man, reassured by the cordial welcome he had received, became amiable and sprightly, recovered his spirits, and his conversation soon afforded much amusement to the ladies, to whom he gave all the news of Paris. Then he spoke enthusiastically of the house, the situation, the outlook.

“We also have a very pretty garden,” murmured Agathe.

“If I were not afraid of being presumptuous, I would ask to see it.”

“With pleasure, monsieur; landed proprietors, you know, are always flattered to exhibit their property; and it should be more excusable in us than in others, we have been landed proprietors such a short time!”

They walked in the garden, which the young man found charming, as he did the whole house. Agathe began to be less embarrassed, she recovered her gayety, laughed at the slightest provocation, and, when she did so, disclosed such fresh red lips and such pretty teeth that it would have been a pity for her not to laugh, in very truth.

“It is very good of you, monsieur,” said Honorine, “to remember your promise and to think of coming to see us. But perhaps you know someone at Chelles?”

“No, madame, absolutely no one. The desire to present my respects to you was quite sufficient to bring me here; furthermore, I was anxious to know if you were satisfied with your purchase.”

“Yes, monsieur, very well satisfied. Agathe and I like this neighborhood very much.”

“Have you plenty of society?”

“We might have, if we wanted it; but we do not seek it; society is often a nuisance in the country. We have a call now and then from the local doctor, an old man and rather pleasant. I think that we shall go no farther; what we have seen has given us no desire to join in the festivities of our neighbors, has it, Agathe?”

“Oh! no, indeed! tiresome eccentricities—perfectly intolerable with their chatter, in which there is never an interesting word. It’s so amusing to listen to that! What a difference when one is with people who—whom we like! then the time passes so quickly!”

“Yes, indeed; too quickly, in fact; for I fear that I presume too far, that I incommode you by prolonging my call.”

“Oh! no, monsieur, our time is entirely at our disposal; and if there is no necessity for your hurrying back to Paris——”

“Not in the least, madame; I too am master of my time—too much so, indeed.”

“Have you no business?”

“Pardon me, I trade on the Bourse. I am thinking seriously about earning money.”

During this dialogue between Edmond and Honorine, Agathe frequently glanced at her friend, and her eyes seemed to say:

“Well! do you propose to let this young man go away like this? Aren’t you going to invite him to dine with us? He was so courteous to us in Paris; he certainly deserves to have us pay him that compliment.”

Honorine understood Agathe’s pantomime perfectly, but she was amused by her impatience. However, when Edmond again spoke of going, she said:

“If you are in no hurry to return to Paris, monsieur, stay and dine with us; you will have a very simple dinner, but we shall enjoy your company longer.”

“Really, madame,” stammered Edmond, bowing in acknowledgment of the invitation, “your invitation causes me so much pleasure—it is very bold of me to accept—and yet I haven’t courage enough to refuse.”

“Oh! then you will stay!” cried Agathe, jumping for joy; then, ashamed of having allowed the pleasure she felt to appear, she ran away, saying:

“I am going to see if the hens have laid any eggs.”

Edmond was on the point of calling after her: “Oh! mademoiselle, don’t make them lay for me!” for no one is so likely as a bright man to say foolish things, when he is in love. However, he caught himself in time, and Honorine said to him:

“You will permit us to forego ceremony, won’t you?”

“It is a sign of friendship, madame.”

“Very well; I will leave you and finish my toilet. Meanwhile, will you walk, or will you go back to the salon? You are musical, I believe; you can play on the piano; in short, make yourself quite at home.”

“Thanks, madame, thanks a thousand times.”

Honorine retired to the house; Edmond, left alone in the garden, strolled about there for some time, then entered the summer-house and sat down.

“She comes here to work,” he thought; “it is here she sits—she said so just now. Sweet girl! she blushes when I glance at her; and then she lowers her eyes; she seems moved, perturbed. Oh! if she might love me!”

And the young lover, absorbed by his thoughts, leaned against the window and looked out into the country. But he looked without seeing, his mind was busy with Agathe alone.

Suddenly he remembered Freluchon, whom he had almost forced to take the trip with him; who must be waiting for him now, to eat matelote, and who would be furious if he did not join him.

“Faith! I can’t help it,” thought Edmond; “he can be angry, if he chooses, but I can’t decline the invitation of these ladies, and deprive myself of the happiness of passing the day with the girl I adore. No, indeed! and Freluchon, in my place, would do the same. Besides, between friends there ought to be no formality.”

Agathe did not appear. Hoping to find her in the salon, Edmond went there; but the ladies had not finished dressing. The young man took his seat at the piano, turned over the leaves of several songs, then yielded to the temptation to sing. Edmond sang very well; his voice was sweet and well modulated, and he had in addition taste and expression, which constitute the greatest charm of every person who sings; moreover, he accentuated the words perfectly; when he sang you did not lose a syllable; and it is so uninteresting to listen and not understand!

The lovely song called the Val d’Andore was on the piano. Whether it was that the thought that he was at Agathe’s piano, or his pleasure in knowing that he was near her, had augmented his powers, certain it is that the young man had never sung so well, that his voice had never been so sweet and pure. And the two friends, who, after completing their toilet, had returned to the salon, stood at the door to listen, and did not move a muscle for fear of losing a word.

But Agathe flushed and turned pale alternately as she listened to that melodious voice, which went to her very heart.

“Oh! how beautifully he sings!” she whispered; “oh! my dear! what a voice!”

“Hush!”

Agathe was silent; but a moment later two great tears rolled down her cheeks. Honorine saw them and touched the girl’s arm.

“Upon my word!” she whispered, “you are crying now. What does this mean?”

“I don’t know, my dear friend! I don’t know what the matter is; but I am very happy!”

“Will you be kind enough to wipe your eyes and not show how susceptible you are to music. Really, I am almost sorry that we invited this young man to dinner.”

“Oh! it’s all over, my dear; it’s all over; it won’t happen again.”

Edmond having ceased to sing, the two young women entered the salon.

“You sing very well, monsieur,” said Honorine; while Agathe, still all a-quiver from the effect that Edmond’s voice had produced upon her, stood apart and dared not trust herself to speak.

“What, mesdames, were you listening to me? If I had known that, I should not have dared to sing.”

“You would have been very foolish, and we hope, on the contrary, that you will continue, although you know that we are here.”

“If it will give you any pleasure, madame, I will do whatever you command. But may I not hear you and mademoiselle, also?”

“Oh, yes! monsieur, we will both sing; and as I have not enough talent to require urging, I will begin.”

Honorine seated herself at the piano. She had not much voice, but she put so much expression into the words she sang that one never tired of hearing her.

Next it was Agathe’s turn; she faltered, forgot words and air, confused one song with another, and sang very badly because she longed to sing better than usual.

“Do not judge her by this hearing,” said Honorine; “really, she is not in voice to-day.”

“I am hoarse!” murmured Agathe with a pout, as she left the piano.

Edmond sang again, and his sympathetic voice delighted the two friends so much that they listened too intently to hear Poucette, who stood in the doorway shouting that dinner was served. However, the young peasant’s loud voice succeeded at last in making itself heard. They left the piano and went down into the garden, where the table was laid under an arbor. To dine in the open air is one of the great joys of life in the country; and to those sybarites who fear that they may not have everything necessary to their comfort, who make a wry face if a leaf falls on their plate, if a maybug buzzes about their ears, I would say:

You do not know that the sense of well-being which one feels on breathing the pure country air always sharpens the appetite.

The dinner passed off very merrily.

Edmond was agreeable, Honorine witty, and Agathe happy. Everybody was content.

From time to time Edmond exclaimed:

“How lovely it is to live in the country! I think I must hire a little room in the neighborhood, for the summer; it would do me a great deal of good.”

“Is your health poor, monsieur?” asked Honorine in a slightly sarcastic tone, for the young man had done ample justice to the dinner.

“I am not ill as yet, madame; but my lungs are weak, very weak.”

“Why, that is strange; one would not think it, to hear you sing.”

“I assure you that a doctor, a friend of mine, tells me that the country air would do me no end of good.”

“Indeed, I believe that it can never injure anyone.”

“If I could find a small furnished apartment in this vicinity—a bachelor requires so little!”

“Oh! you can find that!” exclaimed Agathe; “it seems to me I have seen signs on the main street. It would be very nice to have you for a neighbor!”

“It is I, mademoiselle, whom it would make very happy.”

Honorine nudged her young friend with her knee, to urge her to be less expansive; whereupon Agathe made a funny little face and held her peace until some new outburst escaped her.

The girl was not as yet accustomed to society, and she said frankly just what she thought; which people are very careful not to do in society—and with good reason.

The music had delayed the dinner, and they were still talking around the table in the garden long after it had grown dark. Suddenly Poucette ran toward them with a terrified air, and said to the young man:

“Monsieur, your name’s Edmond Didier, isn’t it?”

“Yes—why?”

“Because there’s a young gentleman running all about the neighborhood, shouting at the top of his lungs:

“‘Edmond Didier, where are you? if you are not killed or eaten, answer me! I am waiting for you! I am waiting for you! I am waiting for you!’ ”

“What does this mean?” demanded Honorine, while Edmond hung his head and stammered in dire confusion:

“Mon Dieu, mesdames, I beg your pardon most humbly; I remember now that I came here with a friend of mine.”

“And you have not thought of him since morning! Oh! the poor fellow!”

“Do not pity him, madame; I arranged to meet him at Gournay, to eat a matelote; but it gave me so much pleasure to remain with you——”

“That you left your friend to his own devices.”

“He will have eaten his matelote without me—that’s all.”

“But you see that he is anxious about you, since he is rushing about the country calling you.—Try to overtake this gentleman, Poucette, and bring him back with you; tell him that the person he is looking for is here.”

“Very well, madame. I’ll find him; he’s yelling loud enough, so that you can hear him a long way.”

“Really, madame, I abuse your good nature. To compel you to receive my friend——”

“Is he not presentable?”

“I beg pardon; he’s a very good fellow,—a little free-and-easy,—I mean, a little eccentric; he is very well circumstanced, he has a handsome fortune——”

“That is a matter of indifference to us; but it seems that he must be very fond of you, to look for you so energetically.”

“Oh! that’s because he doesn’t want to go back alone.”

At that moment Poucette returned with Freluchon, who, as soon as he caught sight of Edmond, exclaimed:

“Ah! so this is the way you treat your friends; and it was to make me pass a day like Robinson Crusoe, in a horrible place where one doesn’t see a living being, that you brought me into the country with you!”

“Freluchon!—don’t you see these ladies?”

“Oh! I beg pardon, mesdames; but really that is no way to act; I leave it to these ladies—let them say whether I did wrong to cry aloud.—Imagine, mesdames, that this gentleman, who dares to call me his friend, brought me here almost by force this morning, saying: ‘We will have a delightful day; I am going to call on some very charming ladies who live at Chelles, but I shall not stay long; go to Gournay and wait for me; order a matelote and I’ll be with you at four o’clock.—Very good; I turn to the right when he turns to the left. I find myself in a country which is not unpleasant to look at, perhaps, but where you don’t meet a living soul—not a peasant—not an ass—and ordinarily there are asses everywhere!—Oh! by the way, I did meet some sheep, but no shepherd—I saw only the dog—probably he acts as shepherd too. After walking about for three mortal hours in this desert, somewhat anxious concerning my plight and saying to myself from time to time: ‘Can it be that a second Deluge has swept this region?’ I returned to the modest cabaret where I had ordered a matelote, some fried fish, and even a rabbit sauté, for I should not believe that I was dining in the country unless I ate rabbit.

“The dinner was ready, but monsieur had not arrived. I waited one, two, three-quarters of an hour, until the cabaretier informed me that the dinner was suffering from the delay. At that, I took my place at the table, thinking that he would come in a moment. I swallowed several pieces of eel—the matelote was good, I must admit that—but he didn’t come. I said to myself: ‘What’s the use of leaving the eel?’—I ate eleven slices of it, mesdames, with fried fish and rabbit in proportion; if I have indigestion, it will be his fault! Eleven slices! and the eel was superb.

“After dinner I left Gournay and set out in quest of my gentleman; for I was really uneasy. I thought that something must have happened to him, that he had fallen into a hole—there are holes everywhere. I reached this hamlet, and, not knowing where you lived, mesdames, I called my friend—in a heartrending voice; no one answered. Faith! then I rang the bell at rather a fine house, with pilasters topped by great balls tapering to a point. I don’t know what style of architecture that is, but I suspect that it’s the Boulette style. I rang rather violently, no doubt; and as I continued to call this blackguard—I beg pardon, mesdames, I mean this—scamp—it seems that I alarmed the occupants of the house, and four of them came in a body to open the door; there was one gentleman who was armed, and I saw another dancing in the courtyard. A tall woman, with the voice of a sapper and miner, said to me:

“‘What do you want, monsieur, and why are you making all this uproar at my door?’

“Thereupon I assumed an affable manner and replied in honeyed tones:

“‘Do you happen to have here my friend Edmond Didier, with whom I would like to return to Paris?’

“At that, the big man who was armed observed that I was a joker, that it was probably a prearranged scene, and the tall woman said:

“‘I don’t like jokes of this kind; I call it downright impertinent.’

“And they immediately shut the door in my face, just as the little man who was dancing posed as Zéphir.”

“Monsieur must have called at Madame Droguet’s!” said Agathe, laughingly.

“Ah! that lady’s name is Droguet, is it? it is well suited to her.—Appalled by my inhospitable reception, I walked on through the streets, shouting exactly like a crier announcing the loss of some object or the approach of the day when taxes must be paid; in villages they never fail to make that announcement, in order to stimulate the zeal of the taxpayers. But your servant came to my rescue, madame, and guided me here.”

“And now, Freluchon, I will reply to your reproaches in very few words. I certainly intended to join you, but these ladies had the extreme kindness to invite me to dine with them. Tell me now, if you had been in my place, would you not have done exactly as I did, and accepted?”

“It’s very likely; but I would have sent a messenger to Gournay to set my friend’s mind at rest.”

“You? you never would have thought of such a thing! And besides, there are no messengers in a village.”

“You won’t have so much difficulty in finding your friend when he has lodgings here,” said Agathe.

“Ah! do you propose to hire a house here?”

“No, not a house, but a small apartment.”

“Monsieur’s lungs are delicate,” said Honorine, “and he thinks that the country air will do him good.”

“Your lungs delicate! Well! that is a good one!”

And Freluchon threw himself back in his chair, laughing uproariously, oblivious to the glances Edmond bestowed upon him.

Honorine put an end to the scene by saying to the newcomer:

“Will monsieur have something to eat?”

“Infinitely obliged, madame; but when one has eaten eleven slices of eel, one needs nothing but exercise.—But the trains—what time does the last train leave for Paris?”

“At ten o’clock.”

“In that case, it will be well for us to start.”

Edmond realized that his friend was right; he took leave of the ladies, thanking them for their hospitable welcome; while Freluchon eyed Poucette, whose robust figure aroused his admiration.

Then the two young men went to the station.

IV
CHAMOUREAU MARRIED

Chamoureau, who was in such utter despair when he lost his Eléonore—or who pretended to be, for genuine sorrow does not act a part and make a public display of its tears; it seeks solitude and finds solace in its memories—Chamoureau had contracted a second marriage; he had become the husband of the woman whose charms had turned his head. At last he possessed the fair Thélénie, if it is proper to say that one possesses a woman when she gives herself to one without love. In my opinion one has only the usufruct in such cases.

The newly-married pair had taken a handsome apartment on Rue Saint-Lazare. Thélénie had informed her husband that she proposed to have a carriage, and he had bowed to his wife’s wishes, saying:

“My dear love, we will have whatever you wish; I shall always consider it a pleasure and a duty to gratify all your desires.”

“In that case, monsieur, you may begin by ceasing to call me thou; there is nothing in worse form than to thee-and-thou one’s wife; and I am a stickler for good form.”

“What, my dear love, after three days of married life, thou—you want——”

“You have thee-and-thoued me three days already, and that’s too much; I tell you again, monsieur, that in good society a man and wife don’t do it. You seem desirous to appear like a petty government clerk.”

“I don’t agree to that—but I thought——”

“Enough—it’s decided: you are not to call me thou any more.”

“What! not even in the blissful moments when my affection——”

“Hush! that’s enough.”

“The devil! that will embarrass me terribly.”

From that moment Chamoureau no longer ventured to use the familiar form of address to his wife; in her presence he was like a scholar before his teacher, or rather, like a soldier before his commanding officer. He dared not speak unless he was questioned; he had no opinions, tastes, desires; Madame Chamoureau took all that responsibility on her shoulders.

As is frequently the case with women who have led very dissipated lives, Thélénie, after her marriage, assumed a very severe demeanor and bearing; she became a veritable prude, frowned if anyone made a ribald remark before her, and scolded her husband if he presumed to laugh at it. She refused to go to the Théâtre de Palais-Royal, and she could not understand how women could have the effrontery to waltz.

Such was Madame de Belleville; for the newly-married pair answered to no other name, and Thélénie had said to her husband more than once:

“Remember, monsieur, that your name is no longer Chamoureau; when anyone calls you by that name, don’t answer, but turn a deaf ear and go your way.”

“But, my dear love, there are people who have known me a long while, and who know perfectly well that my name is Chamoureau.”

“Tell those people once for all that you answer to no name but Belleville.”

“There are some who think that I live at Belleville, and that that’s what I mean.”

“Bah! monsieur, what difference does all that make? Suppose you should cease to be the friend of the pack of fools with whom you used to associate, where would be the harm?”

“That’s true; in that case, I cease to know my former acquaintances; I have a handsome fortune, and I ought not to frequent the same kind of society.”

“Oh! by the way, monsieur, there are two persons to whom I give you leave to speak, and even, if—if it will be agreeable to you to see them—you may ask them to call on us; I shall not be sorry to let them see the comfort and elegance of our home.”

“Very well, dear love; and who are these two persons whom you are kind enough to be willing to receive?”

“Monsieur Edmond Didier and his friend Freluchon.”

“Oho! why, if I’m not mistaken, you demanded, before marrying me, that I should break off all relations with those two gentlemen.”

“It is quite possible, monsieur; I may have desired it then; now I feel differently. Am I not at liberty to change my mind?”

“Oh! yes, indeed! absolutely at liberty.”

“This Freluchon was your intimate friend, I know, and I do not wish to deprive you of his company.”

“Oh! thanks a thousand times, my adored wife! I am deeply sensible of——”

“Don’t talk to me like that any more! Adored wife! Anyone would think we were acting a melodrama! Call me madame, and stick to that.”

“Very well, I understand, madame—madame—and I will stick to that.”

Some days after this conversation, which will give an idea of the kind of happiness which Chamoureau enjoyed since he had ceased to be a widower, he came face to face with Freluchon one morning on the boulevard.

The latter began by laughing in his former friend’s face.

“Good-day, Freluchon; what are you laughing at?”

“Parbleu! at your expression—your new rig—your new face—for you have manufactured a new face for yourself with all the rest.”

“Freluchon, you see a very happy man.”

“No one would think it to see you walk.”

“Freluchon, I am married again; the lovely Thélénie has become my wife.”

“Aha! so that’s what gives you such an idiotic look, is it? I supposed at first that it was the result of your new wealth; but you’re married, so there’s a double explanation.”

“Yes, Freluchon, I am.”

“You have been married once already; but you were bent on doing it again, and it was your right.”

“Ah! my friend, I am the most fortunate of men!”

“You say that as if you were reciting a fable: ‘A crow perched on a tree——’”

“Tell me, Freluchon, why won’t you believe that I am happy?”

“Bless my soul! I ask nothing better than to believe it. If it is so, so much the better; but as I know these women, as I know that when they have once found a dupe to cover up their past misconduct, they acquire such authority over him that he becomes a mere nobody—an utterly ridiculous person—well, I didn’t know that that rôle would suit you. But it does suit you, so it’s all right, it’s your business. March gayly on, my poor Chamoureau, and may——”

“Oh! I beg your pardon—allow me to stop you right there. I must tell you that my name is no longer Chamoureau, or, at least, I no longer answer to that name.”

“The deuce! have you taken your wife’s name, pray? are you Monsieur Thélénie?”

“No, my name is De Belleville now.”

“What does this new farce mean?”

“It means that my wife, my superb wife, cannot endure the name of Chamoureau; it’s a weakness of hers, but to be agreeable to her, I have taken the name of the place where I was born—Belleville—and we are known by no other name now—Monsieur and Madame de Belleville.”

“Gad! that’s another good one! But after all, you may call yourself Romulus if you choose; it’s all one to me, absolutely.”

“By the way, Freluchon, that isn’t all; my wife, who is very affable with me, although——”

“Although it doesn’t appear?”

“No, I mean, although—although she doesn’t mean to be—has authorized me to invite you and your friend Edmond Didier to come to see us.”

“Ha! ha! ha! worse and worse!”

“What’s the matter?”

“And it is you whom she selects for such errands?”

“Why not?”

“Poor Chamoureau!”

“De Belleville, I beg you, Freluchon; De Belleville! Don’t call me anything else.”

“Very well, my dear Seigneur de Belleville—for if you are not yet a seigneur, I am sure that you soon will be——”

“Do you think so?”

“You are well fitted to reach any height—with the help of your wife’s cotillon.”

“What do you mean by her cotillon?”

“In other words, her influence. You will thank Madame de Belleville, in my behalf; I do not expect to avail myself of her invitation.”

“Why not?”

“As I am very absent-minded, I fear that I might make a mistake, and call her Madame Chamoureau; and I am sure that she would turn me out of doors on the instant.”

“What a paltry reason!”

“As for Edmond Didier—oh! that’s a different matter. I hardly ever see him now.”

“Indeed? have you had a falling out?”

“Not at all; but he is in love, yes, very seriously in love this time; and as his passion lies in Chelles, he has hired a place in that region and he never stirs from there.”

“Chelles? I wonder if this passion of his can be a lady for whom I bought a little place at Chelles in the spring—Madame Dalmont?”

“Precisely; that is to say, it is not Madame Dalmont whom he’s in love with, but her young friend, a very pretty girl who lives with her—Mademoiselle Agathe.”

“Oh, yes! I remember—a very pretty blonde, that is true. I understand now why he took so much trouble to have that purchase concluded so quickly: Mademoiselle Agathe had already caught his eye.”

“Parbleu! when a young man becomes so obliging, so zealous, so eager to make himself useful, you may be sure that love has something to do with it.”

“So you don’t see Edmond now?”

“I see him when I go to Chelles, to his lodgings; but as I am not in love, I don’t go very often. Still, there’s a very pretty peasant girl there, Mademoiselle Poucette. But when you attempt to joke with her, why! she cuffs you as if she’d pound you to a jelly.—So, my dear fellow, you need not expect a call from Edmond. As I tell you, he is hooked this time; he’s head over ears in love; but this young woman cannot be his mistress—and then——”

“Then he will marry her.”

“That would do very well if he still had the sixty thousand francs that he did have; one can live upon that amount. But he has very little of it left; and as for the young lady, I fancy that she has nothing but her lovely eyes, and they won’t do to make soup.”

“Oh, no! money before everything! That is my wife’s principle, too.”

“I don’t doubt it; she has famous principles, has your wife!—Adieu, Chamoureau de Belleville, lord of the outskirts and of other places which I will not mention. When you have a coat of arms, I advise you to put in some stag’s horns; they look well against the background of the shield.”

Freluchon walked away, still laughing.

“That devilish Freluchon!” said Chamoureau to himself as he looked after him; “he’s always in high spirits; but I don’t believe he has thirty-two thousand two hundred francs a year! After all, I am quite as well pleased that he is not coming to our house; I am quite certain he would call me Chamoureau; he would do it on purpose!”

When he reached home, the happy bridegroom lost no time in seeking Thélénie, and telling her that he had met Freluchon. The name of Edmond’s friend instantly fixed Thélénie’s attention.

“Well, did you invite him to come to see us, and to bring his friend Monsieur Edmond?” she asked.

“Yes, to be sure, I did what you told me; but they won’t either of them come.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Freluchon has contracted the habit of laughing in everybody’s face; he joked me about my change of name, and declared that if he came to see us he couldn’t help calling me Chamoureau. As you may imagine, I didn’t insist.”

“But his friend, Monsieur Edmond Didier?”

“Oh! that’s a different matter! He has a love-affair on the brain; a passion—oh! a grand passion—Look out, my dear, you’ll drop that book you have in your hand.”

“Never mind, monsieur; what does the book matter? Go on; you say that Monsieur Edmond is very much in love—as usual—some caprice for a grisette, for that gentleman takes to that type of woman.”

“No, madame, this time it’s a respectable young woman with whom he is in love.”

“How do you know that she is respectable?”

“Because I know her; she’s a fascinating blonde.”

“You know her, you say, monsieur; and you have never mentioned it to me!”

“Never mentioned what to you?”

“Why, Monsieur Edmond’s love for this girl, whom you know, and whom you consider so pretty.”

“Why, madame, I couldn’t mention it to you, because I knew nothing about it myself; it was Freluchon who told me.”

“But you said that you knew this woman! You don’t seem to know what you are saying, monsieur! Oh! how you irritate me!”

“My dear love, do be careful; you’re tearing the lace in your sleeves—you will have it in rags.”

“Oh! don’t bother about my lace, monsieur; it suits me to tear it, apparently. But for God’s sake, tell me exactly what Monsieur Freluchon said to you about his friend Edmond. Speak, monsieur! why don’t you speak? you see that I am waiting!”

At that moment Thélénie’s eyes emitted flames, and their expression was so far from loving that Chamoureau found them less beautiful than usual. He had never seen his superb wife’s face wear such a savage, threatening expression; he felt ill at ease, he was frightened, and he stammered:

“Madame, you—you—dis—dis—distress me; what—what—what’s the m—m—matter?”

Thélénie strove to calm herself as she replied:

“Why, nothing’s the matter, monsieur; only my nerves are on edge this morning, and the slightest thing upsets me, irritates me. Go on, I am listening.”

Chamoureau repeated to his wife all that Freluchon had told him concerning Edmond’s new love-affair. Thélénie listened attentively; she tried to remain calm; to avoid tearing her lace; and she rejoined with apparent tranquillity:

“So these women who live at Chelles are known to you?”

“Yes, my dear love; it was through me that they bought Monsieur Courtivaux’s house—for twenty thousand francs, as I remember.”

“What sort of women are they?”

“Madame Dalmont, the one who bought the house, is a widow, some twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, with an interesting, but sad face; of moderate means, she told me herself. Her young friend, the one Monsieur Edmond is so much in love with, must be about sixteen or seventeen—she’s an orphan, I believe—but such a pretty face! lovely fair hair, blue eyes——”

“Enough, monsieur! you have extolled this surprising beauty too much already! I shall end by thinking that you are in love with her too!”

“Ah! madame, you know very well that you alone, whose unapproachable charms——”

“And Monsieur Edmond has hired a house at Chelles? he lives there now?”

“Yes, in order to be near those ladies.”

“At whose house he visits?”

“Naturally.”

After a few minutes of silence, Thélénie said:

“Monsieur, all comme il faut people have a house in the country, a villa to which they go for the summer. Of course you do not expect me to stay cooped up in Paris all summer, like a shopkeeper on Rue Saint-Denis.”

“Madame—I think—faith! I don’t know; I will do whatever you want.”

“I want a country house, monsieur; we will hire one.”

“Very well, my dear love; I will look about for one, I will read the Petites-Affiches.”

“Don’t take all that trouble; just tell them to put the horses in the carriage, and we will look for a house in the neighborhood that I like best.”

Chamoureau executed his wife’s orders with alacrity, while she, left to her reflections, said to herself:

“Ah! I will know this woman whom you love, ungrateful Edmond! and I will find a way to put a spoke in your love-affairs!”

Mademoiselle Héloïse, who had retained her former footing of intimacy with her old friend, because she was careful to call her nothing but Madame de Belleville, suddenly appeared, in evident uneasiness, and whispered to Thélénie:

“I say, my dear, I just saw—down in the street, standing in front of the house, that horrid man who came to your old rooms one day, so wretchedly dressed, all in rags, and who had such a strange name—Croque, I think.”

“Ah! you recognized him?”

“Yes, although he is dressed a little better than he was the other time. He has one of those faces that one doesn’t forget! he looks like a night-owl!”

“So Croque has found my trail,” thought Thélénie, “and some day he will present himself again. Oh, well! it matters little, after all; I have an idea now that I may have occasion to make use of him.”

V
THE CHERRIES.—THE RAVINE

Edmond very soon put in execution the plan he had formed. On the day after that on which he had dined at Madame Dalmont’s, he returned to Chelles alone. He did not call upon the ladies, because a second visit after so brief an interval would have been indiscreet; but he went all about the neighborhood and succeeded in finding an attractive house to let all furnished, a very short distance from Madame Dalmont’s. The house was large enough for a good-sized family; it was much too large for a single man; but the tenant could have possession at once, and it was only five minutes’ walk from Madame Dalmont’s; so Edmond did not hesitate; he hired it for the balance of the year for one thousand francs, one-half of which he paid in cash to Monsieur Durand, the owner of the property.

Two days later, the young man called at Madame Dalmont’s.

“It is a neighbor of yours,” he said, “who ventures to pay you a visit, and who, if it is not too presumptuous, will ask your permission to come now and then in the evening, to play and sing with you.”

“What! have you hired a house here?” cried Agathe, unable to restrain a joyous movement.

“Yes, mademoiselle, a summer house, belonging to a Monsieur Durand, very near that lady’s house where Freluchon was so coldly received when he went there to ask for me a few days ago.”

“Oh! I know the place,” said Honorine, “but it seems to me to be very large for a single man.”

“Oh! what difference does it make? Besides, Freluchon will come to see me often, and pass the night.”

“I thought that he didn’t like this part of the country.”

“He will get used to it; for my part, the longer I am here, the better I like it.”

As he said this, Edmond’s eyes were fixed on Agathe, and she understood perfectly why the young man liked Chelles so much.

But it was not without considerable disquietude that Honorine saw Edmond Didier take up his abode so near to them; and Agathe, who could read her protectress’s face very easily, said to her after Edmond’s departure:

“How serious you look! Are you sorry that Monsieur Edmond has hired a country house in this vicinity? You frown at me; is it my fault?”

“Your fault? yes, of course it’s your fault; and yet I can’t scold you! Why, you know perfectly well that this young man is in love with you; and that that was the only motive that led him to hire that house, which is large enough for ten persons.”

“My dear friend, I swear to you that Monsieur Edmond has never said a word to me which would lead me to suppose that—that he was thinking of me.”

“I believe you; indeed, he has not been coming here long.”

“Do you mean that you think that that young man is capable of saying unseemly things to me? Do you suppose that I would listen to them?”

“No. Monsieur Edmond seems an honorable man; he has no evil intentions, I believe; but love is a sentiment that one cannot control. If you should love this young man——”

“Well, where would be the harm, since you think that he loves me? He would be my husband.”

“Your husband! My poor girl, before marrying, you must have at least enough to live on. You have nothing, and I fancy that Monsieur Edmond hasn’t very much, either!”

“But he is always very well and fashionably dressed; he hired Monsieur Durand’s house for a thousand francs.”

“That proves that he knows how to spend money, but not that he knows how to earn it.—Come, come, don’t you take your turn at making wry faces at me. I am your second mother; I am thinking of your future, of your welfare; you ought not to be angry with me for that.”

Agathe replied by throwing herself into Honorine’s arms, saying:

“Never fear! I shall not have any secrets from you.”

The two friends had hardly finished their conversation when Poucette’s voice attracted their attention. The girl was talking to someone, in what seemed to be a threatening tone. Her voice came from the garden; the two ladies were there in a moment, and found Poucette clinging to the leg of a small boy who had climbed into a cherry tree, and continued to eat the cherries although she jerked at his leg, trying to pull him down. But when Honorine and Agathe appeared, little Emile concluded to come down from the tree.

“D’ye see, madame,” cried Poucette, “here’s the one that steals our cherries; for some time past I’ve been noticing that the cherries kept disappearing although you ladies don’t pick any; so I began to suspect something; I hid and watched, and I saw this good-for-nothing scamp, the lost child, climbing over the wall right here by the cherry tree, and in a minute he was in the tree.”

“Oh! I recognize him,” said Agathe; “it’s the boy who chased the cow that frightened you so.”

“Pardi! he don’t know to do anything but mischief, the wicked little scamp.—But I’ll teach you!”

And the peasant made ready to strike the boy, who neither stirred nor spoke, and seemed to care little whether he was beaten or not.

But Honorine stopped Poucette with a gesture; then she sat down on a bench and beckoned the boy to her.

He hesitated, but at last decided to go to her, after casting a savage glance at Poucette.

“Why do you come here to take my cherries?” inquired Honorine in a gentle voice, and looking at the little thief with no trace of anger.

He seemed astonished to be spoken to otherwise than harshly; he lowered his eyes and answered at last:

“Well! I like cherries, I do.”

“Even so, that is no reason for taking what doesn’t belong to you,—for climbing a wall. Do you know what a risk you run? If the constable had seen you he would have arrested you; he might have taken you to prison, and they would have kept you a long time perhaps, as a vagrant, a bad boy.”

“Oh! I’m too small; they don’t put little boys in prison!”

“You are mistaken! little boys are just the ones they do keep in the houses of correction until they grow up, so that they can’t loiter along the roads doing nothing.”

“Well, then, in prison I’d play with the other little boys, as you say there’s little boys there.”

“No, you wouldn’t play, because they don’t keep little ne’er-do-wells in prison to play and enjoy themselves; they make them work; and those who refuse are punished, kept on bread and water, and not allowed to speak to anyone.—Come now, think and tell me whether the few cherries you have eaten are worth all the punishments that they might bring upon you.”

Little Emile made no reply; he gazed at Honorine, furtively at first, but at last made bold to look her in the face, as if to assure himself that she was not laughing at him, and that she really meant what she had said. Doubtless the young woman’s face inspired confidence, for he seemed to reflect; and after a few moments he muttered:

“What am I to do to get cherries then? there ain’t any cherry tree at our house; and they won’t give me any money to buy any.”

“Why, instead of stealing—which is very, very wrong, even if it’s only cherries—you should just come and ask for some; and I would never refuse to give them to you! Especially if I haven’t heard of your doing any more naughty things, like throwing stones at a cow to make her run through the fields at the risk of hurting people, especially poor little children who might not have time to get out of the way. Oh! it is so wicked to hurt those who are weak and can’t defend themselves; only cowardly hearts do that.”

“Oh! I fight with big boys, I do!”

“Don’t fight at all; that will be much better.”

Then she made a sign to Agathe, who understood her and brought a little basket filled with cherries. Honorine took out two handfuls and handed them to the little boy.

“Here,” she said, “since you are so fond of cherries, take these.”

The child stared at her in surprise, and said in a faltering voice:

“What! are you going to give me some?”

“Yes, I will give you these, on condition that you won’t steal any more; do you promise?”

“Well! as long as you give ‘em to me, I don’t need to climb over the wall any more.”

And the boy, putting his hands together, received the cherries which she gave him and hugged them to his breast. Then he looked all about and asked:

“Can I go now?”

“To be sure—you are free. Go; but don’t be so naughty any more, and instead of making everybody hate you, make them love you, and you will see how much happier that will make you.”

“And will everybody give me cherries?”

“I don’t promise you that; but people will be kind to you when you are kind to them.”

Little Emile said nothing more; but he made a pirouette and scampered away, shouting at Poucette as he passed her:

“The lady’s better ‘n you!”

“Thanks!” said the young peasant; “if madame gives fruit to everybody who comes to steal it, they won’t take the trouble to climb the wall!”

“Well! what would you have had me give the child?”

“It seems to me that he deserved a good licking instead of cherries!”

“He is said to be very naughty; but on the other hand everybody scolds him and treats him harshly.”

“Sometimes they beat him, and hard too!”

“Well, I propose to try another method of reforming him.”

“You are right,” said Agathe; “gentleness is better than violence; I have read that somewhere in La Fontaine’s fables.”

A few days later, Edmond having gone to Paris, the two friends knew that he would not come to see them; and so, immediately after dinner, Agathe proposed to Honorine that they should go for a long walk.

“I don’t want to go in the direction of the Tower,” said Honorine; “it would seem as if we were trying to meet the owner again; and as that gentleman has not thought fit to call to inquire whether my fright had any serious consequences, I should be sorry to have him think that we cared to see him again.”

There was a faint suggestion of irritation in Honorine’s manner as she said this; but Agathe did not notice it.

“Mon Dieu! my dear,” she rejoined, “as the man doesn’t care for society, but avoids it, why should you expect him to come to see us? It doesn’t seem to me that that is any reason why we should deprive ourselves of the pleasure of walking in the direction that is most agreeable to us. For my part, I would like to go toward the Tower, and Noisy-le-Grand; for that is where that ravine is, with the cross erected on the spot where they found a young man dead. To tell the truth, I am very curious to see the place; it will make my flesh creep, but no matter; I am very desirous to see it; I have never forgotten that story that the doctor told us.”

Honorine, whose resolution did not seem very firm, replied:

“Oh, well! if you want to see the ravine and the cross—after all, it isn’t our fault that the gentleman’s estate lies in that direction; and then it would be very strange if we should happen to meet him again.”

“It isn’t likely.”

“At all events, if we do meet him, we will not speak to him—do you understand? we will simply bow to him, but we will not stop.”

“But suppose he speaks to us?”

“Oh! in that case—but he won’t speak to us, as he cares so little for society.”

“Let us start; this time I trust that we shall not meet any cows to frighten us.”

The two friends left the house. It was seven o’clock in the evening; the weather was fine, but the atmosphere was somewhat heavy and seemed to presage a storm. The young women did not allow themselves to be frightened by some dark clouds which appeared above the horizon. They strolled idly along the road to Gournay, stopping now and then to pluck flowers; and after passing through the little village, Honorine said:

“We must not take the road we took the other time, which leads toward that gentleman’s property. Let us take another road—this one, for instance.”

“But suppose we lose our way?”

“We can always find it again by inquiring. Besides, Noisy-le-Grand is in this direction.”

“But Noisy isn’t where we want to go; we want to find the ravine where the cross is that was set up in memory of the young man who was murdered there.”

“Well! that ravine, they say, is close by the road leading to Noisy.”

“No, it’s near the park belonging to the Tower, and this road takes us away from it.”

“You don’t know any more about it than I. However, we will ask.”

The two friends walked along the road, which was unfamiliar to them; it was shaded in spots by fine walnut trees and venerable acacias.

After having walked for some time, Honorine stopped.

“How dark it is!” she said; “has the night come already?”

“No, it’s the storm coming up! Oh! how black it is! What should we do if the storm should surprise us here? I don’t see any house where we could go for shelter.”

“We will stand under one of these magnificent walnuts.”

“Oh, no! when it lightens, we mustn’t stand under a walnut tree, it’s one of the trees that attract lightning.”

“What! are you afraid, Agathe, you who are always so brave?”

“A storm isn’t very pleasant when you’re in the midst of the fields! Oh! mon Dieu!”

“What is it?”

“I felt a drop of rain, a big drop.”

“Let’s walk faster.”

But they quickened their pace to no purpose: in a moment the storm burst; the rain fell in torrents and forced them to seek shelter under a huge tree whose dense foliage protected them almost entirely from the downpour.

“We are not lucky in our walks!” said Honorine; “I shall not leave our garden any more!”

“Nonsense! when it’s over we forget all about it.”

“Yes, but this one keeps on, and we are a long way from home! What an idea of yours to want to go to a place that is said to be dangerous!”

“Oho! it’s your turn to be afraid now.”

“Not of the thunder, at all events!”

“But the thunder is more dangerous than a cross set up in a ravine.”

“Ah! what a flash! it was superb!”

“It was frightful!”

“I think the rain is subsiding a little.”

“Let us go on.”

“Mon Dieu! here comes the darkness now; suppose it should overtake us before we have found our way!”

“Let us walk, let us walk; we shall certainly meet someone who will tell us which way to go.”

“Oh! how slippery the rain has made the road! We shall fall in a moment; that will be the last straw!”

“Let’s take each other’s arm, and hold on firmly.”

The two friends walked on, laughing when they almost fell, shrieking with terror when the lightning flashes lighted up the surrounding country. The rain had almost ceased, but the night was coming on, and the farther they walked, the less familiar the road seemed to them.

At last they met a peasant woman driving an ass before her; at sight of her they uttered a cry of delight.

“Madame! madame! which way to Chelles, if you please?”

“Why, bless me! you’re turning your backs to it!”

“Which way must we go, then?”

“See, take this path to the left; then turn to the left again and you’ll come to Gournay; then——”

“Oh! we know the way after that, thanks!”

“And the cross in the ravine—are we far from that?”

“The cross in the ravine! Jesus, my Lord! you want to go to the cross in the ravine! at night! What in the world do you want to go there for?”

“From curiosity.”

“The deuce! you must be mighty curious, then!”

“Is it dangerous to go by there?”

“Bless me! this much is sure, that nobody round here would want to go through the ravine at night. As soon as you get near it, you hear groans and complaints.—It’s the dead man come back, for sure.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts myself.”

“It’s plain you don’t belong round here. Well, if you take the road I told you, you’re bound to pass, not through the ravine, but by one end of it. Good-night, mesdames.”

“Will you let us take your ass to return to Chelles? we will pay whatever you choose.”

“No, no; I don’t let my ass to folks who want to go to the dead man’s cross! No, thank you! Besides, Julie wouldn’t go, either; she’d balk. Come, away with you, my poor Julie!”

And the peasant who gave her jenny the name of Julie went her way, driving the beast before her.

“We know our way now,” said Honorine; “let’s make haste, for it will soon be entirely dark.”

“The thunder is still rumbling.”

“That isn’t what I am afraid of.”

“Do you mean to say that you believe in that peasant woman’s nonsense, and the groans that are heard in the ravine?”

“I’ll tell you this, that when we pass the place, I shall run. Mon Dieu! how dark it is!”

“Here we are on the main road, at all events. We must turn to the left again.”

“I can hardly see, and I am beginning to be very tired.”

“Oh! look, my dear, this narrow path between those two little hills must be the ravine.”

“Well! perhaps you would like to go in there, to delay us still more?”

“Oh! I entreat you, just a minute, to see the cross. I don’t know what is taking place in me, but it seems to me that I must go there, and—and pray for the unhappy man who met his death there.”

“Why, Agathe, you are positively foolish! I am not willing to stop.”

“Ah! listen! did you hear?”

“No, I heard nothing.”

“Nothing? listen again.”

This time a prolonged groan was heard by them very distinctly. Honorine began to tremble. She tried to hasten on, but her legs gave way; she could only cling to Agathe’s arm, saying:

“You see—the peasant did not deceive us. This is a ghastly place! Mon Dieu! I should say that someone was running toward us now.”

“That is true; but it’s no man running so fast as that.”

Agathe had hardly finished speaking when Ami, the noble Newfoundland, was beside her. After running around the two friends several times, as if to see if they were alone, he went to the girl, rubbed his head against her, wagged his tail, and stood on his hind legs, fixing his intelligent eyes upon her as if to express the joy he felt at seeing her.

“It’s Ami! it’s Ami!” cried Agathe, patting the dog. “Oh! now I am not afraid any more; for, if we should be in any danger, he would defend us.”

“It certainly is Monsieur Paul’s dog; if he is here, his master cannot be far away.”

“At this moment, I should not be at all sorry to meet him. See, Honorine, Ami is going into the ravine; now he stops and comes back to us, and now he turns back again. He certainly is urging us to follow him; come.”

“But we can’t see where we are going; and those groans that we heard——”

“The dog is with us, and I am not afraid any more.”

Honorine allowed herself to be led into the ravine by Agathe, who had taken her hand.

The dog trotted before them. It was very dark in that sunken road, but they had taken scarcely twenty steps when a brilliant flash of lightning furrowed the clouds and enabled them to see distinctly everything within thirty yards. They then saw the owner of the Tower on his knees beside a grassy mound at one side of the road, in the centre of which stood a wooden cross.

At that strange apparition the two women halted, grasping each other by the hand; then Agathe murmured very low:

“Do you see that?”

“Yes, it’s Monsieur Paul; and he is kneeling by the cross on that grave.”

“Isn’t it very strange? What can he be doing by that cross?”

“One would think that he was weeping; listen, listen! I believe he is speaking.”

It was true that Ami’s master, believing himself to be alone on that spot which the people round about were careful to avoid, especially at night, uttered these words:

“Forgive me, unfortunate victim of the most dastardly treachery. Ah, me! if only I could have fulfilled your last wishes, it seems to me that you might forgive me for your death. But it was impossible; all my efforts were fruitless!”

“Did you hear?” murmured Honorine to her companion; “he said: ‘You might forgive me for your death.’—So it must have been he who killed the person who is under that cross! Why, this is frightful!”

“It isn’t possible,” said Agathe; “we couldn’t have heard right.”

At that moment, Ami, who had reached his master’s side, looked up in his face and began to yelp, but softly, not angrily. It was his way of informing his master that he was no longer alone.

“What! is there someone here?” cried Paul, springing hastily to his feet; “where, Ami? where, I say?”

The dog ran back to the two friends who stood a short distance away, trembling, afraid to go forward or to retreat, especially since they had heard the words uttered by that mysterious man.

“What! ladies?” cried Paul, stopping in front of them. “Why, this is strange; so far as the darkness permits me to distinguish your features, I seem to recognize the ladies whom I escorted back to Chelles a few weeks ago.”

“Yes, monsieur, it is we,” replied Agathe, who was the first to recover her courage. “It is we again, and sorely embarrassed; for we were surprised by the storm, then by the darkness; we lost our way, and I do not know what would have become of us, but for your dog. He met us and recognized us; and we followed him, having no idea where he was leading us.”

“But you are a long way from Chelles; did you find no protection from the storm?”

“Only some big trees. It is so deserted about here.”

“Is madame indisposed?”

This question was addressed to Honorine, who, pale as a statue, had not yet uttered a word, because she recalled too distinctly those uttered by their companion when he believed himself to be alone before the cross on the grave.

But, feeling that her companion was nudging her, Madame Dalmont said in a faltering tone:

“No, monsieur, no; I am not ill; but I had a fright, and——”

“She was afraid of the storm,” interposed Agathe hastily; “and just now she admitted to me that she could not walk.”

“Oh! that’s all over, and I can walk very well now.”

“Since chance has placed me in your path again, mesdames, you will allow me to act as your guide once more, and to take you home.”

“Oh! I thank you, monsieur, but if you will be kind enough to take us as far as the bridge at Gournay, that will be sufficient. Really, you might well conceive a strange idea of us, when you constantly find us wandering about the country at night, and always obliged to call upon you for assistance!”

“When I am able to render a trifling service, madame, my thoughts do not go beyond it, and I do not try to guess by what circumstances the occasion was brought about. I am simply doing my duty, and you owe me no gratitude.”

“Oh, dear! I believe it is beginning to rain again!” cried Agathe; “for my part, monsieur may think what he pleases, but I am very glad that we met him, and I accept his arm with pleasure.”

And the girl took Monsieur Paul’s arm without more ado. He looked at Honorine, who, after a moment’s indecision, decided at last to take his other arm, and they started off at a rapid pace, escorted by the faithful Ami.

But Honorine’s arm trembled so in her cavalier’s that he finally said:

“How you tremble, madame! is it with cold, or with fear of the storm? It is passing over, and you will reach home safely.”

“Yes, monsieur, it’s the thunder; it has upset me completely.”

“Pray lean on me, madame; one would think that you were afraid of tiring me, and I can hardly feel you.”

“Thanks, monsieur, thanks; I am leaning on you as much as I need.”

“We were altogether lost when we saw you, thanks to your dog,” said Agathe; “that is a very lonely spot where you were, monsieur!”

“Yes, mademoiselle; yet it is quite near my house.”

“That road, monsieur, is the ravine where there is a cross, is it not?”

If Honorine had been next to Agathe, she would have pinched her viciously, to make her regret her question, but their escort separated them; so that she could only make a convulsive movement, which she instantly checked, pretending that she had made a misstep.

“Yes, mademoiselle,” replied Paul curtly, “that is the ravine of the cross.”

“We have been told a very sad story about that cross—that a young man was found dead on that spot, nine or ten years ago, I believe. Is it true, monsieur?”

Honorine would have beaten Agathe with the greatest satisfaction; she began to cough as if she would tear her throat to tatters.

“I too have heard of that occurrence, mademoiselle,” replied their companion in a gloomy tone.

“And the unfortunate man’s assassins have never been discovered?”

“Assassins!” exclaimed Paul in a loud voice, raising his head proudly. “Who told you, mademoiselle, that the person found dead on that spot had been assassinated?”

“Oh! mon Dieu! no one, monsieur, no one. I said that, because the people who tell the story——”

“The world almost always judges falsely; it never knows the true inwardness of things; and as it is more disposed to believe evil than good, as soon as a stranger is found dead by the roadside, it says: ‘He was murdered!’—You are still very young, mademoiselle! Distrust the judgments of the world; you will often have occasion to realize their injustice.”

“Here is Gournay bridge,” said Honorine; “will monsieur leave us now?”

“No, madame; unless you bid me to do so, I shall not leave you, trembling as you are, out in the country, at night. I shall escort you to your home.”

Honorine bowed and they walked on. But they were silent, for Agathe dared not speak since their guide had almost lost his temper in answering her last question.

They reached Honorine’s house, and Paul bowed to the ladies, saying:

“You are at home now, I believe?”

“Yes, monsieur. I do not know how to thank you——”

“For what, madame, pray? I have simply done my duty.”

“Adieu, Ami; adieu, my good dog!”

The dog and his master took their leave.

“Oh! I could have beaten you!” said Honorine, “when you questioned that man about the story of the cross!”

“Why so? You heard him answer that the young man who was found there was not murdered.”

“But since he was the one who killed him, could you expect him to admit it?”

“That man an assassin! Nonsense! it’s impossible. Do you believe it, my dear love?”

“I believe—Mon Dieu! I don’t know what to believe; but this much is certain, that I will not walk in that direction again. Let’s go to bed; what with the fright, excitement, fatigue and the storm, I am completely exhausted; and you?”

“I? Oh! I regret that we didn’t go as far as the cross in the ravine. I would have liked to pray for him who lies there!”

VI
CALUMNY

Several days had passed since the memorable evening of the storm. Honorine and Agathe had promised each other never to breathe a word of what they had seen and heard that evening by the cross in the ravine. There are some subjects with respect to which the slightest indiscretion is a crime, in that it may have the most serious consequences; and the words which the owner of the Tower had uttered when he was on his knees beside the cross, were of those which one regrets having heard, and which one tries to forget.

However, there was no reason why the two friends should not discuss the subject between themselves, and in fact they often did.

Agathe, who always defended Paul, would exclaim:

“No, that man is not an assassin! I am absolutely convinced of it. Indeed, the very emotion that he showed when I said that a stranger had been murdered in the ravine, and the warmth with which he repelled that suggestion prove that it is false.”

“It is a fact that he did seem keenly wounded by your words. But why, then, did he ask the forgiveness of the man who is buried there?—When one has fought a duel, loyally and honorably, it is no crime; the victor may regret his victory, but he does not accuse himself of it as of a criminal act.”

“But how can we tell how it happened—what brought it about?”

“Well, let us say no more about it; that will be the better way.”

“You are right; let us never mention it again.”

But it rarely happened that the following day passed without Honorine herself leading the conversation to the subject of the owner of the Tower. And after talking about him, the young woman would be thoughtful and melancholy for a long while.

Agathe noticed this fact, but she was very careful not to mention it to her friend; women very quickly understand the secrets of the heart, and know when it is advisable not to seem to have divined them.

Edmond had returned to Chelles; he had passed several days in Paris, because he had been led to hope for a very well-paid position in a banking house; but it had been given to another and the young man was not cast down. He still had about twenty thousand francs; with that amount, with love in one’s heart, and with a great hope of its being reciprocated, one has before one a whole future of happiness.

One morning the two ladies were working in the garden and Père Ledrux was raking a path a short distance away, when Honorine suddenly said:

“It’s a long while since we have had a call from Doctor Antoine Beaubichon; I wonder if he can be sick?—Père Ledrux, do you know whether Doctor Antoine is well?”

“Oh, yes!” replied the gardener; “I saw him this very morning going to Madame Droguet’s.—Tutu-turlututu.”

“It’s strange that he hasn’t been to see us for a fortnight.”

“Well! perhaps it’s because he agrees with the rest—that you have enough company without him!”

“What’s that? enough company? I don’t understand. What do you mean by that, Père Ledrux?”

“I—nothing at all; in the first place, you understand it don’t make any difference to me, it ain’t any of my business; you can have whole regiments come to see you for all me; you’re your own mistresses, and I ain’t the one to find fault!—But you know, there’s some folks who do nothing but meddle with what don’t concern ‘em, and talk—why, just for the sake of talking!”

“Do you understand one word of all that he says, Agathe?”

“Not very well; but it seems that people think that we receive a great deal of company. Isn’t that what they say, Père Ledrux?”

“Yes, they say that you receive a good many men; that you’ve had some come from Paris, without counting those from this part of the country, who go to walk with you in the evening.—Tutu—turlututu.”

“You hear, Agathe; what do you think of that?”

“Why, I think that it’s an outrage, and that people in the country are even more unkind than they are in large cities.—Poucette, is it true that many men come here?”

“Oh! my word, mamzelle, I haven’t ever seen anybody come but our neighbor Monsieur Edmond, and then two or three times his friend, Monsieur Freluchon, who’s so full of mischief.—Oh! what a scamp that little man is!”

“Where did you hear all this about us, Père Ledrux?”

“Bless me! a word here and a word there; you hear people jabbering; you may not listen, but you hear all the same. In the first place, when I’m working in Madame Droguet’s garden, she’s always talking about her neighbors, and I heard her say to Madame Jarnouillard the other day—or Madame Remplumé, I don’t just know which; in fact, I think they was all three there—and Madame Droguet, she says:

“‘You know Monsieur Durand has let that nice house of his close by, almost opposite me; but what you don’t know perhaps is that he’s let it to a young dandy from Paris, who’s come there to live all alone, without any servants; Mère Lupot opposite does his housework.’

“‘And what can one man all alone do with that big house, where there’s room enough for two families?’ says Madame Jarnouillard.

“‘Oh! you understand, mesdames, the young dandy has his reasons for going to such an altogether useless expense. He’s settled here because he’s on intimate terms with the two newcomers in the Courtivaux house.’

“When they talk about you, they always say: ‘the ladies in the Courtivaux house,’ as a matter of habit, because, you see, Monsieur Courtivaux lived here a long time.”

“Very well, Père Ledrux; go on.”

“‘Yes,’ says Mame Droguet, ‘he goes there night and morning; he’s always prowling round there. Which of ‘em is he in love with? no one knows; perhaps it’s both.’”

“Oh! my dear love!”

“Hush! let him go on.”

“‘And then,’ says Mame Droguet, ‘he’s got a friend who looks like a regular good-for-nothing; it’s the same fellow who had the face to knock at my door very late one night, to ask if we had seen his friend Edmond Didier; and with such a sly, impertinent air! humming his tra la la!’

“‘Oh! what do such people amount to anyway!’ says La Remplumé; ‘this gives me a very poor opinion of the women in the Courtivaux house.’

“‘But that ain’t all,’ says La Droguet; ‘guess who we saw walking home with ‘em the other night—at quite a late hour?’

“‘The two young men from Paris?’

“‘No. Oh! they’ve made other acquaintances here. They came home arm-in-arm with Monsieur Paul and his dog!’

“‘Is it possible?’

“‘Did they have the dog’s arm too?’

“‘I didn’t say they had the dog’s arm! I said the dog was in the party. And it was very lately, the night of the storm—don’t you remember?’

“‘Perfectly! I’m afraid of the thunder, and I stuffed my head in a butter crock so as not to see the flashes! I put it in so far that I couldn’t get it out again, and I says to my husband: “Break the crock, Jarnouillard, I can’t move my head;” and he replied, as calmly as you please: “That would be a pity; it’s almost new!” So I was obliged to break it myself by banging my head against a wall.’

“‘Never mind about your crock!’ says Mame Droguet impatiently; ‘we’re talking about these newcomers. How does it happen that after living in this part of the country such a short time, they’re already on intimate terms with the owner of the Tower—that disgusting man, that ogre, who won’t speak to anybody? It seems to me more than extraordinary.’

“‘It is very mysterious, that’s so.’

“‘I should say that it was suspicious even.’

“‘Well! birds of a feather flock together, as the proverb says. The bear of the Tower must have found these ladies to his taste!’

“‘As for me,’ says Mame Droguet, ‘I have a very bad opinion of the persons in the Courtivaux house.’

“‘It isn’t Monsieur Courtivaux’s, since he has sold it.’

“‘That don’t make any difference. Besides, we don’t know whether these fine ladies have paid for the house; there’s so many people who buy and then don’t pay.’

“At that, you see, I couldn’t help putting in my word.

“‘So far as that goes,’ says I, ‘I’m very sure that Madame Dalmont has paid for the house. I had a letter from the notary telling me to give ’em the keys and everything.’”

“Thanks, Père Ledrux, thanks for defending us on that point; but pray understand that the remarks, the insults of those ladies affect us very little! When one knows that one has no reason for self-reproach, one should hold oneself above the sneers of calumny! But we congratulate ourselves now that we have not called on that woman, that we have not made a friend of her.”

“It’s just that thing that’s vexed her most, I tell you! And she only says all these nasty things about you from spite because you haven’t been to see her. But what I can’t understand is how there’s anybody who’ll allow himself to be taken in by all that tittle-tattle. It’s just because Mame Droguet invites ‘em to dinner. She says to Monsieur Luminot: ‘You must choose between the society at the Courtivaux house and mine, monsieur. My husband and I are determined not to receive people who go to see those ladies.’—She puts her husband forward, the poor dear man! but he doesn’t meddle in such things; so long as he can dance in the evening in front of a mirror, with himself for his vis-à-vis, he’s satisfied! But Monsieur Luminot—you see, he thinks a lot of Mame Droguet’s dinners.”

“And as we do not give dinners, the gentleman is very wise to choose her society. But Madame Droguet has no suspicion that she gratifies us exceedingly by ridding us of Monsieur Luminot’s visits—eh, Agathe?”

“Oh! yes, my dear; and we must hope that Monsieur Jarnouillard will follow Monsieur Luminot’s example.”

“Oh! that won’t stop him! he ain’t pleasant very often, Monsieur Jarnouillard; and then, I don’t like money-lenders, I don’t.—I’ll go and take a look at the hens; I’m sure the black one beats the others; if she does, we ought not to leave her in the coop.”

The gardener went away and Agathe looked at Honorine, with a sigh.

“Oh! my love! how cruel the world is!”

“Yes, even more so in small villages than in the large cities. That is easy to understand: these people here have nothing to do most of the time, and their principal occupation is to attend to their neighbors’ affairs. In a small place everybody is everybody else’s neighbor.”

“The idea of saying that we receive men!”

“Oh! I suspected that Monsieur Edmond’s appearance in this village, a short time after we settled here, and his frequent visits to us, would give occasion for gossip.”

“And I am the cause of it, my love! You are going to be angry with me.”

“No, indeed! That young man is honorable, his company is agreeable; and we will not deprive ourselves of the only society we have here, just because Madame Droguet is displeased.”

“Oh! how right you are! how good you are!”

“As for this gentleman—from the Tower, he is not an acquaintance. We have met him twice, and both times his assistance was quite necessary to us; he escorted us as far as our gate, but he has never entered the house, and probably never will.”

“Ah! my dear friend, suppose Madame Droguet had heard that strange man’s words in the ravine, beside the cross! what fine tales she would have to tell!”

“Hush, Agathe, hush, for heaven’s sake! I shudder in spite of myself when I think of that. I feel that it would distress me to be compelled to have a bad opinion of that man.”

“Especially as he has very refined manners, and a very comme il faut air, has this Monsieur Paul. I am sure that he would be very fine-looking, if he hadn’t so much hair on his face.”

“Oh! I didn’t notice that; I hardly looked at him. He has black eyes, hasn’t he?”

“Not exactly—brown; but very soft.”

“Do you think so? And a scornful mouth?”

“Oh, no! his smile is very agreeable.”

“What! did he smile while he was talking to us?”

“When I slipped and almost fell, I clung to him, and that made him smile.”

“It’s strange; I remember nothing of all that.”

“Oh! the storm was so violent!—Well, I am sure, for my part, that it makes Madame Droguet furious to see we already know that gentleman, who has refused to have anything to do with anyone in the neighborhood! Just for that reason, I am delighted that she saw him bringing us home.”

The conversation of the two friends was interrupted by sobs from Poucette, who tried in vain to check them. They rose at once to inquire the cause of their servant’s grief.

VII
A SALE BY AUTHORITY OF LAW

Little Claudine, Poucette’s cousin, had just arrived; her eyes were red, and she too was crying; evidently it was something that she had told Poucette which caused the young peasant to sob so bitterly.

“What is the matter, my child; what makes you so unhappy?” Madame Dalmont asked her servant.

But she, according to the custom of country people, continued to sob and made no reply.

“And you, my girl,” said Agathe to Claudine, “you are crying too; is it something you have told your cousin that is making her cry?”

“Yes—yes—mamzelle.”

“What misfortune has come upon you? Come, speak.”

“Ye—Ye—yes, madame!”

“Come, Poucette, tell us about it; this child will never be able to, you see.”

The young peasant succeeded at last in forcing back her sobs.

“Madame, Claudine has just told me that they’re very unhappy at home. My poor uncle—poor aunt! what is going to become of them! They’re going to sell everything in their home to-day, furniture and everything! Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! and turn them out of their cottage, which won’t belong to them any more! What is going to become of them! Here, Claudine, I’ve got three francs left out of my wages, and I’ll give ‘em to you. Oh! if I had more!”

“You can’t have any more, when you give us all you earn!”

“Poor people! why this is frightful!” cried Honorine. “Who on earth is so hard-hearted as to despoil those unfortunate creatures, who have hardly enough to provide their children with food and shelter?”

“Who? Alas! madame, it’s Monsieur Jarnouillard; he has lent small sums to Uncle Guillot at different times. Well! it was a hard winter, and he had four children to take care of, and me too with the rest. It seems that Monsieur Jarnouillard made my uncle sign some bits of paper, so, if he wasn’t paid just on the minute, he could take everything my poor uncle owned!”

“And as papa couldn’t pay him, although he had given him some money on account,” added Claudine, “a man all dressed in black came to-day and told mamma that all she could do was to leave the house with the children, but she didn’t have any right to take anything away.”

“Oh! what a wretch that Monsieur Jarnouillard is!” cried Agathe, “he does well not to show his face here, for we would put him out of doors, we wouldn’t have him in the house. And these are the people that say unkind things about us, who would be so distressed to cause pain to anyone! Madame Droguet’s society contains some most estimable people!”

While Agathe made these reflections, Honorine had gone up hastily to her room; she returned with her bonnet on her head, and said to Agathe:

“Come with me.”

“Where are we going, my dear?”

“Mon Dieu! to Guillot’s cottage, to see if there is any way of assisting those poor people, and at the very least to save some of their furniture. I have a hundred francs I can give them; it’s very little, but still it will help them.”

“Oh! my good Honorine, if it were possible, I would love you even more.”

The two friends left the house, followed by Poucette and Claudine, who had ceased to weep because they hoped and divined that the ladies proposed to assist their dear ones.

In due time they reached the farmer’s cottage, where a number of people had already collected. For the announcement of a sale on execution always brings together a multitude of bargain-hunters and idlers.

A melancholy spectacle was presented to that assemblage, which would have touched their hearts, had there been any persons susceptible to emotion among those who were disputing over the purchase of an old chair.

Guillot’s wife sat at the foot of a tree, about forty yards from the house, holding her last-born child at her breast, while the two others stood at her side, hiding their faces against their mother’s skirts as if terrified by the sight of all those people. The peasant gazed with tear-dimmed eyes at her hovel and at all the poor furniture that was brought from it, to be offered for sale; then she turned her eyes on her children, and her glance said plainly:

“We have no roof to shelter us; where will they sleep to-night?”

A short distance away, the farmer himself, in despair but striving to retain his courage, watched the officers of the law who had taken their places at a table, and were preparing to begin the sale.

Monsieur Jarnouillard walked about, examining the different articles as they were brought from the house, and muttering with a shrug:

“Mon Dieu! what wretched stuff! I shall never get my money back. The wood is rotten; it will crumble to powder!”

Meanwhile Guillot approached his creditor, hat in hand, and said to him in a suppliant tone:

“Oh! monsieur, are you going to sell my house, too?”

“His house! that’s a pretty name for it! He calls this a house—a miserable hovel that will hardly hold together!”

“Such as it is, monsieur, it has sheltered me and my family; it came to me from my father, too, and I was fond of it.”

“What difference does all that make to me? It would have been better for me if it had come from the devil and had been built of hewn stone. Nobody’ll give anything for your hut.”

“If you don’t think anybody’ll give anything for it, monsieur, why do you have it sold?”

“Why? and what about the money you owe me? do you imagine I shall get it back from the sale of your furniture? Nice stuff, that is! You have taken me in, my good man; I am sold, trapped is the word.”

On hearing this accusation from the mouth of the man who was robbing him, the farmer proudly raised his head and replied in a firm voice:

“I have never deceived anybody, monsieur! I am an honest man, and everybody in the neighborhood knows it; and if either of us has cheated the other I am not the one, do you understand?”

The usurer lowered his crest and his tone, as such men always do when they are afraid of being unmasked.

“Bless my soul! Guillot,” he rejoined; “don’t lose your temper; I may have said one word when I meant another; my tongue must have taken a twist. I never intended to attack your honesty; but of course you understand that I must get back what I have advanced.”

“I only owe you four hundred and eighty francs, monsieur.”

“Of principal, yes; but the interest, which never stops running—and interest on interest—all that counts up; so that you owe me to-day eight hundred and seventy-five francs, besides the costs of the execution and sale; it will amount to a thousand francs.”

“My God!”

“That’s why I am obliged to sell your cottage, as well as your furniture.”

“But suppose it should bring more, monsieur?”

“Oh! if it should bring more than your debt and the costs, the surplus would go to you—that’s your right; but unluckily, instead of going above a thousand francs, I’m afraid it will fall far short of it.”

“But, monsieur, if you’re going to sell a house you must have buyers; and to bring them together it is necessary for them to know beforehand that it’s to be sold.”

“Don’t be afraid, all the formalities have been attended to; the notices were posted.”

“I didn’t see them.”

“That isn’t my fault.”

“Among all these people that I see here, there isn’t one who will buy my house.”

“Pshaw! there’s sure to be someone; at a pinch, I’ll buy it myself.”

“You, monsieur!”

“Bless me! if no other purchaser comes forward, I shall have to take it; it will embarrass me a good deal, but I shall be driven to it!”

As he said this, Monsieur Jarnouillard rubbed his hands, thinking:

“There won’t be any other purchaser and I shall get the house for almost nothing. Then I can let it to Guillot, and it will add just so much to my income.”

The farmer moved away from his creditor, with death in his heart and despair on his face. But, before joining his family, he tried to dissemble his suffering to some extent in order not to increase his wife’s grief. Luckily for the poor people, little Claudine came running toward them, followed by her cousin Poucette. And the child, pointing to Honorine and Agathe, who had stopped a short distance away, said:

“Don’t cry any more, mamma; there’s Poucette’s two mistresses; they’ve come with us and they’re very kind; they’re sorry for us.”

“Yes,” chimed in Poucette. “Don’t cry, aunt. My mistress told me to tell you that everything she bought would be for you; and she’ll buy all she can!”

The farmer’s wife felt as if she were coming to life again; she started to rise, to go with her husband to thank the lady who was so kindly disposed to them; but Poucette detained her.

“Madame don’t want you to say anything to her now,” she said; “for if anyone should guess she was doing it for you, the dealers are so mean, they’re quite capable of bidding against her and making her pay more for everything; you mustn’t look as if you knew anything about it; you can thank her afterward.”

Meanwhile the notables of the neighborhood, those who are commonly called the bourgeois in the country, began to arrive for the sale. The slightest novelty is an event which one is careful not to miss when one lives in a small village.

Moreover, Monsieur Jarnouillard, being interested in the success of the sale, had not failed to say to all his acquaintances:

“It’s always well to go to a sale; you often find something you need and that you had forgotten about; there are sure to be good opportunities; and you should seize opportunities; they don’t come twice.”

The Droguet family soon appeared on the scene, in the person of its tall, bulky mistress, who leaned familiarly on the arm of friend Luminot, the jovial dealer in wines. Little Monsieur Droguet walked behind his wife, taking measured steps, almost in rhythm.

Madame Jarnouillard came next, arm-in-arm with Madame Remplumé, a tall, machine-like person, as long and thin as a bean-pole, who, you would have sworn, was a man dressed as a woman. Behind them came a little man with a limp, Monsieur Remplumé, who never spoke, but who coughed, spat, took snuff, sneezed and blew his nose incessantly, which made him a very unpleasant neighbor; so that there was soon a vacant space about him. Lastly, Doctor Antoine Beaubichon appeared, some little distance behind this party.

When Agathe saw them in the distance, she squeezed her friend’s arm, saying:

“Look, my dear; here come all the people who speak ill of us. Really they are all so hideous that I am no longer surprised that they are spiteful!”

“Don’t seem to be looking toward them.”

“Why not, pray? Do you suppose I am going to give myself a crick in the neck because of Madame Droguet? I am very sorry that Monsieur Edmond is in Paris to-day; for he would have come with us, and that would have made all those people all the more frantic.—Ah! my dear, the doctor bows to us! Good for him! he is still polite, at all events.”

Honorine turned and bowed pleasantly to the doctor, thereby placing the former wine merchant in a painfully embarrassing position; for he too was facing the young woman and would have been glad to salute her; but Madame Droguet held his arm and glared at him fixedly and with such a determined expression that, in order to extricate himself adroitly from his predicament, Monsieur Luminot simulated five or six sneezes in quick succession; and everyone knows that in sneezing one usually makes a movement of the head which resembles a bow.

“Well! what does this mean?” demanded Madame Droguet, with an angry glance at her cavalier. “Why do you sneeze like that?”

“Why—I sneeze—Mon Dieu! because I had to sneeze. It takes you suddenly, you know; I suppose I have a cold in my head.”

“This is the first I have heard of it.”

“Or I; but you never know you have one until it appears.”

“Really, one would have thought that you were bowing to those women.”

“Well, upon my word! I never thought of such a thing.”

“Why did you sneeze toward them?”

“Faith! I sneezed when it caught me. I didn’t do it purposely.”

“All right!”

“The doctor bowed to those ladies.”

“I saw him; he’ll pay me for that; he was to apply leeches to Droguet to-morrow, but he shan’t do it.”

“Oh! but, consider—if your husband needs the leeches!”

“I tell you that not a leech shall be put on him. I propose to show the doctor how much I care for his prescriptions.”

“But if your husband complains of pains in his head——”

“Let me alone; I am beginning to believe that Doctor Beaubichon is just fit to take care of hens. Droguet is dancing on my dress at this moment; does he look sick?”

“There are the people from the Courtivaux house,” said Madame Remplumé, approaching Madame Droguet.

“Oh! we have seen them! they are noticeable enough. What rigs!”

“Their dresses are in wretched taste!”

“The materials are the very cheapest!”

“They look so to me.”

“Regular lorettes, aren’t they, Monsieur Luminot?”

“Dear me! mesdames, allow me first to ask you what you mean by lorettes?”

“Oh! the little innocent! who doesn’t know the ladies who live in the Bréda quarter in Paris!”

“I assure you that I don’t know that quarter! When I lived in Paris, I never went out of Bercy.”

“Hush, you wicked monster!”

Madame Jarnouillard interrupted this dialogue.

“Come, mesdames, and look over the furniture and other things to be sold,” she said; “sometimes one finds just the utensils one needs. Look at what is on exhibition.”

“Mon Dieu! madame, what do you expect us to buy in all that wretched trash?” cried Madame Droguet, with a disdainful glance at the farmer’s furniture. “I see nothing but rubbish—dirty stuff! and I have no doubt it’s all full of bugs!”

“That is what I was thinking!” muttered Madame Remplumé, while her husband spat at random.

“But there’s a pair of candlesticks that might do to use in the kitchen, eh, Droguet?—Bah! he doesn’t hear me; he’s whistling a polka.”

“Your husband is a zephyr!”

“He’s a wind, but not a zephyr!”

“Ah! that’s very good; I’ll remember that.—Did you hear that, Remplumé?”

“Ahtchi! crraho! furssscht!”

“That isn’t a wind!” muttered Luminot; “it’s a continuous fusillade.”

“There are some very decent kettles.”

“Oh! oh! I wouldn’t want to boil artichokes in them!”

“And that bellows?”

“It’s a huge thing—like the bellows of a forge; but it’s the only thing here that one could use.”

“Jarnouillard is signalling that the sale is about to begin. Let us go nearer, mesdames.”

“Ah! look; the occupants of the Courtivaux house are approaching also.”

“Probably they mean to buy something.”

“Yes, yes; they intend to furnish their house with the peasant’s furniture; it will be good enough for them!”

The sale began.

The first object offered for sale was a table, still in good condition.

“Three francs for the table!” cried the auctioneer; “three fifty—fifty-five—sixty!”

The peasants bid five or ten centimes at a time. Honorine offered five francs. The bystanders stared at her in amazement, the peasants were stupefied, the second-hand dealers made wry faces.

The table was knocked down to Madame Dalmont.

“What did I tell you!” muttered Madame Droguet. “These lovely Parisians come here for their furniture!”

After the table came a walnut buffet, very old and in bad condition; the upset price was twelve francs, and there was no purchaser. Honorine took it at that figure. Then there came a lot of dishes, glass and earthenware, which also were knocked down to her.

The Droguet party laughed sneeringly, and the ladies said to one another:

“What! do they want broken bowls and chipped plates, too! The commonest sort of china, and old sauce-pans!”

“Really those ladies will have a pretty lot of housekeeping utensils!”

“For my part, I think it’s disgraceful—disgraceful is the word—to buy such miserable stuff!”

“Oh! how glad I am that I came to see this! it will furnish us with amusement for a long time to come.”

“Do you know, I propose to cheat her out of that big bellows.”

“You must force the bidding.”

“Oh! I am bound to have it! you shall see.”

While Madame Droguet’s party amused themselves by making sport of the two young women, they exchanged pleasant smiles with the farmer’s family; the poor creatures felt a thrill of joy at each article that was adjudged to Honorine, for Poucette, who was standing near them, said:

“That’s for you; that will come back to you; madame is buying all these things to give them to you.”

“How much for this great bellows?” suddenly cried Madame Droguet, with an authoritative air; “it’s the only thing here worthy to go into my house—into my kitchen.”

While Jarnouillard, who saw that the bellows was in demand, consulted with the auctioneer as to the price they should set on it, Poucette ran to her mistress and whispered:

“Don’t buy the bellows, madame; it ain’t good for anything; the clack’s gone, and uncle always meant to burn it up.”

“Very well,” replied Honorine; “but, as Madame Droguet wants it, we must try to make her pay a good price for it.”

“Three francs for the bellows!” cried the auctioneer; and Madame Droguet said at once:

“Three francs ten sous!”

“Four francs!” said Honorine.

“Four francs ten sous!” rejoined the stout dame, who did not choose to bid by centimes.

“Five francs!” said Honorine.

“Well! six francs, sacrebleu!” cried Madame Droguet, her voice trembling with anger.

Honorine made no further bid; but she turned away to laugh with Agathe; for the wretched bellows was not worth fifty centimes.

“I knew well enough that I should get what I wanted, and that I would force that hussy to give way to me!” cried Madame Droguet, as she returned to her friends armed with the bellows, which she handed to her husband, saying:

“Put that under your arm, monsieur, and don’t hold it pointed at my back, or you’ll blow on me.”

Several other pieces of furniture and some mattresses were purchased by Honorine. But the bedding brought better prices, and the young widow was nearing the end of her hundred francs, when a new arrival appeared on the scene, walking among the dishes, leaping over the furniture, heedless of the objurgations of Monsieur Jarnouillard, who exclaimed again and again: “What in the devil is that dog doing here? For heaven’s sake, drive the beast away; he’s disarranging the whole sale; he’ll break something and the stuff is poor enough already!”

Ami, for it was he who had arrived, carried his lack of respect so far as to jump over the heads of Monsieur Jarnouillard and the auctioneer, who were seated at the table which served them for a desk.

The latter started back in alarm when the huge dog executed that gymnastic feat; the former hurriedly put his hand to his head to ensure the safety of his wig which came near being carried away by one of the dog’s paws.

Ami had performed this spring-board leap in order to join Agathe and to lavish tokens of affection upon her. The girl patted him on the neck; she spoke softly and caressingly to him. Meanwhile Honorine looked all about, for Ami’s presence ordinarily announced his master’s coming.

But was it to be presumed that that strange man, who shunned all companionship, would come to a place where a large part of the village had assembled?

Meanwhile Monsieur Jarnouillard, who had had barely time to catch his wig, but had not been able to prevent its turning half round on his head, was obliged to readjust it before the whole assemblage. That made him very angry, and he shouted like a deaf man:

“Whose cursed dog is this that nearly put my eyes out, to say nothing of jumping over the auctioneer’s head and knocking over two candlesticks and a jug? I want to know to whom he belongs; I shall have a word to say to his master!”

“And what will you say to his master, monsieur? Speak—he is before you.”

The owner of the Tower had made his way through the crowd almost as unceremoniously as his dog, and he stood in the midst of the sale before anyone had even observed his approach.

Monsieur Jarnouillard was thunderstruck at the abrupt appearance of that singular personage, whose aspect was stern and imposing.

Paul was dressed as simply as usual, but he carried neither gun nor stick; his long-vizored cap was pulled down over his eyes, so that the upper part of his face was in shadow.

“Ah! monsieur is the owner of this great dog, is he?” faltered the usurer, resuming his sycophantic air. “Oh, yes—true—I think I recognize monsieur and his dog.”

“Tell me if Ami has broken anything here?”

“No, monsieur, no; he just frightened us, and he disarranged my wig—that’s all.”

Meanwhile Madame Jarnouillard was making innumerable signs to her husband, and calling to him:

“To the right—that’s all wrong! turn it to the right! it’s on crooked!”

But the implacable creditor, engrossed by the sale, paid no heed to his wife’s signs. He was about to put up an old walnut commode, the peasant’s most valuable piece of furniture, when Paul caught him by the arm, saying:

“One moment, monsieur! You are selling out this poor family’s house and furniture, I believe? The grief of the poor mother sitting over yonder, with her four children about her, does not touch you!”

“Monsieur, business is—business! they are in debt to me, I need my money——”

“Enough, monsieur! How much does your claim amount to?”

“Nearly nine hundred francs; it will amount to a thousand with the costs.”

“Very good; offer the house for sale at once.”

“The house? I beg pardon, but we haven’t finished with the furniture yet, and I would like——”

“I tell you that I propose to buy the house; if it brings enough to pay your debt, then you won’t need to sell the furniture.”

“Of course not; but I doubt very much whether this hovel——”

“Do you understand me, monsieur? I tell you that I mean to buy this house; let us make an end of the business, I beg.”

These words were uttered in a tone which made Jarnouillard as flexible as a glove. He leaned toward the auctioneer and said in a low tone:

“This man is very anxious to have the house; we must make him pay for it! Suppose we should fix the upset price at—at five hundred francs?”

“It’s twice as much as it’s worth.”

“No matter, let’s try it!”

“Jarnouillard! Jarnouillard! turn it to the right! You’ve got it on crooked!”

“For God’s sake, Madame Jarnouillard, let me alone! you tire me! no matter about my wig now!”

The usurer’s wife had thrown away her efforts. She decided to return to her friends, who had been so taken aback by the arrival of the owner of the Tower that Madame Droguet had fallen against Monsieur Luminot, who fell against Madame Remplumé, who fell against her husband, who fell against Monsieur Droguet, who, having no one to fall against, contented himself with dropping on the ground the big bellows that he had been told to hold under his arm.

“What does this mean? that bear here!”

“And with his dog!”

“He never goes out without him!”

“I beg your pardon! I’ve seen him without his dog!”

“What has he come to this sale for? a man who avoids society as he does!”

“It isn’t natural!”

“You might say that it’s most extraordinary!”

“What! you don’t understand why he has come here? It’s evident enough however!” said Madame Droguet, smiling maliciously; “aren’t the sirens from the Courtivaux house here?”

“Oh! to be sure! they are here, so he comes here! What penetration Madame Droguet has!”

“Why, yes, rather, I venture to flatter myself.”

While the notables indulged in these commentaries upon the presence of the owner of the Tower, the peasants, for their part, gazed with interest at the man of whom they had heard so many things. They were, for the most part, surprised to find that he was a man like other men, who had the appearance neither of a wild beast nor of an ogre.

The farmer’s family did not know whether the appearance of Paul and his dog was a subject of fear or hope to them; but the way in which the huge animal fawned upon Agathe and her friend gave them some little hope. And Ami, as if he realized that it was his duty to encourage them, ran to the spot where Guillot and his family were assembled, and gambolled about the mother and children, wagging his tail in such a meaning way that the poor creatures soon ceased to be afraid of him.

Monsieur Jarnouillard, having finished his conference with the auctioneer, shouted:

“We offer for sale this house, with the little enclosure of about fifteen rods that goes with it—the whole for five hundred francs.—Who will give five hundred francs?”

A murmur ran through his audience:

“Five hundred francs for that hovel! why, that’s ridiculous! no one will buy it.”

“If there was any land with it! but fifteen rods! what does that amount to?”

“Evidently Monsieur Jarnouillard means to keep it himself! but he might have got it for less!”

While the bystanders made these reflections aloud, the auctioneer repeated:

“Five hundred! Come, messieurs, who bids more?”

“Who bids less, you mean!” cried Monsieur Luminot, laughing heartily. “Ha! ha! that’s a great joke, that upset price! I’ll give three hundred francs for the house—on condition that it’s torn down at once!”

“And I,” said Paul, in a loud voice, “I will give two thousand francs—on condition that when the creditor and the costs are paid, whatever remains shall be immediately turned over to this poor family.”

A fairy’s wand could not have produced a more magical effect than was produced by the words of the owner of the Tower.

“Two thousand francs!”

“Two thousand francs!”

The words were echoed on all sides.

Agathe and Honorine alone did not seem surprised by the action of Ami’s master; but, on the other hand, it was plain that they were made very happy by it, and that they shared to the full the joy which the farmer and his family manifested.

Paul walked to the desk and threw upon it two thousand-franc notes, to which Monsieur Jarnouillard made a reverence that nearly caused him to lose his wig altogether.

“To whom have we the honor of selling this house?” inquired the auctioneer; “will you kindly give us your name?”

“It is unnecessary, monsieur, for the house has not changed owners. I bought it simply to restore it to this poor farmer and his unfortunate family, whom this gentleman proposed to drive into the fields to sleep.”

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Guillot’s whole family threw themselves at their benefactor’s feet, and, unable to find words to express their gratitude, confined themselves to looking up into his face and kissing his hand and the hem of his jacket.

The tableau was touching enough to move every feeling heart. Honorine and Agathe did not try to conceal their tears.

But Madame Droguet’s party, sorely vexed at the turn affairs had taken, still tried to sneer at what was taking place.

“Bless my soul! this is superb!” said one.

“It is truly magnificent!”

“This scene was all arranged beforehand, doubtless, with the two ladies—that man’s friends. They wanted to produce a great effect.”

But these ebullitions of spite found no echo. Even Doctor Antoine exclaimed:

“I don’t know whether the gentleman from the Tower intended to produce an effect, but I regard as very noble what he has just done; it reconciles me to him and his dog.”

To add to Madame Droguet’s ill humor, her husband persisted in holding the big bellows under her nose, saying: