COLAS BREUGNON

BY
ROMAIN ROLLAND
Author of “Jean-Christophe”

TRANSLATED BY
KATHERINE MILLER

“There is life in the old dog yet”

NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

Copyright, 1919
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
The Quinn & Boden Company
BOOK MANUFACTURERS
RAMWAY NEW JERSEY

To
SAINT MARTIN OF GAUL
PATRON SAINT OF CLAMECY

“St. Martin gaily drinks his fill

and lets the stream flow to the mill.”

xvith cent. Proverb

TO THE READER

The readers of “Jean-Christophe” certainly never expected this new volume, but they cannot be more surprised than I am myself. I had sketched out other works,—a play and a novel on subjects of the day, in somewhat the same tragic key as “Jean-Christophe,” but I had to break off abruptly, throwing aside all my notes and well-planned scenes, for this trifling work which only came into my head the day before. This book is a reaction from the constraint of “Jean-Christophe,” which, like an outgrown cuirass, fitted well enough at first, but had become too tight for me; I felt an absolute need of something gay, in the true Gallic spirit—even perhaps verging on impropriety.

On returning to my native place for the first time since my youth, the renewed contact with the soil of Burgundy woke a past within me which I had believed silent forever; and roused all the Colas Breugnons under my skin, so that I was forced to speak for them—as if their tongues had not wagged enough in their lifetime!

They took advantage of the circumstance that one of their descendants chanced to have the pen of a ready writer (something that they had always coveted) and turned me into their secretary. To my protestations, “Now, Grandad, you had your day, it is my turn to speak now,” they only answered: “Young one, you can talk when we have finished. In the first place you have nothing more interesting to say, so sit down, and listen with all your ears: you might do that much for the old man; when you stand where I am now you will know that silence is the worst of death.”

How could I help writing what was dictated to me? Now it is all over and I am free again—at least I suppose so—and can take up the thread of my own thoughts, if some one of these old chatter-boxes does not take it into his head to start up from the tomb and impart to me his message to posterity.

I am afraid that the society of my Colas Breugnon will not amuse my readers as much as the author; but they must take the book for what it is; something perfectly frank and straightforward which has no idea of transforming or explaining the world either politically, or metaphysically. He is just a true Frenchman, who laughs because he is well and hearty and life is sweet to him.

One cannot escape the Maid of Orleans at the beginning of a French story, so, as she used to say, “Take kindly to it”!

Romain Rolland.

May, 1914.

PREFACE AFTER THE WAR

When the War broke out this book was already printed and ready to appear, so I have left it untouched. The grandchildren of Colas Breugnon have just emerged as heroes and victims of a bloody epic, only to show an unquenchable flame to the world. Let me hope that the people of Europe, full of courage in spite of their sufferings, may find some solace in these reflections of “a little lamb caught between the wolf and the shepherd.”

R. R.

November, 1918.

CONTENTS

COLAS BREUGNON

COLAS BREUGNON

I
THE LARK OF CANDLEMAS-DAY

Thanks be to St. Martin, business is bad, so there is no use in breaking one’s back; and Lord knows I have worked hard enough in my time to take a little rest and comfort here at my table, with a bottle of wine on my right hand, the ink-well on the left, and a new quire of paper before me.

“Your good health, old boy!” I say to myself, “I am to have a talk with you now.” Downstairs I can hear my wife raging while the wind roars outside and I am told there are threatenings of war. Well, let them be!—How jolly it is to be alone face to face with the best fellow in the world (I am talking of course of my other self, of you, Colas, with your old red phiz, and queer grin, with your long Burgundian nose all askew like a hat on one ear). Tell me if you can why it is so good to see you like this, just our two selves; to look closely at your elderly countenance, touching lightly, as it were, on the wrinkles, and to drink a bumper of old remembrance from the bottom of my heart which is like a deep well, worse luck! It is pleasant enough to dream, but still better to pin one’s dreams down to paper! However, I am no visionary, but wide-awake, full of fun and clear-sighted, with no idle fancies in my head. I only tell what I have seen, done, and said; and for whom do I write? Certainly not for fame; for I am no fool, and know what I amount to, the Lord be praised!

I write for my grandchildren? Little will be left of all my scribblings in ten years, as the old woman is jealous of them, and burns whatever she can lay hands on. For whom, then? Why, for my other self, of course, for our good pleasure.—I am sure I should burst if I did not write! Truly I am not for nothing the child of my grandfather, who could not sleep unless he had put down on the edge of his pillow the number of flagons he had emptied. I feel I must talk, and here in Clamecy I have had my fill of word contests. I must break loose, like the fellow who shaved King Midas. I know my tongue runs away with me; and it would be at the risk of my neck if I were heard; but what’s the odds! without its dangers life would be flat enough. I am like our big white oxen, and love to chew the cud of the day’s food. How good it is to taste, feel, and handle all one has thought, observed, or picked up; to smack one’s lips, to relish, as one tells it over to one’s self, something one snapped up hastily—it seems to melt in one’s mouth, and slip down softly; and how good it is to glance around one’s little world and say, “All this is mine, here I am lord and master, no frost or cold can nip me; here reigns no king, no pope! Not even my old shrew!” But now I must take an account of this world of mine.

The first and best of my possessions is myself. Colas Breugnon, a good Burgundian, plain and straightforward, with a well-rounded waistcoat. I am not exactly in my first youth—fifty last birthday,—but well set-up, my teeth still good, and my sight as clear as a fish’s. My beard still sprouts vigorously, but is undoubtedly grayish, and I can’t help regretting the fair hair of my youth, and would not say no, if you offered to set my clock back twenty or thirty years. But after all ten lusters are a fine thing. The youngsters may laugh, but how many of them could have paraded up and down France as I have done, for all these years? Lord! how much sun and rain have hit this old back! I have been roasted, soaked, and warmed over dozens of times and my body, like a cracked leather sack, is full of joy and sorrow, spite and good-humor, wisdom and folly, hay and straw, figs and grapes, fruit ripe and unripe, roses and haws—what I have seen, felt and known, owned and lived, all jumbled together in the game-bag, and what fun to dive into it;—but hold on, Colas! We will go into that tomorrow, we shall never be done if we take it up today, so just now we will draw up the inventory of all property belonging to me.

I own a house, a wife, four boys, and a girl (thank God she is married!), eighteen grandchildren, a gray donkey, a dog, six hens, and a pig.—So, I may be called rich. I want to look closely at these treasures, so I must put on my glasses, for, to tell the truth, the latter items exist only in memory. Wars have swept over them, soldiers of the enemy and friends too, so the pig was long ago salted down, the ass foundered, the cellar emptied, and the fowls plucked. I have the wife still, by Heavens! It is not easy to forget my happiness when I hear that squalling tongue,—she’s a fine old bird, and mine to the last feather. The whole town envies Breugnon, the old scamp. Come on then, gentlemen, speak up, if you would like to have her! She is a saving, active, sober, good woman, with all the virtues, but they do not seem to fatten her, and I must confess, fellow-sinner, that I like one plump little frailty better than all the seven bony virtues. Well, since it is the will of God, let us be good for lack of something better. Hear her rushing about; her bones seem to be everywhere. She goes poking and climbing, sulking, scolding, grumbling, growling from garret to cellar; dirt and tranquillity flee at her approach. Nearly thirty years ago we were married. Devil take me if I know why! I was smitten with another girl who jilted me, and my wife doted on me because I cared nothing for her. At that time she was small, dark and pale, with hard bright eyes which seemed to eat into me as two drops of acid burn steel; but she loved and loved me fit to kill herself! Men are such fools, that by dint of running after me (through pity, vanity too, because I was tired of it all, and because I wanted to get rid of her; a fine way I took to do it!) I became her husband; Johnnie the fool, who kept out of the rain when he jumped in the pool. Ever since, she and all the cardinal virtues dwell in my house, but she would like to get even with me, sweet creature that she is! to make up for the love she threw at me. She wants to stir me up; but it can’t be done, I like my ease too much, and I am not such a fool as to make myself unhappy for a word more or less. Let the rain come down, my voice echoes the thunder and I only laugh when she screams. Why shouldn’t she scream if she likes it? Why should I keep a woman from such a simple pleasure when I do not want to kill her? Women and silence do not dwell together; so let her sing her song, and I will sing mine. As long as she does not try to shut my mouth (and she will not attempt that, if she is wise) she may warble as she likes, each to his own music.

We may not have been exactly in tune, but none the less we played some pretty pieces together; a girl and four boys, all good and well-built regardless of expense, but of the lot the only one in whom I see my own flesh is my girl, Martine, the little witch! What a time I had with her before I got her safely married! She has settled down now, though I don’t count too much on it, but it is no longer my business to look after her and trot about at her heels; my son-in-law can take his turn. She and I always wrangle whenever we meet, but at bottom we understand each other as no one else does; she is a good sort, cautious even when she seems most reckless, good too, if there is fun in it; for boredom is to her worse than wickedness. She does not mind trouble, for that means effort, which is joy, and she loves life and has an eye for what is good. My blood runs in her veins, the only trouble is I gave her too much of it.

The boys are not quite so successful. There was an undue share of the mother in them and the dough did not rise; two out of the four are bigots like her, and what is worse their bigotries are antagonistic, for one is always running after priests’ skirts, while the other is a Huguenot. I cannot think how I came to hatch out such a couple of ducks. My third son is a soldier, and has to fight, when he is not loafing about, God knows where! and the fourth is just a nonentity; a little sheepish, insignificant shopkeeper—it makes me yawn to think of him, but when the whole of us are seated round the table, each with a fork in his fist, then I feel indeed that we are all of one breed, all of one mind; and well worth looking at, our jaws going like clockwork, bread and wine disappearing down the trapdoor.

You have heard of the furniture, now let us talk of the house itself, which is like another daughter to me, for I built it with my own hands bit by bit, and some parts over and over again, on the banks of the Beuvron, which flows along slowly smooth and green, full of grass, mud and slime, just where the suburbs begin on the other side of the bridge which is like a crouching hound with the water licking below. Directly in front the tower of St. Martin rises light and proud, its edges like an embroidered skirt. They tell us the steps leading to Paradise are dark and steep; so are those of Old Rome leading up to the carved doorway. My shell, my niche is outside the walls, and the result of that is that when from the top of St. Martin’s tower they spy an enemy in the plain the town shuts its gates, and the enemy comes to me;—I could get along without that sort of visit, though I like conversation as a general thing. So I leave the key under the door, and get out, but when I come back it sometimes happens that both door and key have disappeared, leaving only the four walls, and then I have to rebuild. My friends say to me, “Stupid! to take all this trouble for the enemy. Come out of your mole-hill into the town where you will be safe.” But I always answer, “I know when I am well off. Perhaps I should be safer behind a thick wall, but what could I see there? the wall, and nothing else.” That would bore me to death, for I need elbow room; and I like to spread myself out along my river bank, and when I am in my little garden, with nothing to do, I love to watch the reflections in the still water, the bubbles the fish make on the surface and the long-tressed weeds stirring at the bottom. I fish there too, or even wash my clothes, and empty my pots in it. Good or bad, here I have always been, it is too late for me to change; and, after all, nothing can happen worse than what has happened before. Even if the house is burned down again (for you never can tell), I do not propose to build for all eternity, but here where I have taken root it is not easy to pull me up. I have rebuilt twice, if necessary I can do it ten times more; not that I look upon it as an amusement, but it would be still less amusing to change, and I should be like a man stripped of his skin; there would be no use in offering me a fine new white one; I know it would not fit; it would wrinkle on me or I should burst it. On the whole I prefer the old one.

Now let us add it all up: Wife, children, house; have I reckoned up all my goods? I have kept the best to the last, my trade. I am a carpenter and woodworker, belonging to the brotherhood of St. Anne, and when we have a procession I am the one who carries the staff with the device of a compass on a lyre, and there you may see God’s grandmother teaching the little Mary to read, a Virgin full of grace no bigger than your thumb. Armed with hatchet, chisel, and auger, with my plane at hand, I rule over knotted oak and smooth walnut from my workbench, and the result rests with me—and with my customer’s pocket. Many shapes lie hidden there! To rouse Beauty sleeping in the wood, her lover must penetrate to the heart of it, but the loveliness which is unveiled under my plane has no unrealities. You know those slim Dianas of the early Italians, straight behind and before?—a good Burgundy piece is better yet, bronzed, strong, covered like a grapevine with fruit; a fine bulging cupboard, a carved wardrobe, such as Master Hugues Tambin wrought fantastically. I dress my houses with panels, and moldings, and winding staircases in long twists and my furniture is like trained fruit trees, full and robust, sprouting from the wall, made for the very spot where I place it. The best of all is when I can fix on my wood something I see smiling in my mind’s eye, a gesture, a movement, a bending back or swelling breast, flowery curves, garlands and grotesques, or when I catch the face of some passerby on the wing and pin it to my plank. The finest thing I ever turned out, the choir stalls in the Church of Montreal, show two men at table drinking and laughing with a jug between them, and two lions snarling over a bone. I did that to please myself and the vicar. To work after a good drink, and drink after good work, is my idea of a fine life!... I see all sorts of useless grumblers around me; they say I have picked out a queer time to shout in, that we are in a sad state now; but no state is sad, there are only dreary people, and I am not one of them, the Lord be praised! Men ill-treat you and rob you?—so it ever shall be. I would wager my neck that centuries from now our great-grandnephews will be equally keen to claw and scratch each other’s eyes. No doubt they will have thought of forty new ways to do the trick better than we, but I bet they cannot find out a new way to drink, and I defy them to do better in that line than I. Who knows what those fellows will be up to in four hundred years? The Curé of Meudon had an herb, the wonderful Pantagruelion; maybe thanks to that our descendants will visit the glimpses of the moon, the forge of the thunder, and the sluices of the rain; perhaps stay a while in Heaven to sport with the gods. Good enough! I’ll go with them. Are they not the fruit of my loins, and seed of my own sowing? The future is yours, my sons—but I like it better where I am, it is safer on the whole, and how can I be sure that wine will be as good in four centuries from now? My wife reproaches me because I am too fond of a spree, but I own that I can’t bear to lose a trick. I take what the gods provide, good food, good drink, pretty plump pleasures, and then those soft tender downy things that a man enjoys in a day dream, that divine do-nothing state where all things are possible, where you are young, handsome, triumphant, with the world at your feet, and you work miracles, hear the grass grow and talk with trees, beasts, and gods. There is one old chum that never goes back on me, my other self, my friend,—my work. How good it is to stand before the bench with a tool in my hand and then saw and cut, plane, shave, curve, put in a peg, file, twist and turn the strong fine stuff, which resists yet yields—soft smooth walnut, as soft to my fingers as fairy flesh; the rosy bodies or brown limbs of our wood-nymphs which the hatchet has stripped of their robe. There is no pleasure like the accurate hand, the clever big fingers which can turn out the most fragile works of art, no pleasure like the thought which rules over the forces of the world, and writes the ordered caprices of its rich imagination on wood, iron, and stone. I am king of a magic realm; my field yields me its flesh, my vine its blood, and to serve my art the elves of the sap push out the fair limbs of the trees, lengthen and fatten them until they are polished fit for my caresses. My hands are docile workmen, directed by their foreman, my old brain here, and he plays the game as I like it, for is he not my servant too? Was ever man better served than I? I’m a true little king, and really must drink my majesty’s health, and that of my faithful subjects, for I am not ungrateful. Blessed be the day when I saw the light! How many glorious things there are on this round ball, things which smile at you, and taste sweet. Life is good, by the Lord! I always hunger for more, no matter how much I stuff myself; but I am afraid that I shall make myself sick; sometimes, I give you my word, my mouth fairly waters before the feast spread for me by the earth and the sun.

But while I am boasting, old boy, the sun has gone, and left my little world all chilled. That beastly old winter has pushed his way into my very room, so that the pen trembles in my stiff fingers; there is actually ice in my glass, and my nose is blue. Detestable color! it makes me think of graveyards. I hate anything pale.—Hullo, wake up! St. Martin is ringing his chimes; it is Candlemas today. “When the days begin to lengthen, the cold begins to strengthen,” does it indeed? then we must do likewise, we will go out and meet it face to face. It is cold, and no mistake; my cheeks sting with the frost needles, and the north wind lies in wait at the corner to catch me by the beard, but I am beginning to warm up, thank the Lord! and my complexion is once more brilliant. I like the ring of the hard ground under my feet, it makes me as merry as a grig, but what ails all these folks that they are so pinched and wretched-looking?

“Well, Mrs. Neighbor, what has put you out? It’s the wind, hey, rumpling up your skirts? I don’t blame him, young rascal! I wish I were young myself; he knows the right spot—greedy scamp! he picks out the toothsome morsels. Have patience, old girl; live and let live. And where are you running, as if the devil were after you? To church? God will always get the better of Satan. Those who weep will rejoice, and frost will burn. Now you are laughing yourself? good, good; I am on the run for church too, yes I am off to Mass like you, only it will not be said by the Curé,—Mass in the fields is what I mean.”

I stop at my daughter’s first to get my little Glodie, for we walk together every day. Best little friend that she is to me! my lambling, my little chirping frog, just five years old; as wide-awake as a mouse and keen as mustard. She comes running to meet me, for she knows I always have a lot of new stories for her, it is hard to say which she loves most;—so we go on hand in hand.

“Come along, darling, to meet the lark.”

“What lark?”

“It is Candlemas. Did you never hear that today the lark comes back to us out of the skies?”

“What did he do up there?”

“He went to look for fire.”

“What fire?”

“Fire to make sunshine, fire to boil the kettle.”

“Did the fire fly away then?”

“Why yes, on All Saints’ Day. In November every year it leaves us to go and warm up the stars.”

“And how do we get him back again?”

“We send three little birds to fetch him.”

“Oh, do tell me!”

There she is trotting along the road, all warmly snuggled in a jacket of soft white wool, looking like a little robin in her red hood. She doesn’t mind the cold, not she! but her fat cheeks are like rosy apples, and her little nose runs.

“Ah, this little candle needs the snuffers, is that because of Candlemas? and the lights in Heaven?”

“Oh, Grandfather, do tell about the three little birds.”

“Three little birds set off on a journey, three bold companions; the Wren, the Red-Breast, and their friend the Lark; Wren, brisk as quicksilver and proud as Artaban, soon spied a bright spark floating in the air. He snapped at it, crying, ‘I have it! I, I, I!’ The others joined in the same cry, but as Wren flew down he screamed, ‘Fire! I am burning!’ He rolled the hot morsel from one corner of his beak to the other, and at last his tongue was peeling, and he could bear no more, so he spit it out and hid it under his little wings. Did you ever notice the red spots, and his frizzled feathers?—Red-Breast rushed to help him. He seized the spark of fire and put it carefully on his soft waistcoat, but the fine waistcoat got red and redder and poor Red-Breast screamed, ‘Enough—my clothes are burning.’ Then came the Lark, the brave little friend, catching the spark which was flying off to Heaven, and quick, prompt, and swift as an arrow she fell to the earth; then with her little beak she buried the bright spark of sunshine in the frozen ground, and, oh, how glad it was to feel it!” My story came to an end, and it was Glodie’s turn to tell one; then when we got outside the town, I took her on my back as we climbed the hill. The sky is gray and the snow creaks under our wooden shoes; the delicate little skeletons of the trees and bushes are all wadded with white, and the smoke mounts up straight from the cottage chimneys slow and blue. There is no sound but the chirp of my little frog,—but here we are at the top. Below at our feet lies my town, wrapped about by the lazy Yonne and the trifling Beuvron, like silver ribbons, covered with snow, frozen, chilled and shivering, yet somehow it warms my heart only to look at the place.

City of bright reflections and rolling hills, the soft lines of tilled slopes surround you like the twisted straw of a nest. The undulations of five or six ranges of wooded mountains in the distance are faintly blue like the sea, but it is not the perfidious element which overthrew Ulysses and his fleet. Here are no storms, no ambuscades; all is calm, save that here and there a breath seems to swell the breast of a hill. From the crest of one wave to the other, the roads run deliberately straight, leaving, as it were, a wake behind them, and beyond the edge of the waters, far away the spires of St. Marie Madeleine of Vézelay rise like masts. Close by, in a bend of the Yonne, you can see the rocks of Basseville sticking up through the underbrush like boars’ tusks, and in the center of the circle of hills the town, carelessly adorned, leans over the water with her gardens, her buildings, her rags, and her jewels. Here is filth; but here also is the harmony of her long limbs, and her head crowned with the pierced tower. You see the snail admires his shell. The chimes of the church float up from the valley and their pure voices spread like a crystal flood through the thin clear air. As I stand happily drinking in the music, suddenly a ray of sunshine breaks through the gray mantle which hides the sky, and Glodie claps her hands, crying:

“Grandad, I hear him—the lark, the lark!” Her dear little fresh voice made me laugh as I kissed her and said:

“I hear him too, my sweet little spring Lark!”

II
THE SIEGE
OR
THE LAMB, THE SHEPHERD, AND THE WOLF

“Three lambs of Chamoux can put to flight

Any wolf who comes in the night.”

My cellar will soon be empty, for the soldiers whom our lord the Duke of Nevers sent to defend us have tapped my last cask, so there is no time to be lost. I must drink with them. Taken in the right spirit, I do not object to being ruined, and it is not by any means the first time, but God send it may be the last! The soldiers, good fellows that they are, felt worse than I did when I told them that the liquor was running low. Some of my neighbors take such things tragically, but that is not my way. I have been too often to the play in the course of my life to be impressed by clowns. Since I was born into this world, how many of these masqueraders I have seen! Swiss, German, Gascons, Lorrainers; all dogs of war, with harness on their back and arms at their side; victual swallowers, hungry hounds, always ready to devour us fellows. No one can tell for what they are fighting. Today it is for the King; tomorrow for the League; now for the Black-beetles; now for the Protestants; but one side is as good as another. The best of them is not worth the powder it would take to shoot them. What difference does it make to us which robber ruffles it at court? And as for the way they appeal to Heaven, ye gods and little fishes! The Lord is old enough to know what to do. If your hide itches, scratch yourself. God is not left-handed that He should need you, and He acts as He pleases. But the worst of all is when they make it out that I too must try to pull the wool over His eyes! With all due reverence, Lord, I can say without boasting, You and I meet several times in the twenty-four hours; that is, if the good old French saying is true, “He who can good wine afford has a chance to see the Lord!” But these frauds say something else that would never enter my head. They say that I know Thee like a brother; that I am to carry out Thy will; but Thou wilt do me the justice to admit that if I leave Heaven in peace I only ask that it will do as much for me. Each of us has enough to do to keep his own house in order, Thou in Thy big world, and I in my little one. Since Thou hast made me free, Lord, Thou shouldst be free also! But these fools want me to mix myself up in Thy concerns, to speak in Thy name, to decide how men are to take Thy Sacraments, and if they do otherwise, to declare them my enemies and Thine. Mine indeed! By no means; I have none; for all men are my friends. Let them fight, then, if it likes them, I am out of the game;—that is if they will let me alone, but that is just what the rascals will not do. If I will not be the enemy of one of them they will both set on me, so between two fires I must be hit. Here goes then! I will get to fighting myself, for I would rather on the whole be first anvil and then hammer, than anvil all the time. I wish some one would tell me why such brutes came into the world? marauders, politicians, great nobles, who bleed our France while they blow her trumpet and stick their fingers in her pocket. They are not content to devour our own substance, but they must needs attack the stores of others. They threaten Germany, cast the eye of longing on Italy, and even poke their noses into the harem of the Grand Turk! They would like to absorb half the earth, they who would not know enough to grow cabbages on it! Never mind, old boy, do not let us fret over it, since all is for the best as it is until the happy day when we can make it better in the shortest possible time. It is a poor beast that is of no use, and I heard a story once about the good Lord;—(Pardon, Almighty, my head is full of Thee today)—He was walking with Peter in one of our suburbs, Béyant,[1] and a woman sat cooling her heels on her doorstep. She looked so bored that our Father, out of the goodness of His heart, drew a hundred fleas from his pocket and threw them to her, saying, “There is something to amuse yourself with, my daughter!” The woman roused herself to see what she could catch, and every time she caught one of the beasts she laughed for joy.

Through this same charity, no doubt, Heaven has bestowed on us those big two-legged beasts who shear our wool. They keep us busy, so let us be joyful. Vermin is a sign of health, they say, (and our masters are certainly vermin), so I say again, be joyful, my friends, for if that is true no one is healthier than we are. Let me whisper a word in your ear; we shall have the best of it if we are patient; cold and frost, good-for-nothings at court or in camp, will have their day. They too will pass, but the good ground remains and we are there to enrich it. One crop will put all to rights, meanwhile let us suck up the bottom of my cask, if only to make room for the vintage of next year.

My daughter, Martine, said to me one day, “You are a braggart. To hear you one would think that you only work with your mouth, idling, gossiping like a bell-clapper, yawning, and staring; you pretend to live only for feasting, and are ready to drink up the sea; yet really you cannot be happy one day without work. You want people to think you are careless, wasteful, and idle as a cock-chafer; you pretend not to count what goes into your purse nor what comes out of it, but it would make you ill if your day was not marked off hour by hour like a striking clock, and you know to a penny what you have spent since last Easter, and the man does not live who ever got ahead of you. Dear old stupid head, innocent lamb that he is! ‘Three lambs of Chamoux can put to flight any wolf who comes in the night.’”

I laughed, but did not answer Madame Saucy-Tongue. Besides, the child is right, though she ought not to say so, but a woman only hides what she knows nothing about. It is true that she understands me, for did I not make her?

Come, Colas Breugnon, you may as well confess you commit many follies, but you are not a fool. Like every one else, by Jove, you have a simpleton up your sleeve who shows when you like, but he is tucked away out of sight when you need a clear head and free hands. Like all Frenchmen, you have the sense of reason and order so firmly fixed in your noddle that you can let yourself go safely. The only danger is for those poor fools who look at you with an open mouth and try to imitate you. Fine speeches, sounding verse, daring projects, are all enjoyable. They exalt and kindle the soul. But we only burn up our chips, and leave the big logs in order on the wood-pile. My reason sits at ease and looks on at the freaks of my imagination, and all for my own amusement. The world is my theater, and without stirring from my seat, I am the play; I can applaud Matamore or Francatrippa; I witness tourneys and royal processions, I shout “At him again!” when a man gets his head cracked all for our good pleasure, and to add to it, I pretend to take part in the farce and to believe in it only just enough to keep up the joke. No more, you may be sure. That is the way to listen to fairy tales and not to them only! There is Some One up there above the clouds for whom we have a great respect when the procession passes through our streets with cross and banner, chanting the Oremus; we drape the walls of our houses with white—but between ourselves?—Shut up, chatterer, you go too far! Be deaf, Lord, to my folly, and accept my humble service.

The end of February.

An ass having eaten the grass in the meadow, said, “There is no further need to watch it,” and so went to eat (I mean watch) in another field near by. The garrison of the Duke of Nevers left us today. I was really proud of our cookery when I looked at them, for they were as fat as seals. We parted with smiles in our hearts and on our lips; they with the kindest wishes for the next season, hoping our crops would be good and our vines safe from the frost.

“Work hard, dear uncle,” said my guest, the Sergeant Fiacre Bolacre, (it is his pet name for me and one which I deserve, for that relation gives a good ration.) “Go prune your vines, no matter how much trouble it costs you, and next St. Martin’s Day we will come back to drink the wine.” Gallant fellows! Always ready to help an honest man with his bottle.

Now that they are gone, what a weight is off our shoulders! The neighbors are carefully uncovering their little hiding places. They have gone about for the last few days with long faces complaining of hunger as if a wolf were gnawing at their vitals, and now from the straw of the garret, or the earth of the cellar, they have dug out something to feed the beast. Those who bewailed their destitute state the loudest, the worst beggars of them all, found means to tuck their best wine away in some corner. I don’t know how it happened, but scarcely had my guest, Fiacre Bolacre, left me, (I went with him to the end of the Jews’ quarter,) when I suddenly remembered a small cask of Chablis left by mistake under the dunghill in a good warm place. Of course this upset me dreadfully! You can easily understand that, but when harm is done, if it is well done, one must bear it as best one can, and I bear it well. “Bolacre, my dear nephew, you don’t know what nectar you have lost, ah-h! It is not all loss to you though, my good friend, for here’s your health in it!”

We all began visiting from house to house, showing what we had found in our cellars, congratulating each other, and winking like the Roman Augurs. We spoke also of our injuries and losses; (losses of our lasses,) and as sometimes the misfortunes of one’s neighbors are an amusing consolation, we all inquired solicitously for the health of Vincent Pluviaut’s wife. (By an extraordinary chance, after a body of troops has passed through the town this brave Frenchwoman usually has to let out her belt.)

We congratulated Pluviaut, and praised him for his public services in these trying times, and by way of a joke, meaning no harm, I gave him a friendly tap, telling him he was lucky to have a house full now that all the others were empty. Every one laughed, of course, but not too loud, just enough to be heard, but Pluviaut did not much like it, and told me I had better look after my own wife. “Ah,” said I, “as far as she is concerned I may sleep in peace. No one is likely to rob me of my treasure.” And, do you know, they all agreed with me!

Feast days will soon be upon us, so, though somewhat short of means, we must live up to our reputation and that of the town. What would the world say if Shrove-Tuesday caught Clamecy without its justly celebrated meat-balls? You can hear the grease frying, and sniff the delicious fragrance in the streets. The flapjacks fairly hop from the pan for my little Glodie! Now the drums go “rub-a-dub,” and the flutes “twee-wee,” as amid cheers and shouts the “Gentlemen from Judæa” come on their car to visit “Rome.”[2] First appears the band; then the halberdiers, and the crowd actually falls back before the great noses they wear. Some are shaped like trumpets, or lances, there are snouts like hunting-horns or pea-shooters, noses stuck full of spikes, like a chestnut burr, or with a bird perched on the tip. They hustle the passers-by, and tickle the ribs of the squealing girls; and at last comes the Nose King, scattering all before him like a battering-ram with his great proboscis which rests on a gun-carriage like a bombard.

Then comes the car of Lent, Emperor of the Fish-eaters. Their masks are pale green, skinny, and chilled-looking. They shiver under hoods, or heads of fishes. One has a perch, or a carp, in each hand; another brandishes a gudgeon stuck on a fork; a third wears a hat like a pike’s head, with a roach dangling from its mouth, and little fishes falling all around. It is enough to give a man a surfeit. Some stick their fingers into their jaws and try to force down eggs too big to swallow. To right and left, high up on the car, are masks of owls and monks and fishermen dangling their lines over the heads of urchins, who jump up like goats to catch at what may be sweetmeats or perhaps only dirt rolled in sugar. Behind is a dancing devil, dressed like a cook, waving a saucepan and big spoon. Six souls of the damned stick their grinning heads through the rungs of a ladder behind the car, and the devil keeps thrusting his spoonful of disgusting stew at them.

Hurrah! Here come the conquerors, heroes of the day! On a throne built of hams, under a canopy of smoked tongues, comes the queen of the Meat-Balls, crowned with saveloys, while her pudding fingers play coquettishly with the sausages around her neck. She is escorted by her aids, black and white puddings, and little Clamecy balls. They make a fine appearance, as their Colonel Riflandouille leads them to victory, armed with fat and greasy spits and larding needles. I like best of all those dignified old fellows with bellies like a great soup-pot, or with a body made of bread crust, bearing gifts like the Magi: a pig’s head, a bottle of black wine, or mustard from Dijon. Now to the sound of brass cymbals, skimmers, and dishpans, comes the King of Dupes, mounted on a donkey, and greeted with shouts of laughter. It is our friend, Vincent Pluviaut, who has been elected. Riding backwards, a turban on his head, a goblet in his hand, he is listening to his body-guard of horned imps, who prance along with pitchforks or rods on their shoulders, shouting out in good plain French the tale of his glory. He is too wise to betray his pride and tosses off a bumper with a careless air, but when they pass a house as distinguished as his own, he cries, “Here’s your good health, Brother!” as he raises his glass.

The procession ends with lovely Spring; a young girl, fresh and smiling, with smooth brow and fair curling locks crowned with yellow primroses, and wearing across her slender breast a chain of green catkins plucked from the young nut trees. The pouch by her side and the basket in her hands are brimming with good things. Her delicate eyebrows arch over her wide blue eyes; her sharp little teeth show as she opens her mouth like a round “O” to sing in her treble pipe about the swallow who will soon be here again. Four white oxen draw her chariot, and by her side are plump maids, well-developed, rounded and graceful, and little girls at the awkward age, sticking out like young trees in all directions. Something is lacking to each one; they are no beauties as yet, but toothsome morsels for the wolf in future none the less. Some carry migratory birds in cages, and some dip their hands in the basket of Spring and shower treasures on the crowd; cakes, sweetmeats and surprises, out of which fall hats and vests, mottoes telling your fortune, lovers’ couplets, horns of plenty, or of ill-luck.

When they come to the market-place, near the tower, the maids jump from the car and dance with the clerks and students, while Shrove-Tuesday, Lent, and King Pluviaut continue their triumphal progress, pausing every few feet to chaff the people, or toss off a glass,

“Let your goblets chink—

Drink, Drink, Drink!

Shall we go without it?

No!

See the bottom of your glass

Or we shall write you down an ass!”

After all, too much soaking is bad for one’s tongue and one’s wit, so I leave friend Vincent and his escort drawing more corks, and make for the open fields. The day is really too fine to waste between walls. My old friend Chamaille, the vicar, has come up from his village in a little donkey-cart to dine with the Archdeacon of St. Martin. As he asked me to go with him for part of the way back, we climb into the tail of the cart, little Glodie and I, and off goes the donkey! She is so small that I suggest we shall take her up on the seat between us. As the road stretches out long and white, the sun looks drowsy, as if he meant to warm his own chimney corner more than ours. The donkey drowses also and stops as if to think, so the vicar shouts indignantly, in his great voice like a bell, “Madelon!” Donkey jumps, stirs her spindle-shanks, zigzags from one rut to another, then stops again to meditate, regardless of our objurgations. “Beast of ill-omen, if you had not the sign of the Cross on your back, I would break this stick on you,” roars the vicar, all the time basting her flanks with his cane.

We stopped to rest ourselves at the inn, just where the road turns to go down to the white hamlet of Armes which lies looking at its fair reflection in the water. Near by in the field we see some girls dancing round an old nut tree whose great withered branches stretch toward the pale sky. They have been carrying Shrove-Tuesday pancakes to the magpies. “Come and dance too!” they cry.

“Look, Glodie, look at the magpie ’way up there; look at her white breast over the edge of the nest! She is peeping out to see what she can see, and she has made her little house open all around so that nothing can escape her sharp eye and her chattering tongue. The wind blows through it, so that she is wet and cold, but as long as she sees all that goes on, she is satisfied. Now she is out of humor and seems to say, ‘Rude people, be off with your presents. Do you think if I wanted your cakes I could not pick them up in your very houses? There is no fun in eating things that are given to you; stolen dainties are the only ones I relish.’”

“Grandad, why do they give her pancakes all tied up with ribbons? Why do they bring good-wishes to that old pilferer?”

“Because, darling, in this world it is better to be on good terms with evildoers.”

“What’s that, Colas Breugnon? What idea are you putting in the child’s head?” growled the vicar.

“I am not holding it up for her admiration. I only tell her that is what every one does, you yourself, vicar, among the first. Don’t stare at me like that, you know when you have a parishioner who knows everything, sees everything, pokes her nose into everything, and is as full of spite as a nut is full of meat you would stuff her mouth with cakes, if that would keep her quiet.”

“Lord, if that were enough,” sighed the vicar. “I am really not fair to old magpie, she is better than some women, and her tongue is sometimes of use!”

“What is it good for, Grandfather?”

“She screams when the wolf is near.”

And at these words, all of a sudden the bird begins to cry, swear, and blaspheme. She flaps her wings, flies, and pours out abuse toward I don’t know who or what down in the valley near Armes. At the edge of the wood her feathered companions, Charlot the jay, and the crow Colas, answer sharply in the same irritated key. The villagers laugh and cry, “Wolf!” No one believes it, but still they think they will go and look (it is good to trust, but better to know), and what do you think they see? A band of armed men coming up the hill at a trot. We know them only too well; they are those rascals, the soldiers of Vézelay, who knowing our town is off its guard, think they will catch the bird on its nest. (Not this old magpie, however.)

We did not stop to look at them, as you may well believe! Every man for himself, was the cry, and we all tumbled over each other. We took to our heels by the road, across the fields; some on all fours, and some sliding on the hinder side of their anatomy. We three jumped into the donkey-cart; and, as if she understood it all, off went Madelon like an arrow from the bow. The vicar forgot in his excitement the consideration due to a donkey which has a cross marked on its back, and belabored her with all his might. We rushed along through a crowd of people screaming like blackbirds, and entered Clamecy first by a head, covered with dust and glory, but with the rest of the fugitives hard on our heels. Madelon scarcely touched the ground as we flew through Béyant at full gallop, the cart bouncing, the vicar beating, and shouting at the top of his lungs, “The enemy is upon us!”

People laughed at first as they saw us flying past them, but it did not take them long to catch the idea, and the town was soon like an ant-heap when you thrust a stick into it. Every one got to work, running in and out. Men armed themselves; women packed up their goods, piling things into baskets and wheelbarrows; and all the folks in the suburbs, abandoning their homes, fled to the shelter of the town walls. The masquers rushed to the ramparts, still wearing their costumes, masks, horns, claws, and paunches; some as Gargantua, some as Beelzebub, armed with gaffs and harpoons; and so when the advance guard of Vézelay reached the walls, the drawbridges were raised, and only some poor devils remained on the other side of the moat, who having nothing to lose made no effort to save it, and poor old King Pluviaut, deserted by his escort, full as a tick, like the Patriarch Noah, sat snoring on his beast, holding on by the tail.

Here is where you can see the advantage of having Frenchmen for your enemies. Germans, Swiss, or English, do their thinking through their fists, and are so thickheaded that it takes them till Christmas to understand what was told them on All Saints’ Day. I would not have given a button for poor Pluviaut’s chance with such people as these. They would have thought we were playing a joke on them, but no words are necessary between us. If we come from Lorraine, Touraine, Champagne, or Bretagne, geese from Beauce, asses from Beaune, or rabbits from Vézelay, a good joke hits us all in the right spot, no matter how much we may pound and beat each other. When they caught sight of our old Silenus, their whole camp burst out laughing. They laughed all over their faces, with their throats, with all their hearts, and even their stomachs, and by St. Rigobert! to see the way they laughed set us off too, all along our line. Like Ajax, and Hector the Trojan, we hurled gay defiance at each other across the moat. Our remarks, however, had much more snap than theirs. If I were not so busy, I would write them down, but if you can put up with it, I mean to include them in a collection I have been making for the last dozen years of the best jokes, quips, and witticisms that I have heard, said, or read, in the course of my pilgrimage through this vale of tears. I would not lose it for a kingdom. It makes me crack my old sides only to think of it. There now! I have made a great blot on my paper.

When the noise had subsided, it was time to fight; (nothing is so restful when one has been talked to death), but neither side was keen for it. Their surprise had failed, and we were well protected. They did not care much about scrambling up our walls (you may break your bones at that game) but something had to be done at any cost; it did not matter much what, so a little powder was burned, some petards let off at random, from which the sparrows were the only sufferers. We sat with our backs to the wall inside the parapet, waiting while their plums flew over our heads for the right moment to discharge our own without taking aim, (there is no sense in exposing one’s self too much).

When we heard their prisoners squalling we ventured to look out. They had caught a dozen men and women from Béyant and were beating them as they stood in a row, with their faces turned to the wall. The poor devils were not much hurt, but they screamed like curlews. Being safe enough ourselves, we slipped down along the ramparts and brandished pikes over the walls, on which we had stuck hams, saveloys, and black-puddings. We could hear the besiegers uttering yells of hunger and rage, and how that did put new life into us! To squeeze out the last drop (for there is never too much of a good thing), when it grew late we set out tables in the open air on the slopes, sheltered by the wall, and loaded them with victuals and drink. There we had a noisy feast, singing and drinking to Shrove-Tuesday. The outsiders nearly went out of their skins with fury, and so that day went off gaily, and no harm done. There was only one drawback. When Gueneau de Pousseaux, that big fool! got too mellow, nothing would do but he must walk on top of the wall with his glass in his hand, just to defy them, and they knocked his head and his glass into splinters with a musket ball. This did not much bother us, but to make it even, we wounded one or two of them, for there can be no festivity, you know, without a little broken crockery. Chamaille waited till nightfall before leaving the town to go home. In vain we all said, “Old friend, you risk your neck. Wait here till it’s all over; God will take care of your parishioners.” He answered:

“My place is with my flock. God would be maimed without me, for I am truly His right arm. But I will not fail Him, you may swear.”

“I believe you,” said I. “You gave full proof of it when the Huguenots attacked your church, and you threw a great lump of plaster at their Captain Papiphage and knocked him over.”

“That was a surprise for him, miscreant that he was,” said he. “For me too, really. I mean no harm and hate to see blood flow; it disgusts me, but the devil alone knows what gets into a man when he is among hot-heads. He becomes a wolf.”

“That is true,” said I, “you lose what little sense you have when you are in a crowd. A hundred wise men make a fool, and a hundred sheep a wolf. But tell me, Vicar, how can you reconcile two codes—that of the man who lives alone with his conscience and wants peace for himself and all the world, and that of men in the mass, who make a virtue out of war and wickedness. Which of these is of God?”

“That is a very silly question! Both. Everything comes from God.”

“Well, then He doesn’t know His own mind. Or rather I believe He cannot do as He likes. It is easy enough to manage one man,—there is no difficulty about that, but when He has a crowd to deal with, that is another pair of shoes. What can one do against many? So man falls back on his Mother Earth, who whispers to him of fleshly things. In the old legend, if you remember, there are times when men become wolves, and then get into their old skins again. Ah! my friend, there is more truth in many an old song than in your Mass-book. Every man in the country wears his wolf skin; States, Kings, and Ministers may dress themselves up with shepherd’s crooks as much as they please, and claim descent, like the hypocrites they are, from your Good Shepherd; they are really all lynxes, bulls, jaws, and bellies, always crying for food, and for the best of reasons; they must satisfy the hunger of the earth.”

“You are a raving heathen,” said Chamaille. “God sends the wolves like the rest, and He does all things well. Did you never hear that the Blessed Virgin had a little garden where cabbages grew, and Jesus, they say, made the wolf to keep off the goats and the kids? No doubt He was right, and we can only bow to His will. Why should we complain of the strong? It would be a thousand times worse if the weak were raised to power, so in conclusion all are for the best, sheep and wolves alike. The sheep need the wolves to protect them, and the wolves need the sheep, still more, for we all must eat. So now, Colas, off I go to my cabbages.” He confided Madelon tenderly to my care, tucked up his gown, grasped his cudgel, and made off; though the night was dark and moonless.

We were not quite so merry for the next few days. We had foolishly stuffed ourselves the first evening, just to show off and from stupid greediness, so there was but little left of our provisions. We had to draw in our belts, which was soon done, but we still had some swagger in us. When the puddings were all gone, we made some stuffed with bran and tarred strings which we stuck on a pike and dangled before the enemy. The rogues soon saw through it, though, for a ball caught one of our puddings fair in the middle, and who had the laugh on his side then? Not we, I vow, and to cap the climax when these robbers saw that we were fishing over the top of our wall, they stretched nets from the locks up and down the river to catch the fry. Our Archbishop reprimanded them for bad Christians who would not let us keep Lent, but in vain, so we had to fall back on our own fat.

We might of course have implored the Duke of Nevers to come and help us, but to tell the truth we were not anxious to have his troops quartered on us again. It cost less to have the enemy outside the walls than the friend within, so the best way was to keep quiet as long as we could get along without them, and the enemy on his side was prudent enough not to send for them. “Two is company, three is none,” so we began negotiations, but without undue haste. Both camps led an exemplary life. Early to bed and late to rise, playing bowls all day and drinking. We yawned more from boredom than hunger, and we actually slept so much that we grew fat in spite of our fast. The grown people moved about as little as possible, but it was hard to keep the children in order. These imps were always running, crying, or laughing; always on the go and putting themselves in danger. They would climb the walls, stick out their tongues at the besiegers, and bombard them with stones. They had batteries of squirts, which they made from the elder twigs; slings and sticks;—“Here goes. Hit him in the head!” the little monkeys would cry. Those they struck vowed to be the death of them, and they called out to us that the first child that poked its nose over the top of the wall should be shot. We promised to be careful, but the rogues slipped through our fingers in spite of our scoldings and ear-pullings. Still water runs deep, so one fine evening, (it makes me tremble only to think of it!) I heard a squeal, and if you can believe it, there was that little hypocrite of a Glodie,—witch that she is! my own treasure!—she had slipped down the bank into the ditch. Oh, Lord, I could have whipped her! I was on the wall at one bound, and there we all stood craning over. We made a fine target if the enemy had chosen to shoot at us, but he too was looking at my darling at the bottom of the ditch. Thanks to the Blessed Virgin, she had rolled down gently like a little kitten, and sat there among the flowering grasses, not in the least frightened, and looking up at the two rows of heads above her. She was laughing and making a nosegay. We all laughed too, and Monseigneur de Ragny, the enemy’s commander, ordered that no harm be done to the child, and, good fellow that he was, threw her a bag of sugar-plums. But you never know what a woman will do next, and while we were all looking at Glodie, Martine rushed to save her lamb and she too fell down the bank, running, slipping, and rolling, her skirts turned up over her head. What a spectacle for the enemy! Immense applause! But nothing daunted, she hugged and slapped her baby. One of the soldiers, carried away by her charms, disobeyed his commanding officer, jumped into the ditch and ran towards her. She stood fast while we threw a broom down to her from the ramparts, seized it bravely, and marched on the enemy. Whick, whack! The gallant kept his distance, and fled from the field without sound of trumpets. Both camps roared with laughter, and we pulled Martine up, triumphant, with her child in her arms, I on the end of the rope as proud as a peacock.

Since talking is always in season, we took another week for discussion. A rumor was heard that the Duke of Nevers was coming,—a false alarm, but it brought us together and a treaty was drawn up on fairly easy terms. We agreed to pay to the Vézelayans a tenth of our next vintage, for it is always best to promise for the future; one may never get there, and in any case much water runs under the bridge first and much wine into our stomachs.

Both sides were satisfied with each other, and most of all with themselves. Still, it never rains but it pours, and the very next day after the treaty, a sign appeared in the heavens. About ten o’clock it arose and slid across the field of stars toward St. Peters-on-the-Height, like a long serpent. It resembled a sword with a flame on the point, and great tongues of smoke; a hand seemed to grasp the hilt. You could see the five fingers ending in dreadful heads; one was a woman with her hair streaming in the wind, and the width at the hilt of the sword was a span, at the point six or eight rods, and in the middle exactly three rods and two inches. The color was scarlet and violet, and inflamed like a wound in the side. We all stood, our eyes raised to Heaven, our mouths open, our teeth chattering in our heads. In the two camps the question was “To which one did the warning come?” Each of course attributed it to the other, and every man shivered, except me. I was not in the least frightened, for having gone to bed at nine o’clock, I naturally saw nothing. Regularly as the day comes round, I take medicine and go to bed early; when the stomach commands I obey without question. Every one, however, told me all about the portent, so I write it down, for it is the same as if I had seen it.

As soon as peace was signed, friends and foes betook themselves once more to feasting, and as by this time we had come to the middle of Lent, we let ourselves go. It was a great day, I can tell you. Throngs of people came pouring in from the neighboring villages, bringing their provisions as well as mouths to eat them with, and tables were spread the whole length of the ramparts. Three young pigs were served, roasted whole, stuffed with spiced boar’s meat and heron’s liver. There were hams, smoked and perfumed with juniper; rabbit and pork pies, simply reeking with garlic and laurel; our own meat-balls and tripe, pikes and snails, jugged hare so fat that our noses fed on them first; calves-head that melted in the mouth; and heaps of peppery lobsters enough to set your throat on fire. On top of all, to cool it off, salads with plenty of vinegar; and then bumpers of the best vintages from Chapotte, Mandre, and Vaufilloux. For dessert we had curds and cream to slip gently down our throats, and biscuits with which we sopped up a full glass at one mouthful. As long as a scrap remained not one of us let go, and the Lord gave us strength to squeeze all these dishes and drinks into our small bread-baskets. There was a great contest between two eating champions. The Vézelayans put up their hermit—Court-Oreille from St. Martin’s at Vézelay; (he was the man, we are told, who first discovered that an ass must have his tail in the air before he can bray); ours, (hermit, I mean not ass,) was Dom Hennequin, who declared that he had such a hatred for cold water that he believed he must have been a carp or a pike in some former existence and been forced to swallow too much of it. Well, when the Vézelayans and Clamecyans left off eating at last, they loved each other more than they did at first; since a man’s fine qualities come out strong at table, and he who loves good cheer is my brother. While we were settling our dinner on the best of good terms, what should turn up but the re-enforcements sent by our Duke to protect us? We burst out laughing, and both sides politely requested them to go home. What could they do? So they went off rather crestfallen, like dogs chased by sheep, while we hugged each other and cried out:

“What fools we were to fight for these people! Our protectors, forsooth! They would stir up enemies if we had none, in faith, just for the sake of defending us. God keep us from our keepers, we can look out for ourselves. Silly sheep that we are, we should be safe enough if wolves were all that threatened us,—but who will save us from the shepherd?”

III
THE VICAR OF BRÈVES

Early in April.

As soon as the roads were clear of our unwelcome visitors, I decided to go at once and see Chamaille in his village; not that I was really anxious about him, for he knows how to take good care of himself, but all the same nothing is so reassuring as to see with one’s own eyes,—besides my legs wanted stretching. So off I started without a word to any one. The river flowed at the foot of the wooded hills and I followed the river, whistling as I went. A soft spring rain came pattering down, now ceasing, now falling again, dropping like beads from the young leaves, and in the thickets I could hear the cry of an enamored squirrel. Geese were feeding in the meadow, the blackbirds sang fit to crack their throats, and the little thrush trilled tipu’ti tipu’,—Paillard, the notary at Dornecy, is a great friend of mine, so I thought I would stop and see him, for he, Chamaille, and I are as inseparable as the Graces. I found him in his study making notes on the weather, his recent dreams, and the political situation; close beside him lay the manual “De Legibus,” and also the “Prophecies of Nostradamus.” When a man spends his life shut up between four walls, his mind is all the more eager to fly forth into dream spaces and the forests of memory; and since he cannot rule this terrestrial ball, he tries to peer into the future of the world. They say all is known beforehand, and I can well believe it, but I must confess that I have never had much luck in predicting the future until after the event. Dear old Paillard fairly shone with joy when he saw me, and the house shook with our peals of laughter. I love the very sight of him. He is a little man, inclined to stoutness; his broad face is pockmarked, his nose red, and his little eyes dance with cunning. He is always growling and complaining of everything and everybody, but at bottom good-natured and full of fun, and more of a joker really than I am myself. He loves to get off the most awful whoppers with a perfectly straight face, and at table he is a sight to behold invoking Comus and Momus, singing a good song, and emptying his bottle. He was enchanted to see me, and there we stood like two children hand in hand. His are large and thick, but adroit, like the rest of him, and clever as the devil with all kinds of tools. He is a bookbinder and carpenter, and declares that everything in his house is the work of his own hands; not much beauty perhaps to boast of, but good or bad it is all characteristic of him. He began as usual by finding fault right and left, and so to take the opposite side I praised the world in general, for it is a favorite joke of his to call me “so much the better,” and I retort by calling him “so much the worse.” He always has many complaints to make of his clients, and with some reason, for they are by no means prompt in the matter of payment; some of them have owed him money for thirty-five years and he has taken no steps to collect his bills, however much it would be to his interest. Some of his debtors pay when they happen to think of it, but generally in kind; a dozen eggs, a pair of chickens;—that is the usual custom, and it would be thought insulting if he insisted on his money. I suppose he would do the same in their place so he submits, growling.

Luckily he has enough to live on, a nice round sum getting rounder every year, for he is an old bachelor with few expenses, no extravagances, and as for the pleasures of the table, nature has spread her board lavishly in our fields. We have vineyards, orchards, game, and fish in abundance, so there are but two ways for Paillard to spend his money: he buys books, which he likes to show at a distance, for he is chary of lending, and then there are the new spectacles from Holland with which he loves to look at the lady in the moon, sly dog.

He has put up a sort of scaffolding in the roof of his house among the chimneys and from there he carefully studies the movements of the heavenly bodies, and tries to discover the course of our destinies, little as he understands them. To tell the truth he does not really believe in all this, but he likes to persuade himself that he does, and there I agree with him, for what can be more charming than to look out at the stars as if from our window, just as we see fair ladies in the streets,—we imagine a story about them, some romantic adventure, it may not be true, but it is at least amusing—— We had much to say to each other about the portent; that terrible bloody sword which had been seen in the heavens during the night of the previous Sunday and each interpreted it according to his own idea, insisting most positively that his view was the right one. After all we found that neither of us had so much as set eyes on it, for the astrologer unluckily had chosen that very evening to fall asleep at his instrument; and thus we were perfectly delighted to find ourselves companions in misfortune and foolishness. Having determined not to mention this incident to Chamaille, we set out across country, admiring the young shoots on the bushes, the pink buds, the birds making their nests, and a hawk slowly circling above the plain. We had a great deal of fun as we went along, over an old joke that we had once played on Chamaille; we shut a blackbird up in a cage, and worked day and night to teach him a Huguenot song, and when he had it well in his head, we turned him loose in the vicar’s garden. His new accomplishment was soon picked up by all the other blackbirds in the village, and they sang so loud as to disturb Chamaille at his devotions. He swore, crossing himself, that the devil was loose in his garden, then tried to exorcise him, and finally took aim with an arquebus from behind the shutters, and shot the evil spirit; but in the bottom of his heart he must have had some doubts, for having killed the devil he then proceeded to eat him. Our walking and talking brought us at last to Brèves, which seemed to be half asleep. We peeped into the houses as we went by; the sun was streaming in through the open doors, but we did not see a human being except one urchin enjoying the fresh air on the edge of a ditch. We strolled on arm in arm through the narrow street, encumbered with straw and filth, till, as we got near the center of the town, we began to hear a buzzing like the sound of a swarm of angry bees; and when we came out on the market-place it was packed with people gesticulating and shouting at the top of their lungs. Chamaille was standing at his garden gate purple with rage, and he too was screaming and shaking his fist in the faces of his parishioners. All this was perfectly unintelligible to us, for we could only catch a word here and there in the midst of the tumult of voices. “Caterpillars,—locusts,—field-mice,—cum Spiritu tuo!” Here Chamaille’s voice struck in. “No! nothing shall induce me to go!” Retort from the crowd, “Devil take it, are you our vicar or not? You know that you are, and it is your duty to work for us.” “Upstarts!—I am God’s servant, not yours!” To put an end to the uproar Chamaille banged the gate in the faces of the foremost, but through the bars we could see him still threatening his people with one hand, while by force of habit the other was raised in the attitude of benediction. We could catch a glimpse of him through the window, square of face and round of belly, and as he could no longer make himself heard above the clamor, we could see the derisive gesture with which he replied; but from that moment the house was closed and turned a blind eye on the street, so the noise gradually died down, the crowd grew thinner, and at last we could get near enough to knock at the door. It was a long time before we could get an answer. “Hi, Vicar!” we called, but there was no reply. “Go to the devil! I am out,” came from behind the shutters, and we continued to hammer on the door. “Get out, I tell you! If you don’t let my door alone you will get a deluge that will astonish you!”—and the contents of a bucket began to trickle down our backs. “Chamaille!” we called out; “make it wine if you want to soak us.” The tempest instantly subsided; and our friend stuck his jolly red face out of the window crying, “Name of a name, boys, is it you? In another minute you would have caught it finely—why didn’t you say who you were?” Then he came rushing downstairs. “Come in! come in! Give us your hand, and come upstairs and have a drink; you need it if you are half as hot as I am! It is a real treat to see a civilized human being after those dancing apes; did you see the row they were kicking up? But they can kick as they please, I will not stir one step. Do you know they actually wanted me to go out with the Holy Sacrament? There is a storm coming up too, and the Host and I would both have been soaked; but the idea of treating me as if I were a plowboy! I am no servant of theirs, sacrilegious rascals! I’ll teach them to treat God’s minister with respect. My business is to cultivate their souls and not their fields.”

“What in the world is the matter with you?” said we. “Tell us what has happened.” “Well, come in first,” said he, “upstairs where we shall be more comfortable. My throat is as dry as a lime-kiln, I must have something to drink. Now what do you say to that? You must have tasted worse in your time. But would you believe it, my friends, those brutes actually wanted me to have fasts and feasts every day, and for what do you think? For nothing in the world but insects.”—“Insects!” we shouted. “Well, you really must have a bee in your bonnet; are you crazy, or are we?” This was the last straw, and he protested indignantly that it was bad enough to be troubled by all this folly, without being called a fool. “Well then, tell us all about it like a sensible man.”—“You will drive me to perdition,” said he, wiping the sweat from his brow, “the good Lord and I have been so harried and bothered with all this nonsense, I must try to calm down!—You know these people of mine want their vicar to provide rain and sunshine for them. They jeer at the life eternal and don’t keep their souls any cleaner than their feet, but they expect me to make the sun and the moon stand still at their desire.—‘Not too much rain,’ they say, ‘now a little warm weather and a gentle breeze—no frost for pity’s sake—now, Lord, a few drops more on my vineyard—stop!—now give us a wee bit more sunshine!’—If you listen to them you would think prayer was a kind of whip with which to drive their Maker, as a gardener does his old ass that turns a water-wheel. The worst of all this is that they cannot agree among themselves; one wants wet weather, another dry, so they take refuge with the saints, for you must know that there are thirty-seven of them up there, who have charge of rainy weather. The foremost with his lance in his hand, is the great St. Médard.—The fair-weather saints are only two in number, St. Raymond and St. Dié, and it is their duty to brush away the clouds. Then there are St. Blaise, the wind calmer, St. Christopher, St. Valerian, and St. Aurelian who saves us from the hail, the storm, and the thunder; lastly, St. Clare who sweeps the cobwebs out of the sky.—The contradictory prayers of our farmers stir up discord in heaven, and all these saintly personages are at daggers drawn with one another, till Sts. Susan, Helen, and Scholastica actually pull each other’s hair down. The good Lord himself does not know where to turn, and if He does not know, how is it with His poor vicar? After all it is none of my business; my duty is only to forward petitions and the Proprietor can attend to them as He sees fit. This idolatry positively revolts me, but I would not object if these good-for-nothings would not drag me into their quarrels with Heaven, but they are mad enough to try to make use of me and the Cross as a talisman against the pests which devour their crops. They wanted the rats driven away from the grain in their barns, so there were prayers, exorcisms, and processions in honor of St. Nicaise;—all this on a bitter day in December, with snow up to my neck; I have had lumbago ever since. Then caterpillars attacked them, and we had more processions, this time addressed to St. Gertrude, in a March storm with melting sleet;—a racking cough for me was the result. Now we have the locusts, and they want another procession round the orchards; think of it! with the sun like a furnace, and black clouds rolling up before a thunderstorm. I should come back with a rush of blood to the head, chanting the verse ‘Ibi ceciderunt, workers of iniquity, atque expulsi sunt!’ but it is I who would be cast out,—(‘Sacred to the memory of Baptiste Chamaille, commonly called Dulcis, vicar of this parish.’)—No! I am in no hurry to quit this world, and the best of jokes may be carried too far. It is no business of mine to get rid of their caterpillars, and as for their locusts, the lazy-bones can drive them off with their own hands. Help yourself and others will help you! It would be really too comfortable for them to sit down and let me do all the work. No, I will do my duty to the Lord, and let them do likewise. They can besiege me here if they choose. It would not bother me in the least, and I tell you, my friends, that they could raise this house from the ground easier than they could make me move out of this armchair. So now let’s have another bottle.” Having come to the end of his breath and his eloquence, he took a long drink and we followed his example, looking through our glasses at the world and our future which appeared rosy enough. Then there was silence for a few moments.—Each had his own special way of drinking, Paillard smacked his lips, looked at his glass inside and out, held it up to the light, tasted the wine and swallowed it down little by little, taking it in through his nose and his eyes as much as by his palate. Chamaille threw the wine into his big throat at one gulp. “Ha!” he would say as he felt it going down, rolling up his eyes to Heaven. As for me, I enjoyed both drink and drinkers; the more I looked at them the happier I felt. What can be more delightful than to taste two pleasures at once? All the same the bottle did not stand still with me. Not one of the three was behind the others, but would you believe it? at the end of the race the old notary was first by a good bumper. Our souls seemed to dilate under this refreshing dew, which moistened our throats and brightened up our wits and our faces. We leaned out of the open window, touched and charmed at the sight of the fields in their fresh spring dress, the young poplar shoots opening under the soft sunshine, the Yonne down in the valley twisting and turning through the meadows, like a playful puppy. We could hear the gay voices of women as they beat their linen on the stones, and the ducks quacking among the reeds. By this time Chamaille had quite recovered his good humor and began to talk as he leaned out between us. “It’s a pretty good place to live in after all; we were all three of us born here, the Lord be praised! Was there ever a sweeter, dearer country? it fairly smiles at you, it is so soft, so tender and graceful, fit to bring tears to your eyes and to make your mouth water.” We nodded our heads, and he began again.—“Our Master of course does what is right, we all know that, but why the devil did He put such disagreeable people in this heavenly place? I wish with all my heart that He would send them off somewhere to live under the Incas or the Great Mogul, anywhere but here.” “But, Chamaille,” said we, “all men are alike, you would not gain by getting rid of these.” “Well then, they must have come into this world not that I might save their souls, but to discipline mine through this earthly Purgatory. My friends, you must admit that no lot is so hard as that of a country priest who has to struggle to knock the truths of our holy religion into the thick skulls of these stupid peasants; they may take in the Catechism with their mother’s milk but it does not stay by them, for such rude natures need coarse provender. They will fill their mouths with aves and litanies, often just for the sake of hearing themselves; they will bray out vespers and complines, but the sacred words seldom get any farther than their thirsty jaws; for all the good done to their hearts and stomachs they might as well have held their tongues; pagans they were before, and pagans they remain. We have been striving for hundreds of years to drive out the gnomes and fairies from our fields, woods, and streams; but though we crack our cheeks and lungs in the effort to blow out these infernal fires, so that we can make God’s true light to shine in the black darkness of the world, we cannot prevail over these base spirits, vulgar superstitions, of the earth earthy. The people will still find some of this brood of Satan hidden in the trunks of aged oaks, or under rocking stones, though the Lord alone knows how many we have broken, thrown down, and uprooted; but to get rid of all the devils which our mother Gaul holds hidden within her, would be endless. Every sod and stone in the country would have to be overturned. The truth is, nature is always slipping through our fingers; if you clip her wings one day they grow out the next, and ten gods spring up for each one that you destroy. Our stupid peasants think everything is a god or a devil; and they believe in were-wolves, headless horses, human snakes, imps, and sorcerers. Just imagine the figure the gentle Son of Mary and Joseph must cut among all these monsters out of Noah’s ark!” “If we could only see ourselves as others see us,” said Paillard. “No doubt your people are a crazy lot, but how about you yourself? is there much to choose between you? and are your saints much better than demons and fairies? Three Gods in one was not enough; besides a goddess mother, you fill your Pantheon and the niches left empty by the old deities, with all kinds of godlings, male and female; but as far as I can see these newcomers are no better than the old: they appear like snails from no one knows where, deformed, maimed, eaten up with dirt and vermin.—They make a display of their sores and ulcers; one carries a trencher on his head, another sticks his head itself under his arm, like a hat. Then there is his saintship who goes about with his skin in his hand, and worst of all here in this Church is your own particular St. Simon Stylites, who stood for forty years on top of a pillar on one leg, for all the world like a crane.”

“Hold up there!” cried Chamaille, jumping from his seat. “Say what you please about the other saints, they are no affair of mine, but here in St. Simon’s own house, the least we can do is to be civil to him.”

“Well, as I am your guest, I will leave your old crane in peace on his pedestal, but how about the Abbot of Cortigny who has the Blessed Virgin’s milk in a bottle, and Count Sermizelles who took powdered relics and washed them down with holy water when he happened to need medicine?”

“You might do the same thing under the same circumstances,” said Chamaille, “for all that you laugh at it now,—but as for the Abbot of Cortigny, or any other monk, they would sell angel’s milk or archangel’s cream, if they thought they could get our customers away from us: we are like cat and dog; their very name is an abomination to me!”

“Come, now, do you believe in these relics, or do you not?”

“I believe in my own, not in theirs, of course,—I have here the shoulder-blade of St. Diétrine, a sovereign cure for the scurvy, and the skull of St. Etoupe, which drives devils out of the sheep.—Now what are you jeering at? I tell you I have documents here, signed parchments, to prove the truth of what I say; if you do not believe me, I will go and fetch them.”

“Sit down, old man, I don’t want to see your documents; now, Chamaille, honor bright, you have no more faith in these things than I have, I can see it in your eye. A bone is a bone, no matter where it comes from, and you are an idolater if you adore it. Everything has its place in this world, and corpses should stay in the graveyard; so for my part I believe in life, in the light of day. I know that I live and think—very clearly too,—I know also that two and two make four, and that the earth is a fixed star hung in infinite space.—I believe in our local customs, and could recite the whole list of them to you. Then there are books where man’s knowledge and experience are distilled drop by drop! I believe firmly in them. Above all I trust my own understanding, and like any wise and prudent man, I have faith in Holy Writ. Now are you satisfied?”

At this Chamaille fairly lost his temper. “What! satisfied?” cried he; “you are a horrible mixture of Calvinist, heretic, and Bible-pattering Huguenot; you would push aside even the vicar, and presume to dictate to your Mother Church. Oh! generation of vipers!”

It was now Paillard’s turn to be angry, because, as he said, he could not suffer any one to apply the term Huguenot to him; he declared he was a loyal Frenchman and son of the Church, and had a good head on his shoulders too, so that he could see through a millstone as well as the next man; that he knew a fool when he saw him, and Chamaille was three parts a fool or three fools in one, just as he pleased; and he added that since God is the fountain of light and reason, if we would respect God, we should respect our own reason also.

After this silence settled down, except for an occasional grunt as they sat back to back at the table, finishing their bottle.—I burst out laughing, and they noticed then for the first time that I had taken no part in the dispute, though I had followed the whole argument with delight, and caught myself imitating the motions of their lips, frowning when they frowned, and moving my features like a rabbit eating a cabbage leaf. Now they both appealed to me to know on which side I was.

“I agree with both of you,” said I, “and not with you alone: let us thresh this thing out together. Folly leads to laughter, and laughter to wisdom;—when you want to estimate your possessions what do you do? You begin naturally by writing down your column of figures, and then you add them up. Now why not pursue the same method with any crotchets you may have in your head? Add them all together and the sum may be a truth, though truth is hard to seize, and mocks at those who would lay hands on her; still there is more than one answer to the riddle of the world, my children. We only see one side of the shield, so I am for all gods, pagan and Christian alike, and for the god of reason first and foremost.”

This lucid exposition had no better result than to unite both the others in an onslaught on me, and what they called my pagan and atheistic opinions. “Atheist!” cried I, “and why not? my door is open to all comers; gods and laws of every degree are welcome. I reverence God, and worship His saints, and love to gossip and laugh with such as are good company, but to tell you the plain truth, one god is not quite enough for a man as greedy as I am, so I have saints and saintesses, fairies and spirits of the earth, air, and water. I believe in reason, but I believe also in folly, from which truth sometimes springs. If I have faith in sorcery, I like also to think of this earth hanging in the clouds, and I should love to have my fingers on all the springs that move the world.—What joy to listen to the bright-eyed planets, and watch the man in the moon.—‘Silly talk!’ say you, who are all for rule and order, but let me tell you, these things are to be had at a price only, and a high one. To be orderly means not to follow one’s own will, but that of others; it means to cut down the tall trees that the highroad may run straight;—convenient if you will, but ugly as the devil. No, mine are the old Gallic ideas,—many chiefs and a strong law, but every man for himself, and all brothers. Believe as you choose, but leave me to my belief, and the worship of my reason. Above all, let the gods alone; they are everywhere, in the heavens and in the waters under the earth; the world teems with them, and I not only respect those I know, but I am willing to accept new ones; only no one shall take from me one I have already known, unless he has deceived me.”

Paillard and the vicar looked at me with positive compassion, and asked how I expected to get through the world with my head in such a tangle.

“There is no difficulty as to that,” I assured them. “I know just where to put my feet. Do you think I need to take the highroad from Clamecy to Vézelay when I can cut through the woods? I find my way blindfold through little bypaths, it takes rather longer perhaps, but I pick up something for my game-bag. In my world everything is in its place: God in His Heaven, the saints in their chapels, out of doors the fairies, and my good brains in my head, so it all works smoothly; to each his proper task, with no despotic king to rule over us. It is more like a confederation of allied cantons, some strong and others weak; but in case of necessity the little ones band together, and who will get the upper hand then? Of course the Lord is mightier than any fairy, but it is another pair of shoes when a swarm of fairies make common cause against Him. The biter, you know, is sometimes bit. You think me crazy I know, but it sticks in my head that the head God of all is yet to be seen, for He is above everything; far, far away like our good King; we know his stewards and lieutenants only too well, but he is invisible in his palace,—so the sovereign to whom we bow is one Concini. Now, Chamaille, don’t look at me like that, if you like it better, we will say that the Duke of Nevers is our ruler just now. Blessings on his head! I admire and respect him, but when he of the Louvre raises his voice our Duke is silent, and a good thing too!”

“I wish it were good,” said Paillard, “but as the proverb says, when the sun is hid, you see the stars, and since the death of our lamented Henry, the whole kingdom is under petticoat government, princes and all; you know who profits by the sport of nobles; there are plenty to dip their fingers in the bag of gold, (the price of future triumphs,) that Sully has laid up there in the Arsenal. How long, O Lord? before these thieves are brought to justice!”

This was the signal for us to break out and talk with the utmost imprudence; for we had now hit on a tune which we could all sing, and we did sing it with variations on princes, hypocrites, lazy monks, and fat prelates. It is only fair to Chamaille to say that his improvisations on this theme were by far the most brilliant; but the trio continued in most melodious measure to chant of bitter and sweet, of those who have too much faith, and those who have none; fanatics, Huguenots, bigots, and fools who think that they can put the fear of God into a man by a dagger thrust or a blow on the head. As if we were donkeys to be driven with a stick along the heavenly way! Damnation should be free to all who desire it, but let them burn in a future state without tormenting them here on earth, and meanwhile leave us in peace, each to act as seems good in his own eyes. We are told that Christ died for men; for the infidel, as well as the Christian, and in truth are we not all poor creatures, as like as peas in a pod, neither better nor worse? What place, then, should pride and cruelty have among us?

Somewhat fatigued by all this conversation, we then resumed the worship of Bacchus, the only god respected by all three; even Chamaille declared that all the monks and sermons in the world could not turn him from this allegiance, for Bacchus is everywhere acknowledged as of true French lineage, and a real Christian. Are there not old pictures where our Saviour is represented treading the winepress under His feet? “Let us drink then, my friends, to our smiling god, whose red blood warms our hillsides and vineyards, rejoices our hearts, loosens our tongues, and breathes his right generous spirit over our France, filling her with the elixir of life.”

Just here we stopped to take breath, and drink to France and common sense; for her motto is always to avoid extremes, if you would be wise; sometimes, it is true, one falls between two stools. All at once we heard a great banging of doors and heavy steps on the stairs, mingled with portentous puffings and appeals to all the saints in the calendar, and Mistress Louisa, the vicar’s housekeeper, made her appearance, wiping her fat red face with a corner of her apron. “Oh! Master, you are wanted at once! Come and help us.”

“Come where, you old fool?” said her master with pardonable irritation.

“Oh! save us, they will be here in a jiffy!”

“Who? the caterpillars?—let them spread over the fields. Now I won’t hear another word about those brutes of farmers.”

“But they are threatening the most dreadful things!”

“Pooh! what do I care for them? Do they threaten to bring me before the Tribunal? Let them come on, I am ready for them.”

“Ah, dear Master! a suit is nothing to what they threaten to do.”

“For the love of Heaven, woman, speak out!”

“They are all at big Picq’s house down in the village, and what do you think? They are making charms and exorcisms to drive all the mice and insects from their own fields to your orchard and cellar!”

Chamaille sprang to his feet. “To think of those fiends! Sending locusts to eat up my fruit! How dare they even think of such a thing! St. Simon, have mercy on your poor vicar!”

We could not help laughing, and tried our best to calm him, but it was of no use.

“It is all very well!” he cried, “but you would laugh on the other side of your mouths if you were in my shoes; I suppose I must go and get my storeroom ready for these guests! Locusts! How revolting! And mice! It is enough to drive one crazy!”

I tried to persuade him that he could easily get the better of his parishioners and advised him to try some strong counter exorcism, but nothing could console him.

“I am lost!” he cried, wringing his hands. “Picq is terribly clever and sharp; the Lord alone knows what will come of it. I shall have to give in. To think how happy and comfortable I was just a minute ago! Ah! my dear friends, it is all up with me. Run, Louisa; run, and tell them to stop; say I am coming as fast as I can. Beasts that they are! Just let them wait till the next time they are dying and send for me! Well, the will of the Lord be done; it is not the first time I have had to knuckle down.”

“Where are you going, old man?” we said.

“I am off on a crusade against locusts, of course!” he cried.

IV
THE IDLER

A Day in Spring.

Fair April, daughter of spring, the pink and white apricot blossoms are like your slender breasts, and your sweet eyes shed soft sunshine over my garden. Ah! what a lovely day lies before me! And how good to stretch my old arms and shake off the stiffness of the night. I have been working hard for the last two weeks to make up for lost time, and we three, my two apprentices and I, have made the shavings fly under our planes, but unfortunately we rather lack customers; there are few to buy, and fewer still to pay for what they order; now purses are lean and empty, but red blood still runs in our arms, good soil is in our fields, and we reign over both.

Since early morning the voice of the working city has risen up to Heaven, “Our Father, give us our daily bread,” but meanwhile, like sensible folks, we are kneading it ourselves.... You can hear the clatter of the millwheel, the wheeze of the forge bellows, and the hammers beating on the anvil; horses stamp and splash through the ford, carts bump along the road, whips crack, wooden shoes go pitter-patter; the butcher swings his chopper, the cobbler sings as he hammers in his nails,—and above is the blue spring sky, the white clouds flying before the light fresh breeze, and the genial sun warming everything. My youth revives, coming from far on swift wings to build her swallow’s nest in my old heart once more, where she is more than ever welcome after her long absence, dearer even than in those first sweet days.

Just at this moment I hear the harsh grind of the weather-cock on the roof, or is it my old woman screaming something or other at me? I turn a deaf ear, but deuce take the sound, it has scared away my lovely youth.... She—I mean my wife—comes down in a rage as usual.

“What in the world are you doing there with your arms folded, gazing into the clouds, with your big mouth open as if you expected larks to drop into it? while here am I working for you like a pack-horse,—you think that’s what women are made for, but the good Lord never meant Adam to stand with his hands in his pockets while his wife slaved about the house. I say he ought to take his share of all that is going, good and bad alike; there must be that much justice in Heaven or I will know the reason why! Stop laughing, you great fool! Get to work if you want to eat. Ah! I thought that would hit him! Now then begin, and the sooner the better.”

“Of course I am going,” said I, smiling sweetly. “It is a sin to stay in the house on a day like this.” So back I went to the workshop and told my apprentices to come with me to Rion’s woodyard to choose a long smooth plank for the work I had in hand. Cagnat, Robinet, and I went out whistling, and met my old girl on the threshold still railing at men and things.

“Don’t go on so about it, Mistress,” said Cagnat, “we shall be back in no time.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” shrieked my sweet partner.

Nine was striking on the town clock as we reached Béyant, no distance at all, but we had the manners to pause just a second at the bridge and speak to Fétu, Gadin, and Trinquet, who were sitting on the parapet watching the water—by way of beginning their working day. We had a moment’s chat about nothing in particular, and then went on our way like steady responsible workmen, straight on, saying nothing to anybody, because, for one thing, there was no one on the road; but being persons of taste, we appreciated the beauties of nature, admiring the sky, the fresh spring verdure, a blooming apple-tree under the walls, the flight of a swallow, with some talk about the weather and the direction of the wind. All at once I remembered that I had not seen my little Glodie the whole morning, so I told my men to go on ahead, I would catch up with them at Rion’s.

When I got to Martine’s I found her down on her knees scrubbing the shop, her tongue going like a mill-race, talking to her husband, to his apprentice, to Glodie, to every one else within hearing, in the highest of spirits, and the floor being done, she flung the dirty water into the street, and hit me fair on the legs, where I was standing just outside the door admiring her,—there is no use denying it, she is the light of my eyes. Of course we both laughed louder than ever; she made a real picture, with her dark hair all tousled over her bright eyes and thick eyebrows, her lips as red as ripe plums, and her plump neck and arms, and her skirts tucked up just as far as need be.

“I hope you got it all, Father Noah?”

“Every drop, but I don’t mind that, as long as I am not obliged to drink it.”

In I went and kissed my little Glodie, who was sitting under the counter to be out of the wet.

“I bet I know what brought you here so early in the morning,” said Martine.

“You knew the reason before you were born,” was my answer.

“You mean Mother?”

“Who else?”

“Men are such cowards!”

Florimond heard the last word, just as he was coming in, and drew himself up, thinking it was meant for him. “No offense,” said I, “she was talking to me.”

“If the cap fits put it on!” said my daughter.

Florimond always stands a good deal on his dignity and hates to be laughed at; besides he is apt to be suspicious of Martine and me when we get together, and fancies, sometimes with some reason, that we are making him the butt of our jokes, so I said innocently, “You know well enough, Martine, that Florimond is master in his own house, not like your poor old father, who always let himself be put upon; you inherit your docile submissive nature from me, my child.”

“Get along with you, old humbug,” cried Martine, who by this time was at her house-cleaning again, rubbing the windows, the walls, and the furniture, as if to take the very skin off. She filled the whole place to overflowing with life and energy, while in the background stood Florimond as usual, stiff and particular; he is always chilly, never quite at his ease with us, our jokes shock him, and he cannot understand why we often laugh just out of sheer health and jollity, for he is himself somewhat undersized, thin, and low-spirited. Nothing is ever quite to his mind, perhaps because he is always thinking of himself, so there he stood with a knitted scarf round his scraggy fowl’s neck, and kept glancing about uneasily, till at last he said:

“There is a gale here fit to blow your head off. Shut a few of those windows.”

“It is as hot as Tophet!” said Martine, scrubbing harder than ever, but as a matter of fact there was a good fresh breeze coming in from all directions, too much for Florimond, who went off like a thunder-cloud. “He can go back and warm himself in his oven,” she said, laughing. I could not help asking her how she got along with her baker, though I knew perfectly well she would let herself be cut in pieces before she would admit that she had ever made a mistake; true enough, she declared that he suited her down to the ground. “One should always be content with what one has,” said she.

“You are right,” said I, “but if I may venture to say so, I should think your little man might sometimes have cause for uneasiness.”

“And why, I should like to know? My worst enemy would admit that I am a woman of my word, if he keeps his part of the bargain, but if he doesn’t, just let him look out for himself, that’s all I have to say. If he does his duty, I will do mine!”

“His whole duty?”

“You don’t suppose he would admit that it is too much for him?”

Martine sat back on her heels, her bright eyes sparkling with laughter, then jumped up and gave me a great push.

“You are wasting my whole day for me, there never was such an old gossip since the world was made. Get out now, take Glodie with you, she is forever under my feet, with her fingers in everything that goes on, (there, she has been in the bakeshop again, I can see dough on her nose). Get along with you, do, before I sweep you both out!”

So out we had to go, glad enough to be together, and on the way at last to Rion’s, but there were some fishermen by the riverside, and we had to stop to look at them, give them some advice and watch the line, and see the float disappear under the green water with a jerk. Glodie noticed the worm wriggling on the hook. “Poor thing,” she said, “he is going to be eaten, and that makes him unhappy.”

“Well, darling, it is rather nasty to be eaten, but then think how nice for the fish that swallows him, and says, ‘that’s good!’”

“How would you like it, Grandad, if any one swallowed you?”

“I should say, ‘What luck for the man that gets such a toothsome morsel!’ It is just the way you look at it, ducky, everything is good if you only see it in the right light; all is for the best to a true son of Burgundy.”

It was not quite eleven o’clock when we got to Rion’s, and there we saw Binet, (who like a careful lad had brought his rod), fishing for gudgeon, while Cagnat lay stretched out on the grass looking on.

I went on to the woodyard, for there is nothing I love so well as to handle the big logs stripped of their bark, and breathe in the clean fresh smell of sawdust; on my honor I believe a fine tree appeals to me even more than a woman, though I am not one of those narrow fools who can only enjoy one thing at a time. If I were in the slave market at Constantinople, and saw the girl of my heart there among twenty other beauties, do you think my love for her would prevent me from seeing the charms of the others? No, thank Heaven! my eyes are windows wide open to beauty of every kind, and nothing is lost on me. I am besides rather a sharp old bird,—long experience, you know,—and can detect the little tricks and dodges of the fair sex under no matter what disguise; in the same way beneath the rough skin of my tree-loves I can see life waiting for me to bring it forth.

Meanwhile Cagnat (who is impatient, like all young men) has been exchanging pleasantries at the top of his voice with loungers on the other end of the bridge, for though the people in the two suburbs may differ in some ways, they both like to spend the livelong day sitting on the wall of the bridge, with occasional trips to the nearest tavern; and as you may guess, a conversation between Beuvron and Béyant consists chiefly of abuse. They call us Burgundy snails and peasants; we retort with “frogs,” or “pike-eaters,”—I say “we,” because for the life of me, I never can keep out of any squabble that’s going on; it seems just ordinary civility to answer when you are spoken to. In the midst of our little encounter, all at once the clock struck twelve! Noon already? There must be something wrong with the hourglass, still I ought to be getting home, so I pressed our friends, who were looking on, to help us load our planks on the cart, and give us a hand with it back to Beuvron. “Cheeky devil,” was their first answer, but at bottom they were good-natured enough, so off we went running up the hill to the admiration of all beholders. When we got to our own bridge there were Fétu, Gadin, and Trinquet, just where we left them three hours ago, still watching the water. They jeered at us for working so hard, we called them good-for-nothings, and as the issue seemed in doubt, I sat down on the corner to see how it would all turn out, when suddenly I heard a well-known voice, and there was the old lady, “Will you tell me what you have been doing with yourself ever since nine this morning? It is my belief that you would never come home, if I did not drag you in by the hair of your head, idle, greedy vagabond! And your dinner is all burnt to a cinder!”

“You win!” said I, laughing; “there’s not one of these boys that can stand up to you when it comes to talking—but I was on my way home truly. I had only stopped to rest,—go ahead, I’ll be there in a minute.”

The two apprentices, my wife, and Glodie went off towards home at a brisk pace, and I followed in a more leisurely manner—I was going as I was bid, when down from the upper town came the sound of voices, of horns, and the gay chimes from St. Martin’s tower; and I remembered that the wedding of Mademoiselle Lucretia Champeaux, and Monsieur d’Amazy, the Receiver of Taxes, was to take place today. Every one made a bee-line for the castle, and rushed off at the top of his speed, I among the foremost, for shows like that don’t come our way often. Fétu, Gadin, and Trinquet were the only ones who stayed behind, as if they were glued to the wall of the bridge; they said it was undignified to put themselves out for those upper-towners, and as a rule I agree with them, and stand on my dignity as much as any man, but not when it comes between me and my amusement,—there is reason in all things! I took the flight of thirty-six steps up to St. Martin’s at one jump, but all the same by ill-luck I was not in time to see the wedding procession, which had already gone into church; naturally there was nothing left for me to do but to wait and see it come out, but as the service seemed interminably long—the clergy love the sound of their own voices,—I managed to squeeze my way between the bulging corporations of my fellow-citizens, till I found myself just inside the door under a regular human feather-bed. I am the last man to forget the respect due to the sacred edifice otherwise I might have been up to some of my jokes, but I know what’s what, and can be solemn as an owl at the right moment. Only sometimes even owls lose their gravity, and that is what happened to me, for while I was standing there, a model of propriety and devotion, the service went on, and as Monsieur d’Amazy is a great votary of the chase, hunting-horns were introduced at suitable moments. If only the pack of hounds had been there too! I did not dare to laugh, of course, but I whistled a flourish under my breath, and just then came the crucial point of the ceremony when the bride answers “Yes” to the fatal question. At once the horns burst out with the “set to,” and that was too much for me; I cried, “Hallali!” and the whole church roared with laughter, so that the beadle came to restore order, and I thought it a good time to make my way out, as quiet as a mouse.

There were plenty of people outside, many like myself who are aware that ears were made to hear, eyes to see, and tongues to tell what takes place—or what does not,—in the world around us; so it seemed but a moment before the great doors swung open again, and the sound of the organ came pouring out, as the bridal party appeared. First came the Amazy, leading his beautiful prize, her large eyes glancing to right and left like a frightened doe as she advanced. Lovely creature! I wish she had fallen to my charge, but to whom much is given, of him much is demanded, and Amazy has his work cut out for him. Unfortunately I saw little more, so that afterwards I could not even describe the dresses of the bride and bridegroom, for just then we were distracted by a grave question of precedence which arose among the dignitaries who formed part of the procession.

I shall never get over having missed the entrance into the church, for it seems that the Chief Magistrate of the Manor, and the Provost, acting as Mayor, had locked horns in the doorway like two old rams, and the Mayor being the bigger man got through first; the great question now was which of the two would be first coming out, so bets were freely offered, and meanwhile the head of the procession went on its way, but the tail delayed its appearance. We could see, just inside the entrance, that a furious dispute was in progress between the rival officials, and as they could not talk loud in church, there they were, scolding, puckering their faces into the most portentous frowns and scowls, and cursing at each other, all in dumb show. It was enough to make one die of laughing, but we all ended by taking part with one side or the other; the older ones for the Judge, because he was the Duke’s representative, and you must respect others, if you would be respected yourself; but the young men inclined to the side of the Mayor as champion of our liberties, and personally I backed the better man. We all shouted to encourage them with cries of “Go it, Grasset!” “At him again, Pétaud!!” “Shut his mouth!” But to our great disappointment the contestants were too much afraid of spoiling their fine clothes to get to their hands, and the dispute might have lasted till the crack of doom,—for there was no danger of their breath giving out,—if it had not been for the priest, who wanted to get to the castle in time for dinner,—so he smoothed them down, telling them it was bad manners to be late, and worse yet to show their evil tempers in the house of the Lord, that they could settle their difficulties another time,—and in short he got them all in motion. I was not near enough to hear all this, but I could see that he put his two big hands behind their heads and brought their faces gently together for the kiss of peace, and out they all came at last, marching in two lines, with the big priest in the middle. When masters fall out, we are always the gainers, so we were well pleased to see three at the head of the column, instead of one.

When they had all gone into the castle where their well-earned feast awaited them, we remained outside sniffing the delicious odors of a dinner we were not to share; but it was a sort of satisfaction to hear the list of dishes, for there were three of us there, Tripet, Bauldequin and I, who knew what was good, so our mouths watered as we heard all the toothsome things, and we approved or not as seemed best to us, the final decision being that the dinner was not so bad on the whole, only we ought to have been consulted, as persons of experience. When jugged hare was mentioned, every one had his own recipe to give,—for by this time we had a circle of auditors,—and there was lively disputing to and fro, in which I took part, as I always maintain that a man who is not interested in such subjects is nothing but a fish.

The best housekeepers in the town are Mistresses Perrine and Jacquette, who are rivals in the art of dinner-giving; each tries to eclipse the other, and naturally each has her partisans, for our best jousts in Clamecy take place at table. No one loves a good argument better than I do, but I would rather be doing myself than hear the exploits of others, and I cannot grow fat by talking of other men’s dinners. Tripet was of my way of thinking, and you may guess that I was delighted when he whispered to me:

“It is ill talking of good drink to the thirsty, or of love to a neglected lover; I can’t stand any more of this sort of thing; it is as if a beast were gnawing at my vitals; let us find some place where we can feed him.”

I told him to come along with me, that I knew where to look for the best remedy for his complaint; of course neither of us thought for a moment of going home, it was after two o’clock, and we should have found tempers boiling and soup cold, so we made for the Dolphin Inn at the corner of the High Street. It was market day, so the room was crowded, but we managed to get a table, and after all nothing is so appetizing as to see one’s friends around one, unless it be to sit down all alone to a good meal,—both ways are best.

For some time we had better use for our jaws than to talk. A delicate little shoulder of lamb with cabbage fully occupied us; on top of that a pint of the best, just to clear the mist from our eyes,—you know the proverb, “To eat dry, blinds the eye. Food unwined makes a man blind,” but when we had washed the dust out of our throats we had time to look about and enjoy ourselves. At the next table sat a vicar from the country and an old woman, a farmer’s wife, full of respect for his Reverence, bowing and bending her old head and turning up her eyes as if in the confessional; and he too had something of the same air, sitting sidewise, returning bow for bow, but with his mouth full, radiating forgiveness of sins from a full stomach.

Further on was our notary, Pierre Delavau, who was treating a brother lawyer to a good solid meal. The air was thick around them with talk of interest, money, politics, contracts—Roman republics, etc., for he likes to dabble in such things on a holiday, but in everyday life is a conservative loyal subject of the King.

My eye lighted presently on Perrin Le Queux, who caught sight of me at the same moment, and waved his glass towards me with the greatest cordiality,—old fox, in his stiff starched blouse! I’ll bet he saw me the moment I came in, but as he owes me the price of a fine carved oak chest for the last two years, he was conveniently short of sight. He jumped up and came over to our table.

“The best of luck!” said he, holding out his bottle, and when I shook my head he still pressed it on me. “At least you will have a bite of dinner,” he said, thinking of course I would refuse, having already dined, but I took him up at once. “So much to the good on my bill,” thought I to myself.

We began all over again, but this time without undue haste, as the first rage of hunger was abated and the crowd thinning out,—there are always people who leave as soon as they have swallowed their food,—and there remained only men of ripe age and wisdom who know what’s what, and reckon a good dish to be equal to a good deed any day. I sat where I could feel the sunshine and fresh air through the open door, where some chickens were picking at the crumbs, and an old hound lay dozing on the threshold; outside were the street cries, “Fine fish!” “Mend your windows!” and the shrill voices of women. On the other side of the dusty square were two big white oxen lying down with their legs folded under them, peacefully chewing the cud, with their eyes half shut, while from the sunny roofs came the cooing of pigeons. Really I could have cooed or purred myself if any one had stroked my back. We all began to talk from table to table, in perfect good-fellowship, the country vicar, the notary, his partner, the innkeeper (Baiselat by name), and I, and as we were all full, and contented with our lot, we took a certain pleasure in discussing the hard times and the political situation. We all groaned over the bad state of business, the high cost of living, the poverty and ruin of France, general decadence of the race, mistakes in administration, etc., but we were careful to name no names, for the ears of the great are as large as their fortunes, and who knows when an unlucky word may drop into them? Truth, as we know, is at the bottom of a well, so we ran but little risk in abusing those of our masters who were the farthest off, especially that wretched Concini brought from Florence under the fat Queen’s petticoats. Each had something to say against him, and with perfect justice, for if you catch two curs fighting over a bone, you beat your own dog, of course, but you half kill the stranger. However, I took the other side of the argument, partly for love of fair play, and partly out of perversity; so I said the dogs should be treated alike, that any one would suppose, to hear people talk, that all our evils were imported from Italy, whereas if the truth were known plenty of wicked things, and wicked people too, grow in our own garden. To this they all declared with one voice that a scamp from over the Alps was three times worse than one of us, and that three honest Italians were not equal to a third of a good Frenchman. I answered that man is pretty much the same animal wherever you find him, that I knew a good one when I saw him, and liked him, even if he came out of Italy, but this raised a perfect riot, and they all fell on me at once saying they knew I talked like that because I was a wanderer and a gadabout, always stumping along the highroad. I had to admit that there was some truth in this, for in my time I did kick about the world a good deal, when our good lord the old Duke—father of the present man—sent me to Mantua to study the enamels, potteries, and art industries which were afterwards transplanted here. The whole journey from St. Martin’s to St. Andrew’s in Mantua was made on my two feet, with a stick in my hand, so you may guess if I spared shoe-leather! I love to feel the ground under me, and the world before me where to choose, but don’t say another word about it, or I shall be off again, like a true son of those Gauls who pillaged the world. “I should like to know what you ever brought back from your travels by way of booty,” they said. As much as any of my ancestors; all that I could cram into my head or my eyes,—empty pockets if you like, but Lord! what a lot I saw and heard and tasted,—it is a treat only to think of it. A man cannot know all and see all, but he can do his best, and I was like a big sponge in the ocean, or rather like a ripe bunch of grapes full to bursting of the rich juices of the earth; you would have a fine vintage if you could squeeze me, but I mean to keep it for my own particular drinking; you fellows pretend to look down on it, so much the better for me. When I first came home you know I tried to share some of my good things with you, the treasures I had picked up in sunny climes, but people here have no curiosity except about the doings of their neighbors; the rest of the world seems too far off, there is as good at home, and they think those who come from Rome are none the better for their journey. I never try to force a thing down any man’s throat, so I kept what I had for myself, and let people go on in their own way, and I even went along with them, for that is the path of wisdom; you can’t make people happy against the grain, but you can share content with them.

Following this plan I joined in the usual hymn of praise. What pride, what joy to be a Clamecyan! and I believe it, by Heavens! so I sat there furtively drawing Delavau’s nose, and the curate’s long arms which he flaps about when he speaks, and we talked about our good town;—a place where I was born must have merit,—besides, all human plants flourish here, they are not thorny and spiteful, even if their tongues are somewhat long and sharp at the end. No one is the worse for a little gossip, particularly if you get as good as you send; at bottom you love your neighbor as yourself, and would not hurt a hair of his head.

We are all proud of our province, which remained calm in the midst of the excitement everywhere else; our Provost Ragon would not join the Guisards, the League, the heretics, the Catholics, or any of the extremists, persecutors, or rebels; and it was here that St. Bartholomew came to wash his bloody hands, where we all stood firm around our good Duke, like an island of safety against which the waves of trouble dashed themselves in vain.—I cannot speak without emotion of Duke Louis, and our late King,—how we loved them both!—for we really seemed made for one another, in spite of faults on both sides; no one is perfect in this world, of course, but these very faults in them were endearing, and brought us closer together; they were so human! We used to laugh and say, “Nevers is younger than ever,” or “Our good King is once more a father to his people!” Those were the good times, and we can truly say that we had the cream of it then—Delavau knew Duke Louis as well as I, but the honor of having seen King Henry is mine alone, and I love to tell for the hundredth time of how it happened. It always seems a new story to me and to my friends too, for they are Frenchmen of the right sort, and so I told them once more of the gray King mounted on a gray horse with his gray hat, his gray coat,—his elbows sticking through the sleeves,—his gray eyes, the outside all gray, but pure gold within!

Just as I was in the middle of my story the notary’s clerk ran in to call him to a dying client, so I was interrupted, for he had to leave at once, which was all the more annoying as he had a story of his own on the tip of his tongue. I knew he had been hatching it for an hour, but I wanted first to get off my own little tale. I must admit in all fairness that his was funny when it did come; he has not his equal for a story with a dash of salt to it.

We all went out together, cheered from head to foot. It must have been just about five o’clock or a bit later, and see how in three short hours I had raked in two good dinners, and an order from the notary for an oak press, to say nothing of all the fun we had had going over old stories:—well, we just stopped to take a thimble full of cherry brandy and a biscuit at Rathery’s, the apothecary, and then the party broke up. Delavau had finished one story and begun another, so as we wanted to hear the end of it, we went on with him as far as Mirandole, and there we left him at last, only stopping to lean against the wall for a minute or two, long enough to say good-by.

It was now rather too late to go home, or perhaps I should say too early, so I walked down towards Béyant with a man who was pushing his barrow loaded with charcoal, trumpeting his wares as he went. On the way we met a blacksmith coming up trundling a wheel before him; when it slackened speed he made a running jump and sent it flying on ahead, for all the world like those allegories where you see men pursue Fortune which always eludes their outstretched hand. This impressed me as a very good image, and I made a note of it for future reference. I was in two minds which way to take towards home, when I saw a funeral issuing out of the hospital gates. First came two tiny choir-boys, giggling together as they walked, one carrying a cross three times as high as himself clutched against his little fat tummy. Behind came the body under its pall, borne by four tottering old men, and then the vicar. I felt it a matter of simple politeness to go with the poor sleeper to his last lodging, for misery loves company, and then I wanted to hear what the widow had to say. As is the custom, she was walking beside the officiating priest pouring out her sad tale; how the departed was taken ill, what remedies were applied, how he died, his faults, his virtues, his affection, in short the story of his life and hers, while the priest’s chants filled in the pauses. Before we had gone far our numbers were swelled by many worthy souls with ears to hear and hearts to feel, so at last we came to the resting-place where they put down the bier at the edge of the grave. You know a pauper cannot take his wooden shirt with him—not that he sleeps the less sound for that,—so they lifted the pall and the coffin lid, and let him slide down into his hole. I threw a handful of earth over him, and made the sign of the Cross, to keep bad dreams away, and then went off at peace with all the world; since morning I had seen and heard everything, rejoiced with the fortunate, and wept with the sorrowful. My cup was full, and, the day being over, I sauntered back along the waterside.

I was making for the junction of the two rivers, meaning to follow the Beuvron to my own house, but the lovely evening tempted me on till almost without knowing it I found myself outside the town and I kept on by the bewitching little Yonne nearly to the narrows at La Forêt. The water flowed by calm and still with scarcely a ripple on its smooth surface; my sight was drowned in it, as a fish is held by the hook; the whole sky was entangled by the river as if in a net, where it seemed to float with its rosy clouds caught among the reeds and grasses, and the golden sun rays trailing in the water. There was an old cowherd on the bank with his two skinny cows: I went and sat down beside him, and as he was rather shaky on his pins, I told him of a remedy for his rheumatic complaint;—(I am rather a good doctor when I have time for it),—so he told me all about himself, his ills and sorrows, but he seemed jolly enough, and even resented my thinking him younger than he was. He was seventy-five years old, and took pride in it, saying the older you were, the more you could bear. It seemed quite right to him that we should all have to suffer, and, on the other hand, he said God’s favors fall alike on the just and the unjust, so all is as it should be; rich and poor, gentle and simple will sleep at last in the same Father’s arms. As he talked his quavering old voice mingled with the chirp of crickets, the water pouring over the dam, the smell of wood and tar blowing towards us from the harbor, the tranquil flowing river, the fair reflections all melting into the peaceful evening.

When he had gone I walked back alone with my hands behind my back, watching the circles in the water, and was so absorbed that I forgot where I was till I heard a well-known voice on the other bank, and saw I was just opposite our house. There was my wife,—gentle soul!—shaking her fist at me out of the window! I fixed my eyes on the stream and made believe not to see her, but she was reflected upside down as if in a glass; I did not say a word, but shook all over with inward laughter, and the more I laughed the angrier she got. It was too killing to see her bobbing up and down in the Beuvron head first! At last she lost all patience; I heard doors and windows banging behind her, and she came rushing out after me like a whirlwind. She had to cross a bridge to get at me, and the question was which? Right or left, for we were just between the two. She made for the little foot-bridge to the right, and I naturally took the other, where I found Gadin planted on the very same spot where I had left him in the morning.

Night was falling as I came to my own door. Though I am not like that lazy Roman who was always complaining that he had lost a day, still I do not know where time goes, though none of this day has been lost, and I am content enough, but if only there were forty-eight hours instead of twenty-four! I do not feel that I always get my money’s worth, for my glass is no sooner filled than it is empty; there must be a crack in it. I sometimes think I envy people who sip and sip without ever coming to the bottom. It cannot be that their glass is longer than mine, that would be too much to bear. “Hi there! you landlord of the Sun, fill up my mug to the brim when you are pouring out the daylight!” But I have nothing really to complain of, for the Lord has blessed me with an appetite that nothing can ever satisfy, so I love both day and night and cannot get enough of either.

Swift flying day of April, are you gone indeed? But it is good to feel that I have not lost a moment of your sweet presence. I have kissed and held you close in my arms;—so now welcome, dear night, it is your turn to share my couch, but good Lord! I forgot, there will be three of us, for the old woman is just coming up to look for me.

V
BELETTE

May.

Three months ago I got an order from the château of Asnois for a dresser and a chest, but I would not begin to work on them until I was able to see the room and the place where they were to stand; for according to my idea, furniture is like wall fruit. A good apple comes from a good tree; and there is no use in telling me that a beautiful thing is beautiful no matter where it is, like a wayside Venus, who sells herself to the highest bidder. True art is an expression of our inmost selves; it is the spirit of home and of the fireside, our domestic deity; and to know him you must know the house where he dwells. He is so made for man, and his work meant to fulfil and complete man’s existence, that nothing can be really beautiful unless it is in its proper setting.

I set off early, then, to see where my chest was to stand, and what with the walk and my dinner, it took up nearly half a day; but man must eat to live, and everything was so much to my mind, that I was in the best of spirits when I at last started back towards home. The path to Clamecy ran straight enough, but when I came to the crossroads, I could not help glancing down a by-way, which went wandering across the meadows, between the blossoming hedges.

Said I to myself, “How nice it would be to leave the stupid highroad, and follow that little path; the day is yet young, and anyhow it would never do to get home ahead of the sun, and early or late the wife will have something to say to me.... I really must go a step or two farther, and have a look at that dear little pear tree; surely those are not snowflakes? no, of course not, they are the white petals blown off by the wind. Listen to the birds! and the tinkling of the brook, sliding along under the grass, like a kitten chasing a ball.... I have a great mind to follow it, and see if the roots of this oak will not stop it; where can it have gone? well, upon my word! it has squeezed its way under the big gouty knees of yonder elm,—did you ever see such impudence? I might as well go and find out where this path does lead.”

It was all very well to saunter along thus at the heels of my vagrant shadow, but in the back of my head I knew perfectly well where that beguiling footway would take me. Like Ulysses, I tried to play the hypocrite with myself, but the truth is, that I made up my mind where I meant to go from the moment I left the gates of Asnois. An old flame of mine lived at a mill down in these parts, and I had a fancy to go and surprise her,—or perhaps surprise myself, who knows? It was many a long day since I had set eyes on Céline, or “Belette” as they called her, and the chances were that her saucy face would be changed out of knowledge. Ah! Belette, I am not afraid of you now! Those little teeth of yours can no longer hurt this poor old dried-up heart! Perhaps the teeth are gone too? I can see them now, and hear your charming laughter! What a fool she did make of you, Breugnon; you were a mere toy in those hands of hers; but, after all, why not? if she could get some fun out of such a country blockhead as I was then. I learned the noble art of wood-carving from Master Médard Lagneau, and I can see myself now leaning over the wall of his place, gazing with my mouth open. The wall ran between the yard where we worked and a big kitchen garden, planted with lettuce, strawberries, pink radishes, cucumbers, and melons; and there, at all hours of the day, I could see a tall active slip of a girl, balancing two great watering pots in her strong brown hands, as she carefully sprinkled the thirsty borders. She wore a coarse chemise of unbleached linen, which showed her bare arms and long throat; her feet too were bare, and her short skirt was tucked up to her knees, which were round and strong like a boy’s. The first thing you noticed about her was the heavy mass of her twisted reddish hair. I literally could not take my eyes off her as she came and went emptying her watering pots, going back to fill them at the well, carrying them steadily and carefully along the narrow paths, where her long bare toes felt their own way cleverly in the damp earth between the strawberry plants. She did not seem to know that I was there, keeping steadily on with her work; but when she came close, all at once she turned her head and shot a look at me. Ouch!—I can still feel the hook in my gills, and the net around me. “A woman’s eye catches the fly,” as the proverb has it. I struggled of course, but what was the use? There was the silly fly on the wall, with his wings stuck together.

She paid no more attention to me, and squatted down on her heels to plant her cabbage, but from time to time she stole a look to make sure that her prey was still there. There was no use in my saying to myself, “She is trying to make a fool of you, my lad!” I could see her snickering, and that made me grin too:—what an ass I must have looked! At last up she jumped, ran across the garden, came back, stuck her feet wide apart over the edge of the border, caught at a floating spray of bloom, and said, waving her arm at me, “Another good fellow gone!” As she spoke she thrust her flower in the front of her dress. “That’s where I should like to be,” said I, for though I may have been a fool at that age, I was no laggard in an affair of this kind.

She put her arms akimbo and burst out laughing. “Not for the likes of you,” cried she. “Greedy!”... That was the beginning of my acquaintance with the pretty gardener Belette, on a warm August evening.

The nickname of “Weasel” suited her long body, with the small head and pointed nose, and wide prominent mouth; just the mouth to crack nuts and hearts, and made too for laughter. Oh, her eyes! dark blue like thunder-clouds, and her wildcat smiling lips!—What chance had the poor prey, once in her toils?

I did very little work after this, but spent most of my time gawking over the wall, till Master Lagneau would come behind, and dislodge me with a vigorous kick. Belette got tired of me sometimes, and would tell me to stop staring at her and get out; but I often told her, with a wink, that you cannot know either a woman or a melon just by looking. How much I should have liked to try a slice of her! But perhaps another fruit would have served my turn then equally well; for I was at the age when a man could fall in love with the eleven thousand virgins. Did I love Belette really?—there are times when a boy like me will love anybody;—but no, Breugnon, that is all humbug, and you know it; your first love is the real article, your fate, marked out for you by the stars in their courses, and it is perhaps because I missed my destiny that my whole life long I have gone unsatisfied.

We understood one another at half a word; though we did nothing but tease. Both of us had glib tongues, and I would give her back as good as she sent, quick as lightning. Sometimes we nearly died of laughing, and when she thought that she had got the better of me, she would throw herself down and roll over and over on the ground with joy, among her beets and onions. She would come too and stand under my wall, and talk to me in the warm twilight evenings. How well I remember her once, as she stood there laughing, her bright eyes looking into mine,—she could see my heart at the bottom of them,—and I can see her now, as she reached up and pulled down a branch of the cherry tree, the ripe fruit resting like jewels on her hair, and then she did not pick the cherries, she just bit off the flesh of them, leaving the stones on the stem. Ah! eternal eager youth, with your lips at the fountain!—When I have been carving on a panel, how many a time since have I drawn the lines of her beautiful arms, her breast, her throat with the head thrown back, her full rich mouth!... I bent over the wall, and drew the branch towards me, putting the moist stones to my lips, where I could still feel the touch of hers.

On Sundays we walked over to Beaugy, and there we used to dance; though I was a perfect stick at it in spite of what they say, that love lends wings, and would give grace to the very bean-poles. She was always at me, and never for a moment did we cease our sparring; she liked to laugh at my long crooked nose, my big mouth like an oven, my scrubby beard, and all the rest of it. They say we are made in the likeness of God, but I hope not, for His sake.... Belette at least never stopped laughing at my queer looks, and I did my best to get even.

This kind of thing went on till we both of us took fire. I shall never forget the vintage that year; Belette and I worked side by side, bent double among the poles, our heads nearly touching, and sometimes as I stripped the vines my hand would brush against her, and then she would rear up like a young colt and give me a smart slap, or squeeze a bunch of grapes in my face. Naturally I retorted with another, till the red juice ran down over her sunburned bosom. You never saw such a little devil as she was, but I could not catch her off her guard. We always kept a wary eye on each other, for she knew well enough what I was after; but she always seemed to be saying, “Don’t you wish you may get it?” On my side, I was just like a cat with his eyes half shut, watching a mouse and ready to pounce at the right moment. “Wait till I catch you, my lady!” I thought.

One afternoon in this very month of May,—our summers must have been hotter in those days,—the air was like an oven, a furnace seven times heated; for hours black threatening clouds had been coming up, big with the storm which still held off, so that we melted under the heat, and the very tools stuck to our fingers. Belette had been singing in her garden, but after a while I could neither see nor hear her, till at last I caught sight of her sitting on a stone under the shed roof, asleep; her lips parted, her head leaning back against the door-post, one arm resting on the big water-can, as if she were overcome by sudden lassitude. There she lay, half exposed, defenseless like Danaë, and I her Jupiter!—I dropped over the wall, crushing the cabbages and lettuce in my haste, and took her in my arms, putting my mouth to hers. How sweet she was! all warm and half asleep! She seemed to yield, and returned my kisses, but without opening her blue eyes.—My blood burned in my veins, and I strained her to my breast with delight; at last, the ripe fruit had dropped into my longing mouth!—but in spite of my joy, some strange scruple now restrained me; I don’t know what queer notions held me back,—great fool that I was!—but I felt that I loved her too much,—I could not take advantage of her so,—half asleep, not knowing what she did. My proud beauty! I would not have her unconsenting, and so,—I tore myself away from my happiness, untwining our linked arms and our lips, not without trouble, for man is fire, and woman tow: but I left her trembling, like that other simpleton you have heard of, who conquered Antiope. I too conquered, that is, I took to my heels:—I fairly blush when I think of it, at thirty-five years’ distance. Foolish boy! yes, but what would I not give to be capable now of such folly?

From that time Belette treated me as if she were possessed of the devil, never twice was she in the same mind; one day she would launch some insult at me, or ignore my very existence, and the next she would meet me with languishing sheep’s eyes, and cajoling laughter. When my back was turned, she would hide behind a tree, and hurl lumps of sod at my neck, or hit me on the nose with a plum; and worse than all were her goings on with any man that she could pick up, when we were out on Sundays. She took it into her head,—chiefly to annoy me, I do believe,—to flirt with Quiriace Pinon, a great chum of mine. He and I were like Orestes and Pylades, you never saw one without the other, and wherever there was anything going on, a fair, a fight, or a wedding, there we were in the midst of it. He was short and thickset, as sturdy as an oak, a good straightforward worker, and as for friendship! it would have gone hard with any one who interfered with me when he was by.

Belette singled him out from all the rest of her admirers, knowing well enough what it would mean to me; and she had no trouble at all with him, you may be sure.—A few smiles and glances out of those eyes of hers were quite enough to do his business. What son of Adam can resist the wiles of these serpents? She would put on her innocent unconscious air, turn her long neck and glance at him under her fringed eyelashes, flash her white teeth, lick her red lips with her little pointed tongue, then walk away, her whole supple body swaying as she moved.

Pinon lost his head completely, and so Belette soon had the two of us stuck up on the wall, watching her every step. She drew us both on, so it was not long before we were ready to fly at each other’s throats; but when she thought the thing had gone far enough, she would throw a little cold water on the pair of us. Much as this last trick angered me, I could not help laughing at her, clever little cat! but it drove Pinon half out of his wits;—(a joke was always a sealed book to him, but he would roar at one that no one else could make head or tail of.)—When she was cold to him, he would lose his temper, stamp and swear at her like a madman, and she rather liked this rough sort of wooing, so different from my way with her.

She and I were really of the same Gallic breed—there was much more affinity between us than there was between her and Pinon, who was simply a ramping, stamping sort of a brute; but from pure caprice, or perhaps to vex me, she showed him the greatest favor, smiling at him with lips and eyes full of the sweetest promises; but when it came to keeping them, and he was ready to burst with pride in his conquest, then she would turn and march off, leaving him in the lurch.

All this was droll enough to me, but Pinon could not see the joke, and would turn on me like a tiger, because, forsooth! I was taking his girl away from him! It came to such a pass, that he actually told me to take myself out of the way; I replied that the very same words had been on the tip of my tongue.

“Well then, I shall have to punch your head for you!”

“It may come to that,” said I, “but I should hate to do it.”

“Me too,” said he. “Now, Breugnon, one cock is enough in a farmyard; do you get out of this, like a sensible fellow.”

“By all means,” said I, “only you are the one to quit the premises, she was mine before you ever saw her.”

This made him furious, and he called me a low-down liar, and swore that Belette was his, and that I should never touch a hair of her head.

“Do you ever look at yourself in the glass, my poor friend?” said I. “She is meat for your masters, in other words for me, so go back where you came from and dig turnips.”

“Listen to me, Breugnon,” said he. “She loves me best.”—I shook my head. “Will you leave it to her?” he persisted, “and promise to get out if she takes me?”

“Agreed!” said I, and held out my hand.

It is one thing to tell a girl to choose, but it is quite another to make her do it; there is much more fun for her in keeping two suitors on the string; so she merely laughed in our faces, and went off, when we told her of our bargain. We were really fond of one another, but now, there was nothing else for it, we had to fight. Back we went to the shop, and pulled our coats off.

“Hold on a second,” said Pinon, and gave me a great kiss on both cheeks. Then we went at it in earnest, for when it comes to real fighting, friendship has to go to the wall, and in five minutes Pinon had nearly knocked my head off, while I battered at his stomach, till the blood literally poured off both of us. How it would have ended, no one knows, for by this time we were as savage as a couple of bulldogs; but my Master Lagneau and some of the neighbors heard the row and rushed in. A hard time they had to pull us apart, and at last Lagneau had even to take his horsewhip to us, but they finally made us let go, and a sight we were to behold when it was over! At this crisis the third party made his appearance; he was a miller named Jean Mifflard, short and red in the face, with little eyes like a wild boar’s, and fat puffy cheeks. He laughed at the pair of us; and told us we were fools to knock each other about for a little hussy like that, who was only amusing herself at our expense, just for the fun of trailing a pack of lovers at her heels.

“I will tell you what,” said he; “she is only making game of you; so now, just shake hands and go off somewhere together, that will turn the laugh on her, and when she finds that you are gone out of her reach, she will be forced to choose, one way or the other, and let the best man win! Now then! get out with you! and the sooner the better. You may rely on me while you are gone, to keep an eye on the lady, and if anything new turns up, you shall know it. Come on and have a drink, and forget all about it!”

We did drink, I can tell you,—my word, but we were thirsty!—and that very night we started off together for nowhere in particular; proud enough of ourselves, God knows why! and with hearts full of gratitude towards our friend the miller, who laughed when he took leave of us till his little eyes almost disappeared under his fat eyelids.

The next morning, though we did not like to admit it, we felt a little less cocky—and we sat and thought of this precious plan of attacking a place by running away from it, and as the sun rose higher in the heavens, our respect for ourselves sank lower, till by nightfall we were watching each other like two cats, though we still kept up a show of indifference. In the back of our minds was the notion of stealing off alone to the village, but neither of us dared to take his eye off the other for a second. Each tried all sorts of unsuccessful dodges to get rid of the other man, but finally we lay down on our straw mattresses, pretending to fall asleep and snore loudly, though love and fleas chased rest from our eyelids.

At last Pinon could bear it no longer, and jumped up, declaring that he was going back. “All right then,” said I, “I’m with you!”

It took us a whole day to walk home; but we got there about sunset, and hid in the woods till dark, as we were not particularly anxious for any one to see us,—it would have been rather awkward, and then we wanted to surprise Belette;—we pictured her in tears, reproaching herself, sighing for her lost lover;—which one?—but you can guess what answer each of us gave to that question.

Our hearts beat fast as we stole down to the end of her garden; the moonlight shone full on the cottage, and what do you think I saw hanging on an apple-tree just outside of her open window? Not an apple, no, it was a hat belonging to Giffard, the miller!

There is no need to dwell on what followed, though of course every one but ourselves would have thought it killingly funny. I stayed where I was, but Quiriace made one jump, swung himself up the tree, ran along the branch, and leaped in at the window.

In a moment the air was rent with screams, curses, yells, and vituperations, noise of breaking furniture, smashed china and glass, groans, blows, shrieks, and growls, as if a cage full of wild beasts were fighting. As you may imagine, the row soon woke up the entire neighborhood; I did not wait to see the end of it, but made off as fast as I could, half laughing,—for it was funny when you came to think of it,—but with the tears running down my cheeks all the same.

“You are well out of that, Colas my boy,” said I to myself, but in my heart I was not so sure of it. I tried to laugh at all the row-de-dow, and mimic the girl, Quiriace, and the miller. “But oh! Belette,” cried I, “this will break my heart!”

I didn’t really know if I was glad or sorry, but on the whole I came near to regretting my escape; for if I had married her, and she had betrayed me? At least she would have been mine, and love is well worth any price you must pay for it.

For at least a month I was drawn to and fro between rage and relief; while the whole village split its sides laughing at me, and sometimes, when the thought of Belette came over me I could have dashed my head against the wall. Fortunately such feelings do not last; we are not meant to die for love, but to live by it; and then you do not often find a hero of romance in Burgundy; life is too sweet to us for that; and since our permission was not asked before we were born, we feel that we may as well make the best of it now that we are here. We need the world, or the world needs us, I was never quite sure which; but at all events we always hold on till the last gasp, draining every drop of the cup, and when it is empty, we can fill it up again from our bounteous hillsides. No native of Burgundy is in a hurry to die; but when it comes to suffering, we can bear it as well as the best.

Well, for as much as six months, I was deucedly unhappy; but time flows along, and sweeps our sorrows away with it. Now that it is all over, I can find consolation, but oh, my Belette! if only I had not missed you!—and that pig-faced miller, with his flour bags! to think that all these years she has belonged to him!—thirty years ago he married her! They tell me that he began to neglect her almost from the first day, (he was just the kind of animal that bolts his food, and so gets no flavor out of it); and they say too that he would not have married her at all, if Pinon had not caught him that night, and forced him, so to speak, into a wedding ring, which was too tight for him and her too; for when things were not to his liking, he naturally took it out of his wife. So there was an end of one, two and three, Pinon, Belette, and poor old Breugnon, who has been trying, ever since, to make a joke of it.... I could scarcely believe my eyes when at a turn in the path, I saw her house not twenty yards away; was it possible that I had been walking for hours among those old memories? There was the red roof, and the white walls of the cottage, half covered with the rich foliage of a grapevine, its thick stem winding upwards like a serpent. The door stood open; before it in the shade of a walnut tree was a stone trough running over with clear water. A woman was stooping over it and my knees gave way under me when I saw her again after all these years. My first impulse was to run, but she had seen me, and as she dipped her pail in the trough she still kept her eyes on me, and I felt that she knew who I was, though she was far too proud to show it. The next moment the bucket slipped from her fingers as she straightened herself up, and then she called out, “Better late than never!”

“That sounds as if you had been waiting for me!”

“What an idea! I don’t believe that I have given you one thought in twenty years.”

“Nor I either,” said I, “but all the same, it does me good to see you.”

“And me too,” she answered, crossing her wet arms, and looking at me as I stood there in my shirt-sleeves. Our eyes met and yet we could not seem to look each other in the face; between us the water filled and ran over the rim of the bucket, and at last she spoke again, “Come in and sit down a minute.”

“I must be getting on, thank you,” I said, “as I am rather in a hurry.”

“Slow to come, and quick to go,” said she. “I don’t see why you came at all, then?”

“I was only taking a stroll about here,” said I calmly.

“Money and time must be cheap where you come from.”

“Oh! when I get an idea in my head I never count the cost.”

“The same old looney still I see!” said she, laughing, and “Once a fool, always a fool!” was my answer. We walked slowly in, and she closed the yard gate behind us, shutting us in alone, among the hens which clucked about our feet. She crossed over and shut,—or maybe opened,—the big doors of the barn, and spoke a word to the watch-dog, but I saw that it was to cover her embarrassment, and that all the men were off in the fields. I talked as fast as I could, about farming, chicken raising, pigeons, ducks, pigs, and all the creatures that ever came out of the ark; but all at once she stopped me.

“Breugnon!” My breath came short as I looked at her. “Breugnon,” she said again, and then, “Kiss me!” My lips were on hers, before the words were well off them, and though at our age there is not much to be got out of kissing, it is always a pleasure, and it fairly brought the tears to my eyes to feel her soft wrinkled cheeks against mine.

“Old silly!” said I to myself; “what is there to cry for?”

“You are as bristly as a hedgehog!” she said, laughing.

“Excuse me! I would have given myself an extra shave this morning if I had known the pleasure that was in store for me, but it is a fact that my beard was softer thirty years ago when I would, and you wouldn’t, you little minx of a shepherdess!”

“Do you ever think now of those old times?”

“No, I have forgotten all about them.” We laughed, but neither could look at the other.

“You are something like me,” she said. “As proud as a peacock, as stubborn as a mule, and what is more, I can see you are the kind that will never grow old. You were no beauty in your best days, my friend, and when a man has nothing, you can’t take it away from him; perhaps your nose may be rather thicker, and you have plenty of wrinkles, but on the whole you are not much the worse for wear. I always say that the main thing is to keep the hair on one’s head, and yours is not white yet, and as thick as ever.”

“Numskull keeps the thatch full,” said I.

“You men are so aggravating, you never let anything bother you, but we poor creatures grow old, because we have all the weight thrown on our shoulders; see what a wreck I am! once I was like a fresh peach to look at, and to touch too, if you remember? Such hair as I had! such skin, such a figure, and where has it all gone now? Own up now, you would not have known me if you had met me in the street?”

“I would have known you anywhere out of all the women in the world, with my eyes shut.”

“Perhaps so, but if they were open? I have lost teeth, my cheeks have fallen in, I have red eyes, and a sharp nose; while as for my throat and all the rest of it, I am nothing but an old meal sack, and that’s the truth!”

“In my eyes you are always young.”

“You must be blind, then.”

“No, Belette, my sight at least is as keen as ever. Do you remember? You were called that because you were like a little weasel, and here you are, run to earth, after all your doublings and turnings, and you still have your little sharp nose, and bright eyes like your namesake, shining up at me out of your burrow.”

“It’s safe enough now, at any rate, for the old fox to come near me. Well, love has not made you any thinner.”

“Why should it?” said I, laughing. “The creature has to be fed!”

“Perhaps it would do as well to give him something to drink,” said she, so we went into the farmhouse, and sat down at the table. The Lord knows what it was that she placed before me! I was too much taken up with other things to notice, but all the time I plied a good knife and fork as usual, while she sat opposite with her elbows on the table, and when our eyes met, she gave me a smile.

“Are you feeling a little better?”

“Stomach empty, heart heavy, belly full, heart light! that’s what the old song tells us,” said I. She was silent, but her big clever mouth twitched at the corners, and I kept on talking of the first thing that came into my head, while we looked at one another, and thought of all that had passed between us.

“Breugnon,” said she, at last, “I can tell you, now that it does not matter, it was you I was in love with.”

“I knew it all the time,” said I calmly.

“And if you knew so much, why did you say nothing about it?”

“Because, of course, you would have been just perverse enough to contradict me.”

“What difference would that have made, if you had been sure of the contrary? You kiss people’s lips, not the words that come out of them!”

“Something more than words used to come out of your lips, on occasion.—Do you remember that night we caught you with the miller?”

“It was all your fault,” she said, “or mine, if you like to say so, but, Colas, you that have so much penetration, did you know one thing? I took him out of pure spite, because you went off that time with Pinon? I had been angry with you for a long time, ever since that evening,—I don’t know if you recollect it,—when you despised me.”

“I? Never in the world!”

“Yes, you, surely you remember one evening when I fell asleep in the garden, and you came and picked me up, but dropped me like a hot potato?”

“Belette,” said I earnestly, “let me tell you all about it.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” said she, “but how if it were to do over again?”

“I think that I should do just the same.”

“What a mutton-head it is!” cried she. “But on my soul! I believe that is the reason why I loved you,—still I thought I would have some fun with you, after that; you deserved to suffer a little, and who could have thought that you would be fool enough to go away from the hook, instead of swallowing it?”

“Much obliged!” said I; “but hooks have sharp points to them.”