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 OF
 
 MADAME AGNES. 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES DUBOIS, 
 
 MEMBER OF THE AC AD EM IE STANISLAS. 
 
 New York : 
 THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY,
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by 
 
 THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 M. CHARLES DUBOIS: 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND : You wish your first work to appear under 
 my auspices. Does that mean I am to take you by the hand, 
 and, addressing the respectable community whose approbation 
 you are ambitious of securing, speak somewhat as follows : 
 " I have the honor of making you acquainted with M. Charles 
 Dubois, a gentleman of cultivated mind and feelings. I also 
 present Madame Agnes, which is a work of merit. To all 
 who wish to make the acquaintance of this author and his 
 work I promise much pleasure and great benefit " ? 
 
 Jesting apart, I think you are doubly wrong. In the first 
 place, your book has no need of a sponsor. And then, you 
 invest me quite gratuitously with an authority that only be- 
 longs to Mare"chaux de la literature. Nevertheless, as it is 
 your wish, I will fulfil it. 
 
 But you are by no means ignorant that a preface is a 
 very delicate affair. In the first place, no one reads it. Out 
 of ten persons who open a book, seven or eight generally 
 skip deliberately the Preface, Introduction, Avant-Propos, 
 Advice to the Reader, etc., even if signed by the most cele- 
 brated names. Since, therefore, the thoughtful alone will 
 deign to read this prefatory letter, why not venture on a 
 slight moral? Why not avail myself of Madame Agnes to 
 speak of the class of literature to which it belongs? 
 
 Your book has certainly more than one thing to recom- 
 mend it. It displays at once, as I could show, keen obser- 
 vation, a skilful pen, an ardent nature, sterling sense, and 
 a Christian spirit. And yet it is not all this that strikes 
 me most forcibly, and which I wish to dwell on here. 
 Madame Agnes is an argument, and a strong one, in favor 
 of one of the subjects, at once moral and literary, which I 
 have most at heart. 
 
 2129768
 
 4 Preface. 
 
 How may all the specious objections against religious works 
 of fiction be summed up ? In the following dilemma : either 
 the work is romantic, and therefore open to most of the 
 objections against pernicious novels, or it is sensible and 
 taken from real life then it is tedious. 
 
 I will not dwell on this double petitio principii here mani- 
 fest. But it must be remembered that such reasoning might 
 be used against the Christian life itself, and make it out to 
 be a narrow, dull, tame, insipid life, systematically opposed 
 to all pleasure and enthusiasm in a word, tiresome. . 
 
 You admit, I hope, that this conception of the Christian 
 life could only be formed by an opponent, or, at least, by 
 one of those unhappy individuals who are only Christians 
 against their will. You admit and you cannot deny it, if 
 you ever tasted the sweets of genuine piety that the Chris- 
 tian life is not what a vain people imagines. The life of a 
 true Christian, in spite of his struggles, his sufferings, his 
 trials, and the austerity necessary for all who constantly 
 watch over themselves, in spite of the dictates of an en- 
 lightened conscience which may extend even to martyrdom, 
 has its brightness, its pleasure, its delicious tears and emo- 
 tions, an ineffable peace, and a wealth of moral attractiveness 
 that 'cannot be rivalled. 
 
 And you presume to declare the religious novel necessarily 
 tedious! 
 
 But is the religious novel anything more than a representa- 
 tion of the Christian life? And why should a life so sweet 
 and beautiful, and so beneficial in itself, cease to have, as 
 soon as it is depicted, either nobleness, or grandeur, or 
 attractive examples, or an irresistible charm? I wish no 
 other witness than Madame Agnes. 
 
 Your fundamental idea is excellent. To those discouraged 
 discouraged in the very outset of their career by difficulties 
 and annoyances that may be overcome, Madame Agnes de- 
 picts other lives marked by trials even more numerous and 
 much more severe. But because theirs were Christian lives, 
 and the chief actors, both young men and women, compre- 
 hended the beauty and value of sacrifice, theirs, on the 
 whole, were happy lives, which emit, as it were, a perfume
 
 Preface. 5 
 
 invigorating and exhilarating. Agnes, Victor, Louis, Eugenie, 
 and Aline, so far from being tiresome, are exceedingly in- 
 teresting and attractive characters. Before the reader is a 
 fourth through the volume, they inspire him with genuine 
 interest. 
 
 In proportion as the simple events of this story are un- 
 rolled, the reader perceives more clearly the general spirit 
 that animates it. And its end leaves him full of good im- 
 pressions and more firmly grounded than ever, if he is a 
 Christian, in the principles that are the very essence of 
 Christianity. 
 
 If he has not the happiness of believing, but still has 
 some regard for the truth, and has experienced great sorrows, 
 he will compare the Christian's courageous resignation with 
 the wild or dull despair that fills every suffering soul that 
 has not felt the support of religion. 
 
 Do you suppose that such a comparison is not in itself 
 a great benefit and the prelude to more than one conver- 
 sion ? To strengthen Christians in their faith by making it 
 more attractive, to weaken the incredulity of the sceptical by 
 inspiring them with the admiration and love of truth such 
 is the object you aim at. In my opinion, you have fully 
 accomplished it in Madame Agnes. 
 
 Continue, therefore, courageously in the work you have 
 begun. Give Madame Agnes successors of a similar stamp. 
 You will thereby do a great deal of good. I will add that 
 your books will likewise, under Providence, procure you 
 many friends. Continue to give me a small place among 
 those who admire your talents, and love you still more as 
 a man. 
 
 EUG. DE MARGERIE.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 IN WHICH WE ARE MADE ACQUAINTED WITH MADAME AGNES, . . 9 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 PROVIDENCE SENDS A LODGER, n 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 TRUE LOVE : HAPPY UNION, . . . . . . . . 12 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 SAD PRESENTIMENTS, ... ....... 14 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 AN UNEXPECTED ASSAULT, 16 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 VICTOR AT THE POINT OF DEATH, . . . 17 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 A PROVIDENTIAL EVENT, 19 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 CONFESSION, 22 
 
 h 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 BROTHER AND SISTER 28 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 ALINE'S HOPES, 3 2 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 EUGENIE 35 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 MORE ABOUT EUGENIE A REAL FRIEND, 42 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 Louis AT WORK, .47 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. % 
 PERHAPS PROPHETIC, 53
 
 3 Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A QUESTION, 56 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 LOVE WITHOUT HOPE, 60 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 A SOUBRETTE'S PLOT 62 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 A GLEAM BEFORE THE STORM, 64 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 ALBERT'S VISIT, 69 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 A VILLAIN, "-. 74 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 CALUMNY, 8r 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 THE ENEMY ON EITHER HAND 84 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 VICTOR'S DEATH PLOTS AGAINST Louis, 93 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 Louis is DISMISSED I0 4 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 ALL is LOST ! THE PROSPECT BRIGHTENS 108 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 PALS CE QUE DOIS, ADVIENNE QUE POURRA ! 115 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 A VILLAIN'S REVENGE ng 
 
 * CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 THE BETROTHAL, I23 
 
 CONCLUSION, 126
 
 MADAME AGNES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN WHICH WE ARE MADE ACQUAINTED WITH MADAME AGNES. 
 
 ABOUT twenty years ago, I lived in 
 a town in France which I may be 
 allowed to call Philopolis. It need 
 not be sought on the map : it will 
 not be found there, at least under the 
 name I think it proper to call it by, 
 in order to avoid all appearance of 
 indiscretion. The story I am about 
 to relate is really a true one. 
 
 I had just finished my school-days, 
 and, having carefully thought over 
 the different professions which seem- 
 ed to accord with my tastes, I felt 
 and it may be imagined how bitterly 
 that not one of them was within 
 my means. To embrace any of them 
 would have required a larger sum 
 than I had the least hope of. Un- 
 der such unfavorable circumstances, 
 I became a tutor in a Lycee. 
 
 God preserve my very enemies, if 
 I have any, from so trying an occu- 
 pation ! At the end of three months, 
 worn out with my labors, and over- 
 whelmed with humiliations and sad- 
 ness, I had fallen into such a state 
 of discouragement, not to say of de- 
 spair, that I regarded myself as the 
 most unfortunate of men. 
 
 To those who wish to be distin- 
 guished from the crowd, there is 
 something peculiarly attractive in 
 looking upon themselves as more 
 unhappy than common mortals. I 
 gave myself up to this notion, at first 
 through vanity. But this kind of 
 superiority is by no means cheering, 
 I assure you, so I soon sought con- 
 solation. Thank God, I had not far 
 to go. My old friend, Mme. Ag- 
 
 nes, was at hand. I sought refuge 
 with her. I speak as if she were 
 advanced in years, but it must be 
 acknowledged she would have seem- 
 ed a mere child to Methuselah. She 
 was thirty-six years of age ; but I was 
 only eighteen, and thought her old. 
 
 Mme. Agnes lived on a broad and 
 pleasant quay that gently sloped 
 towards a noble river. Not fifty 
 steps from the house rolled the swift 
 current of the Loire. Beyond was 
 an extensive plain from vhich rose 
 innumerable spires. 
 
 When I arrived, I found rny friend 
 in her usual seat near the window. 
 She was in a large arm-chair, with a 
 table before her, on which were all 
 the materials necessary for a painter 
 of miniatures. Mme. Agnes was re- 
 nowned in Philopolis as an artist. 
 Her uncommon talent enabled her 
 to support her mother and young 
 sister in a comfortable manner. 
 Alas ! poor lady, she had been a para- 
 lytic for ten years. 
 
 According to her custom, she laid 
 aside her work when I entered, and 
 welcomed me with a smile. But this 
 expression of pleasure gave place to 
 one of motherly anxiety when she 
 observed the sad face I wore. 
 
 " What is the matter, my poor 
 child ?" said she. " You have grown 
 frightfully thin." 
 
 " I cannot say 1 am ill," I repli 
 ed, "but I am down-hearted, and 
 have so much reason to be, that 
 things cannot continue long in this 
 way : I should die."
 
 10 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 Thus saying, I leaned my head 
 against Mme. Agnes' chair, like a 
 great child as I was, and cried heart- 
 ily. I had so long restrained my 
 tears! . . . 
 
 Mme. Agnes softly placed her hand 
 on my head, and consoled me 
 with a kindness truly maternal. 
 When my explosion of grief had 
 passed away, she made me give her 
 an account of my troubles. I told 
 her, perhaps for the tenth time, what 
 an inclination I had for a literary life, 
 only I was absolutely too poor to 
 embrace it. I added that my duties 
 as a tutor were repugnant ; the pupils 
 were insolent and unfeeling ; in short, 
 I concealed nothing that afflicted 
 me. At length I ended with these 
 words : 
 
 "You now see, Mme. Agnes, 
 that I could not be more wretch- 
 ed than I am. This must end., Give 
 me, I beg, some of the good advice 
 I have so many times received from 
 you. Tell me what I must do." 
 
 " Have patience, my child, and 
 wait till God makes the way smooth - 
 
 er -", 
 
 "Wait! when one suffers as I 
 
 do ? . . ..When I abhor my position ? 
 . . . When I feel how happy I could 
 be elsewhere ! . . . Ah ! Mme. Agnes, 
 if you knew what I have to en- 
 dure if you only comprehended 
 my complete despair !" 
 
 " Poor child, your trials are bit- 
 ter, I acknowledge; but you are 
 young, capable, and industrious, 
 and will get a better position by- 
 and-by." 
 
 " To be forced to endure it only 
 a year would be beyond my strength. 
 Neither my disposition, nor tastes, 
 nor health could stand what I have 
 to bear." 
 
 " How many others are in a simi- 
 lar position, but without even the 
 hope you have of soon exchanging 
 an employment without results de- 
 
 testable, if you like for one more 
 congenial! The task they aie pursu- 
 ing must be that of their whole lives. 
 They know it, and resign themselves 
 to it. You, who have only to bear 
 your trials for a certain time, sr.ist 
 imitate their example. Come, come, 
 my friend, every one has his cross 
 here below. Let us bear ours cheer- 
 fully, and it will soon seem light." 
 These consoling words were utter- 
 ed in a sympathetic tone, as if they 
 came from the heart. I was touch- 
 ed. I began to look at Mme. Ag- 
 nes more attentively than ever be- 
 fore, and the thought occurred to me 
 like a revelation : " How much this 
 woman must have suffered, and how 
 instructive would be the account of 
 her life !" 
 
 " Mme. Agnes," said I, " you* 
 advice is excellent, but example 
 would produce at still greater impres- 
 sion on me. I beg you to relate the 
 history of your life. You have evi- 
 dently gone through much suffering, 
 and with great patience, I am confi- 
 dent. I will endeavor to conform 
 to your example." 
 
 " You require a sad task of me," 
 she replied ; " but no matter, I will 
 gratify you. My story and who of 
 us has not one ? will prove useful to 
 you, I think. But you must not be so 
 ready to declare me a saint. I never 
 was one, as you will soon see. Yes, 
 I have suffered, as you suppose 
 greatly suffered, and have learned 
 that the best means of mitigating our 
 sufferings is to submit to God's will, 
 and to cherish- it. The lesson to be 
 derived from my history will be of 
 use to you, I trust, and therefore 
 I yield to your request. 
 
 " One word more before commenc- 
 ing. I would observe that the ac- 
 count of my own life is closely inter- 
 woven with the lives of several per- 
 sons whom you will not reproach me 
 for making you acquainted with.
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 II 
 
 By a concurrence of circumstances 
 which would appear to me almost 
 inexplicable did I not behold the 
 hand of God therein, my life for 
 many years was identified, so to 
 speak, with theirs. I witnessed the 
 struggles these loved ones had to 
 make ; I shared their very thoughts ; 
 I sympathized in their sorrows, as 
 they in mine; and I also had the 
 happiness of participating in their 
 joys. 
 
 " When, therefore, I invoke these 
 remembrances you wish me to recall, 
 I find all along the pathway of my 
 life these friends now gone. I could 
 not relate my own history without 
 relating theirs. But everything en- 
 courages me to go on. The task is 
 pleasant. It is sweet to speak of 
 those we have loved ! The faithful 
 picture I am going to draw of their 
 lives will be as full of instruction to 
 you, my friend, as that of my own." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 PROVIDENCE SENDS A LODGER. 
 
 To begin: my father, a worthy 
 man and a sincere Christian, was a 
 Chefde Division at the Prefecture. A 
 sudden illness bereft me of his care 
 when I was barely fifteen years old. 
 My mother, my young sister, and 
 myself were left in quite limited cir- 
 cumstances, being wholly dependent 
 on the rent of this small house, which 
 had belonged to the family many 
 years. Some time after, a pension 
 of five hundred francs was added to 
 our income by the government which 
 my father had faithfully served. Our 
 position was very sad, and the more 
 so because, during my father's life, 
 we had everything in abundance. 
 But our misfortunes offered us a 
 thousand inducements to draw near- 
 er to God. It is only ill-balanced 
 souls at once proud and weak 
 that disregard him who chastises 
 them. Poor souls! they are dou- 
 bly to be pitied, for they suffer and 
 do not have recourse to him who 
 alone can console them ! As for us, 
 God granted us the grace to recog- 
 nize his agency. He sustained us, 
 and we humbly submitted to his di- 
 vine decrees. Misfortune only ren- 
 dered us the more pious. 
 
 I had had a special taste for paint- 
 ing from my childhood, but still lack- 
 ed proficiency, notwithstanding the 
 
 lessons I had taken. I now set to work 
 with ardor, though I had no master. 
 At the end of a year I had made so 
 much progress that an old teacher of 
 mine, the principal of a boarding, 
 school an excellent person, who 
 took an interest in our affairs re- 
 ceived me as teacher of drawing in 
 her establishment. She also made 
 me give English lessons to beginners. 
 This additional resource restored 
 ease in a measure to our household. 
 Nevertheless, we were obliged to 
 practise the strictest economy. To. 
 enable us to get on swimmingly, as 
 my mother said with a smile, we at 
 last resolved to rent the spacious 
 ready-furnished apartments on the 
 ground floor. The first story was 
 occupied by a lodger, who was, at 
 the same time, a friend of ours. As. 
 for us, we lived in the second story. 
 Things went on thus for some 
 years. I was nearly twenty, when 
 one day a young man, whom neither 
 my mother nor myself koew, called 
 to say he had heard our furnished 
 rooms were vacant, and that he would 
 like to occupy them. My mother was 
 greatly pleased with his frank, open 
 manner. She is very social, you 
 know, and made the stranger sit 
 dovo. They entered into conversa- 
 tion, and I sat listening to them.
 
 12 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 11 Am I mistaken, monsieur ?" said 
 any mother, after a while ; " it seems 
 as if I have already met you some- 
 where." 
 
 " Yes, madame," replied the young 
 man, " I have had the honor of see- 
 ing you more than once." 
 ' " But where ?" 
 
 " At M. Comte, the apothecary's. 
 I was the head clerk there." 
 
 " That is it ! ... I remember now. 
 . . . And you have left him ?" 
 
 " Under the most singular circum- 
 stances. It seems I am a writer 
 without being aware of it." 
 
 " How so ?" 
 
 " You know the Phtlopolis Catholic 
 Journal?" 
 
 " Certainly : an excellent paper. 
 It is a great pity it is not so success- 
 ful as it deserves to be. But be- 
 tween us, it is partly its own fault : it 
 lacks interest and ability. It has 
 only one able contributor Victor 
 Barnier, but he does not write often 
 enough." 
 
 " The poor fellow cannot help it. 
 His duties at the apothecary's shop 
 have naturally superseded his taste 
 for journalism." . . . 
 
 " What ! are you Victor Barnier ?" 
 
 "Yes, madame." 
 
 " Ah ! well, young man, you do 
 not lack talent:" 
 
 ^ Others have said the same, mad- 
 ame. I hope you are not all mis- 
 taken, especially for the sake of the 
 Catholic Journal, of which I have 
 been appointed the principal editor. 
 I refused the post at first, the re- 
 sponsibility seemed so great. They 
 insisted. The position surpassed my 
 wishes. Without any one's knowing 
 
 it, I had for many years ardently 
 longed to be a writer. But like so 
 many others, the limited circumstan- 
 ces of my family prevented it. Now, 
 thanks to this unexpected offer, the 
 opportunity of following my natural 
 inclinations is so tempting that I 
 cannot resist it. My good mother 
 tells me it is a perilous career, and 
 that I shall meet with more trouble 
 than success. No matter ! I am so 
 fond of literary pursuits that, were 
 they to afford me only one day of 
 happiness in my life, I should still 
 cling to them. And then, I say it 
 without boasting, I love above all 
 things the cause I am to defend, and 
 hope through divine assistance to be- 
 come its able champion. I have, 
 therefore, left M. Comte's, though 
 not without some regret. I enter 
 upon my duties to-morrow, and am 
 in want of lodgings." 
 
 " Oh ! well, that is all settled. You 
 shall come here and be well taken 
 care of." 
 
 After this, Victor left us. I 
 have only given you the substance 
 of the conversation in which I more 
 than once took part. I must con- 
 fess Victor won my esteem and good* 
 will at this first interview. He 
 merited them. He was at once an 
 excellent and a talented man that 
 was to be seen at the first glance. 
 The better he was known, the more 
 evident it became that his outward 
 appearance, pleasing as it was, was 
 not deceptive. He was then twenty- 
 five years old, but, though young, he 
 had had many trials, I assure you 
 trials similar to yours, my young 
 friend, but much more severe. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 TRUE LOVE HAPPY UNION. 
 
 THE following day Victor took up 
 his abode with us. Before a fort- 
 night had elapsed, my mother was 
 
 enchanted with her new lodger. She 
 sounded his praises from morning 
 till night. This may perhaps aston-
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 ish you, but you must know that she 
 and I were always in the habit of 
 telling each other our very thoughts. 
 This reciprocal confidence was so 
 perfect that it might be truly said we 
 concealed nothing from each other. 
 
 And I must confess Victor showed 
 himself every day more worthy of my 
 mother's admiration. He was the 
 most modest, amiable, industrious, 
 and orderly of young men a genu- 
 ine model for Christian men of let- 
 ters. He rose every morning at an 
 early hour, and worked in his room 
 till about eight o'clock. Then, un- 
 less his occupations were too press- 
 ing, he heard Mass at a neighboring 
 church. After that, he went to the 
 Journal office, where he remained 
 till noon ; then he returned to break- 
 fast. He left again at one, came 
 back at three, worked till dinner- 
 time, then studied till ten at night, 
 and often later. 
 
 " Why do you work so hard ? " 
 said my mother to him one day. 
 " The life of a journalist, according 
 to you, is that of a galley-slave. I 
 never should have thought an editor 
 had so hard a time. You have all 
 the four large pages of the Journal to 
 write yourself, then, M. Victor ? " 
 
 " By no means, dear madame. I 
 write the leading article every day, 
 and in a short time, too, for I have 
 the peculiarity of not writing well 
 when I write slowly. This done, I 
 look over the other articles for the 
 paper. As I am responsible for them, 
 I do not accept them till they are 
 carefully examined. This is my 
 whole task apparently an easy one, 
 but tedious and difficult in reality." 
 
 " Yes; I see you have a great deal 
 to do at the office ; but why do you 
 continue to work at home ? " 
 
 " Two motives oblige me to study 
 to increase my knowledge, and pre- 
 vent ennui. Having risen from a 
 mere apothecary's clerk to be the 
 
 chief editor of an important journal, 
 I have to apply myself to keep apace 
 with my new profession. A journal- 
 ist must be imprudent or dishonest 
 who discusses any subject on which 
 he has not sufficient information. 
 And think of the multitude of ques- 
 tions connected with politics, political 
 economy, legislation, literature, and 
 religion itself which I have in turn 
 to treat of! In the Paris newspapers, 
 each editor writes on the subjects he 
 understands the best. The work is 
 thus divided, to the great advantage 
 of the paper and its editors. Here, 
 I alone am often responsible for 
 everything. Nevertheless, the care 
 of my health, as well as my indolence, 
 would induce me to rest a few hours 
 a day ; but where shall I pass them ? 
 At the cafe ? I go there sometimes 
 to extend my knowledge of human 
 nature; but one cannot go there 
 much without being in danger of 
 contracting injurious habits. With 
 my friends ? I have none, and am 
 in no hurry to make any. The choice 
 of a friend is such a serious thing! 
 One cannot be too cautious about 
 it." 
 
 " Corne and see us," said my mo- 
 ther, with her habitual cordiality. 
 " When you have nowhere else to 
 go, and your mind is weary, come up 
 and pass an hour in the evening with 
 your neighbors." 
 
 Victor oame, at first occasionally, 
 then every day. Only a few weeks 
 elapsed before I felt that I loved him. 
 His companionship was so delight- 
 ful ; he had so much delicacy in little 
 things ; he was so frank, so devoted 
 to all that is beautiful and good ! 
 Did he love me in return ? No one 
 could have told, for he was as timid 
 as a young girl. 
 
 But this timidity was surmounted 
 when my feast-day arrived. He came 
 in blushing with extreme embarrass- 
 ment poor dear friend 1 I can still
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 see him holding a bouquet in his 
 left hand, which he concealed behind 
 him, while with the other he present- 
 ed my mother with an open paper. 
 She took it, glanced at it, and, after 
 reading a few words, said : 
 
 " But this is not addressed to me. 
 Here, Agnes, these stanzas are for you, 
 my child ! And I see a bouquet ! " 
 
 Victor presented it to me in an 
 agitated manner. I myself was so 
 confused that I longed to run away 
 to hide my embarrassment. I con- 
 cealed it as well as I could behind 
 the sheet on which the stanzas were 
 written, and read them in a low tone. 
 They gracefully thanked my mother 
 for all her kindness to him, and ended 
 with some wishes for me wishes that 
 were ardent and touching. In a 
 tremulous tone I expressed my grati- 
 tude with a sincerity which was quite 
 natural. Our embarrassment was 
 not of long continuance. It soon 
 passed off. and we spent the 
 evening in delightful conversation. 
 One would have thought we had al- 
 
 ways lived together, and formed but 
 one family. 
 
 The next morning, when I returned 
 from giving my lessons, what was my 
 astonishment to find Victor with my 
 mother ! 
 
 " Here she is to decide the ques- 
 tion," exclaimed the latter joyfully. 
 " M. Victor loves you, and wishes to 
 know if you will be his wife." 
 
 " Mother," I replied, " must I be 
 separated from you ? " 
 
 " Less than ever," cried Victor. 
 
 My delightful dream was realized ! 
 I was to be united to the man I 
 loved with all my heart whom I 
 esteemed without any alloy ! And 
 this without being obliged to sepa- 
 rate from her of whom I was the sole 
 reliance. 
 
 I extended my hand to Victor, and 
 threw myself into my mother's arms, 
 thanking her as well as I could, but 
 in accents broken by tears. . . . 
 
 A month after, we were married, 
 and happy as happy, I believe, as 
 people can be here below. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 SAD PRESENTIMENTS. 
 
 THENCEFORTH began a life so sweet 
 that I am unable to describe it. 
 Victor and I lived in the most de- 
 lightful harmony. Our love for each 
 other increased daily. We had but 
 one heart and one soul. Our very 
 tastes accorded. 
 
 Oh ! how charming and happy is 
 the wedded life of two Christian souls ! 
 What mutual sympathy ! How they 
 divine each other's thoughts ! How 
 readily they make the concessions at 
 times so necessary, for the best 
 matched people in this world do not 
 always agree ! A life more simple 
 than ours cannot be imagined, and 
 yet it was so sweet ! 
 
 I worked beside Victor in the 
 morning and during a part of the 
 
 afternoon, looking at him from time 
 to time, saying a few words, or lis- 
 tening as he read what he had just 
 composed. He said he first tried 
 the effect of his writings on me. 
 How happy I was when he .thus 
 gave me the first taste of one of his 
 spirited articles, in which he defend- 
 ed his principles with an ardor of 
 conviction and a vigor of style which 
 impressed even those who were 
 sceptical. 
 
 Before dinner we went to walk to- 
 gether. I persuaded Victor to de- 
 vote a part of each day to physical 
 exercise as well as mental repose. 
 Our conversation always gave a 
 fresh charm to these walks. And 
 yet we did not talk much, but we
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 infused our whole souls into a word 
 or two, or a smile. How often I 
 dreamed of heaven during those de- 
 licious hours ! It is thus, I said to 
 myself, the angels above hold com- 
 munion with each other. They have 
 no need of words to make themselves 
 understood. 
 
 Among the pleasant features of 
 that period, I must not forget that 
 of Victor's success. Before he was 
 appointed editor, the poor paper 
 vegetated. There were but few sub- 
 scribers. No one spoke of the ob- 
 scure sheet which timidly defended 
 sound principles and true doctrines. 
 What a sad figure it made in the 
 presence of its contemporary, The 
 Independent a shameless, arrogant 
 journal which boasted of despising 
 all religious belief, and scoffed at the 
 honest people foolish enough to read 
 it! 
 
 Victor had scarcely been chief 
 editor of this despised paper three 
 months before there was a decided 
 change. Every day added to the 
 list of subscribers. The Catholic 
 Journal was spoken of on all sides. 
 The sceptical, even, discussed it. As 
 to The Independent, it was forced to 
 descend into the arena. In spite of 
 itself, it had to engage in conflict 
 against an adversary as skilled in 
 irony as in logic. I acknowledge I 
 was proud of Victor's success, and, 
 what was more, it made me happy. 
 For a long time, young as I was, I 
 had groaned at seeing Catholic inter- 
 ests so poorly defended. They were 
 now as ably sustained as I could 
 wish, and by the man whom I loved. 
 All my wishes were surpassed ! 
 
 Nevertheless, there is no perfect 
 nappiness in this^ world. Even those 
 blissful years were not exempt from 
 sorrow. God granted me twice, with 
 an interval of two years, the long- 
 wished-for joy of being a mother, but 
 each time Providence only allowed 
 
 its continuance a few months. My 
 first child, a boy, died at the end of 
 six months. The second, a daughter, 
 was taken from me before it was a 
 year old. You are young, my friend 
 and cannot understand how afflict- 
 ing such losses are. A mother's 
 heart, I assure you, is broken when 
 she sees her child taken from her, 
 however young it may be. My hus- 
 band himself was greatly distressed 
 when our little boy was carried off 
 after an illness of only a few hours. 
 But his grief was still more profound 
 when our little girl died. Dear child ! 
 though only nine months old, her 
 face was full of intelligence, her eyes 
 were expressive, and she had a won- 
 derful way of making herself under- 
 stood. She passed quietly away, 
 softly moaning, and gazing at us with 
 affection. Her father held her in 
 his arms the whole time of her long 
 agony. It seemed as if he thus 
 hoped to retain her. She, too, was 
 sad, I am sure. She seemed to 
 know we were in grief, and to leave 
 us with regret. Her sweet face only 
 resumed its joyful expression after 
 her soul had taken flight for heaven ; 
 then a celestial happiness beamed 
 from her features consecrated by 
 death. Victor stood gazing at her 
 a long time as she lay on the bed 
 with a crucifix in her innocent hands. 
 His lips murmured a prayer in a low- 
 tone. It seemed to me he was ad- 
 dressing our angel child begging 
 her to pray that God would speedily 
 call him to dwell for ever with her 
 in his blissful presence. The thought 
 made me shudder. It seemed as if 
 I had at that moment an interior re- 
 velation. I knew that was Victor's 
 prayer, and I had a presentiment it 
 would be heard. 
 
 From that day, though we had a 
 thousand reasons to consider our- 
 selves happy, we were no longer 
 light-hearted as we once had been.
 
 16 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 There \*as a something that weighed 
 on our minds and kept us anxious, 
 and empoisoned all our joys. Life 
 seemed unsatisfactory, and we drew 
 nearer to God. We were constantly 
 speaking of him and the angel who 
 
 had flown from us, and we often ap- 
 proached the sacraments together. 
 It was thus that God was secretly 
 preparing Victor to return to him, 
 and me to endure so terrible a 
 blow. 
 
 CHAPTER v. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED ASSAULT. 
 
 No man was ever more fond of 
 domestic life than Victor. The hap- 
 piest hours of the day were those we 
 all spent together he, my mother, 
 my young sister, and myself occu- 
 pied in some useful work, but often 
 stopping to exchange a few words. 
 It was with regret Victor sometimes 
 left us at such hours to mingle with 
 the world. He refused all invita- 
 tions to dinners, soirees, and balls as 
 often as possible, but he could not 
 always do so. He had taken the 
 first place a place quite exceptional 
 in local journalism, and it was im- 
 possible for him to decline all the 
 advances made him. Besides, he 
 wished, as was natural to one of his 
 profession, to ascertain for himself 
 public opinion on the question of the 
 day. I cannot tell you how dull the 
 evenings seemed when he was away, 
 or how anxious I was till he returned. 
 There was something dreadful about 
 his profession. In vain he resolved 
 to avoid personalities; they were 
 often discovered when none had been 
 intended. If he was fortunately able 
 to keep within the limits he had 
 marked out for himself, and confined 
 himself to the defence of justice, mo- 
 rality, and religion, he found these 
 three great causes had furious oppo- 
 nents. Whoever defended them in- 
 curred the ardent ill-will of the ene- 
 mies of all good. This is what hap- 
 pened to Victor. Their secret hatred 
 burst forth on an occasion of but 
 little importance. 
 
 A renowned preacher of the South, 
 
 worthy in every respect of his repu- 
 tation, came to preach at the cathe- 
 dral during Advent. This man, as 
 eloquent as he was good, attacked 
 the vices of the day with all the ardor 
 of an apostle. Many of the young 
 men of the place who went to hear 
 him were infuriated at the boldness 
 of his zeal. Some supposed them- 
 selves to be meant in the portraits he 
 drew of vicious men in a manner so 
 forcible and with such striking 
 imagery as to make his hearers 
 tremble. At the close of one of these 
 sermons, there was some disturbance 
 in the body of the church. Threats 
 were uttered aloud, and women 
 treated with insult. Victor, indig- 
 nant at such conduct, had the cour- 
 age to rebuke the corrupt young men 
 of the place. Never had he been 
 more happily inspired, and never had 
 he produced sucii an effect. The 
 article was everywhere read. It gave 
 offence, and we awaited the conse- 
 quences. 
 
 The next day Victor received an 
 invitation to a large ball given by a 
 wealthy banker. The invitation sur- 
 prised him, for he knew the banker 
 was a liberal with but little sympathy 
 for the priesthood and its defenders. 
 I begged Victor to decline the invi- 
 tation politely. I feared it was only 
 a pretext to offer him some affront. 
 He gently reassured me by saying 
 that, though M. Beauvais was a lib- 
 eral, he had the reputation of being an 
 honorable man. " I am glad," added 
 he, "to become acquainted with
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 those who frequent the banker's salon. 
 I shall probably find more than one 
 Christian among them," as, in fact, 
 often happened. 
 
 When the night came, Victor went 
 away, leaving me quite uneasy, in 
 spite of all his efforts to reassure me. 
 I made him promise to return at an 
 early hour. I was beginning to be 
 anxious towards eleven, when all at 
 once there was a sound of hasty foot- 
 steps. I sprang to the door I 
 opened it it was he. As soon as he 
 entered the room, I noticed he was 
 extremely pale. He vainly endeav- 
 ored to appear calm, but could not 
 conceal the agitation that over- 
 powered him. 
 
 " Victor," I cried, " something has 
 happened !" 
 
 " Yes, but not much. Somebody 
 tried to frighten me." 
 
 " Are you wounded ?" 
 
 " No, they did not wish to take 
 my life." 
 
 " I conjure you to tell me frankly 
 what has happened." 
 
 " Well, here are the facts : I had 
 left M. Beauvais' house, where I was 
 politely received, and had gone two 
 streets, when I observed three men 
 walking swiftly after me on the 
 Place. They seemed well dressed, 
 which removed my suspicions. I 
 turned into the little Rue St. Augus- 
 tine. It ''is dimly lighted in the 
 evening and almost always desert- 
 ed." 
 
 " How imprudent !" 
 
 "That is true, I did wrong. I 
 had scarcely gone a hundred yards, 
 before the three men overtook me." 
 
 "'Stop!' exclaimed one of them. 
 I stopped to ascertain what they 
 
 wished. The same voice continued 
 in these terms : ' How much do 
 those calotins give you to defend 
 them ?' 
 
 " ' I have only one word to say in 
 reply to your insulting question I 
 defend my own principles, above all 
 because I cherish them in the depths 
 ot my soul.' So saying, I sought to 
 keep on my way. 
 
 " One of them detained me. ' Be- 
 fore going any further,' said he who 
 seemed to be the spokesman, 'swear 
 never to abuse the young men of this 
 town again !' 
 
 " ' I attack no one individually,' I 
 replied. ' Am I forbidden to de- 
 fend my own cause because it is not 
 yours ? But this is no time or place 
 for such an interview. It should be 
 at my office and by daylight. Come 
 to see me to-morrovv, and I will an- 
 swer your questions.' 
 
 " The three men were so wrapped 
 up in their bernouses and large com- 
 forters that I could not tell who they 
 were. I thought it time to disen- 
 gage myself from the grasp of the 
 on%that held me. I made a violent 
 effort. In the struggle, my cloak fell 
 off. As I stooped to pick it up, I re- 
 ceived several blows. I then called 
 for assistance. Several windows in the 
 neighborhood opened. The three 
 cowards disappeared. As you see, I 
 am neither killed nor wounded. On the 
 whole, no great harm has been done." 
 
 My whole frame trembled during 
 this account. When it was ended, I 
 became somewhat calmer, and, pas- 
 sionately throwing my arms around 
 Victor, I begged him to promise me 
 solemnly never to go out again in the. 
 evening. He did so willingly. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 VICTOR AT THE POINT OF DEATH. 
 
 THE next morning Victor told me had occurred. He therefore went 
 he did not feel any effect from what to the office as usual, and wrote a
 
 IS 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 spirited article, in which he made 
 known and energetically stigmatized 
 the base proceedings of those who 
 had attacked him. The article at- 
 tracted particular attention, and gave 
 us the pleasant satisfaction of realiz- 
 ing to what a degree Victor had won 
 the good-will of upright men. On 
 all sides they came that very day to 
 express their indignation at the vio- 
 lence used against him. . . . 
 
 We should neither overestimate 
 nor decry human nature. There are 
 certainly a multitude of base men 
 with low natures and vile instincts. 
 But even among those who are the 
 farthest from the truth there are 
 some souls that have preserved a cer- 
 tain uprightness and hearts of a cer- 
 tain elevation for whom we cannot 
 help feeling mingled admiration and 
 pity. 
 
 That same evening Victor com- 
 plained of not being well, but kept 
 saying it was nothing serious. With- 
 out asking his consent, I sent for a 
 physician, who examined him. Vic- 
 tor was forced to acknowledge he 
 had been chilled the night before. 
 He was very warm when he left M. 
 Beauvais' house, and, to counteract 
 the effect of the keen north wind, he 
 started off swiftly, and was in a com- 
 plete perspiration when overtaken by 
 his assailants. Stopped in the mid- 
 dle of the street, he was exposed to 
 the cold night air, which was of 
 course injurious. What was still 
 worse, his cloak fell off, and it was 
 several minutes before he recovered 
 it. 
 
 I was seized with terror at hearing 
 these details. It seemed as if my 
 poor husband had just pronounced 
 his own death-warrant. At the same 
 time a horrible feeling sprang up in 
 my heart, such as I had never expe- 
 rienced before. I was frantic with 
 rage and hatred against those who 
 were the cause of this fatal chill. I 
 
 begged, I implored Victor and the 
 physician to promise to take imme- 
 diate steps for their discovery, that 
 no time might be lost in bringing 
 them to justice in order to receive 
 the penalty they deserved. 
 
 " Agnes," said Victor mildly 
 " Agnes, your affection for me mis- 
 leads you. I no longer recognize 
 my good Agnes." 
 
 But I gave no heed to what he 
 said, and was only diverted from my 
 hatred by the care I was obliged to 
 bestow on him. In twenty-four 
 hours my poor husband's illness had 
 increased to such a degree that I lost 
 all hope. Poor Victor ! he suffered 
 terribly, and I added to his suffer- 
 ings instead of alleviating them ! I 
 loved him too much, or rather with 
 too human an affection. I afflicted 
 him with my alternate outbursts of 
 despair and anger. 
 
 " Live without you !" I would ex- 
 claim " that is impossible ! Oh ! the 
 monsters who have killed you, if they 
 could only die in your stead ! But 
 they shall be punished and held up 
 to infamy as they deserve ! If there 
 is no one else in the world to ferret 
 them out, I will do it myself!" 
 
 These fits of excitement caused 
 Victor so much sorrow that the very 
 remembrance of them fills me with 
 the keenest remorse a remorse I 
 have reason to feel. His confessor, 
 the physician, my mother, and he 
 himself tried in vain to soothe me. 
 One told me how far from Christian 
 my conduct was, and another that I 
 deprived my husband of what he 
 needed the most repose. I would 
 not listen to them. I was beside 
 myself. 
 
 One evening I was sitting alone 
 beside the bed of my poor sick one, 
 and was abandoning myself anew to 
 my unreasonable anger, when Victoi 
 took my hand in his, and said, in a 
 tone that went to my very heart :
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 " Agnes, I feel very weak. Per- 
 haps I have not long to live. I beg 
 you I conjure you to spare me the 
 cruel sorrow of having my last hours 
 embittered by a want of resignation 
 I was far from expecting of you ! 
 Of all my sufferings, this is the' great- 
 est and certainly that to which I 
 can resign myself the least. What ! 
 my dear Agnes, do you, at the very 
 moment of my leaving you, lay aside 
 the most precious title you have in 
 my eyes that of a Christian woman, 
 a woman of piety and fortitude 
 which transcends all others ? . . . 
 What ! are you unable to submit to 
 the will of God ! Because his de- 
 signs do not accord with your views, 
 you dare say that God no longer 
 loves you that he is cruel ! . . . 
 My dear, do you set up your judg- 
 ment against that of God ? Do you 
 refuse him the sacrifice of my life 
 and of your enmity ? . . . Does not 
 my life belong to him ? . . . And 
 is not your enmity unchristian ? . . . 
 Did they who have reduced me to 
 this condition intend doing me such 
 an injury ? . . . I thinK not. Could 
 they have done me the least harm if 
 God had not permitted them ? . . . 
 No matter at what moment the fatal 
 blow falls on us. no matter whence 
 it comes, it only strikes us at the 
 time and in the manner permitted by 
 God. Agnes, kneel here beside me, 
 and repeat the words I am about to 
 utter. Repeat them with your lips 
 and with your whole heart, whatever 
 it may cost you. It is my wish. It 
 is essential for your own peace of 
 mind, and also for mine. Agnes, 
 my dear love, we have prayed a 
 thousand times together and with 
 
 hearts so truly united ! Now that you 
 see me ill, perhaps dying . . . can you 
 refuse me the supreme joy of once 
 more uniting my soul with yours be- 
 fore God in the same prayer ?" . . . 
 
 I burst into tears, and obeyed. 
 
 " O my God !" he cried, " what- 
 ever thou doest is well done. No- 
 thing can tempt me to doubt thy 
 goodness. Is not thy loving-kind- 
 ness often the greatest when it seems 
 disguised the most ? . . . I firmly be- 
 lieve so, and I forgive all those who 
 have tried to injure me. I pray thee 
 to convert them. As for me, I beg 
 thee, O my God, to deal with me as 
 thou judgest most for thy glory and 
 for my good." 
 
 Victor uttered these words with so 
 much fervor and emotion that I was 
 stirred to the depths of my soul. A 
 complete change took place within 
 me which I attributed to my dear 
 husband's prayers. My eyes, hitherto 
 tearless, now overflowed. My an- 
 ger all at once disappeared. A pro- 
 found sadness alone remained, min- 
 gled with resignation. . . . 
 
 Victor's life continued in danger 
 some days longer. Then oh ! what 
 happiness ! when I had made the 
 sacrifice and bowed submissively to 
 the divine will, the physician all at 
 once revived my hopes. To com- 
 prehend the joy with which my heart 
 overflowed at hearing that perhaps 
 my husband might be restored to 
 life, you must, like me, pass through 
 long hours of bitterness in which you 
 repeat, with your eyes fastened on 
 your loved one : " A few hours, and 
 I shall behold him no more !" 
 
 A weeV after, Louis was convales- 
 cent. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 A PROVIDENTIAL EVENT. 
 
 VICTOR and I then entered upon a are but few instances. I felt from 
 singular life of which I think there the first that his convalescence was
 
 20 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 deceptive, and the physician secretly 
 told him so. We both felt that God 
 allowed us to pass a few more months 
 together, but no longer. The disease 
 was checked, but it still hung about 
 my dear one. It assumed a new 
 form, and changed into a slow mal- 
 ady that was surely accomplishing 
 its work. As frequently happens in 
 such complaints, Victor was but par- 
 tially cured of inflammation of the 
 lungs, and now became consumptive. 
 
 A great poet says that no language, 
 however perfect, 'can express all the 
 thoughts, all the emotions, that spring 
 up in the soul.* This is true. I 
 have often felt it, and now realize it 
 more than ever. Ten months elaps- 
 ed between Victor's amelioration and 
 his death months memorable for 
 great suffering, but which have left 
 me many delightful, though melan- 
 choly, remembrances. I wish I could 
 impart these recollections to you. I 
 hardly dare attempt it, so conscious 
 am I of my inability to do them jus- 
 tice. 
 
 How, indeed, could I depict the 
 love, stronger than ever, that bound 
 me to my husband, spared in so un- 
 hoped-for a manner, though but for 
 a brief period so brief that I could 
 almost count the hours ? How 
 make you understand how elevated, 
 superhuman, consoling, and yet sor- 
 rowful, were our conversations ? 
 How many times Victor said to me : 
 " Agnes, how merciful the good God 
 is ! See, he could have recalled me 
 to himself at once, but still leaves 
 me with you a few months longer. 
 Oh ! how heartily I desire to profit 
 by this time in order to prepare for 
 death, though I fear it not! I do 
 
 * " That which is most divine in the heart of 
 min never finds utterance for want of words to 
 express it. The soul is infinite [this is saying 
 too much : it is one thing to be infinite, and an- 
 other to have a sense of the infinite], and lan- 
 guage consists only of a limited number of signs 
 perfected by use as a means of communication 
 amonjj; the vulgar." Lamartine, Preface des 
 Pr em tires Meditations. 
 
 not wish to spend one of these last 
 hours in vain. I wish to do all the 
 good in my power, and love you bet- 
 ter and better as the blessed do in 
 heaven. Oh! how sweet it will be 
 to enter upon that perfect love 
 abovef which we have imagined, and 
 had a foretaste of, here below what 
 do I say ? a thousand times sweeter, 
 more perfect. Its enjoyment will be 
 without any alloy of fear or sadness, 
 for in loving, we shall have a right to 
 say : ' It is for ever !' " 
 
 But of all the thoughts that occu- 
 pied Victor's mind at that period, 
 that which was most constantly in 
 his heart he expressed in these sim- 
 ple but significant words: to do all 
 the goon possible ! Penetrated w.th 
 this desire, he resumed his duties at 
 the Journal office as soon as he was 
 able. His talents had developed 
 under the influence of suffering. 
 Every one remarked it. But contro- 
 versy fatigued him, and he was not 
 able to go out every day. He was, 
 therefore, provided with an assistant 
 a young man of ability, to whom he 
 could transfer most of the labor. He 
 took pleasure in training him for tne 
 work, saying to himself: "He will 
 be my successor. I shall still live in 
 him, and have some part in the good 
 he will do." 
 
 A part of tire day, therefore, re- 
 mained unoccupied. He employed 
 these hours in writing a small work 
 a simple, touching book, which was 
 published a short time before his 
 death, and is still doing, to my know- 
 ledge, much good among the people. 
 
 Training his successor and pub- 
 lishing a useful book were two good 
 acts he took pleasure in, but, so great 
 was his ardor for benefiting others, 
 that they did not suffice. He earn- 
 estly longed for some new opportun- 
 ity of testifying to God how desirous 
 he was of making a holy use of the 
 last moments of his life. " And yet," 
 he added, " I acknowledge this work
 
 Madame Agues. 
 
 21 
 
 is perhaps presumptuous. It is ask- 
 ing a special grace from God of 
 which I am not worthy." But God 
 granted him this longed-for opportu- 
 nity of devoting himself to his glory, 
 and he embraced it with a heroism 
 that won universal admiration. 
 
 Spring returned, and we fell into 
 the habit of going from time to time 
 to pass a day in the country with 
 Jeanne, my old nurse. Jeanne was 
 one of those friends of a lower con- 
 dition whom we often love the most. 
 There is no jealousy in such a friend- 
 ship to disturb the complete union 
 of soul. It is mingled with a sweet 
 sense of protection on one side, and 
 of gratitude on the other which is 
 still sweeter. 
 
 We went there in the morning, 
 walked around awhile, then break- 
 fasted and resumed our walk. 
 Jeanne lived at St. Saturnin, six kilo- 
 metres from town. It is a charming 
 place, as you are aware. Near the 
 village flows a stream bordered by 
 poplars and willows that overshadow 
 the deep but limpid waters. One 
 morning we were walking in the 
 broad meadow beneath the shade of 
 these trees, when suddenly we saw a 
 young man on the opposite shore, 
 not six rods off, throw himself into 
 the stream. Victor still retained a 
 part of his natural vigor. Before I 
 thought of preventing him, he 
 sprang forward, and, seeing that the 
 man who had precipitated himself 
 into the water did not rise to the sur- 
 face, jumped into the river, swam 
 around some time, and finally suc- 
 ceeded in bringing the stranger to 
 shore. I was wild with anxiety and 
 grief. Without allowing him to stop 
 to attend to the person he had res- 
 cued, I forced him to return to 
 Jeanne's in order to change his cloth- 
 ing. He gave orders for some one 
 to hasten to the assistance of the 
 
 poor man for whom he had so cour- 
 ageously exposed his life. Several 
 persons hastily left their work, and in 
 a short time returned with the man 
 who had tried to drown himself. 
 He was still agitated, but had recov- 
 ered the complete use of his facul- 
 ties. At the sight of my husband in 
 the garb of a peasant, he at once com- 
 prehended to whom he owed his life.' 
 He was seized with a strange tremor ; 
 he staggered, and seemed on the 
 point of fainting. . Victor made every 
 effort to bring him to himself, and at 
 length succeeded. As soon as this 
 young gentleman, who was clad with 
 uncommon elegance, recovered his 
 strength and self-possession, he seized 
 my husband's hand and kissed it 
 with a respect that excited strange 
 suspicions in my mind. Victor ap- 
 peared to know him, but I did not 
 remember ever having seen him be- 
 fore. Why had he thrown himself 
 into the river? To drown himself, 
 of course. . . . Why, then, did he testify 
 so much gratitude .and respect for 
 one who had hindered him from ex- 
 ecuting his project? . . . 
 
 He requested, in a faint, supplicat- 
 ing tone, to be left alone with Vic- 
 tor. The rest of us withdrew into 
 the garden. At our return, Victor 
 whispered to me : " This gentleman is 
 Louis Beauvais, the banker's oldest 
 son. He himself will relate his his- 
 tory to you after our return home." 
 
 The carriage was not to come for 
 us till four o'clock. We therefore 
 passed several hours together at 
 Jeanne's. Victor devoted himself to 
 Louis with an attention that touched 
 me inexpressibly. As to Louis, a 
 son could not have shown more af- 
 fection to the best of fathers than he 
 to Victor. 
 
 The hour of our departure came at 
 last. We entered the carriage, and 
 were all three at home in half an hour.
 
 22 
 
 Madame Agues. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 CONFESSION. 
 
 AT our return, we found my mother 
 had prepared the dinner as usual on 
 the days we went into the country. 
 We joyfully seated ourselves at the 
 table. What is more delightful than 
 a family dinner ? And we were all 
 united. Louis was also in our midst. 
 Victor was uncommonly lively that 
 evening. His face, so open, intelli- 
 gent, and kind, was radiant. I had 
 never seen him so social and witty. 
 His animation enlivened us all we 
 loved him so much ! Excellent 
 man ! what made him so happy was 
 the remembrance of the good deed 
 he had done at the peril of his life. 
 I asked him more than twenty times 
 that evening if he felt any worse, and 
 if it were not advisable to send for a 
 physician. He invariably replied 
 that >he felt as well as the day before, 
 and even better. But his cough 
 grew worse from that time, and 
 caused me serious alarm. During 
 dinner we conversed on general sub- 
 jects, and afterwards went to the 
 salon. Victor installed himself be- 
 side the blazing fire which I always 
 had made for him in the evening. 
 My mother and sister went up to 
 .their own apartments. We were 
 thus left alone with M. Louis Beau- 
 vais. He turned towards Victor with 
 a look full of respect and affection, 
 and I observed with astonishment that 
 tears were streaming from his eyes. 
 
 " Madame," said he to me, " I 
 must appear strangely to you. Ah ! 
 that is not the worst of it. I am a 
 great sinner." 
 
 Victor tried to stop him. 
 
 " No," said he ; "I will not keep 
 silence. Mme. Barnier must know 
 everything, as well as you, noble- 
 hearted man, whom I dare not call 
 my friend : I feel too unworthy." 
 
 He seated himself, and, sadly gaz- 
 ing into the fire, began his story in a 
 tone as grave and sorrowful as if he 
 were making a solemn avowal of his 
 faults before dying : 
 
 Ten years ago, said he, I was 
 a Christian, not only in name, but in 
 heart and soul. My mother, a pious, 
 energetic woman, such as we do not 
 see in our day, brought me up with 
 extreme care, and I did my utmost 
 to correspond to her efforts. It is 
 so easy and delightful to practise 
 one's religion when one has faith, and 
 feels that his endeavors are at once 
 pleasing to a mother and to God! 
 My other studies over, I became a 
 candidate for the Polytechnic School, 
 but was not successful in my appli- 
 cation. I then entered another, in 
 order to learn civil engineering. By 
 the end of a year, I had given up all 
 my pious habits through want of 
 moral courage. My principles, how- 
 ever, remained firm enough to con- 
 demn me and nil me with remorse, 
 but they were incapable of restrain- 
 ing one who had imbibed a taste for 
 error. Even my mother's death and 
 her last words, though they affected 
 me, did not bring me to a sense of 
 duty. A short time after I complet- 
 ed my studies in civil engineering, my 
 father gave me possession of what 1 
 inherited from my mother, and asked 
 what coirrse I intended to pursue.
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 " Remain at home," I replied, "and 
 work under the direction of M. 
 C ," an architect of the depart- 
 ment, and a friend of the family. My 
 father gave his consent to this. 
 
 Left to myself, and master of my 
 time and property, I made no delay 
 in commencing a life of dissipation 
 and pleasure. My father was, above 
 all things, a man of forethought and 
 calculation, and my conduct disgust- 
 ed him. We had several painful 
 disputes, and at last he declared, to 
 use his own expressive language, he 
 would give up the reins, and cease 
 to reproach me, but I must not 
 thenceforth expect of him the least 
 advice or even aid, if I needed it. 
 He then centred all his affections 
 on my brother and sister. As for 
 me, I had begun by being idle and 
 extravagant : I soon became openly 
 irreligious. My religious principles 
 were a restraint, and I determined to 
 throw them aside. I thought this 
 would be easy. And I did prove 
 myself uncommonly impious when 
 the preacher we had some months 
 ago told us so many plain, whole- 
 some truths. I was not one of those 
 guilty of disorderly conduct, whom 
 all respectable people must con- 
 demn ; but the acknowledgment is 
 due you I approved of it, contemp- 
 tible and wicked as it was. My con- 
 science was now roused, and remorse 
 filled my soul with secret anger. 
 
 My mother being dead, there was 
 no longer any one at home to speak 
 to me of religious things. My father 
 is an honorable, upright man, and at- 
 tentive to his business, but as regard- 
 less of another world as if there were 
 none. My young brother is pious to 
 a certain degree, I suppose, but he is 
 timid and reserved. Only my sister 
 remains. Aline left boarding-school 
 about six months ago. She is nearly 
 ten years younger than I, and bears 
 a striking resemblance to my mother. 
 
 She has the same kindness of heart 
 and the same tone of piety, at once 
 fervent and rational, which I always 
 loved and admired in my mother. I 
 had been separated from my sister 
 many years, and when I met her 
 again, I was struck, with this resem- 
 blance, and at once conceived so 
 much affection and respect for her as 
 to astonish myself. 
 
 As soon as Aline returned home, 
 the x appearance of everything 
 changed : the house became more 
 attractive. I certainly do not wish 
 to impute any blame to my father 
 I love and respect him too much for 
 that but you know as well as I that 
 a house is not what it should be that 
 has no woman to preside over it. 
 An Arabian poet says the mistress of 
 a house is its soul, and he is right. 
 After my mother's death, the house 
 became gloomy, but there was a 
 marked change when Aline returned. 
 It seemed as if my mother had come 
 back after a long absence to diffuse 
 once more around her cheerfulness, 
 order, and piety. 
 
 But the superintendence of the 
 household affairs, and her obligations 
 to society, did not wholly fill up 
 Aline's time. Like her whose living 
 image she was, she was eager to ex- 
 tend her knowledge. Before her re- 
 turn, my father had subscribed for 
 that wretched journal which is the 
 delight of the unbeliever, or those 
 who wish to pass as such. Aline 
 sometimes read it, but she disliked it, 
 as you may suppose. She imparted 
 her impressions to me, but I did not 
 conceal from her my sympathy with 
 its irreligious views. 
 
 " Well, I do not agree with it in 
 the least," said she ; " and, as I like to 
 know what is going on, I wish I 
 could subscribe for M. Barnier's pa- 
 per. Mme. C has lent it to me for 
 
 some time. It is an able, thoughtful 
 journal, and edited by a sincere Ca
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 tholic. That is the kind of a news- 
 paper that suits me." 
 
 " Then, order it to be sent you." 
 
 "That would be ridiculous. A 
 young girl cannot subscribe for a 
 newspaper." 
 
 " I see no other way of having it." 
 
 " Excuse me, there is. If you 
 were obliging, you would see the way 
 at once." 
 
 " Arrd subscribe for you ! . . . I 
 subscribe for a journal de sacristie ? 
 . . . That would be going rather 
 too far; I should be laughed at." 
 
 " You must have publicly compro- 
 mised yourself, then, to fear making 
 people talk by subscribing for a re- 
 spectable paper." . . . 
 
 The cut was well aimed. I red- 
 dened, but made no reply, and went 
 away. That night I subscribed for 
 your paper, and received my first 
 number. Of course I opened it at 
 once, out of perverse curiosity. I 
 should have been overjoyed to find a 
 single flaw in it. 
 
 A short time after this, the inci- 
 dent at the cathedral occurred. As 
 I have already told you, I was not 
 among those who made a disturb- 
 ance at the church door, but I was 
 with them in heart. Pere Laurent 
 was repulsive to me, as well as to 
 most of those who displayed their 
 anger in so reprehensible a manner. 
 He was everywhere the topic of con- 
 versation. At home, my sister, who 
 never lost one of his sermons, an- 
 noyed me with his praises. Above 
 all, she irritated me by repeating his 
 very words words that seemed cho- 
 sen expressly to disturb me and force 
 me to reflect. 
 
 The day after that atrocious mani- 
 festation, I eagerly opened your jour- 
 nal. I was sure you would speak of 
 the outbreak of the previous day, 
 and wished to see how far you would 
 condemn it. The article surpassed 
 my expectations. You showed 
 
 yourself more courageous than ever. 
 Never had you written anything that 
 so directly hit my case. You made 
 use of certain phrases that reminded 
 me of my shameful course, my base 
 inclinations, and my secret remorse, 
 and in so forcible a manner that the 
 very perusal made me tremble with 
 anger. That night, at our club that 
 well-known circle of young men de- 
 void of reason, and so many men of 
 riper years even more thoughtless 
 we had a great deal to say about the 
 occurrence of the previous day, and 
 your article of that morning. There 
 was a general indignation against the 
 preacher, and that excited by what 
 you had written was still stronger. 
 
 One of the habitues of the club 
 one of those men who assume the 
 right of imposing their opinions on 
 others about every subject seriously 
 declared he had made a very impor- 
 tant discovery : the clerical party 
 wished to overrule the city, and assert 
 its adverse authority as in the fear- 
 ful times of the middle ages ; but, 
 however well contrived the plot 
 might be, it had not escaped the sa- 
 gacious eye of the speaker. The 
 Conference of S. Vincent de Paul, 
 more flourishing than ever; the new 
 development given to the journal you 
 edit ; the arrival of an eloquent 
 preacher were they not all so many 
 signs that ought to arouse us to the 
 imminence and extent of the danger ? 
 
 The simplest and worst members 
 of the club allowed themselves to 
 be influenced by this absurd decla- 
 mation. I was, I confess, of the 
 number. Others shrugged their 
 shoulders. The orator perceived it. 
 
 " Ah ! you smile, messieurs ; you 
 think I exaggerate ! In a year you 
 will confess I was right, but then it 
 will be too late ! Your wives will 
 have become devotees, the very 
 thought of whose bigotry is enough 
 to make anybody shudder; your
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 daughters will only aspire to the hap- 
 piness of entering a convent ; the 
 theatres will be closed for want of 
 patronage ; and, if any one wishes an 
 office, it will only be obtained by 
 presenting a certificate of confession. 
 Allez / allez ! when that black-robed 
 tribe undertakes any scheme, it 
 knows how to bring it about. In- 
 stead of shrugging your shoulders 
 when I reveal what is going on, you 
 would do better to take proper pre- 
 cautions. It is high time." 
 
 A young fop in the assembly, the 
 head clerk of a notary, notorious for 
 his volubility, his shallowness, and 
 his assurance, rose and took up the 
 thread of discourse in his turn : 
 
 " I agree with what M. Simon has 
 just said. We must consider the 
 means of utterly routing this dark 
 race. The shortest course would be 
 to attack their leader. I will take 
 that on myself. Barnier shall hear 
 from me." 
 
 " No rashness !" was the exclama- 
 tion on all sides. " We must beware 
 of making a martyr of him !" 
 
 " What course shall we ta4ce, then ?" 
 asked some of the party. 
 
 " Intimidate him," said a voice. 
 " Write him a letter of warning of so 
 serious a character as to make him 
 desist." 
 
 ."That is also a bad plan," objected 
 M. Simon. " Anonymous letters are 
 treated with contempt, or are laid 
 before the public. In either case, the 
 effect would be unfavorable to us." 
 
 The young fop who had begun 
 the subject now resumed : 
 
 " M. Simon, who has so clairvoy- 
 ant an eye with respect to danger, 
 ought himself to suggest some way 
 of bringing Barnier to reason." 
 
 M. Simon assumed a solemn air : 
 ' I only know of one way, but that 
 is a good one. We must bribe him, 
 not to withdraw from the paper 
 that would be a false step, for an- 
 
 other would take his place, and con- 
 tinue to annoy us but to induce 
 him, in consideration of a certain 
 sum, to wage henceforth only an 
 apparent war on us. That is the 
 best thing to do." 
 
 " Well," replied the young fop, " it 
 is hardly worth while to criticise 
 others, and then propose something 
 not half so good. Barnier is not to 
 be bribed." 
 
 " Why not ?" asked M. Simon. 
 
 " Because a man whose opinions 
 are the result of conviction can never 
 be bought. He fights for his flag, 
 and is not much concerned about 
 anything else." 
 
 " Convictions ! flag ! disinter- 
 estedness, indeed !" retorted M. Si- 
 mon, with a gesture of supreme con- 
 tempt. 
 
 It was in vain to say that most of 
 us had carefully observed you, and 
 were not mistaken as to your charac- 
 ter. We were nearly all of the 
 clerk's opinion. For once in his life, 
 the fellow had a correct notion. We 
 then separated without coming to any 
 decision, but each one promised to 
 think of some means of bringing you 
 to reason, as we expressed it. I 
 dwelt on the subject the whole even- 
 ing, and was still thinking of it the 
 next day when I took my place 
 among the family at the dinner-table. 
 
 Aline was at that time greatly in- 
 terested in the soiree to which you 
 were afterwards invited, and the pre- 
 liminaries were discussed at table. 
 To my great astonishment, she pro- 
 posed to place your name on the list 
 of invitations. This proposition 
 made me angry, and I flatly declared 
 it absurd. I was sure my father 
 would make a similar reply. I had 
 no idea he would open the doors of 
 his salon to you, for I knew there 
 was no similarity of opinion between 
 you. The result was precisely con- 
 trary to my expectations. Was my
 
 26 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 father desirous of gratifying Aline ? 
 Or did he wish to seize an opportu- 
 nity of showing how little value he 
 attached to my opinion ? I know 
 not. But he allowed me to finish 
 what I had to say, and then said, in 
 a dry tone : 
 
 " Aline, send M. Barnier an invita- 
 tion. It is my wish." 
 
 I was confounded. In my fury, I 
 inwardly swore to be revenged. 
 The means of intimidating you, 
 which the members of the club had 
 not been able to find without com- 
 promising themselves, I thought I 
 had discovered myself the night be- 
 fore. I communicated my plan to 
 two of my friends whose names I 
 will not give. They declared it ex- 
 cellent, and promised to second me. 
 
 What took place you know, but I 
 will give you some details impossible 
 for you to have ascertained. I did 
 not attend the soiree, but one of my 
 accomplices was there to keep me in- 
 formed of your movements. When 
 you were ready to leave, he came to 
 my room to notify me. It took only 
 a moment to disguise ourselves. We 
 went out by a private door, and 
 dogged your steps. Ah! my dear 
 friend, what infamous behavior! 
 What had you done to me that I 
 should thus dare violate in your per- 
 son the laws of hospitality which 
 even savages respect ? 
 
 At this revelation, I turned pale. 
 M. Louis Beauvais perceived it. 
 
 " Is not such an act unpardonable, 
 madame ?" said he. " And do you 
 not look upon me as worthy only of 
 your contempt and hatred?" 
 
 " I have forgiven those who com- 
 mitted this wrong, whoever they 
 might be," I replied. " Now I know 
 it was you, and see how fully you re- 
 pent of it, I forgive you even more 
 willingly." 
 
 Thank you, madame, said he ; 
 but let me ssaure you that, culpable 
 
 as my intentions were, they were less 
 so than they must have seemed to you. 
 We were desirous of intimidating M. 
 Barnier, and making him believe he 
 exposed himself to constant serious 
 danger by the boldness of the course 
 he had taken. W T e did not I mis- 
 take I did not intend to show any 
 physical violence, for that I consid- 
 ered base and criminal. I was in- 
 dignant when I saw one of our num- 
 ber strike him.. I have ever since re- 
 garded that young man with pro- 
 found contempt. I had more than 
 one fit of remorse that night. The 
 next morning, Aline, after accosting 
 me, said: 
 
 " You know what happened to M. 
 Barnier last night after leaving us. 
 It is infamous ! It must have been a 
 plot. I am sure you know the guilty 
 authors! Who are they? They 
 ought to be punished." 
 
 " How should I know them ?" I 
 exclaimed angrily. 
 
 " You know them only too well," 
 said Aline, regarding me with an air 
 of severity ;.,.** but you are 
 not willing to betray your friends. 
 . . . What friends !" 
 
 I endeavored to appear uncon- 
 cerned. She continued looking at 
 me with a steadiness that made me 
 shiver. 
 
 " Do not add to my distress," said 
 she. " Do not lay aside the only 
 virtue you have left, my poor bro- 
 ther your customary frankness ! I 
 understand it all, and know what I 
 ought to say to you, but words fail 
 me. Ah ! if our poor mother were 
 still alive !" . . . 
 
 Aline went away without another 
 word. As for me, I remained mo- 
 tionless and silent for some moments, 
 by turns filled with shame, remorse, 
 and anger. ... It would seem as if 
 so grave an occurrence should have 
 led me to serious reflection. I felt in- 
 clined to it at first, but resisted the
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 inclination. I found excuses for my- 
 self, and soon thought no more of it. 
 
 I continued, therefore, to live as I 
 had for five years, one pleasure suc- 
 ceeding another, and spending my 
 property without reflecting what I 
 should do hereafter. But the day 
 was at hand when J found myself in 
 a critical position in consequence of 
 my prodigality. 
 
 When my father, in order to avert 
 cause for contention, put me in pos- 
 session of my mother's property, I at 
 once took my papers to a man in 
 whom I placed entire confidence. I 
 did this in order to throw off all care. 
 He had been for a long time my fa- 
 ther's cashier. He was and is hon- 
 esty itself. 
 
 " F. Martin," said I, " here is 
 all I possess. It will be a care for 
 me to keep these papers and collect 
 my income. Do me the favor to 
 take' charge of my property." 
 
 F. Martin was confused and grati- 
 fied at such a proof of confidence. 
 But his pleasure was somewhat mod- 
 ified when I added the following 
 words : 
 
 " F. Martin, I attach one con- 
 dition to this arrangement : you are 
 not to take advantage of it to ser- 
 monize me. I now tell you, with a 
 frankness that will preclude all sur- 
 prise, I wish to amuse myself. . . . 
 To what degree, or how long, I can- 
 not say, but such is my present in- 
 tention, that is certain." 
 
 " O M. Louis, if your mother 
 could only hear you !" 
 
 " F. Martin," said I, with a ges- 
 ture, as if to take back my portfolio, 
 " if you are going to begin to preach 
 to me, take care ! . . . I shall give 
 my papers to some one who may rob 
 me. Then, instead of merely curtail- 
 ing my property a little, I shall spend 
 it all in two years, or four at the 
 furthest; or rather, we shall spend it 
 between us." 
 
 " Dreadful boy ! I always said you 
 had the faculty of making everybody 
 yield to you. Well, I will do as you 
 wish." 
 
 " Ah ! that is right. One word 
 more. When I have but twenty 
 thousand francs left, you may warn 
 me not before !" 
 
 Things went on thus till a few days 
 ago. I spent my property with a 
 rapidity that frightened me when I 
 thought of it. M'y father perceived 
 it. My extravagance excited his in- 
 dignation, but, faithful to his resolution 
 to avoid all contention, he forebore 
 saying anything. Npt quite a fort- 
 night ago, I met with a sad disap- 
 pointment. An old aunt of mine 
 died. I had calculated on being her 
 heir, but she left all she had to my 
 sister and other relatives, and gave 
 me nothing. My unwise conduct 
 had for some time prejudiced her 
 against me. This disappointment 
 made me quite thoughtful. I wrote 
 F. Martin that I wished to know 
 the exact state of my affairs. The 
 next day Martin arrived at the ap- 
 pointed hour. He was pale and agi 
 tated pitifully so. 
 
 " M. Louis," said he, " you anti- 
 cipated me. I was going to request 
 an interview with you. You have 
 now only twenty thousand francs !" 
 
 I made a strong effort to control 
 myself, and replied, with a smiling 
 air : " Well done ! that is rather fast 
 work !" 
 
 " So fast that I can hardly believe 
 you have come to this. But it is 
 really so !" 
 
 " Where are the twenty thousand 
 francs, Martin ?" 
 
 " Why, I have not got them, M. 
 Louis ! I have only five thousand 
 left besides what you took." 
 
 At this, my strength almost failed 
 me. I at once realized I was com- 
 pletely ruined. Fifteen months be- 
 fore, I had withdrawn twenty thou-
 
 28 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 sand francs from Martin's hands under 
 the pretext of investing them in a 
 particularly advantageous manner. 
 A trip to Germany, play, and some 
 pressing debts absorbed this sum 
 without Martin's knowing it. I qui- 
 etly dismissed him, saying I would 
 see him again the next day. Left 
 alone, I balanced my accounts. 
 Alas ! my affairs were desperate ! 
 The five thousand francs in Martin's 
 possession were all I had left, and 
 my debts amounted to four times 
 that sum ! 
 
 All day yesterday I remained stu- 
 pefied, as it were, at so unexpected a 
 disclosure. My father had gone to 
 Paris. I resolved to take refuge in 
 the country, and come to some deci- 
 sion. I went, scarcely knowing what 
 I was about, angry with myself, with 
 everybody else, and desperate. All 
 night I sought some way of escape 
 from the terrible blow that had befall- 
 en me. I walked to and fro. From 
 anger I sank into the most profound 
 dejection. The very thought of ap- 
 plying myself to any occupation what- 
 ever appeared, above all, intolerable. 
 
 When morning came, I mechani- 
 cally went to walk beside the river 
 that runs about a hundred yards from 
 
 our house, and fell into a gloomy re- 
 verie. The sleepless nights, the riot- 
 ing, the habits to which I had succes- 
 sively given myself up for yea-rs, the 
 painful anxiety of the previous night, 
 had excited and weakened my nerv- 
 ous system. I was, as it were, de- 
 prived of my reason. 
 
 While I was thus lingering on the 
 shore, it seemed as if a mysterious 
 voice invited me to bury myself in the 
 current before me. A terrible struggle 
 took place between my reason, the 
 instinct that restrained me, and the 
 hallucination that kept drawing me 
 nearer the bank. Reason failed me. 
 In a fit of despair, I cast myself into 
 the stream. As soon as I felt the 
 cold water, my reason, my faith, 
 awoke as ardent as in the days of my 
 boyhood. A cry issued from the very 
 depths of my soul : " O Mary, save 
 me ! " It would be impossible to tell 
 you with what fervor, what terror, I 
 uttered this short prayer impossible, 
 also, to express the immense joy that 
 filled my heart when I realized I was 
 saved. But what confusion mingled 
 with this joy what gratitude, too, 
 what admiration of the designs of 
 God, when I saw it was you who had 
 rescued me at the peril of your life ! 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 M. Louis Beauvais had finished 
 his story. 
 
 "And now," said Victor, in the 
 cheering, confidential tone of one 
 friend who wishes to encourage an- 
 other, "what are you going to 
 do?" 
 
 "That is precisely the question 
 that preoccupies me. In fact, I see 
 no way of solving it. Were you to 
 ask me what I am not going to do, 
 oh ! then I should not be embarrassed 
 for a reply. At all events, had I even 
 the means, I should nof wish to con- 
 
 tinue the life I have led. Nor do I 
 any longer desire to escape from the 
 trying position I am in by having 
 recourse to the cowardly, criminal 
 means I took in a moment of mad- 
 ness. Suicide fills me with horror! 
 One must behold death face to face, 
 as I have to-day, to realize how easily 
 a man can deceive himself. I had 
 really arrived at such a state of indif- 
 ference and insensibility that it seemed 
 as if I had never had any religion ; 
 but the terrible thought no sooner 
 sprang up in my soul that I was
 
 Madame Agnes 
 
 29 
 
 about lo appear before God, than I 
 found myself as sincere a believer as 
 on the day of my first communion. 
 My whole life passed in review be- 
 fore me, and I condemned myself 
 without awaiting the divine sentence. 
 When I recall the inexpressible terror 
 of that moment; when I remember 
 if God had not sent you to my assist- 
 ance, and that, had it not been for 
 your heroism, I should have been for 
 ever lost, there springs up in my heart 
 a continually increasing gratitude to 
 my heavenly Father, and to you who 
 were the agent of his mercy." 
 
 " Then, my friend," replied Victor 
 gravely, " you will allow me to make 
 one request." 
 
 " Consider whatever you wduld ask 
 of me granted in advance." 
 
 " Then, forget the past six or eight 
 years of your life, and become again 
 what you were under your mother's 
 influence." 
 
 " I pledge you my word to do so, 
 and hope by the divine assistance 
 never to break my promise a pro- 
 mise I make with inexpressible joy. 
 But that is not all. What course do 
 you advise me to take ? " 
 
 " If I may form an opinion of your 
 sister from what you say, she must be 
 a person of intelligence, kind feelings, 
 and decision. In your place, I would 
 go to her, make known my exact 
 situation, and ask her advice." 
 
 " Yes ; that is the best course to 
 take. The idea pleases me. I will 
 put it in execution this very evening. 
 My father is to be absent a day or 
 two longer. I shall have a good op- 
 portunity of talking freely with Aline. 
 I will go directly to her when I leave 
 you. To-morrow morning I will re- 
 turn and give you an account of our 
 interview." 
 
 Louis left us a few moments after. 
 We commended him to God with all 
 our hearts at our evening devotions. 
 It was so impressive a spectacle to 
 
 behold a soul break loose from past 
 habits, and return to God humiliated 
 and conscious of his weakness re- 
 pentant, and burning with ardor to 
 enter upon a new life. 
 
 During the night, Victor was seri- 
 ously ill. Fearing he was going to 
 die, I exclaimed, in a moment of 
 anguish : 
 
 " Oh ! that unfortunate adventure ! 
 That wretched young man will be the 
 death of you ! " 
 
 " Take that back, dear," said Vic- 
 tor; "it pains me. Instead of deplor- 
 ing this occurrence, and calling it 
 unfortunate, you should thank God. 
 He has thus granted my dearest wish. 
 From the time I found my days num- 
 bered, I prayed God to grant me 
 every possible opportunity of showing 
 how earnestly I wished to serve him 
 during the short time left me on earth. 
 He has now granted my desire. If 
 my going into the water to-day leads 
 'to my death, I shall have the infinite 
 joy of being in a certain sense a 
 martyr, for I fully realized the danger. 
 But an interior voice whispered : 
 'There is a soul to save,' and I 
 plunged into the river. . . . Others 
 would have done the same, but God 
 does not give every one such an op- 
 portunity. I thank him for having 
 granted it to me." 
 
 By degrees Victor's alarming symp- 
 toms wore off. When he awoke the 
 next morning, he was much better 
 than I had dared hope. He recalled 
 with a lively joy the events of the 
 previous day, and expressed an eager 
 desire to know what Louis and his 
 sister had decided upon. 
 
 We were not kept in suspense long. 
 Louis arrived about nine o'clock. 
 Seeing his face was calm and happy, 
 my poor husband manifested a livelier 
 satisfaction than I had ever known 
 him to express. 
 
 " Sit down there," said he, pointing 
 to an arm-chair beside his bed, " and
 
 Madame Agnes 
 
 give us the details of all you have 
 done." 
 
 As we agreed upon last evening, 
 replied Louis, I went directly home 
 after leaving you, and inquired if my 
 sister was in. They told me she was. 
 I went to her room. It was vacant. 
 A servant informed me that she had 
 given up her old chamber some weeks 
 before, and now occupied my mo- 
 ther's. I found Aline sitting in the 
 middle of the room beside a stand, in 
 the same arm-chair my mother made 
 use of to the last. I cannot express 
 the emotion that overpowered me 
 when I entered. The aspect of the 
 room, the sight of the well-known 
 furniture, Aline's grave air, and her 
 resemblance to my mother, all carried 
 me back ten years. It seemed as if I 
 were once more in the presence of 
 her whom I loved so much, but 
 whose counsels I had followed so 
 poorly. My agitation increased when 
 Aline sprang towards me, clasped me 
 in her arms, and covered my face 
 with her tears. 
 
 "Wicked, wicked boy, she cried; 
 you wished to put an end to your 
 life ! , How sinful in you ! and what 
 sorrow for us ! Oh ! conceal nothing 
 from me. . . . You are very unhappy, 
 then ? . . . You have no confidence 
 in me ? . . . Come, tell me all. 
 Leave me no longer in a state of un- 
 certainty. And, first, have you re- 
 nounced your horrible project?" 
 
 Her voice betrayed such pro- 
 found emotion, her eyes such tender 
 affection and deep anxiety, that I was 
 affected to tears. I began by begging 
 pardon for all the anxiety I had 
 caused her. I pledged my word to 
 enter upon a new life. When we 
 were both somewhat calmer, I told 
 her all I had related to you. At the 
 end of the account, she looked at me 
 as a mother would at her son, and 
 said : 
 
 " Louis, the hand of God has visi- 
 
 bly interposed in your behalf. Every- 
 thing shows you would have been 
 drowned. And what a horrible end ! 
 in that river where so few people 
 go, especially the spot you chose, had 
 not Providence, at the very moment 
 you plunged into the water, sent a 
 man, a noble-hearted man, to save 
 you at the peril of his life. That is 
 not all. When you were able to 
 thank your deliverer, you found it was 
 the very man who had already 
 been brought to death's door through 
 your fault. If I am not deceived, 
 this is a wonderful interposition of 
 Providence. You have been a great 
 sinner, my poor boy, and your con- 
 version had to be effected by a great 
 sacrifice. This sacrifice has been 
 offered by M. Barnier in risking his 
 life in order to restore you to exist- 
 ence, which you wished to deprive 
 yourself of. I believe pardon my 
 great frankness God wished, I be- 
 lieve, to inspire you with thorough 
 repentance by showing you your vic- 
 tim under the form of your deliverer. 
 Oh ! if this repentance is not lasting, 
 I shall tremble at the thought of the 
 chastisement that the justice of God., 
 weary of pardoning you, has in re- 
 serve. But, no ! there is no fear of 
 that. And now, what are you going 
 to do ? " 
 
 " Put an end to my idle life." 
 
 "Very well. It was idleness es- 
 pecially that caused your ruin. But 
 what occupation will suit you ? No 
 imprudent heroism! You must do 
 something that will be congenial." 
 
 " I am an engineer. It is time to 
 remember it. I am going to Paris. 
 Either there or elsewhere I can easily 
 find a place in some manufactory." 
 
 "Very well. Father is to return 
 to-morrow evening. What has oc- 
 curred cannot be concealed from 
 him. I am even of the opinion it 
 would be best to tell him the whole 
 truth. Only . . . you will allow
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 me to speak with the frankness of a 
 sister who loves you, will you not ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes. Speak to me as our 
 mother would." 
 
 " Well, then, I must acknowledge 
 father is extremely offended with you. 
 He is kind, very kind, as you know, 
 but he cannot endure want of calcu- 
 lation, especially in money matters, 
 and your manner of conducting has 
 excited his indignation. I fear, 
 therefore, he will at first be greatly 
 irritated at learning what has taken 
 place. Public rumor will at once^n- 
 form him of it, so that, when he sees 
 you for the first time, you will not be 
 able to induce him to listen to you. 
 With your consent, I will talk with 
 him first. To prevent a premature 
 explanation with him, I propose you 
 should go and pass two or three 
 days with Aunt Mary. She is now 
 
 at her country-seat in M . It is 
 
 not far off. I can easily send you 
 word when it is time for you to return." 
 
 I need not say with what gratitude 
 I accepted this proposal, which re- 
 vealed the kindness of a sister, the 
 delicacy of a woman, and the pru- 
 dence of a mother. 
 
 Aline continued : " I have two 
 more requests to make. If you were 
 a different person, I might hesitate. 
 But you were once pious. You are 
 better instructed in our religion than 
 most of the poor young men of our 
 day. In a word, you have never 
 lost your faith. Do not delay having 
 recourse to the remedy. Go to con- 
 fession as soon as possible. Confes- 
 sion develops repentance, puts a seal 
 on our good resolutions, and confers 
 a special grace to keep them. I 
 speak as I think. A repentance that 
 remains purely human cannot be 
 lasting." 
 
 I promised to go to confession to 
 Father , and shall keep my pro- 
 mise. 
 
 " One favor more," resumed Aline 
 
 " It is a somewhat delicate matter, 
 but let us talk with the same freedom 
 and simplicity that we did in our 
 childhood. That is the shortest way 
 to come to an understanding. You 
 say you are fifteen thousand francs in 
 debt. Knowing my father's disposi- 
 tion as I do, I am sure this will 
 cause trouble if he knows it. He is 
 a man who would forgive your spend- 
 ing a hundred thousand francs, but a 
 debt of five hundred would make him 
 extremely angry. This is strange, 
 but it is so. And you may be sure 
 as soon as your creditors hear of 
 your ruin, they will come upon you. 
 We must, therefore, hasten to fore- 
 stall them. We must settle with 
 them where they are. Will you per- 
 mit me to render you a little service ? 
 ... Sit down here, and draw up, as 
 papa would say, a schedule of your 
 debts. I will give it to our head 
 clerk to-morrow, bind him to secrecy, 
 and before noon you will be free from 
 debt." 
 
 I was profoundly moved by so 
 much generosity, and so profuse in 
 my thanks as to greatly touch Aline 
 herself. But she concealed her emo- 
 tion under a lively, playful manner. 
 I had to make out a list at once. I 
 did so, and gave it to Aline. She 
 took it with a smile, and folded it up 
 without looking at it. There were 
 two small sheets, one of which was 
 nearly blank. 
 
 " Why two papers ?" she asked 
 mechanically. 
 
 " One contains the list the sad 
 list ; the other is a note which "... 
 
 " Ah ! that is too much ! Louis, my 
 poor Louis, you are only half con- 
 verted ! You do not really love me ! 
 You are unwilling to receive any thing 
 from me. You would deprive me of 
 the pleasure of giving this to you. 
 Ah ! that is wrong. Oh! the con- 
 temptible role you wish me to play ! 
 I lend it to you ! Fie, fie ! " . . .
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 So saying, Aline tore up the un- 
 fortunate note. 
 
 The night was far advanced before 
 we separated. I had already bidden 
 my sister good-night. She retained 
 my hand in hers, and, looking at me 
 with a caressing air, said : 
 
 " Louis, one favor more ! Let us 
 say our night-prayers together at the 
 foot of that bed where our dear mo- 
 ther made us say them so often. We 
 will pray for her. She watches over 
 us. What has happened to you is a 
 proof of it." 
 
 We sank on our knees beside each 
 other. Aline said the prayers aloud. 
 I repeated them with my lips and in 
 my heart, and with so much joy and 
 emotion that I melted into tears. 
 
 This morning I took leave of 
 Aline. She means to come here her- 
 
 self, in order to express her gratitude 
 My mother could not feel more. 
 Oh ! how she loves you ! As for 
 me, I am going away ruined, but 
 happier than if my fortune were in- 
 creased tenfold. Pray for me. And 
 you, my dear friend, take care of 
 yourself. I trembled yesterday at 
 the thought of the danger to which 
 you had exposed yourself in order to 
 save my life. I trembled as I came 
 here, fearing your heroic imprudence 
 might have led to fatal results ! 
 Tl^ank God ! there is nothing serious. 
 But redouble your precautions ; I 
 shall need you for a long while. You 
 will be my best guide in the new way 
 upon which I have now entered. 
 
 Louis then departed, leaving us 
 exceedingly happy at the favorable 
 turn in his affairs. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 ALINE'S HOPES. 
 
 The second day after Louis' de- 
 parture, we had in the afternoon an 
 agreeable surprise : Aline called to 
 see us. All that Louis had told 
 about us about her prepossessed us in 
 'her favor. The sight of her only 
 increased our disposition to love 
 her. 
 
 Aline was at the time I am speaking 
 of and still is afine-looking woman, 
 tall, well-formed, and with a pleas- 
 ing, intelligent face. Her manner is 
 a little cold at first, but her reserve is 
 not unpleasing, for it indicates a 
 thoughtful mind. When she came 
 into the room, my husband and I 
 were reading. She went directly to 
 Victor, and with emotion, but with- 
 out any embarrassment, said : 
 
 " Monsieur, I am late in express- 
 ing my gratitude. Pardon this delay. 
 It has not been without good reasons. 
 I was expecting my father every mo- 
 ment, and was greatly preoccupied 
 with all I had to communicate, as 
 
 well as about the reply he would 
 make." . . . 
 
 " Mademoiselle," replied Victor 
 gently, " there is no need of excus- 
 ing yourself. I am happy, very happy, 
 to see you, but had no right to ex- 
 pect your visit." 
 
 " No right, monsieur ? . . . What ! 
 did you not save my brother's life ? 
 . . . And was it not you the unhappy 
 fellow had before "... 
 
 " O mademoiselle ! do me the 
 favor never to mention that circum- 
 stance !" 
 
 " You are generous, monsieur ! 
 But that is no reason why we should 
 show ourselves ungrateful rather the 
 contrary. Louis and I can never 
 forget that, before you saved his life, 
 he had injured you to such a degree 
 that he can never be sufficiently re- 
 pentant. As to my father, I have 
 not dared inform him of these details 
 too painful to be acknowledged. My 
 father, alas ! is not religious. Louis'
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 33 
 
 fault would seem so enormous to him 
 that he would never forgive him." 
 
 " It is, however, of but little ac- 
 count. If harm has resulted from it, 
 Louis was only the involuntary cause. 
 Let us adore the divine decrees, and 
 forgive our poor friend. He had 
 not, after all, any very criminal in- 
 tentions." 
 
 Aline looked at Victor with a sad- 
 ness she could not wholly conceal. 
 His wasted features, his eyes hollow- 
 ed by suffering, his air of languor, 
 nothing escaped her observation. 
 
 " I wish I could think so," mur- 
 mured she, as if speaking to herself. 
 " Ah ! poor Louis, what remorse he 
 must feel !" 
 
 This allusion to Victor's sad con- 
 dition brought tears to my eyes. 
 Victor suspected my emotion, and at 
 once changed the subject. 
 
 " M. Louis has become jny friend," 
 said he to Aline ; '' therefore pardon 
 my curiosity, mademoiselle, if it is in- 
 discreet. May we hope to see him 
 again soon ? Is M. Beauvais greatly 
 offended with him ?" 
 
 Everything is arranged for the 
 best, though not without difficulty. 
 My father was not originally wealthy. 
 It has only been by dint of order, 
 economy, and industry, that he has 
 attained the position he now occu- 
 pies. When he learned that Louis 
 had lost, or rather squandered, his 
 maternal inheritance, his anger was 
 fearful. But by degrees I made him 
 comprehend that Louis, though ruin- 
 ed, had shown new resolution that 
 he was willing to work; he wished to 
 become useful, and regain all he had 
 lost. My father then grew calm. And 
 yet all my fears were not allayed. I 
 had to tell him of Louis' sad attempt 
 at suicide, of which he was still igno- 
 rant, but which^he could not fail to 
 learn. I told him of it, dwelling on 
 your devotedness, which struck him 
 most of all. 
 
 " Has Victor shown himself duly 
 grateful to M. Barnier for the ser- 
 vice ?" he asked. I replied that he 
 had. 
 
 " So much the better. Such a sen- 
 timent does him honor* This cir- 
 cumstance may lead to a friendship 
 between them which cannot be too 
 intimate, in my opinion. And you 
 say our prodigal son is willing to 
 work ? What is he going to do ?" 
 
 " Anything you wish, father." 
 
 " That is easily said, but a poor 
 reply. Nothing is well done that we 
 do not like to do. Has he manifest- 
 ed an inclination for any special oc- 
 cupation ?" 
 
 " Louis is a civil engineer. He 
 would like to find a place somewhere 
 in that capacity." 
 
 " Ah ! he at length remembers he 
 is a civil engineer ! . . . He 
 wishes to turn his acquirements to 
 some account ? ... It is a 
 wonder ! He need not exile himself 
 for that. You know Mr. Smithson ?" 
 
 " Is not he the cold, ceremonious- 
 gentleman who came to see us Sun- 
 day ?" 
 
 " The very one. Mr. Smithson is 
 a wealthy Englishman who has been 
 in France these twenty years. He 
 came on account of his health. He 
 settled at first in Paris, where he 
 married a charming woman a Ca- 
 tholic of no property, but of a "good 
 family. This excellent Mr. Smithson 
 was so foolish as to speculate too 
 much at the Bourse some years since, 
 and his losses were considerable. To 
 withdraw himself from such a tempt- 
 ation, he established his residence at 
 St. M six months ago. The situ- 
 ation pleased him, and there was an- 
 other inducement : a large paper man- 
 ufactory there was offered for sale. He 
 bought it, hoping not only to find 
 occupation, and feed his incessant 
 activity, but to repair the losses of the 
 last few years. The mill is well situ-
 
 34 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 ated and well patronized. Every- 
 thing would prove advantageous if 
 Mr. Smithson were better versed in 
 the knowledge of machinery. But 
 though an Englishman, he has not 
 been through the studies necessary 
 to enable him to superintend his in- 
 dustrial project as he ought. Besides 
 this, he is subject to frequent attacks 
 of the gout. He has therefore be- 
 sought me to find him a man capable 
 of superintending the mill under his 
 direction, and even of taking the 
 whole charge if necessary." 
 
 So much for Louis' affairs. What 
 do you think of the arrangement? 
 I approved of it without any restric- 
 tion. And you, monsieur ? 
 
 " I think, mademoiselle," replied 
 Victor, " that Providence continues to 
 treat Louis with parental kindness." 
 
 " Oh ! yes ; truly parental ! He will 
 now remain under your influence. 
 Even in the house he is to enter, 
 everything will encourage him, I 
 hope, to persist in his good resolu- 
 tions. Mme. Smithson is said to 
 be a woman of lovely character. 
 She has a daughter who must be a 
 prodigy, unless I have been misin- 
 formed. My father, who is very 
 practical, and but little given to ex- 
 aggeration, is enthusiastic in her 
 praise." 
 
 Victor knowingly smiled at this 
 but communication. 
 
 " You have divined my thoughts," 
 said Aline, blushing a little. " Well, 
 yes : this thought at once occurred to 
 my mind. I said to myself, if Louis 
 can find at Mr. Smithson's not only 
 an occupation that will enable him 
 to forget the past, but an affection 
 that will continue to sustain him in 
 a better course, I shall consider him 
 the most fortunate of men. But it is 
 too soon to speak of that. This dear 
 brother must first return home, and 
 be accepted by Mr. Smithson, to 
 whom my father wrote to-day." 
 
 The next day both these things 
 took place. Louis returned. Mr. 
 Smithson at once accepted him as 
 his assistant. After calling on us 
 with his father, he left for St. M . 
 
 While M. Beauvais was speaking 
 to me, Louis said to Victor, in a low 
 tone: 
 
 " Everything is done. The bonds 
 of iniquity are completely broken. 
 I have been to confession and to 
 Holy Communion, and a new life 
 has begun ! " 
 
 The air of satisfaction with which 
 he uttered these words, the calmness 
 and unaffected gravity he manifested, 
 all announced he had indeed be- 
 come a new man. 
 
 " In a year he will be an eminent 
 Christian !" said Victor, as Louis 
 disappeared. 
 
 He was not mistaken.
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 35 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 EUGENIE. 
 
 A WEEK after, Louis came to see 
 us fof the first time. 
 
 " Well," inquired Victor, " do you 
 like your new manner of life ?" 
 
 " Yes and no, my dear friend," re- 
 plied Louis. "Yes, because I feel 
 that the new life on which I have 
 entered is good for me. It is just 
 what I needed, I must confess for I 
 think alqud here. It is such a relief 
 to speak to some one who under- 
 stands, who loves you, and is always 
 ready to excuse and pardon you ! 
 But I forewarn you I need, and shall 
 need, great indulgence, though no- 
 thing ought to seem too hard to one 
 who was on the high-road to de- 
 struction, soul and body, and would 
 at this very instant be lost, had not 
 God, in his mercy, sent you to my 
 aid. This benefit has filled me, I 
 assure you, with so much gratitude 
 from the first that, in view of my 
 past life and the divine goodness, I 
 feel I ought to be a saint in order to 
 expiate so many transgressions I 
 ought to prove my sincerity by some 
 heroic sacrifice for God." 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! that is somewhat am- 
 bitious." 
 
 " I suppose it is absurd. Not that 
 it is necessarily absurd to aspire to 
 heroism, but the means should be 
 taken into consideration. Now, mine 
 are fearfully, pitifully inadequate. I 
 am cowardly, fickle, and a lover of 
 my ease." 
 
 " Come, come ! do not calumniate 
 
 yourself. We must neither judge 
 ourselves with too much leniency 
 nor with too much severity. We 
 must see ourselves as we are. This 
 is difficult, but it is essential/' 
 
 " Well, my kind friend, that is ex- 
 actly the way I regard myself." 
 
 " I doubt it." 
 
 " You shall judge for yourself. 
 My duties oblige me to remain night 
 
 and day at St. M . Alas ! this 
 
 very necessity I find harder than I 
 can express. There is not a day in 
 which I do not find myself regretting 
 the city three or four times. This is 
 very wrong, when the city has been 
 so pernicious to me . . ." 
 
 " Come, you exaggerate things. 
 You were born and brought up in 
 the city, and have always lived here 
 till now. I see nothing astonishing 
 at your finding it disagreeable at first 
 to live in the country." 
 
 " What a lenient judge ! We shall 
 see if you are as much so after the 
 other acknowledgments I have to 
 make. There are times when work 
 seems insupportable. To rise at six 
 o'clock and superintend workmen 
 and machinery the live-long day 
 irritates and fatigues me to such a 
 degree that I am sometimes tempted 
 to give it all up." 
 
 " You have not yet yielded to the 
 temptation ?" 
 
 " No, indeed ; that would be too 
 despicable." 
 
 " Since you yourself regard such a
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 step as it deserves, pursue your oc- 
 cupation without being concerned 
 about a slight disinclination for work. 
 Even people who have always been 
 accustomed to labor have such temp- 
 tations. I assure you, in a year 
 there will be no question of all this. 
 You will have acquired a love for 
 your business, and, active as you are, 
 you will not be able to do without 
 it." 
 
 " You think me at the end of my 
 confession. The worst is to come. 
 Mr. Smithson is polite and sincere, 
 but reserved and ceremonious, like 
 all Englishmen. He keeps me at a 
 distance, and appears as if my errors 
 and loss of property, which of course 
 he is aware of, gave him some supe- 
 riority over me. I think he does 
 wrong to make me feel this." 
 
 " Ah ! this is more serious, my 
 dear friend. Like all people in a 
 wrong position, you are inclined to 
 be unduly sensitive. Watch over 
 yourself. Endeavor to be guided by 
 reason. I do not wish you to sub- 
 mit to too much haughtiness, but do 
 not attribute to people airs, and es- 
 pecially intentions, they are not guilty 
 of." 
 
 " You are a thousand times right. 
 I appreciate your advice, and promise 
 to follow it. It would, indeed, be 
 foolish to make myself needlessly un- 
 
 liappy. St. M , as you know, is 
 
 a lovely place. The river on which 
 the mill stands has many charming 
 vfiews. During my leisure hours, I 
 can draw and paint at my ease. I 
 have a great deal to do, and my 
 work is frequently burdensome, but I 
 shall become accustomed to it, for it 
 is a source of real interest. By an 
 excess of good luck, I have lodgings 
 that suit me in apartments near Mr. 
 Smithson's house. There I can read, 
 meditate, and pray at my leisure. 
 One thing only is wanting a little 
 society in the evening; but that will 
 
 come, perhaps. I am invited to dine 
 at Mr. Smithson's next Thursday. 
 I hope that will be the commence- 
 ment of closer intercourse with the 
 family. Hitherto, I repeat, they 
 have kept me at a distance. I have 
 exchanged a few words with Mme. 
 Smithson, who appears very affable, 
 but I have only had a glimpse of the 
 daughter Eugenie, I believe her 
 name is. As far as I could judge, 
 she is tall, fine-looking, even digni- 
 fied in her appearance, with some- 
 thing haughty in her air. I frankly 
 confess it will be a treat to meet these 
 three people. I have always had a 
 fancy for studying different charac- 
 ters, and shall enjoy it particularly 
 now, I am so unoccupied in the 
 evening." 
 
 " And your workmen what do 
 you make of them ?" 
 
 " I am constantly observing them, 
 and assure you they are as interest- 
 ing to study as any one else. What 
 a source of reflection ! We have, 
 you must know, workmen of every 
 grade, good and bad yes, fearfully 
 bad. There are four hundred and 
 fifty people men, women, and chil- 
 dren who represent every phase of 
 humanity." 
 
 " To study mankind, my dear 
 friend, to confine one's self to that, 
 is an amusement suitable for a phi- 
 losopher. But a Christian has higher 
 views : he studies human nature in 
 order to be useful." 
 
 " That idea has occurred to me. 
 I have even formed a series of fine 
 projects ; but I am so poor a Chris- 
 tian, and so inexperienced !" 
 
 " No false modesty ! Excuse my 
 bluntness; but false modesty is the 
 shield of the indolent, or their couch, 
 whichever you please. Have you 
 any desire to benefit the people 
 among whom you live ?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly, if I can." 
 
 "You can. You only need zeal
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 37 
 
 ana prudence ; the one ought always 
 to guide the other. Come, what 
 plans have occurred to you ?" 
 
 " I should like to found an even- 
 ing-school, and take charge of it. 
 Those who are the best instructed 
 might serve as monitors." 
 
 " Perfect ! That would be a means 
 of keeping the young men, and even 
 those of riper years, from idleness 
 and the wine-shops, and afford you 
 an opportunity of giving them good 
 advice. What else ?" 
 
 " I should also like to establish a 
 fund of mutual aid." 
 
 " Excellent ! . . . Reflect on 
 these two projects till Sunday. I 
 will do the same. Consult Mr. 
 Smithson also about them, and come 
 and dine with us in a week. We 
 will talk it over, and you can tell me 
 how you like the family you are 
 about to become acquainted with. I 
 hope you will be pleased with them." 
 
 " I hope so too, but have my 
 fears. If they were all like Mme. 
 Smithson, everything would be pro- 
 pitious. I took a fancy to her from 
 the first. But Mr. Smithson is frigid, 
 and his daughter seems equally un- 
 approachable. It is singular, but I 
 had met her once or twice before 
 I entered her father's employ. I 
 thought her beautiful and intelligent, 
 and heard her very highly spoken of. 
 But really, I begin to believe that she, 
 like many others, is brilliant rather 
 than solid." 
 
 " Come, come ! no rash judg- 
 ments !" 
 
 " What can I say ? I was deceived 
 in her. I thought her an uncommon 
 woman one capable of compre- 
 hending all the delicacy of my posi- 
 tion, and of coming to my assistance. 
 She ought to realize that I am out of 
 my element there. You must confess 
 that Mile. Smithson's coolness does 
 not tend to console me." 
 
 " Why, my dear friend, you are 
 
 very exacting ! . . . Would you 
 expect as much from every one ?" 
 
 " No ; but this young lady occu- 
 pies an important place in the house, 
 without trying, I confess, to take ad- 
 vantage of it." 
 
 " And an important place in 
 your thoughts . . ." said Victor, 
 with the friendly, significant smile so 
 natural to him. 
 
 Louis blushed. 
 
 " I am inclined to think your opin- 
 ion of her will be less severe in a 
 week. I, too, have heard her highly 
 spoken of." 
 
 These words seemed to afford 
 Louis great satisfaction. Victor did 
 not continue the subject. 
 
 If you have carefully followed the 
 conversation I have just related, you 
 must see that Louis, though unaware 
 of his sister's hopes, already thought 
 more of Mile. Eugenie than he con- 
 fessed or even acknowledged to him- 
 self. I think I shall only anticipate 
 your wishes in making you acquaint- 
 ed at once with that young lady, 
 who is to fill an important role in my 
 story. And this cannot be done 
 better than in her own home. 
 
 Eugenie is in her chamber. It is 
 the morning of the day Louis and 
 some other acquaintances are to dine 
 with her father. She is engaged 
 in completing her toilet. A more 
 charming room cannot be imagined. 
 It is furnished in exquisite style. 
 Nothing is lacking. The pictures 
 are all rare, and arranged with artistic 
 taste. The book-case contains, not 
 so many books, but solid works that 
 will beaj reading over and over 
 again. What, above all, completes 
 the charm of this young girl's bovver 
 is the view to be seen from the two 
 windows, which are like frames to a 
 picture. They afford a glimpse of a 
 terrestrial paradise through which 
 flow the limpid waters of a deep 
 stream. A breeze, playing through
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 the poplars that stand on its banks, 
 softly rustles the leaves. Directly 
 across, on the opposite shore, is a 
 broad meadow, bright with flowers, 
 with here and there clumps of trees. 
 As far as the eye can reach are ob- 
 jects on every side to satisfy the soul, 
 and excite it to reverie : a windmill 
 with its long wings of white canvas 
 swaying in the air ; a villa with its 
 gardens; a little hamlet, and, over- 
 looking it, a church, the slated belfry 
 of which is glistening in the sun. 
 
 The world is full of material souls 
 whom it would be a kind of profana- 
 tion to introduce into a place so at- 
 tractive. They would be unable to 
 appreciate the charm. What is na- 
 ture, however beautiful, to a man 
 eaten up with avarice and ambition ? 
 to a woman who only dreams of 
 pleasure ? . To such degen- 
 
 erate souls, nature is a sealed book 
 a divine picture before a sightless 
 eye. 
 
 But to this number Eugenie did 
 not belong. The daughter of a Ca- 
 tholic mother and a Protestant father, 
 she had been educated in one of the 
 best schools in Paris. Shall I call 
 her pious ? No ; that would be ex- 
 aggerating. Eugenie did not lack 
 faith. Her religious instincts were 
 well developed, but checked by her 
 father's coldness and her mother's 
 frivolity. She was by no means in- 
 sensible to all the beautiful and true 
 in religion. They filled her with ad- 
 miration. She always fulfilled the 
 obligations rigorously imposed by the 
 church, but avoided going any far- 
 ther through indifference as well as 
 calculation. She had a horror of 
 what she called petty religion and 
 little practices of piety. Poor girl ! 
 she, too, closed her eyes in this re- 
 spect to the light. The practices she 
 disdained frequent prayers, the 
 raising of the soul to God, visits to 
 the church, and assiduous frequenta- 
 
 tion of the sacraments are they not 
 what truly constitute religion, such 
 as it ought to be, in order to be the 
 companion, friend, and guide of the 
 whole life? . . . This is what 
 Eugenie did not comprehend, or ra- 
 ther, what she did not wish to com- 
 prehend. In short, she was religious 
 in her own way half-way religious 
 quite so in theory, but in reality 
 much less so than she should have 
 been. 
 
 The somewhat indirect influence 
 her parents exercised over her in a 
 religious point of view also affected 
 her in other ways. Eugenie possess- 
 ed two natures : she was cold like her 
 father, and kind like her mother, but 
 without displaying it. Let us also 
 add another characteristic by way of 
 completing her portrait she was ro- 
 mantic. In everything, she had a 
 repugnance to what she called com- 
 monplace. An object, an individual, 
 or an action, to please her, must have 
 a peculiar stamp, an original turn, 
 which she wished might be more fre 
 quently met with. She only liked 
 what was out of the common course, 
 according to the elevated standard 
 of a certain ideal she had formed in 
 her own mind. 
 
 Eugenie's exterior, her distinguish- 
 ed manners, her fluency in conversa- 
 tion, and the tone of her calm, well- 
 modulated voice, all inspired a respect 
 bordering on admiration. She was 
 beautiful without being bewitching. 
 She was kind, but in so inexpressive 
 a way as to inspire at first fear rather 
 than confidence. As has been said, 
 she possessed a character not easily 
 read, and, though only twenty-one 
 years old, she passed for what is 
 called, and with reason, a person of 
 ability: Her father and mother doted 
 on her: she was their only child. 
 Yet there was a difference in their 
 affection. Mr. Smithson tenderly lov- 
 ed her as a daughter : Mine. Smithson
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 39 
 
 loved her with a shade of fear, as we 
 love a companion or friend whose 
 superiority we feel. 
 
 Her toilet otherwise completed, 
 Eugenie rang for her waiting-maid 
 to arrange her hair. Fanny did not 
 keep her waiting. There was a strik- 
 ing contrast between mistress and 
 maid. Fanny was towards forty 
 years of age. She was of ordinary 
 height, neat in person, but plain and 
 unattractive in appearance. She had 
 a bad complexion, large eyes hidden 
 under thick lashes, a wide mouth, and 
 a large fleshy nose, which made up 
 one of those vulgar faces that are 
 never observed except to laugh at. 
 She was beloved by no one except 
 her employers. This was not strange. 
 She had an observing eye and a 
 keen, sarcastic tongue. Her nature 
 was soured, rather ' than instinctively 
 bad. She was selfish and bitter a 
 good deal so. This selfishness and 
 bitterness sprang from two causes 
 which she would by no means have 
 acknowledged. She was no longer 
 young, she knew she was homely, 
 and she had no hope of being mar- 
 ried. Such a hope she had once, and 
 a few days of happiness was the result. 
 Fanny would have been so glad to 
 be, in her turn, mistress over her own 
 house ! But'her dream had vanished, 
 and under circumstances not calculat- 
 ed to sweeten her temper. 
 
 For some years, Fanny was a ser- 
 vant at Mme. Smithson's sister's. 
 That lady was in the commercial line 
 at Paris. There Fanny made the 
 conquest of a smart young man from 
 the country employed by her mistress 
 as head clerk. He was an excellent 
 person, but, like many others, wished 
 to reconcile his affections with his 
 interests. He said to himself that, 
 by waiting awhile, he might, some 
 fine day, find a wife richer, prettier, 
 and younger than Fanny. As he 
 was bound to her by no actual pro- 
 
 raise, he finally obtained another situa- 
 tion, and disappeared without any 
 warning. The poor girl regarded 
 such conduct as infamous. She feh 
 that all hope of ever marrying was 
 now lost, and the disappointment 
 made her ill. Unbeknown to her, 
 her mistress had followed all the 
 scenes of this little domestic drama. 
 She nursed Fanny with a care that 
 was quite motherly. When the girl 
 recovered, she expressed her grati- 
 tude, but begged permission to go 
 away. The house had too many 
 cruel associations. Her mistress will- 
 ingly consented, and Fanny entered 
 Mme. Smithson's service. When the 
 latter left Paris, Fanny accompanied 
 
 her to St. M , and had now been 
 
 in the family several years. 
 
 Having, to her great regret, no 
 prospect of marrying, forced to ac- 
 knowledge to herself that she should 
 never have a house of her own to 
 manage, Fanny had but one desire, 
 but this was an ardent one to be 
 installed in a family which, if not her 
 own, might prove as pleasant, and 
 where she could rule while appearing 
 to obey. But where find this ideal 
 home ? . . . She resolved to create it. 
 And in this way : her old mistress, 
 Mme. Smithson's sister, had a son 
 named Albert, who was five years 
 older than Eugenie. Fanny had 
 known him from his childhood. She 
 was attached to him, and, above all, 
 she understood his disposition. No 
 one knew better than she that Al- 
 bert would be the easiest, the most 
 manageable, in short, the mildest of 
 masters. On the other hand, she 
 knew that Eugenie, energetic as she 
 was, would not be difficult to please. 
 " Mademoiselle lives in the clouds," 
 she said to herself; "she will be 
 glad enough to have some one man- 
 age the house for her." 
 
 Fanny, therefore, resolved to 
 make a match between the two coi>-
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 sins. There is reason to believe she 
 made skilful overtures to her former 
 mistress and to the young man him- 
 self, and that these overtures were 
 well received. Albert was now pre- 
 paring his thesis with a view to the 
 law. As he was not rich, his cou- 
 sin's fortune was a very pleasant 
 prospect, and still more so to his 
 mother. Besides, Albert had always 
 known Eugenie and loved her, as is 
 natural to love a cousin that is 
 pretty and intelligent He and his 
 mother, therefore, made Fanny their 
 intermediary, without committing 
 themselves to too great an extent. 
 
 But Fanny had a good deal to 
 overcome. Mr. Smithson was not 
 partial to lawyers. The profession 
 was not, in his estimation, clearly 
 enough defined or very elevated. 
 As to Eugenie, no one knew what 
 her sentiments were with regard to 
 her cousin. Fanny thought she had, 
 if not a very strong attachment to 
 him, at least an incipient affection. 
 But she was not sure. Thence re- 
 sulted continual fears. Every young 
 man who entered the house was to 
 her an object of alarm. Perhaps her 
 prospects, so slowly ripening and so 
 dear, would be again overthrown by 
 this one ! 
 
 It may be imagined that Fanny 
 looked with an unfavorable eye on 
 Louis' connection with the manufac- 
 tory. If Mr. Smithson had chosen 
 another kind of a man to aid him, 
 one who was obscure, a mere com- 
 mon man of business, she would not 
 have minded it. But in the course 
 of a week, she was fully informed as 
 to the history of the new-comer. 
 She knew he belonged to one of the 
 best families of the city ; that he had 
 been rich, and might become so 
 again ; that, till recently, he had been 
 regarded as one of the most brilliant 
 young men in society ; and he was in- 
 telligent, well-educated, and of irre- 
 
 proachable morals. " I am lost !" 
 thought she. " All these people are 
 linked together to ruin my plans. 
 This M. Louis comes here as an en- 
 gineer ? . . . Nonsense ! it is an 
 arrangement between his father and 
 Mr. Smithson. They wish him to 
 marry mademoiselle. What a con- 
 trivance ! And that poor Albert, 
 what will become of him ? . . ." 
 
 These suspicions quite upset her. 
 She resolved to make inquiries, in 
 order to relieve her mind, if by 
 chance she was mistaken. But 
 whom should she question ? . . . Mr. 
 Smithson ? . . . That must not be 
 thought of. Eugenie ? Fanny 
 made the attempt. Eugenie, with 
 her usual coolness and wit, replied in 
 such a way that Fanny retreated 
 every time more uncertain than before. 
 
 The day of which I am speaking 
 the notable day of the dinner 
 Fanny, out of patience, could endure 
 it no longer. She resolved to carry 
 matters so far that, whether she liked 
 it or not, her mistress would be forced 
 to revive her hopes, or utterly de- 
 stroy them. Hardly had she entered 
 the chamber, before she opened fire : 
 
 " How shall I arrange mademoi- 
 selle's hair ?" 
 
 " As usual." 
 
 " Then we will dress ft differently 
 this afternoon with ribbons and flow- 
 ers." 
 
 " Why such a display ?" 
 
 " Can mademoiselle have forgotten 
 it is the day of the great dinner ?" 
 
 "Great dinner? What do you 
 mean by such nonsense, Fanny ? 
 Why, whom are we to have at our 
 table of so much importance ? No- 
 body is invited that I have not 
 known a long time: our neighbor, 
 M. Daumier, with his wife and 
 daughter, Dr. Ollivier, and M. Du- 
 paigne. Really, it would be singu- 
 lar for me to receive them with any 
 ceremony."
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 " Mademoiselle has not named all 
 the guests." 
 
 " Whom have I forgotten ?" 
 
 " M. Louis Beauvais." 
 
 "Ah! that is true. I overlooked 
 him. But his coming will not 
 change my intention to remain as I 
 am." 
 
 These words were uttered in a 
 tone of perfect indifference. Fanny 
 was overjoyed, but careful not to 
 manifest it. Then, as she continued 
 to busy herself about her mistress, 
 she began to reflect. " She does not 
 care for him," she said to herself. 
 " There is nothing to fear for the 
 moment, then. But who knows how 
 it may be by-and-by ? . . . I must at 
 once find out if, under favorable cir- 
 cumstances, she might not conceive 
 an affection for him, and try to pre- 
 vent such a misfortune. I will take 
 the other side to find out the truth." 
 
 " A charming young man, this M. 
 Louis, and quite worthy of interest," 
 said she, without appearing to attach 
 any importance to her words. 
 
 " What do you find so charming 
 in him ?" 
 
 " He has a serious air, which I 
 like." 
 
 "Yes; it might even be called 
 gloomy." 
 
 " He may ^vell have." 
 
 "Really! Ah! Fanny, then you 
 know his history ?" 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle ; and a very 
 curious one it is." 
 
 " Well, relate it to me. Only sup- 
 press the details ; you always give 
 too many." 
 
 " Three months ago, M. Louis was 
 the finest dancer and the gayest 
 young man in the city. Unfor- 
 tunately, these young men are not al- 
 ways remarkable for uniformity. He 
 lived like a prince for six years, and 
 one fine morning found himself penni- 
 less." 
 
 " And what did he do then ? " 
 
 " They say I am umvilling to be- 
 lieve it, but everybody says so that 
 he tried to drown himself." 
 
 " A weak brain. That is not to 
 his credit." 
 
 " They also say that M. Barnier, 
 the journalist, saved him at the risk 
 of his life, and converted him so 
 thoroughly that the poor fellow 
 came near entering a monastery." 
 
 " A queer idea ! That shows he 
 has more imagination than reason ! " 
 
 " But he did not stick to his first 
 intention. He is now established 
 here, and will remain, I feel sure, . . . 
 and this alarms me ! . . . " 
 
 " Why are you so sure ? And how 
 can this assurance cause you any 
 alarm ? " 
 
 " That is a secret. Mademoiselle 
 will excuse me from replying. 
 Though I have known mademoiselle 
 from her childhood, she intimidates 
 me." 
 
 " Not much, Fanny." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, mademoi- 
 selle, I do not understand you." 
 
 " You understand me perfectly, but 
 I have to dot your i's for you. Well, 
 I will do so. I do not intimidate you 
 much, I say. You dare not tell me 
 what you mean, but you give me a 
 hint of it. What are you afraid of? 
 Tell me. I insist upon it." 
 
 " As mademoiselle insists upon it, 
 I feel obliged to tell her what she 
 wishes to know. Mademoiselle is 
 not to be resisted. But I should pre- 
 fer keeping it to myself. If it were 
 to displease mademoiselle . . ." 
 
 " No; go on." 
 
 " Well, then, mademoiselle, I have 
 everything to fear ! This young man 
 has lost his property. . . . He passes 
 himself off here as a creditable per- 
 so*n. . . . He has secret de- 
 signs . . ." 
 
 " What designs ? " 
 
 " Mademoiselle puts me in an awk 
 ward position. ... It is such a rtcC
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 cate point to speak to mademoiselle 
 about." 
 
 " That M. Beauvais aspires to my 
 hand through interested motives ? " 
 
 " I should not have dared say 
 so." 
 
 "Well, that would be audacious! 
 I accept a man for a husband whom 
 poverty, disgraceful poverty, alone 
 inclines towards me ! " 
 
 " Without doubt, he has committed 
 many faults, but there is mercy for 
 the greatest sinner, and he is so pious 
 just now ! " 
 
 " I know he goes to church often, 
 even during the week. That is his 
 own affair. That is enough, Fanny. 
 Let there be no further question of 
 this between us. You take too much 
 interest in what concerns me, as I 
 have told you before. I am astonish- 
 ed you should force me to repeat it." 
 
 Fanny, thus dismissed, went away 
 furious and more uneasy than ever. 
 But if she could have read Eugenie's 
 inmost thoughts, her fury would have 
 turned to joy. As soon as she was 
 gone, Eugenie seated herself in a low 
 arm-chair, and began, as she some- 
 times laughingly said, to put her 
 thoughts in order. 
 
 "That malicious girl is no fool," 
 he said to herself. "This young 
 
 man may have entered my father's 
 service from secret motives, perhaps 
 suggested by his family. Who knows 
 but my parents themselves smile on 
 his projects ? My father seems to be 
 on the best of terms with his father. 
 Perhaps they have come to an under- 
 standing with a mere word, or even 
 without speaking at all. That would 
 be too much ! Well, if it is so, if 
 the whole world conspires against 
 me, I will defeat their calculations. 
 ... In the first place, I do not fancy 
 this M. Louis, and I will soon let 
 him see it, as well as those who favor 
 him. The mere supposition that I 
 could ever be his wife makes me in- 
 dignant and angry. I marry a man 
 who has ruined himself, who only 
 aimed at my fortune, and would 
 squander it in a few years ! I give 
 my heart to a man who does not love 
 me, and, even if he sincerely vowed 
 he loved me, would be in such a po- 
 sition that I should always have rea- 
 son to doubt it ! And, besides, what 
 a weak mind this hare-brained fellow 
 must have to play so many roles one 
 after the other! I wish my husband 
 to have purer motives and a stronger 
 head. This man must have a false 
 heart. He is an intriguer, and that 
 includes everything. . . ." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MORE ABOUT EUGENIE A REAL FRIEND. 
 
 That evening, Louis found himself 
 for the first time in the midst of the 
 Smithson family. We often thought 
 of him that night, and wished we 
 could know at once what kind of a 
 reception he had met with, especially 
 from Eugenie. But we were obliged 
 to wait for these interesting details 
 till Louis could relate them himself. 
 We did not have to wait long. When 
 he came, he was gloomy and dispirit- 
 ed. Victor pretended not to ob- 
 serve his dejection. 
 
 " Well," said he, " you have now 
 made the acquaintance of the Smith- 
 sons. What do you think of them ?" 
 
 " A good many things, but I can 
 sum up my impressions in a word : 
 they are queer people !" 
 
 " Indeed ! did they hurt your feel- 
 ings in any way ?" 
 
 " Yes ; . . . yet I do wrong to 
 be angry, or even to be astonished. 
 I should have expected it." 
 
 " This great dinner, then, did not 
 turn out as I hoped a means of ce-
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 43 
 
 meriting amicable, if not affectionate, 
 relations between you ?" 
 
 " By no means." 
 
 " You greatly astonish me !" 
 
 " It is just so. ... The way 
 things were managed shows the 
 Smithsons to be sagacious people. 
 They invited me, in order to make 
 me understand at once the position 
 I hold in their estimation that of 
 engineer and superintendent, nothing 
 more." 
 
 " I am really amazed !" 
 
 " And I am equally so. I did not 
 expect it, but the fact is too evident." 
 
 " Well, tell me all that happened, 
 without omitting anything." 
 
 " Not to omit anything would 
 make the story long, and it is not 
 worth the trouble. I will briefly re- 
 late what I think will interest you, 
 that you may have an idea of this 
 first visit. There were but four other 
 guests, whom I only regarded with 
 indifference. They were neither 
 pleasing nor displeasing, so it is use- 
 less to speak of them. We will con- 
 fine ourselves to the leading members 
 of the household. I will first speak 
 of the real though unacknowledged 
 head. My mind is made up on this 
 point. As I saw from the first, it is 
 Mile. Eugenie who rules the house." 
 
 " Even her father ?" 
 
 " Yes ; even her father ; not as 
 openly and directly as she does her 
 mother, but as unmistakably by dint 
 of management." 
 
 " Is she really a superior woman, 
 as I have been told, or is she merely 
 shrewd and imperious ?" 
 
 " Oh ! no. Those who have 
 sounded her praises have not deceiv- 
 ed you. She is by no means a com- 
 mon person. In the first place, it 
 must be confessed she is really hand- 
 some. There is especially a rare in- 
 telligence and dignity in her appear- 
 ance. She converses well, often says 
 something profound, and is always 
 
 interesting. She is a lover of the 
 arts, and all she says, all she does, 
 eyinces an elevated mind." 
 
 " Such a person as is seldom met 
 with, then a model of perfection ?" 
 
 " She has all that is necessary to 
 become so, ... and yet she is 
 not. One fault spoils everything, 
 one or two at the most, but they are 
 serious. She is proud or egotistical, 
 perhaps both." 
 
 " Are you not too severe upon her ? 
 You scarcely know her, and yet you 
 are very decided in your condemna- 
 tion." 
 
 " I have reasons for my opinion. 
 You shall judge for yourself. My 
 position with respect to Mr. Smithson 
 is very trying. He knows, and 
 doubtless the rest of the family too, 
 all the follies I have committed with- 
 in a few years, and how I regret 
 them. He cannot be ignorant, nor 
 they either, that the office I hold un- 
 der him, however respectable, must 
 awaken a susceptibility that is natural 
 and excusable, even if exaggerated. 
 In this state of things, I had a right 
 to expect that Mr. Smithson and his 
 family, if they were really people of 
 any soul or breeding, would treat me 
 with a delicacy that, without com- 
 promising them, would put me at 
 my ease." 
 
 " I am of your opinion. And have 
 they been wanting therein ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and in a very disagreeable 
 way. It is little things that betray 
 shades of feeling, and it was thereby 
 I was hurt. In leaving the salon for 
 the dining-room, each guest offered 
 his arm to a lady. Mr. Smithson, 
 his daughter, and myself were the 
 last. Mile. Eugenie took her fa- 
 ther's arm with an eagerness that was 
 really unciv.il." 
 
 " It was from timidity, perhaps." 
 
 "She timid? ... I must 
 undeceive you ! She certainly is not 
 bold, but she is far from being timid.
 
 44 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 At table, I found myself consigned to 
 the lowest place. None of the guests 
 were great talkers, and more than 
 once I took part in the conversation. 
 Mile. Smithson undisguisedly pre- 
 tended not to listen to me. She even 
 interrupted me by speaking of some- 
 thing quite foreign to what I was 
 saying." 
 
 " Her education has been defec- 
 tive." 
 
 " Pardon me, she is perfectly well- 
 bred. To see her an hour would 
 convince you of this. When she is 
 deficient in politeness, it is because 
 she wishes to be." 
 
 " I believe you, but cannot com- 
 prehend it all." 
 
 " I have not told you everything. 
 The worst is to come. Towards the 
 end of dinner, the conversation fell on 
 a certain cousin of Mile. Eugenie's. 
 His name, I think, is Albert. She 
 praised him highly, to which I have 
 nothing to say ; but she added and 
 this was very unreasonable or very 
 malicious that this dear cousin did 
 not imitate the young men of fashion, 
 ,who were extravagant in their ex- 
 penditures, acquired nothing, and 
 ended by falling into pitiful embar- 
 rassment. I was, I confess, provok- 
 ed and angry. I felt strongly tempt- 
 ed to make Mile. Smithson feel the 
 rudeness and unkindness of her re- 
 mark. But I bethought myself that 
 I was a Christian, and that, after all, 
 the most genuine proof of repentance 
 is humility. Therefore I restrained 
 my feelings, and remained silent. 
 The rest of the evening I cut a sorry 
 figure. Mile. Smithson seemed per- 
 fectly unconcerned as to what I 
 might think." 
 
 " Her behavior is so inexplica- 
 ble," said Victor, " that, if I had these 
 details from any one else, I should 
 refuse to believe them." 
 
 (At this part of her story, Mme. 
 Agnes made a remark it may be well 
 
 to repeat to the reader : " You must 
 bear in mind," said she, " that 
 neither Victor nor I then had any 
 means of knowing what I related a 
 few moments ago as to Fanny's pro- 
 jects and Eugenie's suspicions ; and 
 we were completely ignorant of her 
 turn of mind and romantic notions.") 
 
 " Well," resumed Louis, " her way 
 of acting, at which you are astonish- 
 ed, does not amaze me. I can easily 
 explain it. Mile. Eugenie imagines 
 that I aspire to her hand, or rather, 
 to her fortune. She is mistaken : 
 I aspire to neither. I acknowledge 
 she has a combination of qualities 
 calculated to please me, but her dis- 
 dain excites my indignation. I mean, 
 therefore, to put a speedy end to her 
 injurious suspicions. Then I will 
 leave the place. I have already be- 
 gun to put my project into execution.'' 
 
 " Do not be precipitate, I beg of 
 you. It is a delicate matter. What 
 steps have you taken ?" 
 
 " None of any importance. This 
 morning, the work-rooms being clos- 
 ed as usual on Sunday, I went, before 
 Mass, to sketch a delightful view not 
 a hundred steps from the manufac- 
 tory. I was wholly absorbed in my 
 work, when Mile. Smithson approach- 
 ed. I will not deny I was moved at 
 seeing her." 
 
 " Then you are no longer indiffer- 
 ent to her ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I think I can vouch for the 
 perfect indifference of my sentiments 
 for the moment. But would this 
 coldness towards her always last if 
 I did not watch over my heart ? . . . 
 She has so many captivating quali- 
 ties ! I have seen so few women to 
 be compared to her ! No, no ; I will 
 not allow myself to be captivated 
 unawares ; that would be too great a 
 misfortune for me. ... I have resolv- 
 ed to raise myself in her estimation. 
 I will clearly convince her she has 
 calumniated me in her heart ; that I
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 45 
 
 am in no respect the man she thinks ; 
 and, when I have done that, I shall 
 leave. So, when she approached, I 
 bowed to her with respect and polite- 
 ness. 
 
 " ' You are sketching, monsieur ? ' 
 she said, bending doujai to look at my 
 work. ' It is charming.' 
 
 "'It ought to be, mademoiselle. 
 There could not be a landscape bet- 
 ter calculated to inspire an artist. 
 But while I am admiring what is be- 
 fore me, I regret my unskilfulness in 
 depicting it. It is my own fault. I 
 have so long neglected the art of 
 drawing. I have acted like so many 
 other young men, and lost some of 
 the best years of my life.' 
 
 " She understood the allusion per- 
 haps too direct to her sally of the 
 other day. A slight blush rose to her 
 face. ' One would not suspect it, 
 monsieur,' she said. ' But as for 
 that, even if you have lost your skill, 
 it can easily be regained in the midst 
 of the delightful views in this vicinity.' 
 
 " ' It is true, mademoiselle ! A love- 
 lier region it would be difficult to 
 find. I wish some of these views for 
 my sketch-book, as I may leave any 
 day.' 
 
 " I uttered these words in a cool, 
 deliberate tone, and then resumed my 
 work. Mile. Eugenie seemed to 
 wish to continue the conversation, 
 but, slightly abashed, had not the 
 courage, I think, to make any advan- 
 ces. I bowed ceremoniously, and 
 she went away. My opinion is, she 
 stopped out of mere curiosity. She 
 had shown how little she esteemed 
 me, and was not afraid of my attach- 
 ing any importance to her speaking 
 to me. Such a course favors my 
 plans." 
 
 " Wonderfully ! But nothing head- 
 long! Forbear leaving Mr. Smith- 
 son too precipitately. You are now 
 near your family. Time may show 
 things to you in a different light. 
 
 And, above all, it seems to me great 
 good can be done there, and more 
 easily than in most places. Tell me 
 something of your workmen. Have 
 you thought of the two projects we 
 talked about the other day ? Have 
 you spoken to Mr. Smithson about 
 them ? " 
 
 " No ; it seems to me they would 
 not particularly please him. I really 
 do not know whether this English- 
 man has any heart or not. I am in- 
 clined to regard him as an egotist, 
 merely employing men to increase 
 his wealth, and not very solicitous 
 about their welfare." 
 
 " I must undeceive you. I have 
 reason to think Mr. Smithson a very 
 different person from what you sup- 
 pose. We have not many Protestants 
 here, you know, but still there are a 
 few. Among them are some who 
 are really actuated by good motives. 
 They assembled a few months ago at 
 the house of Mr. Carrand, the rich 
 lawyer you are acquainted with. 
 They wished to establish a charitable 
 society, in imitation of our Conferen- 
 ces of S. Vincent de Paul, but did 
 not succeed in their plans. To effect 
 such an enterprise, there must be the 
 zeal and charity that animate the 
 Catholic Church. To her alone God 
 grants the sublime privilege of de- 
 voting herself with constancy and 
 success to the physical and moral 
 welfare of mankind. Though their 
 project remained unfruitful, it reveal- 
 ed a generosity much to the credit 
 of the Protestants interested in it 
 Mr. Smithson himself was one of the 
 foremost on this occasion to manifest 
 how earnestly he had at heart the 
 welfare of the poor ; and this with- 
 out any evidence of being influenced 
 by selfish motives." 
 
 " What you say surprises me, but 
 it gives me great pleasure. I shall 
 henceforth be less reserved with 
 him."
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 "And you will do well. I even 
 advise you to consult Mme. and 
 Mile. Smithson about your charita- 
 ble plans. They are Catholics, and 
 will comprehend you at once." 
 
 " I have no great confidence in 
 their piety." 
 
 " My dear friend, I regard you 
 with the affection of a brother . . ." 
 
 " Say, rather, of a father, as you 
 are, in one sense, having saved my 
 life ; and also by another title, in 
 aiding me to become an earnest 
 Christian, such as I once was." 
 
 " Well, then, let us use a medium 
 term. My regard for you shall be 
 that of an elder brother. I thank 
 you for allowing me this title. My 
 affection for you makes me take an 
 interest in all that concerns you. I 
 have obtained very exact information 
 respecting the Smithson ladies from 
 a reliable source. They are not as 
 pious as they might be, but they do 
 not lack faith, and they fulfil the ab- 
 solute requirements of the church. 
 I know that Mile. Eugenie is keenly 
 alive to the poetical side of religion. 
 You have, I believe, an important 
 r$le to fill in the family and in 
 the whole establishment. You can 
 do good to every one there, and, 
 at the same time, to yourself. The 
 course to be pursued seems to me 
 very simple. I feel sure Mile. Smith- 
 son has some misconception concern- 
 ing you some injurious suspicions. 
 Endeavor to remove them from her 
 mind. Act prudently, but as prompt- 
 ly as possible. That done, induce 
 her to take an interest in the work 
 you are going to undertake. She 
 will lead her father to participate in 
 it. In a short time, you will see the 
 good effect on your workmen, and 
 derive from your charitable efforts the 
 reward that never fails to follow an 
 ever-increasing love of doing good, 
 and a livelier desire of sanctifying 
 your own soul. The exercise of 
 
 charity is of all things the most salu 
 tary. I can safely predict that the 
 Smithson ladies will both become 
 pious if they second you; and as 
 for you, you will be more and more 
 strengthened in your good resolu- 
 tions. Who k^iows ? perhaps you 
 may have the sweet surprise of seeing 
 Mr. Smithson converted when he 
 sees that Catholicism alone enables 
 us to confer on others a real benefit." 
 
 " These are fine projects, and very 
 attractive ; but I foresee many obsta- 
 cles and dangers." 
 
 " What ones ?" 
 
 " Of all kinds. First, I expose 
 myself to conceive an affection for 
 Mile. Smithson it would be prudent to 
 guard against. She does not like me. 
 I imagine she loves some one else 
 the cousin she praises so willingly." 
 
 " A supposition without proof! 
 What I have heard from others, as 
 well as yourself, convinces me that 
 Mile. Smithson has not yet made her 
 choice. The praise she so publicly 
 lavishes on her cousin is, in my opin 
 ion, a proof of her indifference to 
 wards him." 
 
 " But if I were to love her love 
 her seriously, and she continued to 
 disdain me ; if her prejudice against 
 me could not be overcome ? . . ." 
 
 " I should be the first to regret it. 
 But listen to me. You were once 
 truly pious, my friend, and wish to 
 become so again. This desire is sin- 
 cere, I know. Well, it is time to 
 take a correct view of life. For the 
 most of us, especially those who are 
 called to effect some good in the 
 world, life is only one long sacrifice. 
 Jesus Christ suffered and died to re- 
 deem mankind; the way he chose 
 for himself he also appointed for 
 those who become his disciples. It 
 is by self-sacrifice that we acquire 
 the inappreciable gift of being useful 
 to our fellow-men. Do not cherish 
 any illusion with regard to this 1"
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 47 
 
 Louis and I exchanged a sorrow- 
 ful glance as Victor spoke. Poor 
 dear fellow ! how he realized what 
 he was saying ! He was about to 
 die at thirty-six years of age, in the 
 very height of his usefulness, and 
 this because he likewise had volunta- 
 rily chosen the rough path of sacri- 
 fice that was leading even unto 
 death ! 
 
 " My friend," replied Louis, " what 
 you say is true. I feel it. You are 
 yourself an eloquent proof of it you 
 whom I have stopped in the midst 
 of your career. . . ." 
 
 " Do not talk so," interrupted Vic- 
 tor ; " you pain me. Your manner 
 of interpreting my words makes me 
 regret uttering them. Do not mis- 
 take my meaning. What I would 
 say may be summed up thus : to ef- 
 fect a reformation in Mr. Smithson's 
 manufactory, where there are many 
 bad men who corrupt the good ; to 
 enkindle a spirit of piety in the hearts 
 of the Smithson ladies, by associating 
 them in the good you are to effect. 
 Whatever may be the result, devote 
 yourself to this work without any re- 
 serve. You must not hesitate ! 
 Your sufferings, if you have any to 
 endure, will not be without fruit, and 
 perhaps God may not suffer them to 
 be of long duration." 
 
 " You have decided me. I will 
 begin to-morrow. I will commence 
 with the evening-school, and by visit- 
 ing the most destitute families." 
 
 " Do not forget that the destitu- 
 tion most to be pitied is moral desti- 
 tution. Visit those who have no- 
 thing, but especially those who are 
 depraved." 
 
 Louis went away in a totally dif- 
 ferent frame of mind from that with 
 which he had come. Victor, in his 
 gentle way, had increased his esteem 
 for Mr. Smithson, and inflamed him 
 with the zeal the ardent desire of 
 usefulness with which he was filled 
 himself. When he was gone, Victor 
 and I talked a long time about him. 
 I confessed I had no great faith in 
 his perseverance. Victor replied : 
 " His mother's piety and careful 
 training must lead to his thorough 
 conversion. And how he has al- 
 ready changed ! He realizes the 
 worthlessness of the aims to which 
 he once gave himself up. There is 
 no fear of his receding. He has 
 taken the surest means of persever- 
 ing the apostolic work of doing 
 good. Nevertheless, I acknowledge 
 I wish he could find some one to aid 
 him. And what a powerful aid it 
 would be if he loved and felt him- 
 self loved ! Ardent as he is, he 
 would communicate his piety to the 
 object of his affection. And how 
 much good would result from their 
 combined efforts ! But I fear it will 
 not be thus ! Our poor friend will, 
 perhaps, purchase the right of win- 
 ning a few souls at the expense of 
 his own happiness." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LOUIS AT WORK. 
 
 Louis took two whole days to re- 
 flect on the important subject of his 
 conversation with my husband. 
 Was the profound love he subse- 
 quently felt for Eugenie already 
 springing up in his heart ? Such is 
 my opinion, though I dare not say 
 BO positively. He probably was not 
 
 conscious himself of the real state of 
 his mind. Since that time, I have 
 often dwelt on all that took place 
 then and afterwards, and it has al- 
 ways seemed to me that, from the 
 very moment Louis first knew and 
 appreciated Mile. Smithson, he con- 
 ceived an affection for her as seri-
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 ous as it was sudden. This affection 
 was one of those that seem destined, 
 from the beginning, to a continual in- 
 crease. Does this mean that I have 
 adopted the foolish and erroneous 
 theory of novel writers, who regard 
 love as an overmastering passion to 
 which one is forced at all hazards to 
 submit? . . . Neither religion 
 nor reality will allow one to yield to 
 such an error. But they do not hin- 
 der me from believing there are incli- 
 nations and affections that all at 
 once assert themselves with so much 
 force that, if one would not be 
 speedily overcome by passion, he 
 must at once raise an insurmount- 
 able barrier against it, such as flight, 
 reason armed with contempt, and, 
 what is a thousand times better than 
 all prayer. Such, in my opinion, 
 was the love Louis at once con- 
 ceived for Mile. Smithson. 
 
 How shall I account for his being 
 so captivated, when Eugenie had 
 wounded him so deeply, and was so 
 proud and every way original ? 
 For he too was proud, and his pride 
 was allied with an unvarying sim- 
 plicity which by no means accorded 
 with Mile. Smithson's turn of mind. 
 ... I account for this in many ways. 
 Eugenie had very distinguished man- 
 ners. This naturally pleased Louis, 
 for he had been brought up by a 
 mother who was a model of distinc- 
 tion. Eug6nie had a noble soul. 
 Her opinions were not always cor- 
 rect, but they were always of an ele- 
 vated nature. She was, it is true, 
 peculiar and romantic, and Louis 
 was not. But he liked all these pe- 
 culiarities in her. They seemed 
 to him charming. Lastly, and this 
 is one of my strongest reasons, I 
 think it was because Louis felt him- 
 self worthy of being Eugenie's hus- 
 band, and, seeing himself slighted by 
 her, was the more strongly tempted 
 to win her. 
 
 As Victor and I were his confiden- 
 tial friends, he kept us informed of all 
 his proceedings, and, I may safely say, 
 even of his thoughts. It is therefore 
 easy for me to retrace the story of his 
 love, which 1 will do without any 
 exaggeration. 
 
 But first, let us return to his chari- 
 table projects, and the way in which 
 he executed them. Louis was not 
 merely an engineer in Mr. Smithson's 
 establishment, but a Christian, and 
 all the more zealous because he was 
 anxious to expiate his past errors. 
 He knew by experience to what an 
 abyss the passions lead, and was de- 
 sirous of warning others. If he had 
 been a man of ordinary mind and 
 heart, he would no doubt have been 
 animated by entirely different motives. 
 After his ruin, and rescue from a 
 watery grave, desirous of regaining 
 not only his father's esteem, but that 
 of the world, he might have chosen 
 the very position he now occupied, 
 but he would have taken care to live 
 as easily as possible. He would per- 
 haps have sought to win Eugenie's 
 affections, and in the end would have 
 thought only of her and labored for 
 her alone. Such a life would not be 
 worth relating. The lives of ordinary 
 men are as unworthy of interest is 
 the egotism that is the mainspring of 
 their actions. 
 
 Louis' life was a very different one. 
 That is why I am desirous of making 
 it known. But do not suppose his 
 nature was thus transformed in an 
 instant. God did not work one of 
 those miracles that consist in the com- 
 plete, instantaneous change of a 
 man's character. Our faults veil our 
 better qualities, but do not suppress 
 them ; so a return to piety gives them 
 new brilliancy, but does not create 
 them. Louis, as I afterwards learned, 
 had in his youth manifested uncom- 
 mon elevation and purity of mind, 
 and the piety of a saint. After his
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 49 
 
 arrival at manhood, deprived of his 
 mother's influence, and led away by 
 his passions, he placed no bounds to 
 his follies. But suddenly arrested in 
 the midst of his disorderly career, 
 providentially saved at the very 
 moment of being for ever lost, he at 
 once broke loose from his pernicious 
 labits. Like a traveller who returns 
 to the right .path after going astray 
 for awhile, he resumed his course in 
 the way of perfection with as much 
 ardor as if he had never left it. There 
 was only one reproach to be made 
 against him at the onset. With his 
 earnest nature and tendency to ex- 
 tremes, he manifested too openly the 
 interior operations of grace. The 
 difference between the young exqui- 
 site whom everybody knew, and the 
 new convert observed of all eyes, was 
 rather too marked. Louis' serious 
 and somewhat stern air, his austere 
 look, and his habitual reserve, repelled 
 those who had no faith in his entire 
 conversion. Thence arose back- 
 bitings, suspicions, and accusations 
 of hypocrisy which did not come to 
 our poor friend's ears, but were the 
 cause of more than one annoyance. 
 I must, however, acknowledge, to 
 Mr. Smithson's credit, that he showed 
 a great deal of charity for Louis at 
 that time. If he sometimes accused 
 him of undue zeal, he was from the 
 first disposed to believe it sincere. 
 
 I will briefly relate what Louis 
 accomplished during the few weeks 
 subsequent to his last conversation 
 with Victor. My husband had ad- 
 vised him not to undertake anything 
 till he had consulted Mr. Smithson. 
 Louis followed his advice, and begged 
 an interview with his employer. It 
 was then in the month of June. The 
 conversation took place without wit- 
 nesses, in the open air, on a fine 
 summer evening. I give it as related 
 by Louis. 
 
 " Monsieur," said he, " I am 
 
 aware of your interest in benevolent 
 objects. The workmen you employ, 
 and whom I superintend under your 
 orders, are not in your eyes mere in- 
 struments for the increase of wealth, 
 but men to whom you wish to be as 
 useful as circumstances will allow." 
 
 Mr. Smithson was never lavish of 
 his words. He made a sign of as- 
 sent, and appeared pleased with what 
 was said. 
 
 Louis continued : " I also am de- 
 sirous of being useful to my fellow- 
 men* I have done many foolish 
 things, and would like to preserve 
 others from similar mistakes, for the 
 consequences are often fatal. With 
 your permission, I will not content 
 myself with aiding you in the man- 
 agement of the mill, but beg the hon- 
 or of being associated, in proportion 
 to my ability, with all the good you. 
 are desirous of doing." 
 
 " Monsieur," said Mr. Smithson,. 
 "your unexpected offer somewhat 
 embarrasses me. I am quite ready 
 to accede to your wishes, but could 
 not, in truth, consider you my co-la- 
 borer. What I have hitherto done 
 has been but little, but I know not 
 what else to do. I assist the needy, 
 and give good advice here and there ; 
 that is all. You can follow my ex- 
 ample. I shall be glad Is that 
 what you wish ? Or do you happen 
 to have anything better and more ex- 
 tensive to propose ? If so, go on. I 
 am ready to hear it" 
 
 " Yes, monsieur ; I have some 
 other plans to suggest." 
 
 " State them without any hesita- 
 tion. I only hope they are of a na- 
 ture to second my views. The first 
 condition for that is, to propose 
 only what is simple and practical. 
 Doubtless too great an effort cannot 
 be made at this time to aid and im- 
 prove our workmen, both for their 
 own interest and for ours. Every- 
 thing is dear. The country is in a
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 ferment. Among those we employ, 
 there are a number of turbulent fel- 
 lows and many wretchedly poor." 
 
 " Precisely so. What I wish is, 
 to aid the needy, and reform the 
 bad." 
 
 " Your design is worthy of all 
 praise as a theory ; . . . but its 
 realization will be difficult, not to say 
 impossible. Listen to me, monsieur ; 
 I have a frank avowal to make. I 
 have been engaged in this business 
 but a short time. I know the com- 
 mon people but little. I belong to a 
 country and a religion that have a 
 special way of aiding the indigent. 
 The government takes charge of that 
 with us. In France, it is different : 
 private individuals take part in it. 
 You find me therefore greatly em- 
 barrassed. Enlighten me, if you can. 
 I ask for nothing better." 
 
 " Well, monsieur, it seems to me 
 that beneficence should be exercised 
 in three different ways. First, it is 
 our duty to come to the assistance 
 of those in distress ; . . . only I 
 cannot, in this respect, do all I would 
 like. ... I could have done so 
 once . . . now . . ." 
 
 " Do not let that worry you. My 
 purse is open to you on condition 
 that you only aid those whose desti- 
 tution you can personally vouch for. 
 It is also advisable to ascertain what 
 use they make of that which is given 
 them." 
 
 "I promise this, and thank you. 
 No ; it is not sufficient to give them 
 money. One must see it is made a 
 good use of. The poor should be 
 taught to double their resources by 
 economy. The assistance of the 
 needy, then, is the first benevolent 
 effort I would propose. I now come 
 to moral beneficence. This does not 
 refer to the indigence of the body, 
 but to that of the soul. I think it 
 especially desirable to preserve from 
 corruption those of our workmen 
 
 who are at present leading upright 
 lives, particularly the young. This 
 does not hinder me from thinking it 
 necessary to bring those' who have 
 gone astray under good influences." 
 
 " Fine projects ! I, too, have made 
 similar ones, as I said, but I was dis- 
 couraged by the difficulty of execut- 
 ing them. What means do you pro- 
 pose to employ ?" 
 
 " What would you say to the for- 
 mation of a library in one of the 
 rooms of the manufactory for in- 
 stance, that which overlooks the 
 river? It is now unoccupied. The 
 workmen might be allowed to go 
 there and read in the evening, and 
 even to smoke, if they like. . . . This 
 library could be used, during the hours 
 of cessation from labor, as a school- 
 room, where all could come to learn, 
 in a social way, what they are ignorant 
 of. Would not this be a means of 
 keeping them away from the wine- 
 shops, and afford one an opportunity 
 of conversing with them, and giving 
 them good advice advice which 
 comes from the heart ?" 
 
 " I like the idea. It really seems 
 to me you have conceived a happy 
 combination of plans; but nothing 
 can be done without a person to put 
 them in execution." 
 
 " I will do it if you will allow me. 
 I am eager to try the experiment." 
 
 " Your courage and enthusiasm 
 will soon give out. At every step, 
 you will meet with difficulties impos- 
 sible to be foreseen. I have mingled 
 only a little with the working classes, 
 but enough to know they are difficult 
 to manage, and often ungrateful to 
 those who try to be useful to them." 
 
 " God will aid me. He will reward 
 me, and they may too. But I shall 
 not be difficult to please. If some 
 of them correspond to my efforts, it 
 will be enough. I will forget the in- 
 gratitude of the rest." 
 
 Mr. Smithson was amazed at hii
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 zeal. His own religion, cold and 
 formal, had never taught him to take 
 so much pains for those who might 
 prove ungrateful. He and Louis 
 separated quite pleased with each 
 other. Louis felt he had been com- 
 prehended. He had also the pro- 
 mise of assistance. Mr. Smithson, 
 with all his reserve, was captivated 
 by Louis' enthusiasm for doing good. 
 But though he had promised to aid 
 Louis, he pitied him. " He will fail," 
 he said to himself. 
 
 The work was begun a few days 
 after, thanks to the co-operation of 
 Mr. Smithson, who smoothed away 
 the difficulties inseparable from all 
 beginnings. At seven in the evening, 
 Louis, laying aside the title and func- 
 tions of an engineer, became the friend 
 and teacher of the workmen. They 
 assembled in a large room where 
 benches, tables, and a library were 
 arranged. At first a certain number 
 of workmen came through mere curi- 
 osity. They found what they did 
 not expect a teacher who was com- 
 petent, kind, ready to converse with 
 thetfi and teach them what they 
 wished to learn, and this with a hearti- 
 ness quite different from an ordinary 
 schoolmaster. Louis devoted him- 
 self with so much pleasure to these 
 evening exercises that his pupils soon 
 learned to like them, and gave so 
 captivating an account of them to 
 the rest that the number of scholars 
 increased from day to day. Thus 
 the school was permanently establish- 
 ed without much delay, and number- 
 ed about thirty men of all ages and 
 varieties of character. Louis showed 
 perfect tact in profiting by so happy 
 a commencement. Every evening, 
 he gave oral instructions, sometimes 
 on historical subjects, sometimes on 
 a question of moral or political econ- 
 omy. In each of these lectures, the 
 young master mingled good advice, 
 which was willingly listened to, 
 
 given, as it was, in the midst of in- 
 structions that excited the liveliest 
 interest. The workmen felt they were 
 learning a thousand things they could 
 never have acquired from books. 
 A book is a voiceless teacher that 
 requires too much application from 
 unaccustomed pupils. 
 
 Mr. Smithson watched over the 
 development of this work, and became 
 more and more interested in it in 
 proportion as its success, which at 
 first he had doubted, became more 
 probable, and its utility more evident. 
 At the same time, without acknow- 
 ledging it to himself, suspicion and 
 distrust began to spring up in his 
 heart. Even the best of men under 
 certain circumstances, unless check- 
 ed by profound piety, are accessi- 
 ble to the lowest sentiments. Mr. 
 Smithson began to be jealous of his 
 assistant, and even to fear him. 
 
 " What !" he said to himself," shall 
 he succeed in a work I dared not 
 undertake myself! He will acquire 
 a moral influence in the establishment 
 superior to mine ! . . ." Then, as his 
 unjust suspicions increased: "It is 
 not the love of doing good that in- 
 fluences him : it is ambition," he 
 thought. 
 
 Louis had no suspicion of what 
 was passing in his employer's mind, 
 and therefore resolutely continued to 
 pursue the course he had begun. 
 He had formerly accompanied his 
 mother in her visits among the poor, 
 and thus learned how to benefit them. 
 She had taught him it was not suffi- 
 cient to give them money: it was 
 necessary to mingle with them, talk 
 with them, give them good advice 
 in a word, to treat them as brethren 
 and friends. Having organized his 
 evening-school, he resolved to visit 
 the most destitute and ignorant 
 families in the village, which was 
 about a kilometre and a half from 
 the manufactory. He went there
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 every evening towards six, and spent 
 an hour in going from one house to 
 another. Chance, as an unbeliever 
 would say, or Providence, to speak 
 more correctly, led him to the house 
 of a poor woman quite worthy of his 
 interest. She was fifty years of age, 
 and slowly wasting away from disease 
 of the lungs, complicated with an 
 affection of the heart. This woman 
 was one of those lovely souls devel- 
 oped by the Catholic religion oftener 
 than is supposed. People little sus- 
 pected how much she suffered, or 
 with how much patience she bore 
 her sufferings, but God knew. She 
 was a real martyr. Married to a 
 drunken, brutal man of her own age, 
 she had endured all the abuse and ill- 
 treatment with which he loaded her 
 without a murmur. She had brought 
 up her son piously, and labored as 
 long as she was able to supply her 
 own wants and those of her child. 
 Broken down by illness and the con- 
 tinual ill-treatment of her husband, 
 she would have died of want, had 
 not Mile. Smithson come to her 
 aid,. 
 
 When Lpuis went to see this poor 
 woman, whom we will call Fran9oise, 
 she spol|e of Eugenie so enthusiasti- 
 cally, and with so much emotion, that 
 he was greatly impressed. It was 
 sweet to hear the praises of one whom 
 he dreamed, if not of marrying, at 
 least of associating in his good 
 works. 
 
 The next day, he repeated his call 
 on the sick woman, and for several 
 days in succession. I think he had 
 a secret hope of meeting Eugenie, 
 without daring to acknowledge it to 
 himself. As yet, he had merely seen 
 her. He found her, as you know, 
 handsome, stylish, and intelligent, but 
 cool towards him. He longed to 
 observe her in this miserable dwelling. 
 Here, apart from other influences, she 
 might show herself, as he hoped she 
 
 really was exempt from the imper 
 fections he had remarked in her at 
 home with regret. Without acknow- 
 ledging it, he loved her, and it is hard 
 to be forced to pass an unfavorable 
 judgment on those we love. But 
 days passed without their meeting. 
 The sick woman was visibly failing. 
 One evening, Louis found her weaker 
 than ever. 
 
 " My dear monsieur," said she, 
 " I am very happy. I am about to 
 enter the presence of the good God ! 
 But I have one cause for anxiety at 
 the hour of death. I depend on you 
 to remove it. When the wealthy die, 
 they leave their friends valuable lega- 
 cies, but we poor people have only 
 burdens to bequeath. Mile. Eugenie 
 has promised to watch over my little 
 boy. She is very kind ! . . . And 
 I have another favor to ask of you, 
 monsieur. Not far from the village 
 is a family by the name of Vinceneau. 
 The father is employed in the tile 
 works you have to pass in coming to 
 see me. Hereafter, when you come 
 by, continue to think of me, and pray 
 for me ! . . . But that is noj, the 
 point. The man I am speaking of is 
 intemperate like my husband. The 
 mother would be an excellent woman, 
 were it not for two faults. She is 
 indolent and envious always ready 
 to think evil of the rich. She works 
 at your mill. It is not these two 
 people I am going to recommend to 
 you, but their daughter. The poor 
 child is as handsome as a picture, and 
 as pious as an angel. She often 
 comes to see me. I tremble lest she 
 be lost through the bad example of 
 her parents, or through dangerous 
 society. I have a feeling that, in 
 some way, you will find means of 
 being useful to her, if necessary. I 
 should have recommended her to 
 Mile. Eug6nie, but her father and 
 mother, as I have said, are good for 
 nothing, and I should not like to send
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 53 
 
 mademoiselle where I know she is 
 detested on account of her wealth." 
 Louis gladly acceded to her re- 
 quest. He left a few moments after 
 
 to attend his evening-school. Half- 
 way home, he perceived Eugenie 
 coming from the mill, and could not 
 help meeting her. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 PERHAPS PROPHETIC. 
 
 IT was the first time for many weeks 
 that Louis had met Eugenie alone. 
 He felt greatly excited, and natu- 
 rally said to himself: " Ought I to 
 manifest any appearance of avoiding 
 her ? . . . Or, on the contrary, shall 
 I keep on? Any avoidance might 
 make her think unfavorably of me. 
 . . . But would it be prudent to 
 speak to her ? . . ." While thus de- 
 bating with himself, he looked at 
 Eugenie as she advanced towards 
 him, handsome and dignified as ever, 
 and as calm as he was agitated. 
 He still kept on, yielding to an irre- 
 sistible attraction without bringing 
 himself to an account for it. As he 
 advanced, he recalled how Frangoise 
 had praised her. "That dear wo- 
 man," he said, " could have no inte- 
 rest in deceiving me. A soul so 
 upright and pure could only tell the 
 truth. And who has had a better 
 opportunity of knowing Mile. Euge- 
 nie? . . . Well, I must study this 
 unique girl a little more ! . . . I 
 will speak to her ! . . . I have judg- 
 ed her too severely. I must learn 
 her real nature. I must show her 
 what I am. She has, I am sure, 
 conceived some suspicion about me 
 which she may already regret. At 
 all events, my line of conduct here 
 is plainly marked out. I am resolv- 
 ed to regain her esteem, and obtain 
 her assistance in the good I am 
 doing, in order that it may be done 
 more effectually and speedily. Now 
 is the time to make the attempt ! . . ." 
 
 As he said this to himself, he 
 met Eugenie. She did not appear at 
 all embarrassed as he advanced to 
 
 speak to her, but said, in a frank, na- 
 tural tone : " You have been to see 
 my patient; she spoke of you yes- 
 terday." 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle ; I have just 
 come from there. I do not think 
 she will need our assistance long. 
 Poor woman, or rather, happy wo- 
 man, she is at last going to receive 
 the reward she so well deserves ! . . . 
 But how many others there are still 
 to be aided when she is gone ! . . . 
 There is so much wretchedness 
 whichever way we turn ! If there 
 were only more like you, mademoi- 
 selle, to look after the poor !" 
 
 " And you also, monsieur. My 
 father has told me something of your 
 plans. I will not speak of my ap- 
 proval : my approbation is of little 
 value; but I assure you they please 
 me. Above all, I hope you will not 
 allow yourself to be discouraged by 
 difficulties you are likely, to meet 
 with." 
 
 " I hope, with the help of God, to 
 overcome them, mademoiselle. But 
 the efforts of an isolated individual 
 like myself are of little avail, espe- 
 cially when one has had no more 
 experience and is no richer than I." 
 
 These words were uttered in a 
 tone of frankness and simplicity that 
 produced a lively impression on Eu- 
 genie. " If he is sincere in what he 
 says," said she to herself, "my sus- 
 picions about him are unjust ; but 
 this frankness and simplicity of man- 
 ner are perhaps subtle means of 
 blinding my eyes." She therefore 
 remained on her guard. " Ah ! 
 monsieur, it is not money alone we
 
 54 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 should give the poor ! What they 
 need, above all, is advice, which you 
 are much better fitted to give than I 
 who have had no experience of life." 
 
 There was a tinge of irony in these 
 last words that did not escape Louis, 
 but he pretended not to observe it. 
 
 " I do not think," said he, " that 
 I have had as much experience as 
 you suppose, mademoiselle. How- 
 ever, a Christian seeks aid from a 
 different source than the insufficient 
 arsenal of human experience. What 
 we should, above all, remind the poor 
 of, what we should induce them to 
 love, are the precepts of religion 
 which they may have forgotten and 
 no longer practise for want of know- 
 ing their value." 
 
 " You are very pious, it seems, 
 monsieur," she said, in a slight tone 
 of raillery. 
 
 " I must put an end to this," said 
 Louis to himself. " She seems to re- 
 gard me as a hypocrite. I will 
 prove to her I am not. If she re- 
 fuses to believe me, her persistency in 
 such odious and unjust suspicions will 
 redound to her own injury." 
 
 "'Mademoiselle," said he, "I am 
 not very pious, but I desire to be so, 
 or rather to become so again, for I 
 was as long ,as my mother lived. 
 She was taken away too soon for my 
 good, for I had need of her counsels 
 and guidance. I have realized it 
 since ! You have doubtless had an 
 account of my life. It may be sum- 
 med up in three words : folly, de- 
 spair, and return to God. I dare 
 not pledge my word that this return 
 .is irrevocable : I have given too 
 many proofs of weakness to rely on 
 myself. God, who has brought me 
 back to himself, can alone give me 
 the necessary strength to remain 
 faithful to him. But if I cannot 
 promise ever to falter again, I can at 
 least venture to declare that my con- 
 version is sincere so sincere that, 
 
 having lost all I had, I regard this 
 loss as extremely fortunate, for it 
 was, in God's providence, the means 
 of leading me back to the faith. 
 Such a benefit can never be too 
 dearly purchased !" 
 
 Louis kept his tfyes fastened on 
 Eugenie as he spoke. She looked 
 up more than once ; the expression 
 of his face and the tone of his voice 
 were so evidently those of an honest 
 man, that she felt all her doubts give 
 way. 
 
 " Monsieur," said she, " I do not 
 know as I should reproach myself 
 for what I said with regard to your 
 piety, though I perceive it has 
 wounded you, for it has led to an 
 explanation on your part which . . ." 
 
 " Which has made me happy," was 
 what Eugenie was about to say, but 
 she stopped quite confused as she 
 bethought herself of the interpreta- 
 tion he might give to her words. 
 
 Louis comprehended her embar- 
 rassment; he saw her fears, and 
 came to her aid. " Which you 
 thought necessary, mademoiselle," 
 suggested he. " I can understand 
 that. It is rather a rare phenome- 
 non to see a young man pass from 
 dissipation to piety." 
 
 Eugenie immediately recovered 
 her usual serenity. " Well, monsieur," 
 said she, " now I know your inten- 
 tions and projects ; I assure you my 
 mother and myself will second them 
 as much as is in our power. What 
 is there we can do ? 
 
 " Tell me what charitable offices 
 you like the least, mademoiselle, or 
 what you find too difficult to per- 
 form." 
 
 " That is admirable ! We have 
 often longed for a representative, a 
 substitute, who could effect what we 
 were unable to do. But how can 
 we otherwise aid you ?" 
 
 " You are kind enough, then, to 
 allow me to be the medium of your
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 55 
 
 alms. It is a pleasant office to re- 
 ceive contributions for the benefit of 
 others, especially from people as be- 
 nevolent as you, mademoiselle. I 
 accept the post with lively gratitude, 
 and will at once ask you for some 
 good books for the library I have 
 established for the workmen." 
 
 " I will bring you twenty volumes 
 to-morrow that are of no use to me, 
 and are exactly what you want." 
 
 Louis and Eugenie then separated. 
 The interview was short, but it led 
 to the very points which enabled 
 them to study and appreciate each 
 other better than they could have 
 done in two hours in a salon. 
 
 That evening, Louis appeared to 
 his workmen more cheerful and so- 
 cial than usual. He was at last sure 
 of gaining Eugenie's esteem. With- 
 out acknowledging it to himself, he 
 already loved her to such a degree 
 that he was extremely desirous of re- 
 vealing himself to her under an aspect 
 more and more favorable. This is 
 loving worthily and heartily. 
 
 As to Eugenie, when she entered 
 the presence of the poor woman she 
 went to visit, she could not resist the 
 desire of speaking again of Louis. An 
 instinctive, perhaps superstitious, feel- 
 ing made her believe, as well as he, 
 that this woman, who was dying in 
 so pious a frame of mind after so 
 heroic a life, could not be mistaken 
 in her opinion. " So pure a soul 
 ought to be able to read clearly the 
 hearts of those around her," she said 
 to herself. 
 
 " Has M. Beauvais been here 
 to-day, Mere Franchise ?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle. I am glad 
 you spoke of him. I do not expect 
 to see him again in this world, and 
 was so taken up with a favor I had 
 to ask him that I forgot to express 
 my gratitude for all his kindness to 
 me. Every day he has brought me 
 something .new; but that is the least 
 
 of his benefits. I particularly wished 
 to express my thanks for all the good 
 he has done me by his conversation. 
 Ah ! mademoiselle, how I wish you 
 could hear him speak of God, the 
 misery of this world, and the joys cf 
 heaven ! If I die happy, it is owing 
 to him. Before he came to see me, 
 I was afraid of death. However 
 poor we may be, we cling to life so 
 strongly ! . . . Thanks to him, I now 
 feel I cannot die too soon. ... I 
 have told M. le Cure all this, and he 
 made me promise to pray for one 
 who has so successfully come to his 
 aid. When I reach heaven, I shall 
 pray for him and for you, mademoi- 
 selle. You have both been so kind 
 to me. Promise to tell him all this." 
 
 This testimony, so spontaneous 
 and heart-felt, from a dying person, 
 with regard to Louis' goodness and 
 piety, and this union of their names 
 in the expression of her gratitude, 
 produced a profound and lasting 
 impression on the tender, romantic 
 soul of Eugenie. All the way home 
 she dwelt on what had occurred. She 
 began to reproach herself for her 
 suspicions suspicions now vanished. 
 It was not that she loved Louis, or 
 even had an idea she might love 
 him, but her noble mind had a horror 
 of the injustice she had been guilty 
 of towards an innocent and unfortu- 
 nate man. " I will repair it," she 
 said to herself, " by faithfully keeping 
 the promise I made him." 
 
 That very evening, she spoke of 
 Louis to her father and mother, re- 
 peating the conversation she had had 
 with him, and expressing a wish to 
 co-operate in the good work he was 
 undertaking. " It is a work in which 
 we cannot refuse our sympathy," she 
 said, " for its object is to ameliorate 
 the condition of our workmen a 
 question that has preoccupied us all 
 for a long time." 
 
 Eugenie's object in this was to
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 induce her parents to express their 
 opinion of Louis. She particularly 
 wished to ascertain Mr. Smithson's 
 sentiments. He was almost an in- 
 fallible judge, in his daughter's estima- 
 tion, and therefore it was with sincere 
 deference she awaited his reply. It 
 was the first time she had forced him 
 to give his opinion of Louis, or that 
 there had ever been any serious 
 question concerning him in the family 
 circle. 
 
 "My child," said Mr. Smithson, 
 " M. Louis means well, I think. He 
 seems to be a considerate person, or 
 at least tries to be. I approve of 
 your wish to aid him in collecting a 
 library; but, if he proposes your join- 
 
 ing him in any other benevolent 
 enterprise, you must consult me be- 
 fore coming to any decision. This 
 young man, I say, has good qualities, 
 but he is a little enthusiastic. His 
 ardor just now needs moderating; 
 after a while, it may be necessary to 
 revive it. Let him go on. We will 
 aid him when we can be of ser- 
 vice, but must be a little on our 
 guard." 
 
 The oracle had spoken. Eugenie 
 reflected on what had been said. It 
 was evident that Louis inspired her 
 father with some distrust. Mr. 
 Smithson, according to his habit, left 
 his wife and daughter at an early 
 hour to work in his office. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A QUESTION. 
 
 EUGENIE, being left alone with her 
 mother, resolved to obtain, if possi- 
 ble, some light on the question her 
 father's words had excited in her 
 mind. She felt anxious to know 
 why he distrusted Louis. He was 
 now a subject of interest to her. 
 This was not all: she had begun by 
 judging him unfavorably ; then she 
 reversed her opinion. Now she had 
 come to the point of wishing to re- 
 pair her secret wrongs against him 
 without his being aware of it. ... 
 But should she carry out her wish, 
 or, on the contrary, return to her 
 past antipathy ? . . . On the one 
 hand was the impression left by her 
 interview with Louis ; on the other, 
 the depressing state of doubt produc- 
 ed by her father's reticence. She 
 was one of those persons who prefer 
 certainty to doubt, whatever it may 
 be. " My mother must be aware of 
 my father's real sentiments," she said 
 to herself; "I will ask her." No- 
 thing was easier. Mme. Smithson and 
 her daughter lived on a footing of 
 affectionate equality that I do not 
 
 exactly approve of, but which ex- 
 cludes all restraint. 
 
 " Mother," said Eugenie, " give 
 me a sincere reply to what I am go- 
 ing to ask. What do you think of 
 M. Louis ?" 
 
 " You are greatly interested in 
 this M. Louis, then ? You talk of 
 nothing else this evening. What is 
 the reason ? Hitherto you have 
 paid no attention to him." ' 
 
 " Yes ; I am interested in him. I 
 have been studying him. You know 
 I have a mania for deciphering every- 
 body. Well, Jie is still an enigma. 
 Yet I am sure of one thing : he is a 
 man to be thoroughly esteemed or 
 despised, not half-way. In a word, 
 he is that rare thing a character. 
 Only, is he a noble or a contempt- 
 ible character? . f . The question is 
 a serious one. I wish to solve it, 
 but cannot with the light I now 
 have." 
 
 " Well done ! here is some more 
 of your customary exaggeration 
 Of what consequence is it, my dear, 
 what he is ? He has conje here for
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 57 
 
 well-known reasons. Your father 
 was tired of attending to all the de- 
 tails of the manufactory, and em- 
 ploys him to take charge of essential 
 though secondary duties. He pays 
 him a very high salary too high, in 
 my estimation but he is pleased, 
 delighted with his aptitude and ac- 
 tivity ; that is all I care for." 
 
 " Excuse me, that is not enough 
 for me. I repeat : M. Louis is differ- 
 ent from most men, mother. He is 
 a man, and the rest are only puppets." 
 
 " Really ! I should not have sus- 
 pected it. He seems to me quite 
 commonplace." 
 
 " But not to me." 
 
 " What can you see in him so re- 
 markable ?" 
 
 " He has, or at least appears to 
 have, an elevation of mind and con- 
 stancy of purpose that are striking." 
 
 "Why, my dear, you make me 
 laugh. Really, if all the gentlemen 
 you see would only adapt themselves 
 a little to your humor, there is not 
 one you could not turn into a hero 
 of romance." 
 
 " Not at all. The proof is that 
 I have hitherto only seen men un- 
 worthy of any serious consideration. 
 When did I ever acknowledge I had 
 found a man of character such as I 
 would like to see ? . . ." 
 
 "And you think M. Louis this 
 white blackbird ?" 
 
 " I really do." 
 
 " Well, I confess you astonish me. 
 I never should have dreamed of 
 your noticing him. Perhaps you 
 have taken a fancy to him." 
 
 " Mother, we are accustomed to 
 think aloud before each other. I do 
 not fancy him understand that in 
 the least. I do not even believe I 
 ever could fancy him. This does 
 not prevent me from thinking him, as 
 I said, different from other men. 
 Whether in good or ill, he differs 
 from young men of his age. But is 
 
 he better or worse ? that is the 
 question a serious one I would like 
 to have answered. Till to-day, I 
 have thought him worse." 
 
 " It is not possible ! The poor fel- 
 low has committed some errors, as I 
 have told you. I certainly do not 
 wish to palliate them, but we must 
 not be more severe than God him- 
 self: he always pardons." 
 
 " It is not a question of his sins." 
 
 " What is the question, then ? 
 You keep me going from one sur- 
 prise to another this evening." 
 
 " It is a question of knowing if he 
 is the man he pretends to be that 
 is, one who has forsaken his errors, 
 acknowledges he has gone astray, 
 repents, and resolves to live hence- 
 forth in a totally different manner. 
 If he is such a man ; if he can resign 
 himself courageously to his modest 
 situation here, and, moreover, has 
 the noble desire of comforting the 
 afflicted, instructing the ignorant, 
 and reclaiming those who have gone 
 astray, I tell you M. Louis is 
 worthy of the highest esteem ; we 
 ought to encourage and aid him 
 with all our might. But if he is not 
 the man I think if these fine projects 
 are only a lure, an artful means . . ." 
 
 " A means of doing what ? . . . 
 Goodness ! Eugenie, you get bewil- 
 dered with your fancies. Do you 
 imagine he wishes to revolutionize 
 the establishment, and supplant your 
 father? . . ." 
 
 " Let us not exaggerate things, 
 I beg, mother. What I wished you 
 to understand was a delicate point. 
 I hoped you would guess it from a 
 word. Come, have you no suspicion 
 of what so greatly troubles me ?" 
 
 " I haven't the slightest idea." 
 
 " Indeed ! . . . I am astonished. 
 Well, may he not manifest all this 
 zeal, and affect all these airs of dis- 
 interested benevolence, to bring 
 about a secret project ?"
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 " What one, I ask you again ? 
 When you go to dreaming impossi- 
 bilities, you know I can never follow 
 you. Explain yourself clearly." 
 
 " Well, since I am forced to call 
 things by their right names, is he not 
 aiming at my hand ?" 
 
 " What a droll idea ! . . . Why, 
 he has not a sou left! Everybody 
 knows that. He spent his property 
 in six or seven years, and has no- 
 thing more to expect for a long time. 
 So you believe he resolved to become 
 religious, thinking that would be 
 sufficient capital, in Mr. Smithson's 
 eyes, to obtain his daughter ? I 
 think he has too much sense to ima- 
 gine anything so absurd ; especially 
 to give it a serious thought," 
 
 " But if he hoped to please me by 
 this means ? ... to win my esteem, 
 my good will, my affection ? . . ." 
 
 " All romance that, my dear." 
 
 " But not impossible." 
 
 " I prefer to think, for my own 
 peace of mind and your father's, that 
 things will turn out differently. 
 We have never intended you to mar- 
 ry a man without property. The 
 idea of your having a husband who, 
 instead of being wealthy, has squan- 
 dered all he had, and might spend 
 what you brought him ! . . ." 
 
 " Ah ! I understand you : you do 
 not think him sincere." 
 
 " I do not say that ! He may be 
 changed for the present, but who 
 can be sure his conversion will be 
 lasting ?" 
 
 "It will if it is sincere; I am 
 sure of that, for I have studied him. 
 He possesses one quality which I 
 either admire or detest, according to 
 the use made of it : he has a strong 
 will. He has been here a month, 
 and, having nothing better to do, I 
 have observed him, and have not 
 discovered a single inconsistency in 
 his conduct. He has always shown, 
 exteriorly at least, the same love of 
 
 labor, the same desire of doing all 
 the good he can, and the same un- 
 assuming deportment. Either he is a 
 man of rare excellence, or is uncom- 
 monly artful. I wish I knew exact- 
 ly what my father thinks of him." 
 
 " And why this persistency in dis- 
 covering a mystery of so little im- 
 portance ?" 
 
 " Because I do not wish to despise 
 M. Louis if he is worthy of esteem, 
 and it would be wrong not to en- 
 courage him in well-doing if he has 
 entered on that path with a sincere 
 heart. Besides, I regard what he has 
 undertaken and all he wishes to do 
 as admirable as it is useful. I had 
 been wishing for such an attempt to 
 be made here, and could not be better 
 pleased than to see my idea so speed- 
 ily realized. M. Louis is, in my eyes, 
 either a saint or a hypocrite. I have 
 no fancy for loving either the one or 
 the other; but, if he is a saint, I should 
 feel like aiding him to a certain de- 
 gree. After all, mother, is there any- 
 thing in the world more desirable 
 than to do good to those around us, 
 especially when we are so situated 
 as to make it a duty ? Have you 
 not often said so yourself?" 
 
 " You are right, my dear Eugenie. 
 I feel what you say, and approve of 
 it. As I advance in years, I feel a 
 constantly increasing desire of labor- 
 ing for Almighty God, for whom I 
 have hitherto done so little. You 
 need not fear; neither your father 
 nor I have any doubts as to M. 
 Louis. Nothing we have observed 
 or have been told leads us to think 
 him a hypocrite. As you desire it 
 so strongly, I Will tell you your fa- 
 ther's secret opinion, but do not be- 
 tray me. He only dislikes one thing 
 in M. Louis : he is too devoted a 
 Catholic. It is all in vain : we can- 
 not induce your father to like our re- 
 ligion. Catholics are too ardent 
 every way, too superstitious, he says.
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 59 
 
 He distrusts the engineer because 
 he thinks him overzealous, that is 
 all. . . ." 
 
 When Eugenie went to her cham- 
 ber, she selected the books she wish- 
 ed to contribute to Louis' library, 
 and then retired to rest, thinking of 
 all the good that would now be done 
 by him, as well as herself, in a place 
 where want and every evil passion 
 were to be found. Her noble, ardent 
 soul had at length found its sphere. 
 Hitherto she had dreamed of many 
 ways of giving a useful direction to 
 her activity, each one more impracti- 
 cable than the rest. The right way 
 was now open. Louis had pointed 
 it out. Eugenie longed to become 
 
 the benefactress of St. M . Her 
 
 imagination and her heart were 
 pleased. It seemed to her as if she 
 had become another being. She 
 prayed that night with a fervor she 
 had not felt for a long time. Then 
 she fell into a reverie. In spite of 
 herself, Louis' image continually re- 
 curred to her mind. Before she fell 
 asleep, she murmured a prayer for 
 poor Fransoise. Her name recalled 
 the last words of that excellent wo- 
 man : " In heaven, I shall pray for 
 him and for you !" And circumstan- 
 ces were tending that same day to 
 link them together as the dying wo- 
 man had joined their names in pray- 
 er. There was something singular 
 about this that struck Eugenie's im- 
 agination. " Can her words be pro- 
 phetic ?" she said to herself. " So 
 many strange things happen ! . . . 
 But this would be too much. He 
 pleases me in no way except . . ." 
 And she reviewed his good qualities, 
 then blushed for attaching so much 
 importance to the thought. . . . 
 
 The next morning, she went with 
 the books she had selected the night 
 before. Fanny accompanied her. 
 Louis received her with the exquisite 
 politeness he never laid aside but 
 
 with a cold reserve he had resolved 
 to maintain towards her. Their in- 
 terview only lasted a few minutes. 
 Fanny, who had been easy for some 
 time, was greatly astonished when 
 asked to accompany her mistress to 
 the engineer's office. Their conver- 
 sation showed they had recently 
 seen each other, but under what cir- 
 cumstances she could not make out. 
 All this redoubled her suspicions, 
 On her way home with Eugenie, 
 she remarked : 
 
 " That M. Louis is a charming 
 young man ; more so than I had 
 supposed. What respect he showed 
 mademoiselle ! I am sure made- 
 moiselle judges him with less severity 
 than she did several weeks ago." 
 
 " I have never judged him with 
 severity," replied Eugenie, with that 
 lofty coolness which made those who 
 did not know her accuse her of pride. 
 " Why should I judge M. Beauvais ? 
 that is my father's business." 
 
 Fanny returned to the assault : 
 " That is a queer notion of his to 
 wish to instruct all those ignorant 
 people. Much good will it do them! 
 The more they know, the more dan- 
 gerous they will be ! . . ." 
 
 " Fanny, you should address such 
 observations to M. Louis or my 
 father. It is they who have founded 
 the library and school, and they in- 
 tend doing many other things with- 
 out consulting you, I imagine." 
 
 " Common people sometimes give 
 good advice." 
 
 " But they should give it to those 
 who heed it. All this does not con- 
 cern me, I tell you again." 
 
 " O the deceitful girl !" said Fanny 
 to herself when alone in her cham- 
 ber that night. " I always said she 
 would deceive me. Where could 
 she have seen him ? ... Is she 
 already in love with him ? . . . She 
 is capable of it ! But I will watch 
 her narrowly, and, if it is not too late,
 
 6o 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 will counteract her projects ! I have 
 a good deal to contend with, how- 
 ever. This M. Louis is an artful 
 fellow. And on the other hand, it is 
 no easy matter ' lead Mile. Euge- 
 nie. ... I only hope she is not yet in 
 love with him ! ... If she were to 
 
 marry him instead of her cousin, I 
 should go distracted. . . Poor Al- 
 bert ! if he knew what is going on 
 here. Fortunately, I am on the spot 
 to watch over his interests. And 
 there is more reason than ever to be 
 on the lookout." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 LOVE WITHOUT HOPE. 
 
 Louis came to see us as often as 
 his occupations allowed. He made 
 us a long call the very day after Eu- 
 genie gave him the books for his 
 library, and seemed more excited 
 than usual. He related his conver- 
 sation with Mr. Smithson, and spoke 
 of his pleasure at meeting Eugenie 
 and regaining her good opinion by a 
 frank explanation of his plans and 
 the motives by which he was influ- 
 enced. 
 
 "Well," said Victor, "does she 
 continue to please you ?" 
 
 " More than I wish." 
 
 " Why this regret ?" 
 
 " It is only reasonable. My hap- 
 piness is involved in being pleased 
 'with her." 
 
 " Come, I see we shall not be able 
 to agree on this point." 
 
 " Yes, my dear friend ; the more I 
 reflect, the plainer it is that I ought 
 not to become attached to her; at 
 least, to make her aware of it, should 
 such a misfortune happen. But I 
 will not conceal it from you : I fear 
 I already love her. ..." 
 
 " You are decidedly tenacious in 
 your notions. Why do you torture 
 yourself with scruples that are evi- 
 dently exaggerated? . . ." 
 
 " All your friendly reasonings are 
 of no avail. However disinterested 
 my love might be, it would seem to 
 her only the result of calculation ; 
 this is enough to justify me in my 
 apprehensions." 
 
 " I cannot agree with you. Deli- 
 
 cacy of sentiment is a noble thing, 
 but it must not be carried to excess. 
 I am willing you should conceal 
 your love for her till you can prove 
 it sincere ; that is, not the result of 
 calculation I will go still further: 
 till the time comes when they volun- 
 tarily render homage to the noble- 
 ness of your intentions. But when 
 that day comes, and you see that 
 Mile. Eugenie esteems and loves 
 you . . ." 
 
 "She will never love' me." 
 
 " How do you know ?" 
 
 " Mile. Smithson has rare qualities 
 which make her the realization of all 
 my dreams, but I see I am not pleas- 
 ing to her. Before any change in 
 her sentiments is possible, she will 
 have another suitor with more to 
 offer her than I, and without a past 
 like mine to frustrate his hopes. He 
 will please her, and I can only with- 
 draw. Well, I confess I wish to re- 
 serve one consolation for that day, 
 feeble as it may be the satisfaction 
 of being able to say to myself: " She 
 did not know I loved her." 
 
 " My poor friend, you take too 
 gloomy a view of the future." 
 
 " Do not imagine my fears will re- 
 sult in a dangerous melancholy. I 
 realize more fully than you may sup- 
 pose the advantages of my present 
 position. I might at this very mo- 
 ment be in another world a world 
 of despair. ... To us Christians, 
 such a thought is full of horror. In- 
 stead of that, I see the possibility of
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 61 
 
 repairing the past, and of doing some 
 good. When I compare my present 
 life with that I was leading a year 
 ago, the favorable contrast makes me 
 happy! I had discarded the faith, 
 lost the esteem of upright men, and 
 given myself up to ignoble pleas- 
 ures ! useless to the world, an object 
 of disgust to myself. I had not the 
 courage to look at myself as I was. 
 How all that is changed ! How happy 
 I ought to be! . . . But, no; the heart 
 of man is at once weak and insati- 
 able. At a time when I ought to be 
 happy, I am so weak as to yield to 
 a love I should have denied myself. 
 If I cannot overcome it, it will be a 
 source of new regret. I know there 
 is one means of safety, or perhaps 
 there is that of flight. . . . But, no; 
 I will not, I cannot thus ensure a 
 selfish security. It would be coward- 
 ly to recede before the noble work 
 God has assigned me. There is no 
 doubt now as to my future usefulness 
 at Mr. Smithson's. I could not find 
 elsewhere the same facilities for doing 
 the good I long to effect. I will re- 
 main. ..." 
 
 " I will not assert it would be 
 cowardly to leave, but a man as 
 courageous as you are and have 
 need to be ought to remain at his 
 post at whatever cost. Like you, I 
 believe that is the post to which God 
 himself has called you." 
 
 " I shall remain. . . . You can- 
 not imagine how happy I am there 
 when my heart is not agitated. Pro- 
 visions are dear this year, and we 
 have quite a number of hands forced 
 by want to leave Paris. These two 
 things combined have produced un- 
 usual demoralization among the men 
 we employ. Some give themselves 
 up to drunkenness by way of relief; 
 others, listening to the evil sugges- 
 tions of hunger, conceive an inward 
 hatred against those who are rich. 
 There are a few ringleaders, and a 
 
 good many disaffected men, all ready 
 to yield to the most criminal propos- 
 als. Mr. Smithson is aware of this, 
 and therefore fully approves of my 
 plan for the amelioration of so mixed 
 a set. I must do him the justice to 
 acknowledge he has been generous. 
 His wife and daughter are still more 
 so. I shall therefore remain as long 
 as I can. I only beseech God for 
 one favor to bless my efforts, and 
 give me the courage necessary to 
 make the great sacrifice if it be re- 
 quired. ..." 
 
 "Ah! then you really love Mile. 
 Smithson. I thought at the most 
 you were only afraid of loving her." 
 
 " No ; I will no longer keep this 
 secret to myself; it is too great a 
 burden to bear alone. Besides, this 
 concealment would not be worthy 
 of either of us. I was still in doubt 
 this morning, but have since read the 
 state of my heart more clearly. And 
 this is what enabled me to do so : 
 
 " I returned home from church 
 this morning with Mile. Eugenie and 
 her mother. The church, you know, 
 is a kilometre and a half from the 
 mill, but the road is delightful. On 
 coming out of church, Mme. Smith- 
 son, who is an excellent woman, and 
 quite pleasant and easy in her man- 
 ners, invited me, as it were, to accom- 
 pany them. Mile. Eugenie at first 
 remained apart with her waiting- 
 maid, but still near enough to hear 
 what we said. We first discussed the 
 things suitable to give the poor, and 
 the utility of familiar conversation 
 with them in their houses. I express- 
 ed a determination to perform this 
 act of charity as often as possible. 
 I begged Mme. Smithson to mention 
 the families she thought it advisable 
 to visit in this way, as she knows 
 them better than I. She promised 
 to give me a list. Mile. Eugenie 
 then drew near, and said she would 
 add a few names to it; then, taking a
 
 62 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 part in the conversation, and even 
 directing it with the grace she shows 
 in everything, she spoke in turn of 
 charity, religion, and literature with 
 an elevation of thought and in such 
 beautiful language that it was a 
 pleasure to listen to her. From time 
 to time we stopped to look, now at 
 one object, and then at another 
 the large trees by the wayside, the 
 bushes, or the cottages. Mile. Smith- 
 son found something charming to say 
 of everything. We were half an hour 
 in going a distance we might have 
 accomplished in twenty minutes a 
 delightful half-hour, but it had its 
 bitterness, as all my joys will hence- 
 forth have. I see it is the will of 
 God that I should expiate my 
 offences. Like you, I am persuaded 
 that the privilege of doing good the 
 most desirable of all privileges is 
 only to be purchased at the price of 
 suffering." 
 
 "Yes," said Victor; "but at the 
 price of what suffering ? Who can 
 assure you it is that of which you 
 are thinking ? . . . That is a secret 
 known only to God." 
 
 "That is true, but I am sure I 
 had to-day a foretaste of the suffering 
 I allude to. She was there beside 
 me that beautiful young girl who 
 would be a model of feminine excel- 
 lence did she not lack one quality 
 piety a piety more womanly, more 
 profound, and more simple. She 
 said many striking things things 
 that go straight to the heart : there 
 was perfect sympathy between her 
 soul and mine, but I watched over 
 myself that I might not betray the 
 admiration, the delight, the emotion, 
 with which I listened to her! In 
 
 the expression of her eyes, tne tone 
 of her voice, and whole manner, I 
 could see, alas ! how indifferent she 
 was towards me; that she regarded 
 me as her father's agent a mere em- 
 ploye, worthy only of passing atten- 
 tion." 
 
 " How do you know ? You are 
 so accustomed to reading hearts 
 that perhaps you take imagination 
 for reality." 
 
 " I do not think so. ... She has 
 changed towards me, I acknowledge. 
 She regards me as a sincere, upright 
 person. I know how to keep in my 
 place, but there she allows me to 
 remain, and will continue to do so." 
 
 Louis was extremely agitated 
 when he left us that evening. My 
 poor Victor, ill as he was, and he 
 was now worse than ever, was 
 thoughtful and sad for some time 
 after Louis had gone. 
 
 " What is the matter ?" I asked. 
 
 " I am thinking of Louis," he re- 
 plied. " I fear things may turn out 
 badly for our poor friend. I do not 
 know whether he will ever marry 
 Eug6nie or not; but I have a pre- 
 sentiment, I know not why, that this 
 love is to cause him great suffering. 
 And yet this attachment could not 
 fail to spring up. If it is God's will 
 that Louis should pass through a se- 
 vere trial, promise me to stand by 
 him." 
 
 "But you will also stand by 
 him ?" 
 
 " I shall no longer be here." 
 
 Sad words ! they were soon to be 
 verified. Meanwhile, the hour of 
 trial was approaching our poor 
 friend the trial he himself had fore- 
 seen. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A SOUBRETTE'S PLOT. 
 
 MEANWHILE, Fanny was preparing 
 sad hours for Louis.' 
 
 Louis thought Eugenie maintain- 
 ed great reserve during the conversa-
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 tion that took place on their way 
 home from church so insatiable 
 is one who loves 1 But Fanny re- 
 ceived quite a different impression. 
 Never had she seen her mistress so 
 inspired, or converse with so much 
 fluency and animation. Mme. Smith- 
 son's kindness towards Loais, the 
 appreciatory remarks she and her 
 daughter made after their return 
 home, and the dry, haughty manner 
 with which Enge"nie put Fanny in her 
 place when she attempted to speak of 
 the engineer, all excited the cunning 
 servant's suspicions in the highest 
 degree. 
 
 " There is nothing lost yet," she 
 said to herself; "perhaps there has 
 been no danger of it. Mademoiselle 
 is not in love with him now, but she 
 may be soon, if care is not taken. 
 To delay any further would risk 
 everything. I will hesitate no long- 
 er. How M. Albert would reproach 
 me were I to warn him too late ! 
 How much I should reproach my- 
 self! Instead of having that excel- 
 lent boy, so dear to me, for a master 
 who would allow me to govern his 
 house in my own way, I should be 
 the humble servant of this gentle- 
 man, who is by no means pleasing to 
 me, and who appears determined to 
 make everybody yield to him. He 
 is humble for the moment, because 
 he has nothing; but I can read in 
 his eyes : the day he is master here 
 it will be in earnest. I shall then 
 have to start. That would be dis- 
 tressing. There is only one way of 
 avoiding such a misfortune : I must 
 hasten to write Albert's mother !" 
 
 So saying, Fanny seated herself at 
 her table. An hour after, her chef- 
 d'otuvre was completed. She remind- 
 ed Mme. Fremin, her old mistress, of 
 
 the affection she had always cherished 
 for her and her son which was true ; 
 she spoke of having wished for 
 several years to see Albert marry 
 Eugenie, and pointed out the perfect 
 harmony of taste there was between 
 the two cousins. This point, how- 
 ever, remained problematical. Fan- 
 ny added that she should not be 
 happy till the day she saw her two 
 dear children united and estab- 
 lished, and she herself living with 
 them, entirely devoted to their in- 
 terests. 
 
 Like all shrewd people, the sou- 
 brette reserved the most important 
 communication for the end of her 
 letter. She then remarked that Mile. 
 Eugenie seemed to be tired of the 
 country, and it was time for Albert 
 to offer himself; for, if another suitor 
 appeared first, which she insinuated 
 was by no means improbable, Albert 
 might regret his delay. She had 
 serious apprehensions. . . . Albert 
 must really come. She would tell him 
 all; he would never regret having 
 undertaken the journey. But he 
 must be careful, if he came, not to 
 mention that she, Fanny, had urged 
 him to do so. If she wrote thus, it 
 was only because she was in a man- 
 ner constrained by her affection for 
 Albert and Eugenie. He must there- 
 fore be careful not to risk everything 
 by his indiscretion. . . . 
 
 This letter, carefully corrected 
 and copied, was taken to the post- 
 office in town the next day. No one 
 suspected Fanny had written to 
 Tante Fre"min. It is useless to speak 
 of the impatience with which she 
 waited to see what her/w/^/ would 
 do. She trembled at the idea that 
 he might not be roused till it was 
 entirely too late to come.
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A GLEAM BEFORE THE STORM. 
 
 A WEEK after, Louis was again in- 
 rited to dine at Mr. Smithson's, 
 whose birthday they were to cele- 
 brate. The only people invited out 
 of the family were the doctor and the 
 Cwr/ofSt. M . The curfs invita- 
 tion was an affair of importance, as 
 you will see. 
 
 Mr. Smithson, as I have remarked, 
 was an Englishman by birth. He 
 had been induced by two motives to 
 settle permanently in France when 
 about thirty years of age: the cli- 
 mate suited his constitution better 
 than that of his own country, and he 
 could live more at his ease on the 
 same income than he could in Eng- 
 land. 
 
 Taking a house in Paris occupied 
 by several tenants, his attention was 
 drawn towards a young girl employ- 
 ed in a mercer's shop on the ground 
 floor of the same building. This 
 girl was no other than the present 
 Mme. Smithson. She lived with her 
 mother, who was in comfortable cir- 
 cumstances, but made no preten- 
 sions. They were very estimable 
 people, and gave the rich Englishman 
 to understand that he could only be 
 admitted as a visitor on condition 
 of acknowledged serious intentions. 
 Mr. Smithson at first hesitated. The 
 girl was not rich, she belonged to a 
 class he considered inferior to his 
 own, and, what was more, they were 
 of different religions. But it was too 
 late to call reason to his aid. For 
 six months he had felt a constantly 
 increasing love for her. He there- 
 fore offered her his hand, merely 
 requiring one concession on her part 
 before he could marry her.: she must 
 embrace the religion he. professed 
 himself. Neither of the women who 
 listened to this proposition was pious. 
 
 but they did not lack faith, and they 
 fulfilled the absolute commands of 
 the church. They therefore replied, 
 without a moment's hesitation, that 
 Mile. Suzanne could not give up her 
 religion for the sake of marrying him. 
 At this, Mr. Smithson hesitated anew, 
 but, as before, love carried the day. 
 He renewed his offer, promising not 
 to interfere with Suzanne's religious 
 belief if she would become his wife. 
 He only made one condition to their 
 marriage : they should respectively 
 practise their religion without making 
 any attempt to convert each other. 
 As to the children, the boys must be 
 brought up in their father's belief, 
 the daughters in that of their mother. 
 Deplorable arrangement ! showing 
 the shameful indifference of both 
 parties, or their foolish and culpable 
 inconsistency. You know the church 
 expressly forbids such concessions. 
 It only tolerates mixed marriages on 
 a precisely contrary condition : the 
 parties to be married must pledge 
 themselves that their offspring shall 
 be brought up in the Catholic reli- 
 gion. I do not know how Mile. Su- 
 zanne, in becoming Mme. Smithson, 
 found means to evade this new diffi- 
 culty. It is possible that, through 
 ignorance or culpable weakness, she 
 yielded to the terms without acknow- 
 ledging it to any one. She doubtless 
 hoped, when the time came for test- 
 ing the arrangement, to find some 
 means of extricating herself from it. 
 At all events, they were married. 
 Mr. Smithson remained an Anglican, 
 and, astonishing to say, a thorough 
 one. His attachment to the Church 
 of England was easily explained by 
 those who knew him. He still cher- 
 ished an ardent love for his country, 
 and almost reproached himself for
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 leaving it. His fidelity to the Eng- 
 lish Church was a last testimony of 
 attachment to the country he had 
 abandoned. 
 
 When Eugenie was born, her fa- 
 ther manifested a temporary sullen- 
 ness and ill humor at her baptism 
 that frightened Mme. Smithson. Nev- 
 ertheless, she was firm. Eugenie 
 was brought up very strictly, and her 
 father gradually became accustomed 
 to her being a Catholic, to see her 
 practise her religion, and even hear 
 her speak of it with enthusiasm, for 
 she was enthusiastic on all great 
 themes. 
 
 These were, it must be said, the 
 only concessions Mr. Smithson made 
 to the true faith. He never entered 
 a Catholic church. He even refused 
 to acknowledge that which its very 
 enemies are forced to concede the 
 grandeur and utility of the enter- 
 prises she alone successfully achieves ; 
 the efficacious assistance she renders 
 each one of us at critical moments 
 in our lives; and the happiness 
 earthly happiness even that she 
 bestows on all who are faithful to 
 her teachings. But the decided 
 stand Mr. Smithson took against the 
 true faith was specially manifested 
 by his antipathy to the priesthood. 
 Though he had lived a year and a 
 
 half at St. M , he had never had 
 
 any intercourse with the Abbe Bon- 
 jean, the cure of the commune. Mme. 
 Smithson and her daughter went to 
 High Mass every Sunday, made the 
 cur/ a brief call on New Year's Day, 
 and went to confession at Easter 
 that was all. I had some reason, 
 therefore, to say it was a thing of no 
 small importance to see the abbt at 
 Mr. Smithson's table. What had 
 effected such a change in the mind 
 of this dogmatic Englishman ? . . . 
 Had his daughter begged it as a 
 favor ? . By no means. Eu- 
 
 genie was not pious enough to care 
 
 for the society of the cur. . . 
 Had Mme. Smithson ventured to 
 break the compact which forbade her 
 broaching, even remotely, the sub- 
 ject of religion to her husband ? 
 Still less likely. Madame had not 
 the courage unless forced to revolt 
 against some enormity like apostasy. 
 What led Mr. Smithson to invite the 
 abbJ was the result of his own re- 
 flections. Since he had taken charge 
 of a manufactory, and been brought 
 in contact with a large number of 
 workmen, some poor and others cor- 
 rupt, he had felt an increasing desire 
 of being useful to them, both morally 
 and physically. Mr. Smithson had 
 really a noble heart. Catholic bene- 
 volence excited his admiration more 
 than he confessed. It caused him 
 to reflect, though he was careful 
 not to reveal his thoughts. These 
 salutary reflections had gradually 
 convinced him that, if he wished to 
 reform the place, he must obtain the 
 aid of some one not only of good- 
 will like Louis, but of incontestable 
 moral authority. . . . Where find 
 a person with more means than the 
 curt? . . . With the extreme 
 prudence habitual to him and he 
 was more cautious now than ever, as it 
 was a question of a priest he was 
 desirous of studying his future 
 co-laborer. He could not help it; 
 this black-robed man inspired him 
 with distrust. "I will begin by 
 studying him," he said to himself; 
 " and, for that, he must come to my 
 house." This plan decided upon, he 
 acted accordingly. Without telling 
 any one of his secret intention, with- 
 but even giving a hint of it, except to 
 his wife and daughter at the last mo- 
 ment, he invited the abb. 
 
 Louis had already begun to under- 
 stand his employer's prejudices, and 
 was therefore extremely astonished 
 when he arrived to find the cur/ had 
 been invited. But his astonishment
 
 66 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 was mingled with joy. He had al- 
 ready become acquainted with the 
 abbe, and had been to confession 
 to him more than once, and had 
 more than one conversation with him. 
 The curt was even aware of all 
 Louis' plans, and, as may be sup- 
 posed, gave them his entire approba- 
 tion. 
 
 There was some stiffness and em- 
 barrassment as the guests seated 
 themselves at table, and looked at 
 one another; but, after a few mo- 
 ments, the genuine simplicity of the 
 abbe", who was no fool, and the doc- 
 tor's facetiousness, broke the ice. 
 Mr. Smithson alone maintained his 
 usual reserve. He had sent for the 
 abbe that he might study his charac- 
 ter, and he was not neglecting it. 
 As to Louis, seated opposite Euge- 
 nie, he seemed to emulate the wise 
 man of the Scriptures who had made 
 a compact with his eyes and his 
 tongue. He tempered the fire of his 
 eye, restrained his flow of words, and 
 courageously filled the part he had 
 imposed on himself that of a man 
 serious unto coldness, calm unto in- 
 sen^ibility. 
 
 Everything passed off very well till 
 the dessert. Mr. Smithson then di- 
 rected the conversation to the condi- 
 tion of his workmen, and spoke of 
 his desire to ameliorate it. Eugenie 
 warmly applauded what her father 
 said ; she spoke of some visits she had 
 made, and gave many interesting de- 
 tails respecting the families she had 
 assisted. 
 
 The good abbe" had, alas! one 
 fault. Priests have their faults as 
 well as we fewer, without doubt, 
 but still they have some. The curfs 
 defect was a want of prudence. He 
 was agreeable in conversation, and 
 had the best intentions in the world, 
 but he did not weigh his words suffi- 
 ciently. He never troubled himself 
 about the interpretation, malevolent 
 
 or otherwise, that certain people might 
 give to them. He was a good man, 
 but not sufficiently mindful of our Sa- 
 viour's counsel to be wise as a serpent 
 and simple as a dove. He was ami- 
 able and sincere, but lacking in dis- 
 cretion : that was a misfortune. At 
 a time of religious indifference and of 
 impiety like ours, more than usual 
 prudence is necessary for all who love 
 their religion: the impious are so 
 glad to find a pretext for their calum- 
 nies! The abbe" now began in the 
 heartiest manner, and very sincerely 
 too, to compliment Mr. Smithson for 
 all he had said, and Mile. Eugenie 
 for all she had done. He gave a 
 thrilling but true sketch of the ra- 
 vages want and immorality were mak- 
 ing among the working-classes, and 
 dwelt on the necessity of an immedi- 
 ate and efficacious remedy. All this 
 was proper. There was nothing so 
 far to criticise. But the abbe should 
 have stopped there. He had, how- 
 ever, the indiscretion to keep on, 
 adding many things ill adapted to 
 those before whom he was speaking. 
 "I know what remedies are neces- 
 sary," said he ; " and who of us does 
 not ? They are instruction to a 
 certain degree, visiting the poor in 
 their houses, dropping a good word, 
 and, above all, the infinite service of 
 leading them back to the holy Catho- 
 lic religion, which alone knows how 
 to influence the heart of man, and 
 inspire benevolent souls with the wis- 
 dom and perseverance necessary for 
 perfecting their noble enterprises. I 
 hope I wound no one's feelings in 
 expressing myself thus. What I have 
 said is only a well - known truth, 
 readily acknowledged by a multitude 
 of upright souls who have not, how- 
 ever, the happiness of belonging to 
 us." 
 
 Mr. Smithson said nothing. He 
 felt the shaft, however blunted, that 
 was aimed so directly at him. The
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 cur/ himself seemed conscious of hav- 
 ing gone too far in the ardor of his 
 untimely zeal. The Englishman was 
 one of those men who only retort 
 when obliged to : he remained silent. 
 The poor cur/ hurt himself still more 
 by enthusiastically eulogizing Louis a 
 few minutes after in these words : 
 " M. Louis, by another year, you will 
 have shown yourself the good angel 
 of the whole country around." 
 
 This appeared exaggerated to Mr. 
 Smithson. It excited his jealousy, 
 already awakened. He imagined he 
 saw proofs of an understanding be- 
 tween the cure and the engineer in 
 this unfortunate remark. Their un- 
 derstanding had an evident aim, in 
 Mr. Smithson's eyes, to diminish his 
 moral influence, and even suppress 
 it. " That is the way with Catholic 
 priests," he said to himself. " They 
 are ambitious, scheming, eager to 
 rule, and knowing how to find ac- 
 complices everywhere." The curt 
 and Louis thenceforth became objects 
 of suspicion, though he was careful 
 not to show it outwardly. 
 
 Louis had begun to understand 
 human nature, and at once realized 
 all the imprudence of the curfs re- 
 marks. He foresaw the bad effect 
 they would have on the master of 
 the house. He tried in vain, by 
 some adroit turn in the conversation, 
 to lessen, if not to annul, the unfortu- 
 nate impression the abbfs conversa- 
 tion might have produced. The curl 
 persisted in his opinion, and only 
 added to his previous blunder. Louis 
 felt he should not gain anything, and 
 stopped short with so distressed an 
 air that it was pitiful to see him. 
 
 Mr. Smithson, led away by his 
 prejudices, thought Louis' depression 
 the consequence of his accomplice's 
 betraying so awkwardly the secret tie 
 between them. "The engineer is, 
 perhaps, the more dangerous of the 
 two," he said to himself. . " I should 
 
 never have suspected their plan, had 
 it not been for the abbfs imprudent 
 frankness." Hence he concluded 
 there would be more need than ever 
 of keeping an eye on his subordin- 
 ate. 
 
 Eugenie, though not pious, under- 
 stood her religion too well, and lov- 
 ed it, or rather, admired it too much, 
 to be astonished at what the cure 
 had said. She thoroughly agreed with 
 him, but, as the conversation became 
 serious, she only attended to the 
 most important points, and paid but 
 little attention to the abbe's impru- 
 dent remarks. The praise he be- 
 stowed on Louis did not seem to her 
 excessive. She rather approved than 
 condemned it. She did not, there- 
 fore, suspect the cause of Louis' 
 sadness, but attributed it to a want 
 of ease naturally occasioned by the 
 inferior position into which he had 
 been thrown by his misfortunes. 
 More than once she came to his aid, 
 politely addressing the conversation 
 to him. Seeing him still preoccupi- 
 ed, she ended by proposing after 
 dinner that he should sing something 
 to her accompaniment. Louis ex- 
 cused himself. " I insist upon it," 
 she said, in a tone of sweet authority 
 that instantly transported him into 
 a new world. He forgot the curfs 
 imprudence, its probable effect on 
 Mr. Smithson, and his own difficult 
 position. The first time for a long 
 while ten years, perhaps he had 
 one of those moments of cloudless 
 happiness that rarely falls to man's 
 lot, and can never be forgotten. It 
 seemed as if a mysterious, ravishing 
 voice whispered that Eugenie was 
 beginning to love him. At least, he 
 no longer doubted for the moment 
 the possibility ojf her loving him 
 some day. Louis had the soul of 
 an artist, and possessed undoubted 
 talent, and he sang that evening as 
 he had never sung in his life.
 
 68 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 When the song was ended, he 
 turned toward Eugenie, and read in 
 her eyes sincere astonishment and 
 admiration, but nothing else. All 
 his doubts, all his sadness, revived. 
 An instant before, his heart over- 
 flowed with joy : now he was so 
 cast down that he was alarmed, and 
 wondered what misfortune was going 
 to happen to him. I am not exag- 
 gerating: ardent natures often pass 
 through such alternations of extreme 
 joy and sadness. The evening pass- 
 ed away without any new incident. 
 Before midnight, the guests returned 
 home, and were free to yield to their 
 own thoughts. The few hours just 
 elapsed had modified the sentiments 
 of all who had dined together at 
 Mr. Smithson's. 
 
 Eugenie, without allowing it to 
 appear outwardly, had also had one 
 of those sudden revelations that like 
 a flash reveal everything with unex- 
 pected clearness. For the first time, 
 she fully realized the possibility of 
 loving one whom she at first despis- 
 ed. Louis' dignified, melancholy air, 
 his grave, earnest manner of convers- 
 ing, his remarkable musical ta,lent, 
 and the sympathetic tone of his voice, 
 all produced an effect on Eug6nie she 
 had never experienced before. Not 
 that she loved him yet, but she ask- 
 ed herself how long her indifference 
 would last. First impressions are 
 hard to efface from ardent souls. 
 Eugenie was alarmed at the idea of 
 loving one who had at first inspired 
 her with so much distrust. She re- 
 solved to watch more carefully over 
 herself, and keep an observant eye 
 on one who might take a place in 
 her heart she did not wish to give, 
 unless for ever. 
 
 This was wise. One cannot take 
 too much precaution when there is 
 reason to fear the heart is disposed 
 to yield. The heart is the best or 
 the worst of counsellors, according 
 
 as it is guided or abandoned by rea- 
 son. Besides, Eugenie was wholly 
 ignorant of Louis' feelings towards 
 her. 
 
 Poor Louis ended the evening in 
 disheartening reflections. He began 
 by dwelling on a painful alternative : 
 either Eugenie did not suspect his 
 love for her, or, if she perceived it, 
 her only response was a coldness 
 that was discouraging. "And yet," 
 thought he, " if I am mistaken ! . . . 
 If she already loves me in her 
 heart! . . . If at least she could some 
 day love me !" . . . He smiled. Then 
 another fear, still worse than the 
 rest, crossed his mind. " Well, if it 
 were so, there would be another ob- 
 stacle in the way more dangerous 
 than the indifference of Mile. Euge- 
 nie herself the opposition of her 
 father. He would never consent t 
 the marriage. His antipathy to me 
 has always been evident. The abbt 
 has completed my ruin. I am 
 henceforth a dangerous man a fa- 
 natic in Mr. Smithson's eyes !" 
 
 What shall I do ?" added Louis, 
 by way of conclusion. "Shall I 
 give up the work I have undertaken ? 
 Ought I to practise my religion se- 
 cretly, in order to give no offence ? 
 . . . No, indeed; that would be 
 cowardly, unworthy of a man of cour- 
 age, and criminal ingratitude towards 
 God, who has been so merciful to 
 me. . . . No hateful concessions \ 
 With the divine assistance, I will do 
 what I think is for the best. What- 
 ever happens will be the will of 
 'God. . . . Whatever it may be, I 
 shall be sure of having nothing to 
 repent of. ..." 
 
 To be serious, I should add that 
 Louis, in forming this resolution, 
 was not so heroic as he really 
 believed himself to be. He was 
 young, he was in love : and youth 
 and love have always some hope in 
 store.
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 69 
 
 It is useless to speak of Mr. Smith- sad Louis' position might be, it was 
 
 Bon. We are aware of his sentiments, soon to become still more so. A 
 
 Louis was not wrong in his fears new cloud was rising without his 
 
 respecting him. And yet, however suspecting it. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ALBERT S VISIT. 
 
 FANNY, after despatching her letter, 
 was filled with an uneasiness that 
 was continually increasing. " Will 
 he get here in season ?" she asked 
 herself. " Perhaps mademoiselle will 
 have come to a decision before 
 Albert arrives." 
 
 But however partial Fanny might 
 be to her pcotege, she could not 
 help seeing that Louis possessed rare 
 qualities. If her interests had not 
 been at stake, she would have con- 
 fessed at once that he alone was 
 worthy of Mile. Smithson ; but her 
 selfishness kept her wilfully blind. 
 
 Alas ! day after day passed away 
 without result. The wonderful letter 
 Fanny depended so much on pro- 
 duced no effect. Twenty times a 
 day she went from despair into 
 anger. 
 
 " Such a fine dowry !" she would 
 exclaim. " Such a pretty girl ! And 
 he allowing them to slip through his 
 fingers to fall into the hands of 
 another and what other! ... A 
 spendthrift who will squander her 
 property a libertine who will neg- 
 lect his wife ! . . . Ah ! she might 
 be so happy with him, and he with 
 her ! And I should be so sure of an 
 easy life in their house ! What is he 
 doing ? ... Is he absorbed ^n 
 trifles, and going to lose such an 
 opportunity ? I was right : he is 
 light-headed. But his mother, Mine. 
 Fremin, has sense enough, I am 
 sure, and has longed for this match 
 these ten years : is she asleep too ? 
 Or has she changed her mind? . . ." 
 
 When the day of the dinner came, 
 of which I have just spoken, Fanny's 
 
 distress was unbounded. " The ene- 
 my is constantly gaining ground," 
 she muttered to herself. " Every 
 day Mile. Eugenie becomes less in- 
 different towards him. Perhaps they 
 will come to an understanding to- 
 night, and vow to love each othor. 
 We are lost ! Albert is positively a 
 simpleton !" 
 
 When Eugenie retired to her 
 chamber, Fanny, quivering with ex- 
 citement, was there to eye her nar- 
 rowly, hoping to read the depths of 
 her soul. She saw her mistress was 
 more thoughtful than usual, and 
 began by artfully praising Louis. 
 Eugenie seemed to listen with plea- 
 sure. All this caused the wily servant 
 a sleepless night. . . . When daylight 
 appeared, Fanny had decided on her 
 course. This soubrette was a long- 
 headed woman ! 
 
 " If I had to choose a husband for 
 Mile. Eugenie," she said to herself, 
 " I certainly should not select M. 
 Louis. Mademoiselle would be far 
 happier with Albert. As to him, he 
 will never find another equal to her. 
 But I cannot force them to be happy. 
 It is their own affair. Mine is to 
 look out for my own interests. . . . 
 What do I want ? ... To secure a 
 pleasant home for the rest of my life. 
 Perhaps this new suitor would give 
 me one. ... Is he really as much 
 of a spendthrift, and as overbearing, 
 as I feared at first ? I have seen 
 him only a few times, but I know 
 him well enough to see I may have 
 been greatly deceived, and that there 
 is much more in him than I suppos- 
 ed. ... Well, that is settled : if Al-
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 bert is not here in season, if I see the 
 other one is likely to win the day, I 
 shall take sides with him. . . . But I 
 will make one more sacrifice for the 
 ungrateful fellow whom I have loved 
 so much ! I will write his mother 
 again, and wait a few days long- 
 er. . . ." 
 
 She wrote, and did not have long 
 to wait. Albert arrived the next 
 day but one. When he appeared, 
 Funny almost sank to the ground 
 with astonishment and joy : with 
 joy, because she loved him as spin- 
 sters always love when they love at 
 all with as much strength as self- 
 ishness; with astonishment, for she 
 hardly recognized him. She had not 
 seen him for a year and a half. He 
 was then in the third year of his law 
 sludies a young man of sprightly, 
 jovial air, faultless in dress, and flu- 
 ent of speech, though he only talked 
 of trifles. . . . Quantum mutatus! 
 . . . He now had a grave air, his dress 
 was plain even to severity, and there 
 was a solemnity in his manner of 
 speaking that confounded Fanny, 
 but, which pleased her. What had 
 wrought such a change? She was 
 dying to know, but had to wait to 
 be enlightened on the point till she 
 could see him in private. This could 
 not take place at once. He must 
 renew his acquaintance with his 
 uncle, aunt, and cousin. 
 
 Albert's sudden arrival caused 
 some surprise, but not very much, 
 however, for he had promised sever- 
 al months before to come about this 
 time. Mr. Smithson received him 
 with his usual quiet, somewhat cool 
 regard. He looked upon his nephew 
 as frivolous, and for such people he 
 had no liking. But Mme. Smithson 
 gave her dear Albert a very different 
 reception. She loved him for his 
 own sake, and especially for his 
 mother's, whom she regarded with 
 affection and pity. She was quite 
 
 well aware that her sister's income 
 was very limited, and to see Albert 
 marry her daughter would by no 
 means have been repugnant to her. 
 Eugenie also received her cousin 
 with the pleasure and cordiality nat- 
 ural to a relative meeting the friend 
 of her childhood. 
 
 In the course of two hours, he was 
 made to feel quite at home, at liberty 
 to go where he pleased, and to do 
 what he liked. All the family had 
 some employment, Eugenie as well 
 as her parents. Albert at once pro- 
 fited by this liberty to prendre langue, 
 as the saying is to get the news from 
 Fanny. For had she not induced 
 him to come here, and made him 
 aware of her projects? . . . 
 He found her in a small building 
 not far from the house. It was on 
 the banks of the river, which was 
 more charming here than in any 
 other part. Its peaceful current glid- 
 ed between high banks where grew 
 on either hand a row of willows 
 whose pendant branches swept the 
 very waters. Everything was de- 
 lightfully quiet and romantic. It 
 was Eugenie's favorite retreat, where 
 she often came in the morning to 
 read, or to muse as the day declined. 
 But Albert gave no heed to the 
 beauties of nature around him. 
 
 " At last we can have a talk, my 
 good Fanny," said he : " talk of our 
 mutual plans, eh ! eh ! for it seems 
 you, too, wish me to marry Eugenie. 
 Our plans are in danger, if I am to 
 believe your two letters : it is possi- 
 bfe I may be set aside ! That would 
 be a pity ! My cousin is handsomer 
 than ever. . . . But to tell the truth, 
 her style of beauty is not exactly to 
 my taste : she is too dignified. 
 But ... " 
 
 " Too dignified ! . . . Mademoi- 
 selle is enchanting ; and then, there 
 is her fortune, which it is no harm to 
 consider."
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 "My uncle's losses have made a 
 nole in it, however." 
 
 " But they are being repaired 
 every day by his industry. You 
 would not believe how profitable 
 this mill is. Come, tell me plainly, 
 will you ever find a wife as rich ? 
 with even half as much as she will 
 have? ..." 
 
 "Ma foil no." 
 
 " And the money you would never 
 find again you have come near let- 
 ting slip into another's hands ! . . . 
 There is some danger of it still." 
 
 " You alarm me." 
 
 " It is just so. Why were you so 
 long in coming?" 
 
 " Because . . . Tiens, my dear, I 
 was just going to tell you a fib, but 
 it would do no good. I may as well 
 show my hand. ... I came very re- 
 luctantly, because I prefer my bache- 
 lor life. It would suit me better to 
 wait a while. Would it be danger- 
 ous to ask a delay of two or four 
 years ?" 
 
 " Ah ! it is not enough to furnish 
 you with a handsome wife and a fine 
 fortune ! One must wait till you are 
 disposed to accept them ! Where 
 are your wits ?" 
 
 " Come, do not get angry. I see 
 I must marry her at once. I will do 
 as you say. Here, I am all ready to 
 listen to your advice, for you must 
 tell me what I am to do." 
 
 " You give in ? You may as 
 well ! Come, own that you gave me 
 a false impression. And I was so 
 pleased ! Your grave air and plain 
 dress made me hope you were con- 
 verted I see I was mistaken, and 
 am sorry for it." 
 
 " A fine farce. And so I even took 
 you in ! But did you not tell me to 
 come here like a man seriously dis- 
 posed ? If I succeeded in deceiving 
 you, the disguise must be perfect. 
 The rest are more easily taken in 
 than you! . . . But that is not the 
 
 point. You look quite frightened. 
 What are you afraid of?" 
 
 " Everything, and principally lest 
 you make Mile. Eugenie unhappy." 
 
 " She shall be mistress : that is 
 what she likes what else ?" 
 
 " When you are married, you will 
 no longer have any need of me, and 
 will send me away." 
 
 " Send you away ! I am ready to 
 swear. . . . Here, I will give you my 
 promise in writing : you shall never 
 leave my house. Fanny, do you 
 think me capable of such ingratitude ? 
 I am frivolous, but I have some 
 heart, you well know, you old grum- 
 bler. . . . Well, how do affairs really 
 stand ? . . . Does not your affection 
 for me incline you to take too gloomy 
 a view of things ? . . . My enemy 
 my rival, if I rightly understand 
 your letters is a fellow who ruined 
 himself, and came here to win the 
 beautiful Eugenie's heart and for- 
 tune; he is very sedate in appear- 
 ance, and artful in reality. But it is 
 not enough to be ruined, and long 
 for a fortune the thing is to get it. 
 The first condition is to please the 
 lady. Is he a handsome fellow ?" 
 
 " No ; but he has a sensible, refined 
 face calculated to strike the fancy of 
 a young lady like your cousin." 
 
 " Has he much wit ?" 
 
 " He talks little, but well." 
 
 " He is religious, I think you 
 said ?" 
 
 "Yes; he has founded a library 
 and a school for the benefit of the 
 workmen, and he visits the poor. 
 All this affords him many opportuni- 
 ties of meeting Mile. Eugenie. She 
 gives him books for his library, paper 
 and pens for his school, and they 
 agree upon the families to visit." 
 
 " Ha ! he is a knowing fellow. He 
 thinks that a good way to please my 
 cousin and to see her. Then Eu- 
 genie is more religious than she used 
 to be?"
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 " It seems so, but you know it is 
 not easy to tell what is going on in 
 mademoiselle's heart." 
 
 " Fanny, you have rendered me a 
 service I shall never forget. It was 
 time to come high time. I am 
 even afraid I am too late. Have 
 you detected anything to make you 
 think her in love with him already ?" 
 
 " She -began by regarding him with 
 aversion. This softened into indif- 
 ference. What further change there 
 is I do not know." 
 
 " What caused her aversion ?" 
 
 " She thought he came here to 
 catch her." 
 
 " The deuce !" 
 
 " His piety seemed to her mere 
 artifice." 
 
 " Evidently ! ... Is any one ever 
 converted without a motive ?" 
 
 " You are a wicked creature, Al- 
 bert. Louis may be a hypocrite, 
 but all religious people are not hypo- 
 crites. I even begin to think he is 
 not." 
 
 " Come, go on ! ... Well, I see 
 Eugenie regards him as a saint. She 
 admires him, if nothing more. The 
 danger is imminent." 
 
 " What are you going to do ? 
 Nothing wrong, I hope." 
 
 " Be easy on that score. I am 
 going to keep an eye on that man, 
 and study him. If he is sincere, I 
 will make him ridiculous ; if he is 
 false, I will unmask him. Of course, 
 I shall also employ other means. If 
 Eugenie is not yet in love with him, 
 I shall be the foremost to win her 
 heart. If she is attached to him, I 
 shall do my utmost to appear more 
 worthy of her regard, and to rout 
 him. It is unnecessary to say I shall 
 persist in my role as a person of 
 gravity. Eugenie is absurdly roman- 
 tic. I must endeavor to appear 
 more saintly than this new apostle. 
 No one will suspect the farce. It is 
 an age since I was here, and it would 
 
 not be astonishing if I also had been 
 converted during the interval." 
 
 " Don't go too far !" 
 
 " You may rely on that. There is 
 only one thing I am anxious about. 
 Have I not some invisible obstacle to 
 contend against ? . . . Eugenie has a 
 will of her own. If she has already 
 made up her mind, if her heart is set 
 on him, all my attempts would be of 
 no avail." 
 
 " Things have not come to that 
 pass yet, I have every reason to be- 
 lieve. I know where and when she 
 has seen him, and what he has said 
 to her. She only regards him with 
 esteem, yoa may be sure." 
 
 After deciding on his plans, Albert 
 had but one wish to put them at 
 once in execution. That very even- 
 ing at dinner he directed the conver- 
 sation to Louis. Mme. Smithson 
 heartily praised the engineer. Mr. 
 Smithson neither praised nor spoke 
 disparagingly of him. He kept his 
 suspicions with regard to Louis to 
 himself. He was not in the habit 
 of doing anything hastily, but had 
 fully made up his mind to dismiss 
 him if he found him as thorough a 
 Catholic as he had reason to believe; 
 that is, an overzealous one, secretly 
 contriving with the curt all sorts of 
 dark plots, the idea of which alarmed 
 him. 
 
 Eugenie, in a perfectly natural 
 manner, confirmed all her mother 
 had said, spoke of the good works 
 he had undertaken, and finally men- 
 tioned the part she had had in them. 
 
 " I also should be delighted to 
 participate in all these laudable un- 
 dertakings," said Albert. " I must 
 tell you, dear cousin, that I am be- 
 ginning to be reasonable. I take an 
 interest in studying the great social 
 problems, especially the extinction 
 of pauperism, and the moral improve- 
 ment of the lower classes." 
 
 Mr. Smith icn gave Albert an in
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 73 
 
 credulous look, and Eugenie broke 
 out into unrestrained laughter. 
 
 11 Well," said Albert, intimidated 
 and cut to the quick, "you shall 
 see if what I tell you is not true ! 
 To-morrow I will visit this wonderful 
 school, and offer my services to the 
 person who has charge of it. I rath- 
 er think they will not be refused." 
 
 " Oh !" said Eugenie, " how amus- 
 ing it will be to see you drilling 
 under M. Louis' orders ! . . . You 
 will soon have enough of it." 
 
 " You think me fickle, then ?" 
 
 " Rather so." 
 
 "You are mistaken. I always 
 like the same things, and especially 
 the same people, my dear cousin." 
 
 " How gallant you have become," 
 said Eug6nie, laughing again. " But 
 what has come over us ! We used 
 to say tho u to each other ; now we 
 say you. Once we kept up a succes- 
 sion of compliments anything but 
 flattering to each other, and here you 
 are now gracious, amiable, and com- 
 plimentary beyond description ! It 
 is a pity I can make no return. . . . 
 But it is all in vain, my dear Albert ; 
 neither your white cravat nor your 
 subdued air can deceive me. My 
 aunt wrote me not long ago that you 
 were just the same. Do you hear ? 
 your own mother said there was 
 no change in you." 
 
 This unvarnished statement had 
 really been made in one of Mme. 
 Fremin's letters. She little thought 
 of injuring her son by showing him 
 in so true a light. 
 
 " My mother was mistaken," said 
 Albert, exceedingly vexed at such 
 annoying remarks ; " or rather, you 
 have given a wrong interpretation to 
 her words. I am indeed the same 
 in a certain sense. When there is 
 cause for laughter, I am ready to 
 laugh. But though it is proper to 
 laugh at suitable times, I feel that 
 excessive and constant gaiety is un- 
 
 worthy of a man who aspires to a 
 high place in the estimation of 
 others." 
 
 " Ah ! to think of your sermoniz 
 ing, my dear cousin," cried Eugenie 
 looking at him with a mocking air 
 " But now I begin to understanc 
 your behavior. . . . Yes ; that is it. 
 . . . You have an eye to the bench. 
 You consider gravity as part of a 
 judge's outfit. You are right, but 
 between ourselves, as no one hears 
 you, confess that the mask is any- 
 thing but comfortable." 
 
 Albert was vexed and uneasy. 
 His attempts were in vain : he could 
 not persuade Eugenie he was really 
 what he wished to appear. His sa- 
 gacious cousin continued to banter 
 him with a wit he found it difficult to 
 ward off. 
 
 Eugenie had no special design in 
 her bantering, but her very simplicity 
 and wit disarmed Albert, and thwart- 
 ed his plans. How far this was from 
 the belle passion he hoped to inspire ! 
 Eugenie treated him merely like a 
 cousin, almost like a boy. He re- 
 solved to let her see he was a man 
 a thoughtful and even religious 
 man, "To-morrow," thought he, 
 " I will go and beard the lion in his 
 den. I will watch him narrowly ; I 
 will become his friend in order to 
 thwart him. When I have convinc- 
 ed my uncle and aunt there a?e 
 others quite as rational as this gen- 
 tleman, without being fanatics like 
 him for he is one, according to Eu- 
 genie's own account when I have 
 won the admiration of my romantic 
 cousin, then we will think of wooing. 
 But we must begin by driving this 
 Jesuit away. Really, the comedy 
 begins to interest me. A fine fortune 
 and a pretty wife are at stake. More- 
 over, there is this dismal creature to 
 cover with confusion. If I do not 
 come off conqueror, it will be because 
 the fates are strangely against me."
 
 74 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 Such were Albert's thoughts after 
 retiring to his chamber. Then he 
 betook himself to a novel. He 
 was delighted to find himself so 
 shrewd, and had no doubt of his suc- 
 cess. 
 
 At that same hour, Louis was 
 also awake, but absorbed in prayer. 
 Piety daily increased in his steadfast 
 soul : so did love in his heart. Al- 
 bert's arrival, which he was at once 
 informed of, produced a painful im- 
 pression. " Mr. Smithson distrusts 
 me," he said to himself; " Eug6nie 
 does not yet love me : it will be easy 
 for this young man to win the place 
 I covet in her heart." He dwelt on 
 these sad thoughts for some time, 
 
 but soon had recourse to his usual 
 source of consolation, and confided 
 all his cares to God. The prayer he 
 uttered might be summed up in these 
 few words, so full of Christian hero- 
 ism : " O my God ! if it is in his 
 power to render her happier than I 
 could, I pray thee to bestow her on 
 him, and let me find my only con- 
 solation in thee ! . . ." The true 
 Christian alone can so purify his af- 
 fections as to render them disinter- 
 ested. When Louis fell asleep, he 
 felt a storm was brewing in the air, 
 but calmness was in his heart. Re- 
 signation, trust in God, and the 
 purity of his love had restored seren- 
 ity to his soul. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A VILLAIN. 
 
 Albert called at Louis' office about 
 ten o'clock the next morning. This 
 office was in the centre of the manu- 
 factory, between two large rooms 
 always filled with workmen. Here 
 Louis was confined ten long hours a 
 day. If he went out from time to 
 time, it was first to one place, and 
 then to another, to keep an eye on 
 everything, and remedy any slight 
 accident that might have occurred. 
 He everywhere replaced Mr. Smith- 
 son. He saw to everything, and 
 gave orders about everything, and 
 acquitted himself of these duties with 
 an ability and zeal that his employer 
 could not help acknowledging. He 
 could not have wished for an assist- 
 ant more capable, more energetic, or 
 more reliable. Had it not been for 
 one suspicion in this cold Protest- 
 ant's breast, one cause of antipathy 
 against this overzealous Catholic, 
 Mr. Smithson would not only have 
 esteemed Louis, but would have taken 
 him to his heart. As it was, he con- 
 tented himself with merely esteeming 
 him, and this against his will. 
 
 The workmen were divided into 
 two parties with respect to Louis. 
 The good, who were the least numer- 
 ous alas ! it is so everywhere : the 
 majority are on the wrong side 
 were absolutely devoted to him. 
 The bad feared him. They knew he 
 was inflexible when there was any 
 question of their 'morals or the rules 
 of the establishment. Louis would 
 not tolerate drunkenness, or blas- 
 phemy, or any improper talk. The 
 fear he excited among the bad made 
 him extremely hated by a few. 
 
 When Albert entered the engineer's 
 office, the latter went forward to 
 meet him with the ease of a man of 
 the world receiving a visit, and with 
 the reserve of a diplomatist who finds 
 himself in the presence of an adver- 
 sary. From the very moment these two 
 men first saw each other, they felt they 
 were opponents. Each one had a 
 position to defend which the othei 
 sought for, and both were conscious 
 of it. Before the Parisian uttered a 
 word, Louis divined what was passing 
 in his heart. " He has come to drive
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 me away and marry his cousin," 
 thought he. " If Providence favors 
 his plans, I shall submit. But it was 
 God who brought me hither. I do 
 not think I am mistaken in believing 
 he has given me a work to do here, 
 and I shall not leave till I clearly 
 see I ought to give it up and go 
 away." 
 
 Albert had to introduce himself. 
 " I am Mr. Smithson's nephew," 
 said he, " a licentiate of the law, and 
 an advocate at the Paris bar. My 
 relatives have for a long time urged 
 me to visit them, and I have profited 
 by an interval of leisure to accept 
 their invitation. I am aware, mon- 
 sieur, df the important role you fill in 
 the house, and what a useful man 
 you are, and am desirous of making 
 your acquaintance. Besides, I have 
 need of your services." 
 
 " If I can be of any service what- 
 ever to you, monsieur, I assure you 
 it will give me great pleasure to 
 serve you." 
 
 " My charming cousin Eugenie 
 tells me, monsieur, that you are en- 
 gaged in things I am likewise inter- 
 ested in the relief of the poor and 
 the instruction of the ignorant around 
 you. Eugenie has even given me to 
 understand that she is your assistant 
 in this work." 
 
 Albert kept his eyes fastened on 
 Louis' face as he uttered these words. 
 He thought he would betray his 
 feelings at such a greeting at the 
 mere name of Eugenie. But Louis' 
 countenance remained impenetrable 
 as usual. Albert felt he had before 
 him either a very indiiferent or a 
 very shrewd man. 
 
 " I am glad to learn, monsieur," 
 replied Louis, " that you take an in- 
 terest, as well as I, in these Christian 
 labors, which in these times are more 
 necessary than ever. Poverty and 
 immorality are making great ravages. 
 But I should remark that I am a 
 
 mere novice in such matters. As 
 Mile. Eugenie has been so kind as 
 to speak of me, she may have told 
 you how little I have yet accom- 
 plished. And what I have done has 
 only been through Mr. Smithson's 
 constant aid. You wish, monsieur, 
 to be initiated into my undertakings. 
 That will be very easy ! I will show 
 you our library, scarcely established, 
 and our evening-school : that is all." 
 
 " You must also introduce me to 
 your poor. I am seriously dispos- 
 ed to make a practical study of 
 the great questions of charity and 
 instruction. They are quite the or- 
 der of the day. When can I meet 
 you? . . ." 
 
 "This evening, if you like; the 
 school begins at seven o'clockj" 
 
 "And what do yo* do at this 
 school ?" 
 
 " I teach reading and writing to 
 those who are ignorant of them, 
 orthography to some, and ciphering 
 to others. I end by reading some- 
 thing carefully selected, with occa- 
 sional remarks easy to comprehend 
 and to retain. This affords me a 
 daily opportunity of giving my au- 
 dience useful advice." 
 
 Albert made a slight grimace. 
 This manner of procedure did not 
 suit him. He wished for exercises 
 that afforded a more promising field 
 for satisfying his vanity. It was well 
 to propose being useful ! He wished 
 to shine. 
 
 They continued to converse a while 
 longer. Louis, with the shrewdness 
 that characterized him, led the con- 
 versation to the most serious subjects. 
 Albert replied without suspecting 
 the scrutiny he was undergoing. 
 Faithful to his role, he affected to 
 judge matters with the seriousness of 
 a man armed with unfaltering convic 
 tions. But this seriousness did not 
 blind Louis. Without appearing to 
 observe it, he caught him a dozen
 
 7 6 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 times in criminal ignorance, and, 
 what was worse, this ignorance was 
 accompanied with a conceit that was 
 ridiculous. At length the two young 
 men separated. They had formed 
 an opinion of each other at the first 
 glance. Louis had seen through 
 Albert's mask, and found him a man 
 of no depth, poorly aping a person 
 of gravity. Albert felt he had a sa- 
 gacious person to deal with. If 
 Louis was his rival, he was a formid- 
 able one. 
 
 It may be supposed that, loving 
 Eugenie to such a degree, Louis 
 felt, as an impartial observer would 
 have done in his place, that it would 
 be sad to see a woman of so much 
 worth united to a superficial man. 
 He could not help feeling that he 
 himself was more worthy of Eugenie 
 than Albert ; that he was more capa- 
 ble of making her happy. He was 
 not mistaken; he had a right to 
 think so. 
 
 A few days after this first interview, 
 I sent Louis word that Victor was 
 very much worse. His disease had 
 made alarming progress. Victor 
 had hitherto struggled courageously 
 against it, but, the evening before, 
 he took me by the hand, and, fixing 
 his large melancholy eyes on mine, 
 said : 
 
 " My dear, my beloved wife, I have 
 kept up till now, and continued to 
 work as usual. But the hour has 
 come for me to lay aside all earthly 
 thoughts and cares. ... It is time to 
 collect rny thoughts. . . . Death is 
 approaching. . ." 
 
 At these words, I began to weep 
 and sob. He waited till this natural 
 explosion of grief was over. 
 
 " I can realize your distress, my 
 good Agnes," said he. " I, too, feel 
 how painful it is to leave you. But 
 we are both Christians. Our religion 
 is a source of never-failing consola- 
 tion. . . . See how good God has 
 
 been to us ! I might have died months 
 ago : God has left me with you till 
 now. He has given me time to pre- 
 pare to enter his presence. And I 
 truly believe that, by the help of his 
 grace, I have made a good use of 
 these last days. I have found and 
 trained a man to succeed me in the 
 journal. He will defend the good 
 cause as well as I ; perhaps better. 
 I have saved the life of a young 
 man who is and always will be a 
 consistent Christian such as we need 
 more of. I shall, I hope, have a 
 share in all the good Louis will ac- 
 complish; and he will do a great 
 deal. ... Of course, my dear Agnes, 
 it is hard to separate from you, but 
 we shall meet again on high. The 
 longest life is but brief. How happy 
 we shall be to meet again far from 
 this wretched world, which I should 
 not regret were it not for leaving you 
 Every day it gives less room to God : 
 the impious and the hypocritical are 
 fearfully multiplying. This is a sad 
 age ! If the very thought of leaving 
 those we love were not so painful to 
 the heart, ah ! how sweet it would 
 be to soar away from so much wicked- 
 ness to the pure radiance of heaven. 
 Why cannot I carry you with me, 
 my poor darling ? Oh ! how glad I 
 should then be to go. ... But, no ; 
 it is not the will of God. He wishes 
 me to precede you, alone. So be it. 
 When in yonder world, I shall pray 
 for you ! . . . And now, let us give 
 up all worldly things to those who 
 have a longer time to live. As for 
 me, I must cease to labor, and hence- 
 forth think of nothing but God and 
 my salvation. . . ." 
 
 The following morning, I sent Louis 
 word of what had taken place. He 
 hastened to see us that afternoon. 
 When he saw our dear Victor, he 
 was exceedingly affected. My hus 
 band had ^changed every way within 
 a fortnight, without my being con-
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 77 
 
 scious of it, having been constantly 
 with him. 
 
 " Oh ! how glad I am to see you !" 
 said he to Louis. "Well, well, we 
 shall not meet many times more, . . . 
 here below, I mean, but we shall 
 meet again in heaven never more to 
 separate." 
 
 Louis burst into tears. 
 
 " You great child !" continued he. 
 " If it were not for my sweet Agnes 
 there, I would beg you to congratu- 
 late me : I am going home to God ! 
 But the idea of leaving that dear 
 soul, who has made me so happy, 
 hangs like a cloud between me and 
 heaven. Oh ! you will, you will 
 watch over her as I would myself, 
 will you not ?" 
 
 " Yes ; as your very self, I solemn*- 
 ly promise you," cried Louis. Then, 
 falling on his knees beside the bed, 
 he said : " My friend, assure me once 
 more that you forgive me. It is I 
 who have killed you !" 
 
 Victor drew him towards him, and 
 embraced him. Louis then begged 
 my forgiveness also. I could not 
 answer him, but I held out my hand, 
 which he respectfully kissed. 
 
 " One favor more," said Louis : 
 " I hope you will not leave us so 
 soon as you suppose, but it is better 
 to make the request now, as I can 
 do it to-day without troubling you : 
 give me your blessing !" 
 
 Victor excused himself, but Louis 
 insisted so long that he yielded. 
 Victor then extended his hand over 
 his friend's head: "O my God!" 
 said he, " I am only a sinner, with 
 no right to bless in thy name ; but I 
 have given my heart to thee, and I 
 also love this soul to whom thou has 
 permitted me to do some good. 
 Watch over him ! . . . Make 
 him happy here below, or, if it is thy 
 will he should suffer, grant him the 
 necessary courage to find joy in sor- 
 row itself." 
 
 This scene was deeply affecting. 
 For some time we remained silent. 
 Victor, unwilling to leave us so pain- 
 fully impressed, began to smile and 
 say the liveliest things he could im- 
 agine. Addressing Louis, he said : 
 
 " How are your love affairs ? You 
 cannot imagine how I long for your 
 union with a woman so calculated to 
 make you happy. The more I think 
 of it, the more I am convinced that 
 Mile. Smithson is the very person." 
 
 Louis replied with a sigh. He 
 related what had taken pkce at the 
 great dinner, and the wrong impres- 
 sion Mr. Smithson had derived from 
 the curfs imprudence. He also 
 told us of Albert's arrival, and gave 
 a brief account of their interview. 
 
 "This man's unexpected appear- 
 ance has caused me sincere pain," 
 he said. " It has excited a thousand 
 fears only too well grounded. Is it 
 because I think him capable of de- 
 stroying my most cherished hopes ? 
 . . . No ; not if it depends merely 
 on him. His meaningless face, his 
 affected and pretentious manners, 
 and his vacant mind, are not calcu- 
 lated to fascinate Mile. Eugenie. 
 Her nature is entirely different from 
 his. His defects must shock her. 
 But the man, from what I am told, 
 has the luck of being in his aunt's 
 good graces. Who knows but Mme. 
 Smithson herself induced him to 
 come, with the positive intention of 
 giving him her daughter's hand in 
 marriage ? . . ." 
 
 " It is possible," said Victor, " but 
 you have one good cause for hope 
 in spite of everything. You ac- 
 knowledge yourself that such a man 
 cannot please Mile. Eugenie. Now, 
 she is a woman with a mind of her 
 own, and her parents are very indul- 
 gent to her. These two reasons in- 
 duce me to believe she will never 
 marry him." 
 
 " She is different from most wo-
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 men,' replied Louis. " Her filial de- 
 votion may lead her to accept the 
 husband her parents propose. . . . 
 Ah ! if she ioved me, I should not 
 be alarmed on that score. For an 
 instant, I thought she did; but the 
 longer I study things calmly, the 
 more inclined I am to believe I was 
 lulled by a sweet illusion. . . . She 
 does not love me yet. It is possible 
 she might, had things remained as 
 they were. Everything will take a 
 new turn now. This young relative's 
 arrival will absorb her attention, and 
 how do I know but she will even 
 end by taking him for what he pre- 
 tends to be a grave, thoughtful 
 man ?" 
 
 "I have no fears on that point," 
 said Victor. " If this intruder is th 
 superficial person you suppose and 
 he is, I believe he will not deceive 
 a person so observing as Mile. 
 Smithson." 
 
 " He is her cousin. . . . Every 
 one in the house treats him with 
 great affection. . . . Mile. Eugenie 
 is young and without experience, . . . 
 and the man in question does not 
 lack a certain ability. . . . He has 
 already annoyed me in more than 
 one way." 
 
 " Is it possible ! How ?" 
 
 " I told you that at our first inter- 
 view he immediately expressed a 
 wish to aid me in the work I had 
 undertaken. I promised to intro- 
 duce him to my school that evening. 
 He was so urgent that he excited 
 my suspicions at once. My fears 
 were only too well founded, as you 
 will see. I had scarcely been a 
 quarter of an hour in the school- 
 room, before he came in with Mr. 
 Smithson. I am anxious not to ex- 
 aggerate anything; above all, I do 
 not wish to calumniate him. It is, 
 therefore, with all sincerity I tell you 
 that this designing man, at his first 
 visit, so arranged everything as to 
 
 take the precedence of me before my 
 scholars. With his arm passed fa- 
 miliarly through his uncle's, he en- 
 tered with a mere salutation of con- 
 descending patronage. Then, after 
 going to the door with Mr. Smithson, 
 who had business elsewhere, he re- 
 mained as if to superintend and di- 
 rect me, as the master of the house 
 might have done, had he wished to 
 assert his rights. I repeat it : this fel- 
 low only came there to make the 
 workmen feel that he was, even in 
 my night-school, if not the master, 
 at least his representative, and I the 
 humble agent. In fact, without con- 
 sulting me, he began to give advice 
 to one and another, making a great 
 deal of noise, and meddling with 
 everything, so that, thanks to him, 
 nothing was done. He disturbed 
 everybody, and was of no assistance. 
 " Of course, the idle and talkative, 
 as well as those disposed to flattery, 
 took to the new-comer. As to me, 
 I frankly confess he had a singular 
 effect on my nerves. However, I re- 
 strained myself, and said nothing to 
 him that evening. The next morn- 
 ing, he called on me, and announced 
 his intention of beginning a series of 
 lessons on political economy. As 
 you know, I am in the habit of read- 
 ing aloud every evening from some 
 good book a historical incident, an 
 anecdote, or a moral extract calcu- 
 lated to interest the workmen. To 
 this I join some familiar explanations 
 and reflections of a moral and even 
 religious nature. This exercise, as 
 simple as it is beneficial in its results, 
 was not to his liking. He wished to 
 replace it advantageously, as he said, 
 by instructions apparently learned, 
 but in reality useless and even per- 
 nicious. Nothing is worse than to 
 waste great words on people abso- 
 lutely destitute of elementary know- 
 ledge. But the very ignorance of 
 his audience attracted Albert. He
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 79 
 
 thought he should dazzle them with- 
 out much effort, and without running 
 the risk of their finding out how little 
 he really knows. I listened very 
 coldly to his proposal. When he 
 left, he gave me a slight glance of 
 spitefulness which was ominous of 
 evil. 
 
 " That night the young man did not 
 appear in the school-room, but the 
 following evening he presented him- 
 self. This time he made so much 
 confusion that I could not conceal 
 my annoyance. He perceived it, and 
 left the room. I regretted not hav- 
 ing, perhaps, restrained my feelings 
 sufficiently. I followed him into the 
 next room. He received me with 
 insolent haughtiness, and took my 
 explanations unkindly. When I had 
 finished, he thus addressed me : 
 
 " ' Monsieur, there are some who 
 do good out of love of being useful : 
 to such I belong. There are others 
 who do it from motives of self-love 
 and interest : you may know of some. 
 . . . You have instituted this school ; 
 you direct it in your own way ; you 
 wish to be the sole master. What 
 your reason is for all this I do not 
 know, but I can certify one thing : 
 you wish to have your workmen to 
 yourself. It is not my practice to 
 intrude anywhere, even when I have 
 a perfect right. Consequently I 
 withdraw.' 
 
 " I stopped him to ask what motive 
 of interest I could have. 
 
 " ' O monsieur !' said he, ' the 
 name of a philanthropist is not to be 
 despised. It leads to many things. 
 You know better than I what use you 
 wish to make of it; it is not for me to 
 tell you. It remains to be seen if 
 you succeed.' 
 
 " He evidently wished to insinuate 
 that I had taken this indirect way 
 of gaining the esteem of the Smith- 
 son family, and perhaps Eugenie's 
 affections. I felt my anger rise. I 
 
 was about to reply in a way I should 
 have regretted, but he prevented it 
 by going out without giving me an 
 opportunity. 
 
 " At first, I congratulated myself on 
 my victory. I am ashamed to say 
 that my pride, which I thought I 
 had conquered, again reappeared in 
 my heart. He is afraid of me !' I 
 said to myself. ' He feels my supe- 
 riority, and has gone away through 
 mortification.' Subsequent reflec- 
 tion convinced me of my mistake. 
 Albert, in withdrawing, was not van- 
 quished, but really the conqueror. 
 He had successfully achieved his 
 perfidious design. He was tired of 
 the school, and felt he should soon 
 cut a sorry figure in it. He sought 
 the means of getting out of it, which 
 I unwittingly furnished him, so that 
 his very retreat could be used as a 
 plea against me. All my subsequent 
 observations have confirmed my sus- 
 picions. I have not met him since, 
 but I can see he has been secretly 
 plotting against me. Mr. Smithson 
 is colder than ever towards me. As 
 to Mile. Eugenie, I have met her 
 only once, walking with Albert. She 
 saw me, and might have spoken, but 
 pretended not to observe me. . . . Ah ! 
 my dear friend, I am, I confess, 
 down-hearted. For days, I have seen 
 that my course and my principles 
 excite Mr. Smithson's suspicions, but 
 I had some reason to believe I was 
 no longer indifferent to his daughter. 
 Now she herself has turned, or rath- 
 er, has been turned, against me. In 
 a month, she will no longer be able 
 to endure me. . . . What shall I 
 do?" 
 
 " Keep straight on : continue the 
 work you have begun. If an oppor- 
 tunity occurs for explanation either 
 with the father or daughter, convince 
 them that you are an honest man." 
 
 Our poor friend was very gloomy 
 when he left us. We participated
 
 8o 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 in his sadness, for we did not doubt 
 but this cousin, who had come so 
 inopportunely, was slyly doing him 
 some ill-turn. We were not wrong 
 in thinking so. I will relate what 
 had taken place. 
 
 As Louis rightly conjectured, Al- 
 bert had willingly allowed himself 
 to be excluded from the school. He 
 immediately presented himself in the 
 salon with an air of discouragement, 
 but triumphing in the bottom of his 
 heart. 
 
 "You have returned early this 
 evening," said Eugenie. " Are you 
 tired of the school already ?" 
 
 " I am not tired of it, but they can 
 no longer endure me there." 
 
 " Have you made yourself insup- 
 portable ?" asked Eugenie. She 
 really did not love her cousin, and 
 under the appearance of. teasing him, 
 as is the way with young people, she 
 told him some pretty plain truths as 
 often as she could. Mr. Smithson 
 was reading a newspaper. Hearing 
 what Eugenie and Albert said, he 
 looked up, and said to his nephew, in 
 his'usual grave tone : 
 
 " What has happened ?" 
 
 " I have been dismissed from the 
 school." 
 
 " Impossible !" said Eug6me. 
 
 Albert was astonished at the per- 
 sistency with which his cousin de- 
 fended Louis. He felt his hatred 
 redouble against the engineer. 
 
 '' You may well think it impossi- 
 ble," said he, in an insinuating tone. 
 . . . " Really, if this gentleman 
 has a right to figure in the school he 
 has founded with my uncle's aid, I, 
 his nephew, and almost a child of the 
 house, have a right to take a part in 
 it also. But such is not the opinion 
 of our imperious co-laborer. There 
 is a certain routine about his instruc- 
 tions that I mildly criticised. For 
 example, he tries, however awkward 
 it may be, to give a religious turn to 
 
 everything, which I, though a great 
 friend to religion, find ridiculous." 
 
 In this underhand way, Albert 
 skilfully aroused his uncle's anger 
 and distrust. Mr. Smithson mur- 
 mured to himself, with that voice of 
 the soul inaudible to others : " I 
 thought so : he is fanatical and am- 
 bitious. My nephew, fool as he is, 
 has found it out, and has unmasked 
 him ! That is why the other has got 
 rid of him/' 
 
 Albert partly guessed what was 
 passing in his uncle's mind, and saw 
 he had made a good hit. He ended 
 his recriminations in these terms : 
 " The little advice of a humble na- 
 ture I gave him ; my course so differ- 
 ent from his, and, I may say without 
 vanity, better. . . ." 
 
 Here Eugenie burst into a loud 
 laugh. 
 
 " Eugenie," said Mr. Smithson 
 gravely, " what your cusin is saying 
 merits attention. You are far too 
 giddy this evening." 
 
 Eugenie never resisted her father, 
 except in a case of absolute necessi- 
 ty ; she became silent, and appeared 
 to take no further interest in the con- 
 versation. 
 
 " At last," said Albert, " I clearly 
 saw this gentleman wished to have 
 his school to himself, so much at 
 home does he feel even there. . . . 
 He rudely . . . made me feel that 
 . . . I was in the way. I with- 
 drew, but not without letting him 
 know, in my turn, that I regarded 
 his course as it merited." 
 
 " There was no quarrel between 
 you ?" inquired Mr. Smithson, who 
 had a horror of contention. 
 
 " No, uncle." 
 
 Mme. Smithson thereupon pro- 
 ceeded to console her nephew as 
 well as she could. The remainder 
 of the evening passed in an uncom- 
 fortable manner. Each of the four 
 persons in the room was absorbed in
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 81 
 
 serious reflection without wishing it 
 to be obvious, and all felt that they 
 would not like to communicate what 
 was passing in their hearts. This 
 caused a want of ease which became 
 more and more awkward as it grew 
 more perceptible in spite of the efforts 
 each made to conceal it. The two 
 who were the most troubled, however, 
 were Mme. Smithson and Albert. 
 The latter no longer doubted Eu- 
 g^nie's love for the engineer. He 
 ought to have seen that, as usual, she 
 merely took the side of the oppressed. 
 
 Js to Mr. Smithson, it was quite 
 rent. A few days previous, he 
 merely suspected Louis might be 
 fanatical and ambitious, and linked 
 with the curd to undermine his au- 
 thority among the workmen. Now 
 he began to be sure of it. He 
 even went so far as to suspect his 
 daughter of favoring Louis' de- 
 signs. This Catholic league, estab- 
 lished in his own house and at his 
 own hearth, filled him with a terror 
 and anger as lively as they were 
 ridiculous. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 CALUMNY. 
 
 The next morning, before any one 
 was up, Albert went in search of 
 Fanny, with whom he had the fol- 
 lowing conversation : 
 
 " You have caused me a useless 
 journey," said he. " Eugenie loves 
 the engineer." 
 
 " I do not believe it," replied the 
 servant, either because she did not, 
 or because she wished to console 
 Albert. 
 
 " It is of no use to contradict me. 
 I have kept my eyes open, and drawn 
 my own conclusions. I have a bet- 
 ter opportunity than you for obser- 
 vation. I tell you she loves him! 
 If you cannot devise some scheme 
 for driving him from her mind, I 
 shall set out to-morrow for the capi- 
 tal." 
 
 "Here is what I call hitting the 
 nail on the head. ... I thought of 
 something yesterday exactly to the 
 point." 
 
 It was Albert's turn to be incredu- 
 lous. He shrugged his shoulders as 
 a sign of doubt. 
 
 "I tell you I can satisfy your 
 demand," repeated Fanny slowly. 
 " Listen ! In a manufactory, every- 
 thing is talked about. The engineer 
 has for some time frequented a house 
 
 apparently through charity, but it is 
 my opinion another motive takes 
 him there. There is a young girl in 
 the house the prettiest, handsomest 
 girl to be seen, they say, for ten 
 leagues around. Besides, she is 
 well behaved, intelligent, and even 
 pious; only, she is pitifully poor." 
 
 " Tell me how he became acquaint- 
 ed with the family." 
 
 "The father is a drunkard; the 
 mother an idle, malicious creature 
 who is employed here. The engi- 
 neer looks after her. This woman 
 was probably the cause of his going 
 to the house. They are extremely 
 destitute." 
 
 " And the girl : what does she 
 do?" 
 
 " She has been very well brought 
 up at an aunt's in town. The aunt 
 died recently, and so suddenly that 
 she was unable to make her will, as 
 she intended, in favor of her niece. 
 The latter has therefore returned 
 home, to find nothing but wretched- 
 ness. I must confess, however, that 
 she has behaved admirably. . . .. 
 All these details are correct, I assure 
 you. . . . What is no less true,. 
 Mile. Eugenie knows alt the poor 
 families that the engineer visits except
 
 83 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 this one. It is my conviction that 
 he loves this girl, and intends marry- 
 ing her some day. . . . There is no 
 need of makin-g people out worse 
 than they are. There are some good 
 things in this M. Louis. All his 
 family are very wealthy. He will 
 not be poor long, and is at liberty to 
 marry a woman who has nothing, if 
 he pleases." 
 
 " Well," said Albert, " I will re- 
 flect on what you have told me. 
 It seems to me, with this information, 
 I can greatly modify my fair cousin's 
 feelings towards her protege." 
 
 Before another hour, Albert had 
 gathered full particulars with regard 
 to the subject, and matured his plans. 
 That very afternoon, he asked Euge- 
 nie to allow him to accompany her 
 in her rounds among the poor. 
 
 " Willingly," said she. " I have not 
 been to see them for some time. I was 
 just thinking I ought to go to-day." 
 
 They set out together. The day 
 was delightful. Eugenie, lively and 
 witty as usual, took most of the con- 
 versation upon herself. Albert had 
 on a dignified air of offence which 
 he wished his cousin to perceive; 
 but she did not notice it, or pretend- 
 ed not. Twenty times he was on 
 the point of alluding to what had 
 taken place the evening before, and 
 as often refrained. Conceited as he 
 was, Albert could not help it he 
 was not at his ease in Eugenie's so- 
 ciety. Her unvarying frankness, her 
 intelligence, and the vivacity that 
 never forsook her, all these rare 
 qualities rendered him continually 
 diffident in her presence. 
 
 At some distance from the manu- 
 factory, the road divided. One part 
 turned towards the highway that led 
 to the village ; the other followed a 
 gentle declivity to the river half hid- 
 den among the willows, rushes, and 
 flowers that make that part of the 
 bank so delightful. 
 
 " What a charming view !" said 
 Albert. " Let us go down this way 
 a short distance. We can afterwards 
 return to the highway." 
 
 Eugenie allowed herself to be 
 guided by his wish. When within a 
 hundred steps from the shore, they 
 came to a hut by the wayside, be- 
 tween two large trees, picturesque 
 in appearance, but indicative of pov- 
 erty. It looked like a forsaken nest 
 in a thicket. 
 
 Albert had made particular inquir- 
 ies, and knew the hut was inhabited 
 by the Vinceneau family the one, it 
 will be recollected, that Louis took 
 charge of unknown to Eugenie. 
 
 " Are there not some of your poor 
 people here whom you ought to 
 visit ?" asked Albert, in the most in- 
 nocent manner. 
 
 " No ; I have no idea who lives 
 in this cottage." 
 
 "I saw M. Louis coming out of 
 it the other day." 
 
 " He probably came here on bu- 
 siness. I know all the families he 
 visits; none of them lives here." 
 
 While thus talking, Albert ap- 
 proached the hut, and, before Eu- 
 genie could prevent him, entered. 
 She followed. 
 
 Mere Vinceneau was at home that 
 day, in one of her fits of idleness and 
 ill-humor. She at once recognized 
 Eugenie, whom she did not like. 
 She had, as I have already remark- 
 ed, a general antipathy against the 
 rich. 
 
 " What have you come here for ?" 
 said she. 
 
 "We do not wish to disturb you 
 in the least," said Eugenie, whose 
 curiosity was now roused. " My 
 cousin and I merely wish to rest our- 
 selves. Perhaps you could give us 
 some milk." 
 
 " I have none." 
 
 Mere Vinceneau was a tall, spare 
 woman, with a forbidding counte-
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 nance, and covered with rags. Had 
 it not been for her crabbed face, she 
 would certainly have excited com- 
 passion. However, Eugenie's sym- 
 pathies were awakened at the sight 
 of her wretched condition. 
 
 " You seem very destitute, my 
 good woman," said she. " Can I 
 be of any service to you ?" 
 
 La Vinceneavf softened a little at 
 this gracious offer. "Thank you," 
 she said. " It is true we are badly 
 off, while some people have too 
 much. . . . Nevertheless, I ought not 
 to complain. We have one friend. 
 . . . You know him well M. Louis, 
 the engineer of your mill. What a 
 kind heart he has ! There is one 
 who loves the poor! If the rich 
 only resembled him ! . . ." 
 
 " Do you live here alone ?" 
 
 " No ; I have a husband employed 
 at the tile-works, and a daughter 
 who goes out as a seamstress in the 
 village. She is coming now." 
 
 A slight cloud came over Euge- 
 nie's face. It became still darker 
 when Madeleine Vinceneau entered. 
 Madeleine was not merely beautiful : 
 she was dazzling. Poorly but neat- 
 ly clad, she came forward with a 
 dignity and grace that inspired as- 
 tonishment as well as respect. Her 
 large black eyes, her pale, refined 
 face, her smiling lips, and her whole 
 appearance, had an air of aristocratic 
 distinction. 
 
 " What a lovely creature !" was 
 Eugenie's first thought. Then an- 
 other presented itself: " Perhaps 
 Louis loves her." She shuddered. 
 A feeling of displeasure and sadness 
 came over her : " I must be in love 
 with him myself without being aware 
 of it, to be so jealous," she said to 
 herself. This doubt was natural. 
 Eugenie determined to solve it. 
 
 Such is our nature. We can never 
 see so clearly what is passing in the 
 depths of our hearts as in a tempest. 
 
 Eugenie began to question the 
 girl discreetly. She wished to ascer- 
 tain if her nature was as angelic as 
 her exterior. She was soon satis- 
 fied on this point. Madeleine was 
 innocence itself, and as good as she 
 was innocent. She confirmed all 
 her mother had said, and in her 
 turn praised Louis with an ingenu- 
 ousness that assured Eugenie she did 
 not love him. " But he is he as 
 indifferent to her ? . . ." was Eu- 
 genie's thought as she left the house. 
 She could not get rid of the painful 
 suspicion, consequently she was in 
 rather a gloomy mood. Albert no- 
 ticed it, but refrained from saying 
 anything. One unguarded word 
 would have counteracted the happy 
 effect of his perfidious scheme. But 
 he was triumphant when he returned 
 to his room. "I have dealt my 
 rival a severe blow," said he to him- 
 self" a blow he can hardly recover 
 from ; for he will not suspect its 
 source, and Eugenie will never men- 
 tion it to him. Even if she wished 
 to, how could they have any expla- 
 nation ? They never meet except in 
 the presence of others. Before such 
 an explanation takes place, I must 
 find other means of completing his 
 ruin. ... I have begun well, and 
 must bring things to a crisis. . . ." 
 
 All this occurred the day before 
 Louis came to see us. Mere Vince- 
 neau told him of the visit a short 
 time after. He suspected there was 
 some scheme of Albert's at the bot- 
 tom of it, and dwelt on the means he 
 should use to defeat his calculations. 
 Meanwhile, his enemy was contriv- 
 ing a new plot destined to cause him 
 still greater embarrassment.
 
 Madame Agnes, 
 
 CHAPTER xxn. 
 
 THE ENEMY ON EITHER HAND. 
 
 WHAT I have just related took 
 place in the month of August. I 
 was at that time extremely anxious 
 about Victor, but an unexpected 
 improvement took place in his condi- 
 tion after Louis' visit. Alas ! he was 
 never to rally again. 
 
 Louis sent every morning for some 
 time to know how his sick friend 
 was, but he only came to see us 
 once, and then merely for a few 
 
 minutes. He only left St. M 
 
 with regret. He seemed to feel that, 
 in absenting himself, he left the field 
 clear to his bold rival, as it was now 
 evident he was, and at a time when 
 an attack was threatened against 
 what he cherished the most the 
 good work he had begun, and Eu- 
 g6nie's affection. He did not, there- 
 fore, inform us at that time of all I 
 have just related. On the contrary, 
 we were left in a state of painful 
 incertitude. But I had every detail 
 at a later day, even the very thoughts 
 of both parties, and from their own 
 lips. 
 
 However, Albert was not fitted to 
 play the part of a man of gravity or 
 that of a hypocrite for a long time. 
 For that, more perseverance and 
 ability thanhe had were required. A 
 frivolous man like him may, by care- 
 ful watch over himself, assume an 
 appearance of thoughtfulness, but he 
 will soon show himself in his true 
 colors through weariness, or at an 
 unguarded moment. He had hardly 
 been in the house a fortnight before 
 he unconsciously showed what he 
 was at the bottom of his heart. He 
 rose at a late hour, he resumed his 
 
 habit of careful attention to his toilet, 
 he lounged about f|pm morning till 
 night, conversing only of trivial 
 things or discussing points he was 
 ignorant of, and read romances of a 
 doubtful character, which, so far from 
 hiding, he left about in his room. 
 Eugenie kept an eye open to all 
 these things. She watched her cou- 
 sin with the natural persistency she 
 inherited from her father ; she drew 
 her own conclusions, and ended by 
 treating him just as she used to do, 
 like a spoiled child she loved because 
 he was a relative, but would not, 
 on any account, have for a husband. 
 Albert tried now and then to resume 
 his gravity ; he went to church, and 
 discussed the loftiest themes. Vain 
 efforts ! His uncle and cousin knew 
 what to think of it all. Arbert per- 
 ceived it, and was inwardly furious. 
 
 Mme. Smithson alone manifested 
 an ever-increasing fondness for him. 
 Her affection for his mother as well 
 as himself, and her acknowledged 
 but constant wish for Mr. Smithson's 
 property to come into the possession 
 of her own family by the marriage 
 of the two cousins, inclined her to- 
 wards her nephew. But of what 
 account was Mme. Smithson in the 
 house ? Very little. Albert was un- 
 der no illusion on this point, and 
 therefore had never attached much 
 importance to his aunt's support. 
 For two or three days he exulted 
 over the stratagem he had formed for 
 awakening unfavorable sentiments 
 in his cousin's heart toward the en- 
 gineer. But Eugenie's suspicions 
 could not last long without her seek
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 iag an explanation. Then all would 
 be lost, for Albert felt that Louis did 
 not love Madeleine. If, on the other 
 hand, Eugenie was not in love with 
 Louis, she would keep her conjec- 
 tures to herself, and merely with- 
 draw her favor from him. 
 
 Albert's affairs, therefore, had not 
 in any respect taken the turn he 
 hoped in the beginning. " What 
 can be done ? What can be done ?" 
 he said to himself. " I must devise 
 some way of getting rid of this fellow 
 who is disturbing my uncle and Eu- 
 genie's peace of mind so much. 
 Things must be brought to a crisis. 
 If Louis were only dismissed, my 
 cousin in her despair would accept 
 me as her husband. My uncle would 
 manifest no opposition out of regard 
 for his wife, and because, after all, I 
 should not be a troublesome son-in- 
 law. At aH events, I should have 
 the satisfaction of routing a creature 
 I detest. Whether Eugenie loves 
 him or not, I can never, no, never 
 suffer this artful man to marry her. 
 If my coming only, serves to drive 
 him away, I shall be glad I came." 
 
 Such calculations were extremely 
 base and dishonorable, but it must 
 be remembered that Albert was de- 
 void of piety, he coveted his cousin's 
 dowry, and his antipathy to Louis 
 became stronger every day. People 
 destitute of moral principle and re- 
 ligious faith hate those who possess 
 the good qualities they lack them- 
 selves. Albert had tried in vain to 
 blind himself with regard to Louis; 
 but the more he studied him, the 
 more clearly he saw he was incon- 
 testably a man of great depth, sin- 
 cere piety, and uncommon energy. 
 At first he doubted his worth, but he 
 could question it no longer. 
 
 Eugenie during this time was 
 extremely sad and preoccupied, 
 though no one would have suspect- 
 ed what was passing in the depths 
 
 of her soul. The poor girl could 
 no longer conceal it from herself: 
 she loved Louis. But she was still 
 uncertain as to his love for her. 
 She even asked herself and this 
 was an additional torture if he was 
 worthy of the affection she bore 
 him. You will not be astonished 
 if I add that, romantic as Eugenie 
 was, she was a woman to be driven 
 in such a conjuncture to the very 
 step Albert was aiming at. Only 
 one thing was wanting to effect this 
 the necessity of withdrawing her 
 esteem from Louis. In a noble 
 nature like hers, it would have 
 quenched her love and broken her 
 very heart to despise the object of 
 her affections. 
 
 Affairs were in this condition 
 when a new incident came to the 
 aid of Albert's schemes. Mr. Smith- 
 son, it will be well to recall, was 
 not originally a manufacturer of 
 paper. A dishonest broker, or one 
 who lacked shrewdness, led him 
 into a succession of unfortunate 
 speculations. Repeated losses were 
 the result. Mr. Smithson perceived 
 his property was diminishing in an 
 alarming manner. He at once set- 
 tled up his affairs, and, by the ad- 
 vice of Louis' father, bought the 
 
 mill at St. M , the proprietor 
 
 of which had just died. This was 
 in every respect an advantageous 
 investment : First, it withdrew him 
 from the arena of stock speculations, 
 where fortune, conscience, and ho- 
 nor are daily risked ; in the next 
 place, the mill he purchased brought 
 in a fine income. But it was no 
 small affair to conduct such an en- 
 terprise, employing as it did five or 
 six hundred workmen. 
 
 Mr. Smithson's predecessor, a 
 man perfectly familiar with the 
 business, directed the establishment 
 himself. Everything went on pros- 
 perously, and Mr. Smithson wished
 
 86 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 to imitate him. In a few months, 
 he saw he was going wrong. The 
 workmen were indolent, the machi- 
 nery deteriorated, everything was 
 going to ruin. It is not sufficient to 
 be methodical; intelligent, and ener- 
 getic, in order to conduct a manu- 
 facturing concern ; a man must have 
 a special knowledge of mechanics 
 and a faculty of adaptation which 
 Mr. Smithson did not possess. He 
 became conscious of this, and resolv- 
 ed to obtain a book-keeper of probi- 
 ty and intelligence to keep his ac- 
 counts, and an engineer equally vers- 
 ed in his business. They were both 
 soon found, but the book-keeper 
 alone proved suitable. The engineer 
 had practical knowledge enough, 
 but was deficient in energy. The 
 workmen and overseers soon per- 
 ceived it, and profited by it to do 
 less and less. The engineer was 
 discharged and Louis chosen to fill 
 his place. 
 
 From the time of Louis' arrival, 
 the aspect of everything changed. 
 The workmen felt they now had a 
 superintendent to deal with that was 
 inflexible but just. The overseers 
 alone were inclined to resist his au- 
 thority. They were sharply repri- 
 manded, and the most mutinous 
 discharged. Mr. Smithson, warned 
 by his previous experience, seconded 
 Louis with all the weight of his 
 authority. He gave him absolute 
 control. of the manufactory when he 
 was absent, and never failed to 
 come to his support whenever Louis 
 found severe measures necessary. 
 
 All this did not take place, it may 
 well be supposed, without exciting 
 some murmurs and secret rancor. 
 Among the foremost of those most 
 dissatisfied with this necessary rigor 
 was an overseer by the name of Du- 
 rand, who came to the mill some 
 months before Louis. He was a 
 man of about forty years of age, of 
 
 lofty stature, a sombre face expres- 
 sive of energy, and grave and fluent 
 of speech. He came provided with 
 the best recommendations, but it was 
 afterwards learned they were forged. 
 This man succeeded both in intimi- 
 dating the engineer who preceded 
 Louis, and acquiring his favor. 
 Half through fear, and half weak- 
 ness, he allowed Durand to assume 
 an authority he abused in many 
 ways. When Louis replaced this 
 weak man so afraid of Durand, there 
 was more than one contest between 
 him and the overseer. Their last 
 altercation had been very violent. 
 Durand insulted the Engineer before 
 all the workmen, and in so bold a 
 manner that Mr. Smithson, inform- 
 ed of what had taken place, at once 
 discharged him. Rather than give 
 up his situation, Durand submitted 
 to the humiliation of begging Louis' 
 pardon. Notwithstanding this, he 
 was merely kept on sufferance, 
 though he was well paid, for he was 
 clever in his way, and in one sense a 
 model overseer : no one kept better 
 discipline. 
 
 Astonishing as it may seem, when 
 Louis instituted the evening-school, 
 Durand was the first to offer his as- 
 sistance, and was appointed monitor. 
 One thing, however, tried Louis : his 
 monitor, always polite and respect- 
 ful to his face, was in the habit of 
 whispering behind his back, as if 
 secretly conniving with the men. 
 But nothing occurred to justify his 
 suspicions, and Louis at length ceas- 
 ed to attach any importance to the 
 overseer's strange ways. When the 
 night-school closed, about half-past 
 eight, Durand went away a little be- 
 fore Louis to finish the evening at 
 the St. M cafe, which was great- 
 ly frequented by the inhabitants of 
 the place. There he gambled and 
 harangued at his ease, and acquired 
 the reputation of being the ablest
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 talker in the country around. As to 
 his political opinions, they were not 
 positively known. He was suspect- 
 ed of being a demagogue, and even 
 an ultra one, but there was no proof 
 of it. He was less secret about his 
 religious belief. He called himself a 
 Protestant, and a thorough one. 
 
 Meanwhile, Albert began to find 
 the life he was leading at his uncle's 
 wearisome and monotonous. The 
 evenings especially seemed inter- 
 minable. Mr. Smithson read, Mme. 
 Smithson was absorbed in her tapes- 
 try, and Eugenie played on the 
 piano. Albert did not know what 
 to do with himself. He did not 
 dare have recourse to a novel ; con- 
 versation with his aunt was not very 
 enlivening: and, if he addressed 
 himself to Eugenie, she showed so 
 much skill in embarrassing him on 
 every subject that he avoided the 
 occasion of appearing to so much 
 disadvantage. Besides, Eugenie's 
 superiority irritated him. Had it 
 not been for her fortune, which he 
 found more and more attractive, 
 and her beauty, to which he could 
 not remain insensible, he would at 
 once have given up all thoughts of 
 marrying her. But her property on 
 the one hand, and her beauty on 
 the other, deterred him. However, 
 with his frivolous mind, he soon 
 found it intolerable to be confined 
 to his cousin's society every evening, 
 even for the purpose of paying court 
 to her. One night, it suddenly oc- 
 curred to him to go to the cafe, and 
 after that he went there regularly 
 after dinner to pass an hour. He 
 was welcomed very cordially, espe- 
 cially by Durand, who at once made 
 every effort to win his favor. The 
 wily overseer was so profuse in re- 
 spectful attentions that in a few even- 
 ings they were friends. Durand, with 
 his uncommon penetration, soon dis- 
 covered from some indiscreet words 
 
 Albert dropped what was troubling 
 his shallow mind. He could see he 
 was desirous of marrying his cousin, 
 and so suspicious of Louis that he 
 detested him and asked for nothing 
 better than to see him dismissed. 
 Durand at once resolved to gain Al- 
 bert's friendship and profit by it to 
 involve Louis in some inextricable 
 embarrassment. He was determin- 
 ed to have his revenge at whatever 
 cost, but it was necessary to proceed 
 with caution. He began by sound- 
 ing Albert to make sure of his anti- 
 pathy to Louis, that he really wished 
 for his dismissal, and if he cared 
 what means were employed provid- 
 ed the end was attained. 
 
 Durand gave himself no rest till 
 he was sure of all this a certitude 
 he acquired the day when Albert, im- 
 patient at the unfavorable progress 
 of his affairs, resolved to bring things 
 to a sudden crisis by having Louis 
 dismissed, if possible. The overseer 
 waited till Albert left the cafe, and 
 then proposed he should accompany 
 him to the manufactory, where he 
 lodged. x 
 
 " Willingly, my good fellow," said 
 Albert. It was a fine evening in 
 the month of September. They set 
 off together by the road that ran 
 along the river half-hidden among 
 trees, through which the moon dif- 
 fused its purest radiance. 
 
 " We do not see you any more at 
 the mill," said Durand. " I daresay 
 I could guess why you have stopped 
 visiting the school . . . Would there 
 be any indiscretion in telling you the 
 reason that has occurred to me ?" 
 
 " Not the least in the world." 
 
 " Well, then, if I am not mistaken, 
 there is some one at the mill not 
 exactly to your liking. . . . Yes, 
 somebody keeps you away. ..." 
 
 " That may be." 
 
 " Ah ! I am no fool. I think I 
 have found out the cause of our be-
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 ing deprived of your visits. It must 
 have been something serious. See 
 if I haven't some wit left. . . . The 
 person you dislike is M. Louis, is it 
 not ?" 
 
 " You are right, my friend," re- 
 plied Albert, patting Durand on the 
 shoulder in a familiar manner. 
 
 " There are others who do not 
 like him any better than you." 
 
 " Not you ? You are his assistant 
 at the school, and seem on the best 
 of terms with him." 
 
 " Seem ? Yes, I seem ; but to seem 
 and be are sometimes very different 
 things. Listen: the very instant I 
 saw you excuse my frankness you 
 inspired me with so much confidence 
 that, faith, I feel inclined to tell you 
 all that is on my mind. It would do 
 me good." 
 
 " Do not be afraid of my betray- 
 ing you, mon cher ; speak to me as a 
 friend." 
 
 " O monsieur ! you are too kind. 
 W;ll, since you allow me, I tell 
 you plainly I do not like that man ; 
 no, not at all." 
 
 " He has been insolent and over- 
 beading towards you, I know." 
 
 " If that were all, I could forgive 
 him. But it is not a question of 
 myself. I dislike, I detest him for 
 another reason. Whoever likes Mr. 
 Smithson cannot like the engineer, 
 as I can convince anybody who 
 wishes it." 
 
 " Explain yourself; I do not ex- 
 actly understand you." 
 
 " Well but swear you will never 
 repeat what I am going to say." 
 
 " I give you my word, which I 
 never break." 
 
 " Well, then, this M. Louis is a 
 Tartuffe a Jesuit; such men are 
 dangerous. Woe to the houses they 
 enter ! He has wasted all his prop- 
 erty, we know how! It is a shame! 
 . . . Then he artfully obtained a 
 plar.e in your uncle's mill, where he 
 
 has assumed more and more author- 
 ity; he tries to influence the minds 
 of the workmen ; he ... wishes to 
 marry your cousin. . . . Parbleu ! I 
 may as well say aloud what every 
 body is saying in secret." 
 
 " Do they say that, Durand ?" 
 
 " Yes, that is the report. But his 
 art and hypocrisy are in* vain. More 
 than one of us understand his pro- 
 jects. . . . And let me assure you 
 we tremble lest he succeed ! There 
 will be fine doings when the mill 
 passes into the hands of this Jesuit, 
 who will spend all of Mr. Smithson's 
 property, and prepare him a pitiful 
 old age. Do you see now why I 
 cannot endure that man ? Oh ! if I 
 were master I would soon set him a- 
 flying. . . . But I am not the master, 
 ... it is he who is likely to be. If 
 somebody could only get him dis- 
 missed !" 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Albert, in a con- 
 ceited tone. " There is some truth 
 in .what you say a great deal, in 
 fact. . . . Since I have been here, I 
 have watched and studied his move- 
 ments, and agree with you that it 
 was rather an unlucky day for my 
 uncle when he admitted this intriguer 
 into his house. His schemes make 
 me anxious." 
 
 " Is there no way of defeating 
 them ?" 
 
 " It would be no easy matter." 
 
 " Come, now ! As if you, Mr. 
 Smithson's nephew; you who have 
 more learning than all of us put to- 
 gether who have more wit than I, 
 though I am no fool as if you could 
 not send him adrift if you wished to ! 
 . . . You could never make me be- 
 lieve that." 
 
 " What can I do ? I certainly 
 ask for nothing better than to get 
 him into. some difficulty; but how? 
 He performs his duties with exaspe- 
 rating fidelity." 
 
 "Oh! it is not on that score you
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 89 
 
 must attack him; he is too cunning 
 to be at fault there." 
 
 " Well, if he is not at fault, do you 
 wish me to make him out so ?" 
 
 " Precisely. That is what must be 
 done. See here, M. Albert, as you 
 know of no way, I will tell you an 
 idea that has come into my head ; for 
 I have been a long time contriving 
 some means of driving that man 
 away. But I must first warn you 
 not to take my plan for more than it 
 is worth. If it is not a good one, we 
 will try to discover a better one." 
 
 " Let us hear it." 
 
 " We have an Englishman at the 
 mill who tells me he does not intend 
 to remain. This man has been to 
 the evening-school several times. M. 
 Louis has lent him religious books. 
 .... Can't you guess what I am 
 at?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, this is my plan. The man 
 I refer to and I are linked together. 
 It would be a long story to tell how 
 and why. If I should go to him 
 to-morrow, for instance and say: 
 ' Adams, I know you intend leaving 
 
 St. M -. Will you do your friend 
 
 a favor before you go ? Rid me of 
 that engineer. I do not mean for 
 you to kill him or do him any harm : 
 we are neither of us murderers. I 
 simply propose you should play him 
 some trick, as they call it. You are 
 on good terms with him : he lends 
 you books. Go and tell him you 
 have come to consult him about 
 some doubts on the subject of reli- 
 gion. Beg him to enlighten you. 
 Ask for some controversial works, 
 and cautiously insinuate the possi- 
 bility of abjuring your religion. You 
 will naturally be open in your pro- 
 jects- You will even talk of them 
 with an air of profound conviction. 
 This will cause some noise. I shall 
 then take hold of it. In case of ne- 
 cessity, I shall have a violent dis- 
 
 pute with the engineer, which of 
 course will oblige Mr. Smithson to 
 interfere.' I know he is not disposed 
 to jest about such matters. Once 
 the affair is brought before him, the 
 engineer is lost. I will not give him 
 a week to remain at the mill after 
 that. . . . Such is my idea; what 
 do you think of it ?" 
 
 " Durand, you are a genius. 
 Your plan is admirable. The mo- 
 ment my uncle finds the engineer is 
 trying to propagate his religion, he 
 is lost, as you say. You must put 
 your project into execution without 
 any delay." 
 
 " I am glad to see you approve of 
 it, not only because it flatters my 
 self-love, but because it makes me 
 more hopeful of success. I should 
 be better satisfied, however, if you 
 would promise to help us in case 
 you are needed. . . . We are not 
 sure of succeeding in our plan. The 
 engineer is cunning, and Mr. Smith- 
 son's way of acting is not always 
 easy to foresee. And if we should 
 fail if I get into difficulty ! . . ." 
 
 " I promise to stand by you. 
 Rest assured I shall not be back- 
 ward in trying my utmost to influ- 
 ence my uncle against him. This 
 will be easy, for he already distrusts 
 the engineer. Nevertheless, admon- 
 ish your friend to be extremely cau- 
 t : ous. No one must have the slight- 
 est suspicion of the scheme. Suc- 
 cess then would be impossible." 
 
 "Adams does not lack wit. He 
 will know how to manage. But one 
 thing alarms me, and will him. If 
 his conversion were to offend Mr. 
 Smithson to such a degree as to 
 cause his dismissal in disgrace! 
 Where could he go without recom- 
 mendations ?" 
 
 " Why, how simple you are ! All 
 this can be turned to his advantage. 
 As soon as he sees my uncle irritat- 
 ed, he must ask for a private inter-
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 view, consult him as to his belief, 
 and pretend to yield to his argu- 
 ments. He must end by avowing 
 his determination to remain a Pro- 
 testant, and declaring he had been led 
 away by the engineer. The result is 
 evident." 
 
 " You are sharper than I. I did 
 not think of that. Your idea makes 
 everything safe, and settles the mat- 
 ter." 
 
 " And when shall the first shot be 
 fired ?" 
 
 " To-morrow." 
 
 " But one question more. ... It 
 would be vexatious if the engineer 
 refused the bait and sent Adams 
 a-walking." 
 
 " No danger of that The engi- 
 neer is a genuine fanatic. I am sure 
 of that, and I have had an opportu- 
 nity of judging." 
 
 While thus conversing, our two 
 conspirators had nearly reached the 
 mill. They separated without being 
 seen. Albert was radiant. As he 
 retired, he said to himself: " Why 
 did I not think of this scheme my- 
 self? . . . It is so simple, and 
 carmot fail! A saint like the engi- 
 neer will risk everything to gain a 
 soul. . . . And yet, if he should be 
 afraid, as Durand said ; if he is only 
 a Catholic outwardly ! . . . That 
 would be embarrassing ! Strange ! 
 for once, I hope the fellow is sin- 
 cere ! . . ." 
 
 The following morning, Durand 
 took a private opportunity of giving 
 his associate his instructions, and 
 that night Adams begged Louis to 
 grant him an interview in his room 
 after school. 
 
 The interview took place. Durand 
 had only told the truth : Adams was 
 an artful fellow one of those men 
 who conceal uncommon duplicity 
 under the appearance of perfect can- 
 dor. He had been Durand's tool 
 for a long time. The latter had 
 
 rendered him more than one service, 
 and employed him in numerous 
 fraudulent transactions, which he 
 generously rewarded him for. Du- 
 rand lent money upon pledge to 
 workmen in difficulty. He unlawful- 
 ly appropriated a thousand small ob- 
 jects in the manufactory, and had 
 them sold. His assistant in this dis- 
 honest traffic, his man of business, as 
 he called him, was Adams, who was 
 well paid, as may be supposed. 
 
 The Englishman, cunning as he 
 was, had some difficulty in persuad 
 ing Louis he was serious in his in 
 tention of abjuring his religion. But 
 he dwelt on his doubts with suck 
 apparent sincerity, he manifested so 
 strong a desire to be rescued from 
 error, if he was in error, that Louis 
 immediately proposed he should con- 
 sult the curt. Adams pretended the 
 ^///intimidated him ; he was more at 
 his ease with Louis, and could talk 
 to him with perfect openness of 
 heart. " If I have to go to tha 
 curj" said he, " well, then, I shall 
 defer it. I do not wish to expose 
 myself to observations that would 
 not fail to be made. After all, mon- 
 sieur," he added, " I am only in 
 doubt. I am not yet convinced of 
 being in error. When I see clearly 
 I am, oh ! then I will no longer con- 
 ceal my sentiments. But meanwhile, 
 I do not wish everybody to know 
 what is passing in my soul." 
 
 These plausible statements ban- 
 ished Louis' suspicions. He receiv- 
 ed the young man in his room seve- 
 ral evenings in succession. He lent 
 him a small book, easy of compre- 
 hension, that contained a thorough 
 refutation of Protestantism. Poor 
 Louis ! he behaved with genuine he- 
 roism on this occasion. From the 
 first he foresaw all the trouble such 
 an affair was likely to cause him. 
 He did not deceive himself as to the 
 result of this abjuration. He had an
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 immediate presentiment of Mr. Smith- 
 son's anger, and the difficult, nay, 
 intolerable position he would be in 
 if this conversion took place. No 
 matter, he would brave everything 
 rather than neglect his duty as a 
 Christian, which obliged him to 
 point out the true religion to all who 
 sought it. 
 
 He was also preoccupied at this 
 time by the remembrance of what 
 had taken place at Vinceneau's, and 
 suffered from the coolness Eugenie 
 manifested towards him. He saw 
 he was kept more at a distance than 
 ever by Mr. Smithson, who looked 
 upon him as a dangerous man. 
 Louis' situation, it must be confess- 
 ed, was distressing. He would have 
 given much to have at least one con- 
 soling word from the lips of her 
 whom he loved, and before whom he 
 saw he had been calumniated. This 
 unhoped-for happiness was at last 
 granted him under peculiar circum- 
 stances. Louis had just been to 
 see the Vinceneau family, which was 
 in a worse plight than ever. The 
 father had taken to drink with fresh 
 madness, and the mother had a fit 
 of indolence that kept her away from 
 the mill. Madeleine alone worked 
 for the whole family. Louis had 
 been there to reason with the mother, 
 who gave him the worst possible re- 
 ception. He tried to encourage the 
 daughter, but without success. Ma- 
 deleine had also, to some degree, the 
 family weakness a lack of energy 
 of character. 
 
 Louis had come away unusually 
 dejected. On his way back to the 
 manufactory, while dwelling, first on 
 these unfortunate people, then on 
 Adams, who that very day had spok- 
 en of soon abjuring- his religion, 
 and finally on Victor, about whom 
 he had just received the most alarm- 
 ing intelligence, he met Eugenie face 
 to face. She turned pale at seeing 
 
 him, and replied to his greeting with 
 extreme coldness as she kept on. . . . 
 
 Louis' sadness redoubled. He 
 took a sudden resolution. " I must 
 justify myself," he said, . . . and, 
 intimidated as he was the man 
 who loves with a pure affection is 
 always timid he stopped and turn- 
 ed back. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said he, address- 
 ing Eugenie, "I have a favor to 
 ask." 
 
 " What is it, monsieur ?" 
 
 "Among the poor families I am 
 interested in is one I have never 
 spoken to you about." 
 
 "You are under no obligation, 
 monsieur, to inform me of all the 
 families you visit." 
 
 " I know it, mademoiselle ; but, as 
 I am not ashamed of any of the 
 places I go to, I have no interest in 
 concealing them. If I have not 
 heretofore spoken of this family, it 
 was for a special reason. These 
 people, of the name of Vinceneau, 
 were recommended to me by old 
 Fran9oise. She took the liveliest 
 interest in one of the members of 
 the household a girl by the name 
 of Madeleine. She feared lest pov- 
 erty and her parents' bad example 
 might be a source of danger to 
 one of her age. Madeleine is irre- 
 proachable in her conduct, but weak 
 in character, like her father and 
 mother. Fran9oise made me pro- 
 mise to watch over her. She would 
 have begged this favor of you, ma- 
 demoiselle, had not a special reason 
 prevented her. She knew Made- 
 leine's parents were envious, and 
 regarded the rich with an evil eye. 
 She feared exposing you to imperti- 
 nence if she brought you in contact 
 with them. Consequently, she re- 
 commended them to me. Made- 
 leine has told me of your call at 
 the house. Your kindness touched 
 the mother. As to the father, his
 
 9 2 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 shameful passion for drink has bru- 
 alized him." 
 
 Eugenie listened with undisguis- 
 ed interest, and softened as Louis 
 continued. When he had finished, 
 she said : " What do you wish me 
 to do ? to show some interest in 
 them ?" 
 
 " It would be a very timely act 
 of charity. The mother has not 
 done any work for several days, the 
 father is gone from morning till 
 night, and the daughter is discour- 
 aged. You can rouse her courage 
 much better than I. And allow me 
 to say, mademoiselle, that the diffi- 
 culties that once might have hinder- 
 ed you being removed, this work, for 
 many reasons, is much more suit- 
 able for you than for me." 
 
 " I will go to see them." 
 
 "Thank you, mademoiselle," re- 
 plied Louis. "I am overwhelmed 
 with cares and occupations, and give 
 the family up to you with pleasure." 
 
 "Do you not mean to visit them 
 any more ?" 
 
 " I have a great mind not to." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " It is a delicate subject, but I 
 think the less I go there, the better." 
 
 " I understand you, . . . but still 
 I do not think you are right, fats ce 
 que dois, advienne que pourra, * is my 
 motto. Is it not yours ?" 
 
 " It would be, mademoiselle, if 
 the world were not so malicious. 
 As it is, people even of the best in- 
 tentions cannot take too many pre- 
 cautions. I confess there is nothing 
 I dread more than calumny. It al- 
 ways does injury, and it is hard to 
 feel we are losing the esteem of those 
 whose good opinion we desire the 
 most." 
 
 " People who allow themselves to 
 be influenced by calumny cannot 
 have much character." 
 
 * Do your duty, come what will 1 
 
 " Do you think so, mademoi- 
 selle ?" 
 
 " I am sure of it. Before doubt- 
 ing a person I have once esteemed, 
 I wait till their acts openly condemn 
 them. If I have the misfortune to 
 despise them then, it is because they 
 force me to do so." 
 
 These words were uttered in a 
 significant tone. Eugenie then left 
 Louis abruptly with a gracious and 
 dignified salutation. 
 
 Louis stood looking at her as she 
 went away, admiring her slender 
 form and the exquisite distinction 
 of her whole person. This sudden 
 meeting with her seemed like one of 
 those glimpses of the sun that some- 
 times occur in the midst of the most 
 violent storms. He thanked God; 
 he felt happy at her indirect assur- 
 ance that she still regarded him with 
 esteem. He asked himself if she did 
 not love him. He did not dare be- 
 lieve it, but was almost ready to do 
 so. One fear alone remained in all 
 its strength the fear of incurring 
 Mr. Smithson's anger by co-operat- 
 ing in the conversion of Adams. 
 
 Ah ! if Louis had not been hearti- 
 ly devoted to his faith, how soon he 
 would have despatched this trouble- 
 some neophyte ! But, no ; he ought 
 not, he could not. He consoled 
 himself by repeating Eugenie's words, 
 which had struck him in a peculiar 
 manner: Fats ce que dais, advienne 
 quepourra. ..." Well," thought he, 
 " what I ought to do is to enlighten 
 those who seek the truth. ... I yield 
 to a sense of duty. Eugenie is a 
 Catholic as well as I, and cannot 
 help approving of my course. If 
 Mr. Smithson is displeased, his 
 daughter, to be consistent with her 
 principles, must confess that I am 
 right." 
 
 As Louis entered his room, a note 
 was given him from me, imploring hira 
 to come to us as soon as possible.
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 93 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 VICTOR'S DEATH. PLOTS AGAINST LOUIS. 
 
 For ten long months, Victor had 
 suffered from a terrible malady that 
 never lets go. Every remedy had 
 been tried in vain. His disease was 
 phthisis of a peculiar kind and of 
 the most alarming character. The 
 two physicians we consulted could 
 only reply when their patient insist- 
 ed on knowing the truth : " Your ill- 
 ness is of an extremely serious na- 
 ture ; but you are young, and at your 
 age nature often finds unexpected re- 
 sources in a time of danger." 
 
 It was impossible to cure him. 
 They could only prolong his life, and 
 this was the aim of the physicians. 
 By dint of care, they succeeded in 
 keeping him alive till the beginning 
 of September. Then the disease, 
 whose ravages we had not realized, 
 suddenly came to a crisis. Through- 
 out the whole course of his suffer- 
 ings, I had, in spite of everything, 
 cherished a secret hope in the depths 
 of my heart. When one of those 
 favorable turns came peculiar to 
 such complaints, I flattered myself 
 that he would get well, and aban- 
 doned myself to a foolish joy. This 
 joy, so natural, and yet so unreasona- 
 ble, gave Victor pain. He endeavored 
 to moderate it in a thousand ingen- 
 ious and delicate ways. He himself 
 was never under any illusion. His 
 illness was fatal: he knew it, and 
 calmly prepared himself for what he 
 called the great journey. He was 
 greatly afflicted to see I was not, like 
 himself, preparing for our separation, 
 the thought of which became more 
 painful in proportion to the horror 
 with which I regarded it. He tried 
 to banish all my false hopes, but his 
 efforts were in vain. I clung to them 
 without owning it. I only gave them 
 up at the time I have arrived at in 
 my sad story. Then I began to real- 
 
 ize the frightful truth, and, as I saw 
 his alarming symptoms increase, I 
 thought I should die. 
 
 Victor at length succeeded in re- 
 storing somewhat of calmness to my 
 soul. With, a strength of mind that 
 increased in proportion to the near- 
 ness of that awful moment, he made 
 his final preparations. He gave 
 himself up to the contemplation of 
 eternal things. His friend, the good 
 Abbe Merlin, administered the last 
 consolations of religion. Louis re- 
 ceived them with a faith that edified 
 every one, and a joy that showed 
 how he had profited by his illness to 
 prepare for heaven. He was al- 
 ready there in spirit, and longed to 
 be there in reality. This touched 
 me, and I confess, to my great shame, 
 I reproached him in my excessive 
 grief with some expressions of bitter- 
 ness. This was the last sorrow I 
 caused my poor husband. Such 
 reproaches could only come from a 
 selfish soul. I now blush at the re- 
 membrance. 
 
 All these necessary steps having 
 been taken, Victor told me I must 
 send for Louis. As you know, he 
 received my note in the evening 
 That very night he arrived. It was 
 high time. We all three passed the 
 night together talking, praying, and 
 weeping by turns. Victor consoled 
 us. He even forced himself to ex- 
 press anxiety as to Louis' affairs. 
 The latter spoke of them very un- 
 willingly, for his grief overpower- 
 ed his sense of love. When Victor 
 learned the trials he was undergoing, 
 he said : 
 
 " My friend, I fear they are con- 
 triving some new plot against you. 
 Eug6nie loves you; there is no 
 doubt of that in my mind ; but does 
 she love you well enough to with-
 
 94 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 stand all the difficulties Chat are 
 rising up around you ? I know not. 
 If, with her knowledge of you, she 
 allows herself to be influenced by 
 people of evil intentions, it seems to 
 me you will have a right to judge 
 her severely." 
 
 " Even then I could not," said 
 Louis. 
 
 " Your answer does not surprise 
 me. It proves I was right in my 
 impressions. You love her as much 
 as a good man ought to love. You 
 even love her too well ; for I believe 
 your affection would render you in- 
 sensible to the truth rather than 
 blame the object of your love." 
 
 " That is true." 
 
 " I cannot approve of that. It is 
 not right. There is only one thing, 
 there is only one Being, a noble and 
 well-balanced soul, a soul thoroughly 
 imbued with piety, allows itself to 
 love above all things that thing is 
 truth, that Being is God. Believe 
 me, if Eugenie allows herself to be 
 alienated from you, it will be a proof; 
 she has not the worth you give her 
 credit for, and also that it is not the 
 will of God she should become your 
 wife. Well, I will not oppose the 
 indulgence you feel towards her. I 
 consent to it. Say to yourself she has 
 been deceived, that she is innocent, 
 but submit to the divine will. Do 
 not attempt impossibilities to link to- 
 gether the chain God himself breaks, 
 however dear she- may be to you." 
 
 Victor seemed to have recalled all 
 the energy of his manly nature to utter 
 these words. His firmness and judi- 
 cious counsel were not lost on Louis. 
 
 " I will follow your advice," said 
 he ; " but promise to pray this sorrow 
 may be spared me. God has en- 
 dowed the one I love with a soul so 
 elevated that it would be easy to 
 make her as pious as an angel. . . . 
 And I love her so much !" 
 
 " My poor friend ! I do not know 
 
 that I shall be permitted to pray at 
 once for you in yonder world. If I 
 can, I will pray God you may be 
 united with her, if this union will 
 render you happy happy, under- 
 stand me, in the Christian sense of 
 the word ; that is to say, happy and 
 better, both of you." 
 
 In the middle of the night, Victor 
 requested me to go into the next 
 chamber for some papers he wanted. 
 He availed himself of this opportun- 
 ity to recommend me to Louis' care, 
 as I afterwards learned. 
 
 "Agnes," said he, "has exhausted 
 her strength in taking care of me so 
 many months. Her physical and 
 mental strength are now merely fac- 
 titious. It is the very excess of her 
 grief that sustains her. As soon as I 
 am gone, she will be sensible of her 
 weakness. I fear the reaction may 
 prove fatal to her. I implore you to 
 take her and her mother to some 
 place near you in the country. Find 
 them a temporary residence that is 
 healthy and pleasant. Change of 
 scene and pure country air will do 
 her more good than anything else, 
 especially if you add the benefit of 
 your efforts to console her, on which 
 I depend." 
 
 Louis made the required promise. 
 . . . But these recollections are still 
 too painful. Alas ! they will always 
 be so. You will excuse me from 
 dwelling on them. 
 
 The next day, I lost the compan- 
 ion of my life. That pure soul, so 
 full of intelligence, sweetness, and 
 energy, took flight for heaven, leav- 
 ing me for ever sad and desolate up- 
 on earth. . . . Oh ! how happy are 
 those women who to the very hour 
 of death are permitted by God to 
 retain the companionship of a hus- 
 band tenderly loved, and worthy of 
 being so ! ... 
 
 The first moments of overpower- 
 ing grief had scarcely passed before
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 95 
 
 that which Victor had foreseen took 
 place. All at once I lost my appar- 
 ent strength. I was weighed down 
 with a dull despair. My poor mo- 
 ther trembled for my life. Through- 
 out the day I sat motionless in an 
 arm-chair, interested in no person or 
 subject. My lips alone made an 
 effort from time to time to murmur 
 the words at once so bitter and so 
 sweet : " O Lord ! thou gavest him to 
 me ; thou hast taken him away ; thy 
 will be done !" That was my only 
 prayer. I repeated it from morning 
 till night. Thus lifting my soul hea- 
 venward, I found strength to resist 
 the temptation to rebel which con- 
 stantly assailed me. 
 
 During that sad time, Louis' sister 
 joined him in unceasing attentions 
 to me. Louis gave himself entirely 
 up to my service, and notified Mr. 
 Smithson he should be absent sever- 
 al days longer from the manufactory. 
 You can realize how generous this 
 was in him. To absent himself at 
 a time his dearest interests were at 
 stake, and leave the field clear for 
 his enemies, was making an heroic 
 sacrifice to friendship. It was not 
 till a subsequent period I fully ap- 
 preciated it. At that time, I was 
 wholly absorbed in myself. Ex- 
 treme grief becomes a kind of pas- 
 sion, and, like all passions, it ren- 
 ders us selfish. 
 
 When Louis at last saw me a 
 little calmer, he told me of Victor's 
 wish. " His last request was," said 
 he, " that you should go into the 
 country awhile with your mother. 
 The air is purer there, and you will 
 regain your strength." 
 
 I exclaimed against the proposi- 
 tion. I declared I would not leave 
 the house in which Victor died 
 where everything recalled his pre- 
 sence. Louis insisted, urged on by 
 the physicians, who declared the 
 change indispensable. 
 
 " Victor himself impiores you 
 through me to consent," said he. 
 " Remember you will be still obey- 
 ing him in so doing." 
 
 I ended by yielding to their per- 
 suasions. " But where shall I go ?" 
 said I. 
 
 " To St. M , where you will be 
 
 near me. My sister went there yes- 
 terday, and found you pleasant lodg- 
 ings. You can easily go that far 
 with your mother and sister." 
 
 We went there the next day. It 
 was Louis who made all the ar- 
 rangements, and with how much so- 
 licitude and affection I need not 
 say. At length he left us to resume 
 his duties at the mill. The last 
 favor I begged of him was to come 
 and see me often, but not to men- 
 tion to any one the place of my re- 
 tirement. Like all who are in real 
 affliction, solitude alone pleased me. 
 The first time for a week, Louis' 
 thoughts, after leaving me, recurred 
 to the subjects that had absorbed 
 his mind previous to Victor's death. 
 He began to be alarmed. He won- 
 dered if Eugenie had not forgotten 
 him, if she really loved him, if Mr. 
 Smithson was disposed to regard him 
 with more or with less favor, and if 
 Albert had not profited by his absence 
 to injure him in the estimation of Eu- 
 genie's family. But he could only 
 form conjectures as to all this. 
 
 Now that these events have passed 
 away, I can seize all the details at a 
 glance. I shall therefore tell you 
 many things Louis was necessarily 
 ignorant of when he returned to the 
 manufactory. He would have trem- 
 bled had he been aware of them. 
 He had scarcely left his post in 
 order to be with Victor during his 
 last moments, when his enemies, 
 thinking the time propitious, resolv- 
 ed to profit by his absence to effect 
 his ruin. They all set to work at 
 once.
 
 96 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 The deceitful Adams, who had 
 sought to be enlightened as to his 
 religious doubts, went around telling 
 everybody the engineer had con- 
 vinced him of the falseness of his re- 
 ligion, which he resolved to abjure, 
 and only waited for Louis' return. 
 People began by laughing at what 
 he said. They had no great opinion 
 of the fellow. They suspected his 
 connection with Durand, who was 
 regarded with fear. Some even 
 thought it was all a trick. But 
 Adams returned to the charge; he 
 spoke with an air of conviction, he 
 seemed changed. To carry out the 
 scheme, he apparently broke off with 
 his former friend, Durand. 
 
 All these things were repeated from 
 one to another till they reached 
 Mr. Smithson's ears. He had been 
 obliged to superintend the workmen 
 during Louis' absence from the 
 manufactory. Already inclined to 
 be suspicious of the engineer, and 
 ignorant of the ties that bound him 
 to Victor, Mr. Smithson interiorly 
 accused him of first manifesting an 
 ultra, I may say, fanatical zeal, and 
 then falling into an indifference and 
 carelessness unworthy of a consist- 
 ent man. " Because one of his 
 friends is ill," he said, " is that a suf- 
 ficient reason for abandoning his 
 post, leaving me overwhelmed with 
 work, and interrupting the school he 
 had begun ? . . . And all this with- 
 out making any arrangement before- 
 hand ! . . . The man is incon- 
 sistent !" 
 
 Mr. Smithson was therefore un- 
 favorably disposed towards Louis, 
 when, to complete his dissatisfaction, 
 came the news, at first doubtful, 
 then certain, of Adams' intended ab- 
 juration. He became so angry that 
 he could not contain himself, though 
 generally so capable of self-control. 
 The interests of his national religion 
 were at stake. He at once became 
 
 furious, and made no effort to con- 
 ceal it. 
 
 Mme. Smithson and Albert of 
 course took Mr. Smithson's part 
 against Louis. He was berated as 
 a man of no discretion, deceitful, 
 fanatical, and a Jesuit in disguise. 
 Mme. Smithson was one of those 
 people who boldly say : " I don't 
 think much of a person who changes 
 his religion !" As if it were not mere- 
 ly reasonable for a man to give up 
 error for truth when the truth is re- 
 vealed to him. Albert was influ- 
 enced by motives you are already 
 aware of. He was triumphant. He 
 had never expected such success 
 from so simple a trick. Circumstan- 
 ces had indeed favored him but too 
 well. Seeing Mr. Smithson in such a 
 frame of mind, he had no doubts of 
 his dismissing Louis as soon as he re- 
 turned. 
 
 But his joy was strangely dimin- 
 ished by an unexpected incident. 
 They were discussing the affair one 
 evening in the salon. " Excuse me, 
 father," said Eugenie, " for meddling 
 with what does not concern me, but 
 you know I always was the advocate 
 of a bad cause." 
 
 Every one looked up at this unex- 
 pected interruption. Eugenie was not 
 a woman to be intimidated when she 
 foresaw opposition : rather, the con- 
 trary. She continued, without being 
 troubled in the least : " I find a 
 great many are disposed to attack 
 M. Louis, but no one thinks of de- 
 fending him. It were to be wished 
 some one would be his defender, 
 though I do not say his conduct is 
 irreproachable." 
 
 " Very far from that," said Mr. 
 Smithson. 
 
 " But if he is not innocent, is he 
 as culpable as he may have appear- 
 ed ? What is he accused of ? He 
 has been absent several days from 
 the mill. This adds greatly to your
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 97 
 
 labors, my dear father, but his ab- 
 sence is justifiable to a certain de- 
 gree. Do you know M. Louis' his- 
 tory ?" 
 
 " As well as you, I suppose, 
 child." 
 
 " Perhaps not." 
 
 " Has he related it to you ?" 
 
 " No ; Fanny took pains to do 
 that. Fanny is at once curious and 
 a gossip." 
 
 " My cousin is very- severe towards 
 so devoted a servant. Is she indul- 
 gent only to the culpable ?" 
 
 This ill-timed interruption gave Eu- 
 genie a glimpse of light. " There is 
 an understanding between them," 
 she said to herself, " and that ex- 
 plains many things." She continued, 
 addressing her father : " M. Louis 
 made an attempt at his own life. He 
 was drowning, when a brave man 
 and an invalid M. Barnier at the 
 risk of his own life, threw himself 
 into the river, and saved him. This 
 was the origin of their friendship, 
 which does honor to M. Louis and 
 to the person so devoted to* him. 
 This M. Barnier is dying to-day." 
 
 " Who told you so, my child ?" 
 asked Mr. Smithson. 
 
 " The newspapers from town allude 
 to it. M. Barnier is a well-known 
 man, and esteemed by his very 
 enemies themselves. It is to be 
 with him M. Louis is gone. Does 
 not such a motive justify his ab- 
 sence ?" 
 
 Mr. Smithson had attentively lis- 
 tened to what his daughter said. If 
 we except what related to religious 
 subjects, he was an impartial and 
 even kindly disposed man. "With 
 such a reason for his absence," he 
 replied, " I shall cease to regard it as 
 inexcusable. Nevertheless, he ought 
 to have made me aware of what had 
 taken place. He simply said he was 
 going to stay with a sick friend : that 
 was not a sufficient explanation. 
 
 What I dislike in the man is his dis- 
 simulation." 
 
 " I acknowledge there may be 
 some reason for distrust," resumed 
 Eugenie, " but he has given no 
 proofs of duplicity since he came 
 here that I am aware of. He cer- 
 tainly has done nothing without con- 
 sulting you, father." 
 
 " He did, to be sure, propose 
 several things he wished to do ; but 
 did he reveal his real aim. his ulti- 
 mate objet ?" 
 
 " Had he any ?" 
 
 "Had he any? . . . The 
 Adams affair proves it. The even- 
 ing-school and the library were only 
 founded to propagate Catholicism." 
 
 " With what object ?" 
 
 " The aim of these enthusiasts is 
 always the same. They wish to im- 
 part their belief to others, that they 
 may afterwards exercise authority 
 over their disciples. Louis and the 
 curt are linked together. Their pro- 
 ject is to make my manufactory like 
 a convent, where they can reign in 
 spite of me. But I will settle that 
 matter." 
 
 " And you will do right, uncle," 
 said Albert. " There is no tyranny 
 more artful and more encroaching 
 than that of the priesthood." 
 
 " I did not know my cousin de- 
 tested the clergy to such a degree," 
 said Eugenie, with an air of mockery 
 and disdain which convinced Albert 
 he had made a fresh blunder. " I 
 thought, on the contrary, you had a 
 sincere respect for priests. It seems 
 I was deceived. . . ." 
 
 " Enough on this point," said Mr, 
 Smithson. " I will see Adams, and 
 learn from him what has occurred. 
 And I will speak to the engineer 
 accordingly when he returns." 
 
 This conversation took place in 
 the evening. Mme. Smithson was 
 present. She did not speak, but 
 was extremely irritated. Eugenic
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 little thought she had caused her 
 mother as great an affliction as she 
 had ever experienced in her life. For 
 ten, perhaps fifteen, years, Mme. 
 Smithson had clung to the idea of a 
 match between her daughter and 
 nephew. She had taken comfort in 
 the thought of uniting the two beings 
 she loved best on earth. Besides, it 
 was a good way, and the only one 
 in her powei, of securing to Albert 
 a fortune he had need of; for the 
 career he had embraced, and the 
 tastes he had imbibed, made it neces- 
 sary he should be wealthy, which 
 was by no means the case. This 
 plan till lately had been confined to 
 Mme. Smithson's own breast; but, 
 since Albert's arrival, she had ven- 
 tured to allude to it in her conversa- 
 tions with him. The latter respond- 
 ed with enthusiastic gratitude, ex- 
 pressing an ardent desire to have 
 the proposed union realized. Alas ! 
 from the beginning there had been 
 one difficulty which fretted Mme. 
 Smithson. Would her husband ap- 
 prove of her scheme? As Albert 
 approached manhood, this consent 
 became more and more doubtful. 
 Mr. Smithson treated his nephew 
 kindly, but had no great opinion of 
 him, and did not like him. How 
 overcome this obstacle ? There was 
 only one way : Eugenie herself must 
 desire the marriage. Mr. Smithson 
 never opposed his daughter, and 
 would then overlook his antipathy 
 to the object of her choice. Things 
 were having a very different tenden- 
 cy. Mme. Smithson had long tried 
 to hide the fact from herself, but she 
 must at last acknowledge it: Eu- 
 genie manifested no partiality for her 
 cousin. This evening's occurrence 
 banished all illusion. She not only 
 saw Eugenie rad not the least 
 thought of marrying Albert, but she 
 suspected her of loving another, . . . 
 a man Mme. Smuhson could no 
 
 longer enduie. He had in her eyes 
 three faults, any one of which would 
 have set her against him : he was 
 her dear nephew's rival, he had no 
 property, and he was grave and 
 pious to a degree that could not fail 
 to be repulsive to a trivial woman 
 and a half-way Christian like her. 
 To complete her despair, Albert 
 came secretly to see her that very 
 same evening. 
 
 " Aunt," said he, " our affairs are 
 getting on badly ! . . . Confess 
 that I had more penetration than 
 you were willing to allow." 
 
 " What ! what ! what do you mean ? 
 Do you think Eugenie loves that 
 spendthrift, that bigot ? . . . . 
 Nonsense ! she only wishes to teaze 
 you." 
 
 " I am of a different opinion. I 
 have long been aware of her fancy 
 for him. What she said in his favor 
 this evening was very judicious and 
 moderate, but there was in the tone 
 of her voice, ... in her look, a 
 something I could not mistake. For 
 the first time, she betrayed her feel- 
 ings. I tell you she loves him ! " 
 
 " Why, that would be dreadful ! " 
 
 " I foresaw it." 
 
 " Foresaw ! such a thing ? " 
 
 " Eugenie is romantic, and the rogue 
 puts on the air of a hero of romance." 
 
 " Set your heart at rest, Albert. 
 I promise to watch over your inter- 
 ests. I assure you, in case of need, 
 I will bring your uncle himself to 
 your aid." 
 
 " I will talk to Eugenie to-morrow 
 morning," she said to herself. "I 
 shall never believe in such presump- 
 tion till she confesses it herself." 
 
 The next morning, Mme. Smithson 
 went, full of anxiety, to her daughter's 
 chamber. Eugenie was that very 
 moment thinking of Louis. The 
 more she examined her own heart, 
 the more clearly she saw herself 
 forced to acknowledge her esteera
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 99 
 
 for him. She had inwardly con- 
 demned him many times, but had 
 as often found her suspicions were 
 groundless. Without showing the 
 least partiality for Louis, she could 
 not help seeing he was intelligent, 
 energetic, and sincerely pious. She 
 even acknowledged that, of all the 
 men she had ever met, not one was 
 to be compared to him ; he was 
 superior to them all in every respect. 
 From this, it was not a long step to 
 confess him worthy of her affection. 
 But he did he love her ? . . . 
 Not a word, not a sign, had escaped 
 him to indicate such a thing, and 
 yet there was in his bearing towards 
 her, in the tone of his voice, and in 
 the value he attached to her good 
 opinion, a something that assured 
 her she had made a profound impres- 
 sion on him. But, then, why this 
 coldness so rigorously maintained ? 
 . . . He was poor and through 
 his own fault while she was rich. 
 His coldness perhaps resulted from 
 extreme delicacy. 
 
 Eugenie cut short her reflections 
 by repeating : " Does he love me ? 
 , . . It may be. Do I love him ? 
 ... I dare not say no. But we 
 are in a peculiar position. If I find 
 him, at the end of the account, 
 worthy of being my husband, doubt- 
 less I should have to make the 
 advances ! But I like originality in 
 everything. My father alone excites 
 my fears. M. Louis would not be 
 his choice. Why does he show him- 
 self so zealous a Catholic at present ? 
 Why not wait till he is married if 
 married we ever are ? Then he could 
 be as devoted to the church as he 
 pleases." 
 
 Mme. Smithson was hardly to be 
 recognized when she entered her 
 daughter's room. She was generally 
 affable and smiling, but now her face 
 was lowering and agitated. She 
 was evidently very nervous, as was 
 
 usually the case when she had some 
 disagreeable communication to make 
 to her daughter. Eugenie at once 
 divined what was passing in her 
 mother's heart. She was careful, 
 however, not to aid her in unburden- 
 ing herself. 
 
 After speaking of several things of 
 no importance, Mme. Smithson as- 
 sumed an unconcerned air a sign 
 of her extreme embarrassment and 
 broached the subject with a boldness 
 peculiar to timid people when they 
 see there is no way of receding. 
 
 " I must confess that was a strange 
 notion of yours last evening," 
 
 "What notion do you refer to, 
 mother ?" said Eugenie, in a tone at 
 once dignified and ingenuous. She 
 felt the storm was coming. As usual 
 on such occasions, she laid aside the 
 familiar thou for the respectful you. 
 There was a spice of mischief in 
 her tactics which I do not intend to 
 applaud. She thus redoubled her 
 mother's embarrassment, and by the 
 politeness of her manner increased 
 her hesitation. 
 
 " What notion do I refer to ? . . . 
 You need not ask that. You know 
 well enough what I allude to. ... 
 Yes; why should you, without any 
 obligation, set yourself up to defend 
 a man who is no relation of ours or 
 even one of our friends, but a mere 
 employ6 of your father's; one who 
 suits him certainly, but who is likely to 
 cause trouble in the house ; . . . who 
 is, in short, a dangerous man ? . . ." 
 
 " You astonish me to the last de- 
 gree, mother! I never, no, never 
 should have suspected M. Louis of 
 dangerous designs, or that he even 
 had the power to disturb us." 
 
 " Raillery, my dear, is in this case 
 quite out of place. What secret mo- 
 tive have you for undertaking hia 
 defence ?" 
 
 " I ? I have none. What motive 
 could I have ?"
 
 loo 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 " Then, why take sides against 
 us?" 
 
 " Why, I have not taken sides 
 against you!" 
 
 " How can you deny it ?" 
 
 " I do deny it, mother, with your 
 permission. My father imputed in- 
 tentions to M. Louis which per- 
 haps he never had. I merely ob- 
 served it would be more just to 
 wait for proofs before condemning 
 him. That is all, and a very small 
 affair." 
 
 " Wait for proofs before condemn- 
 ing him, do you say ? . . . Well, 
 he has them. Adams has confessed 
 everything. . . . He acknowledges 
 that M. Louis endeavored to con- 
 vert him, lent him books, taught him 
 the catechism, and, what was worse, 
 dwelt a great deal on hell as a place 
 he could not fail to go to if he, 
 Adams, remained a Protestant. The 
 poor fellow has not recovered from 
 his terror yet ! . . . Your father has 
 talked to him very kindly, given him 
 good advice, mingled with kind re- 
 proaches. Adams was affected, and 
 ended by saying he never wished to 
 see M. Louis again; and he did a 
 lucky thing !" 
 
 " It seems to me that Adams is 
 either a simpleton or a hypocrite." 
 
 " Eug6nie, that is altogether too 
 much !" 
 
 " I do not see anything very 
 astonishing in what I have said. 
 Please listen to me a moment, moth- 
 er. To hesitate between two creeds, 
 without being able to decide on 
 either, seems to me a proof of weak- 
 ness. But if, on the contrary, Adams 
 invented this story of his conversion 
 in order to yield at a favorable mo- 
 ment and gain the good-will of my 
 father more than ever, would not 
 this show a duplicity and artfulness 
 that could only belong to a hypo- 
 crite ? . ." 
 
 (< Adams could not have invented 
 
 such a thing. It would have ren- 
 dered him liable to dismissal." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, mother. 
 Adams did not risk anything. The 
 course he has taken proves it. And 
 that is precisely what makes me dis- 
 trust him." 
 
 " How can you impute such mo- 
 tives to anybody! . . . Adams has 
 renounced his intention, because he 
 was convinced by your father's ar- 
 guments. He has behaved like an 
 honest man !" 
 
 " Excuse me, mother ; we are in 
 more danger than ever of not undei- 
 standing each other. Why! you 
 seem to rejoice that Adams has re- 
 turned to his errors ! You appear to 
 think his course very natural, and to 
 approve of it !" 
 
 " Yes, I do approve of it ; people 
 ought not to change their religion." 
 
 " You might as well say a person 
 ought not to acknowledge his error 
 when he is mistaken. I am by no 
 means of your opinion, though I am 
 not very religious." 
 
 " A propos of religion, my dear, 
 you seem to have taken a strange 
 turn. You have grown so rigorous 
 as to astonish me; there is not an 
 ultra notion you do not approve of. 
 You have completely changed since 
 . . . But I will not make you 
 angry." 
 
 " Since M. Louis came here ? . . . 
 A pretty idea. But I am not sur- 
 prised." 
 
 "You said it yourself, but it is 
 true. Since that man came here, 
 you have changed every way. I 
 know not why or wherefore, but it is 
 a fact. Your cousin himself has ob- 
 served it, and it grieves him. You 
 are no longer towards him as you 
 once were. You keep him at a dis- 
 tance. You are not lively as you 
 used to be. You only talk of things 
 serious enough to put one asleep." 
 
 " It is nearly ten years since I wai
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 101 
 
 brought in such close contact with 
 my cousin as now. I was very 
 young then. I have grown older 
 and more sensible. Why has not he 
 done the same ?" 
 
 " Your sarcasm is malicious and 
 unmerited. Albert is a charming 
 fellow." 
 
 " Oh ! I agree with you ! But this 
 very fact injures him in my estima- 
 tion. A charming fellow is one who 
 requires an hour to dress ; is skilled 
 in paying a multitude of compliments 
 he does not mean ; has a petty mind 
 that only takes interest in trifles; in 
 short, a useless being it is impossible 
 to rely on. When Albert came, he 
 seemed to be conscious of the ab- 
 surdity of being a charming fellow. 
 He tried to put on a semblance of 
 gravity, but it did not last long. 
 Once more the proverb held good : 
 C/iasser le naturel, il revient au ga- 
 lop." * 
 
 " Wonderful, my dear. You have 
 every qualification for a devote: 
 especially one characteristic mali- 
 ciousness. Poor Albert ! how you 
 have set him off! Happily, there is 
 not a word of truth in all you have 
 said. He a man on whom, you can- 
 not rely ! He has a heart of gold." 
 
 " I do not dispute the goodness 
 of his heart. I have never put it to 
 the proof." 
 
 " What a wicked insinuation ! 
 How dreadful it is to always believe 
 the worst of everybody." 
 
 " Well, let it be so : he has a kind 
 heart! . . . But is there any 
 depth to him ?" 
 
 "As much as is necessary. This 
 would be a sad world if we were 
 always obliged to live with moody 
 people like some one I know of. I 
 really believe he is your beau ideal." 
 
 " I do not say that ; but, if he is 
 really what he appears to be, he 
 
 * "Nature when driven off, returns at a 
 gallop. 
 
 merits my good opinion. I wish all 
 1 live with resembled him." 
 
 " Well done ! A little more, and 
 you will tell me he is the realization 
 of all your dreams." 
 
 " I do not know him well enough 
 to accord him all your words seem 
 to imply." 
 
 " At all events, you know him 
 well enough to take an interest in 
 him, and much more than would 
 suit your father. . . . Your cou- 
 sin even was scandalized at your dar- 
 ing to defend him against your father, 
 who had good reason to blame 
 him." 
 
 " My cousin would do well to at- 
 tend to his own affairs, and not 
 meddle with mine. If he came here 
 to watch me, sneer at me, and give 
 me advice, he had better have re- 
 mained in Paris." 
 
 " He came here hoping to find 
 the friend of his childhood glad to 
 see him, and ready to show him the 
 affection he merits. Everybody 
 does not judge him as severely as 
 you do. I know many girls who ..." 
 
 " Who would be glad to marry 
 him ! Well, th *y may have him !" 
 
 " That is too much ! The son ot 
 my sister whom I love with all my 
 heart ! A child whom I brought up 
 and love almos* as much as I do 
 you !" 
 
 " But, mother, I am not displeas- 
 ed because you love him. I do not 
 dislike him. I wish him well, and 
 would do him all the good in my 
 power. But when I make choice of 
 a husband, I shall choose one with 
 qualities Albert will never possess." 
 
 " I have suspected it for a long 
 time. Yes; I thought long ago, 
 seeing the turn your mind was tak- 
 ing, that, when you married, it would 
 be foolishly." 
 
 " What do you mean by foolishly ?" 
 
 "Marrying a man without proper- 
 ty, or one with eccentric notions,
 
 102 
 
 Madame Ames. 
 
 or some prosy creature of more or 
 less sincerity. I am very much 
 afraid you are infatuated about an 
 individual who has all these defects 
 combined. Fortunately . . . You 
 understand me. . . ." 
 
 " What, mother ?" 
 
 " Yes ; we shall watch over your 
 interests, your father and I, and if 
 you are disposed to make a foolish 
 match, like one that occurs to me, 
 we shall know how to prevent it. 
 We shall not hesitate if obliged to 
 render you happy in spite of your- 
 self." 
 
 " Render me happy ? ... At all 
 events, it would not be by forcing 
 me to marry Albert." 
 
 "Anyhow, you shall marry no 
 cne else. ... It is I who say so, 
 and your father will show you he is 
 of my opinion." 
 
 Upon this, Mme. Smithson went 
 out, violently shutting the door after 
 her. Like all people of weak char- 
 acter, she must either yield or fall 
 into a rage. It was beyond her 
 ability to discuss or oppose anything 
 calmly. 
 
 It was all over! All her plans 
 were overthrown! She must bid 
 farewell to her dearest hopes ! She 
 must no longer think of retaining 
 Albert and sending for his mother 
 for Mme. Smithson's desires went 
 as far as that! Her dream was to 
 unite the two families by marrying 
 Eugenie and Albert. Instead of 
 that, what a perspective opened be- 
 fore her ! a marriage between her 
 daughter and Louis, which roused 
 all her antipathies at once! She 
 was beside herself at the bare 
 thought of seeing herself connected 
 with a son-in-law she could not en- 
 dure, and who was no less repulsive 
 to Mr. Smithson. . . . Her mater- 
 nal heart was kind when no one con- 
 tradicted her, but there was in its 
 depths, as often happens in weak na- 
 
 tures, a dash of spitefulness. Hav- 
 ing returned to her chamber, Mme. 
 Smithson began to reflect. She sel- 
 dom gave herself up to reflection, 
 and then only when she was trou- 
 bled, as is the. case with some people. 
 As might be supposed, she was too 
 excited to reflect advantageously. 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! " she said to herself, 
 " Eugenie dares resist me the only 
 time I ever asked her to obey ! She 
 despises Albert. She speaks scorn- 
 fully of him ! And that is not suf- 
 ficient : she carries her audacity so 
 far as to sing the praises of a man I 
 detest! . . . See what it is to 
 be indulgent to one's children ! The 
 day comes when, for a mere caprice, 
 they tread under foot what was 
 dearest to you. . . . Well, since 
 she will do nothing for me, I will 
 do nothing for her. . . . She 
 rejects Albert. I will have the other 
 one driven away. . . . Since 
 that meddler came, everything has 
 gone wrong here. . . . What a 
 nuisance that man is ! If he had 
 not come here, everything would 
 have gone on as I wished. . . . 
 I will go in search of my husband. 
 It will be easy to have the engineer 
 sent off, after committing so many 
 blunders. When he is gone, we 
 shall have to endure my daughter's 
 ill-humor, but everything comes to 
 an end in this world. The time will 
 come when, realizing her folly, Eu- 
 genie will listen to reason." 
 
 The interview between Mr. Smith- 
 son and his wife took place a little 
 while after. What was said I never 
 knew. Mme. Smithson alluded to it 
 once or twice at a later day, but 
 merely acknowledged she did very 
 wrong. The remembrance was evi- 
 dently painful, and she said no 
 more. 
 
 Eugenie at once foresaw this pri- 
 vate interview between her parents. 
 The conversation she had just had
 
 Madame Agftes. 
 
 103 
 
 with her mother only served to en- 
 lighten her more fully as to the state 
 of her feelings. Forced to express 
 her opinion of Albert and Louis, she 
 had spoken from her heart. She 
 was herself in a measure astonished 
 at seeing so clearly she did not love 
 Albert that there was a possibility 
 of loving Louis that perhaps she 
 already loved him. . . . And 
 she also comprehended more clearly 
 all the difficulties such an attachment 
 would meet with. Her mother's op- 
 position had hitherto been doubt- 
 ful. It was now certain, and the 
 consequence was to be feared. 
 
 " My mother is so much offended," 
 she said to herself, " that she will try 
 to unburden her mind to my father 
 
 at once, and perhaps influence him 
 against me. Before the day is over, 
 she will tell him all I said, and the 
 thousand inferences she has drawn 
 from it. This interview fills me with 
 alarm ! I wish I knew what they 
 will decide upon, if they come to 
 any decision. . . ." 
 
 Eugenie tried in vain to get some 
 light on the point, but was not able 
 to obtain much. The interview took 
 place. Mr. Smithson seemed vexed 
 and thoughtful after his wife left the 
 office. Mme. Smithson went directly 
 to give the porter orders to send the 
 engineer to her husband as soon as 
 he arrived. Louis had sent word the 
 evening before he should return the 
 following day.
 
 104 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 LOUIS IS DISMISSED. 
 
 SUCH, then, was the state of affairs 
 when Louis, after an absence of ten 
 days, returned to his usual occupa- 
 tion. The evening was somewhat 
 advanced when he arrived. Mr. 
 Smithson, who was not in the habit 
 of doing anything hastily, thought it 
 better to defer the interview till the 
 following day. The order to the 
 porter was therefore countermanded, 
 and a servant sent to inform Louis 
 that Mr. Smithson wished to see him 
 the next morning. Louis was quite 
 startled at receiving so unexpected a 
 summons. 
 
 " What has happened ?" he said to 
 himself. " Can Mr. Smithson be 
 displeased at my long absence ? . . . 
 Has he heard of Adams' intended 
 conversion ? . . . Perhaps Albert 
 has 'obtained my dismissal." There 
 was nothing cheering whichever way 
 he turned. He therefore passed a 
 restless night. Fortunately, he had 
 a support that was once wanting : 
 he trusted in God, and could pray. 
 Prayer does not remove our fears, 
 but it calms them. Besides, what- 
 ever misfortune threatens the Chris- 
 tian, he feels it will never befall him 
 unless it is the will of God. How- 
 ever rude the blow, it is even chang- 
 ed into a blessing to him that turns 
 with confidence to the Hand that 
 chastens. God is ever merciful, es- 
 pecially toward those who truly hope 
 in him. 
 
 Eugenie, better informed than 
 Louis as to what had taken place, 
 but less pious, was at that very hour 
 tormented by a thousand apprehen- 
 sions really justified by the circum- 
 
 stances. She saw the storm ap- 
 proaching, and was sure it would 
 overwhelm the one she loved. But 
 what could she do? She had already 
 got into trouble by undertaking his 
 defence. She could only awaitin si- 
 lence the result which was at hand. 
 Then, perhaps, she could decide on 
 something, or wait still longer before 
 deciding. Thwarted affection more 
 than any other sentiment in the 
 world relies on the help of time. 
 
 The next morning) Louis went to 
 Mr. Smithson's office at the appoint- 
 ed hour. They had not had a special 
 interview for a long time. Louis 
 appeared as he usually did at that 
 period easy in his manners, but 
 cold and taciturn. Mr. Smithson, 
 on his side, had recovered his usual 
 calmness. He ceremoniously offered 
 the engineer a chair, and thus began 
 the conversation : 
 
 " Monsieur, I have thought it 
 proper to have an immediate expla- 
 nation with you. Your long absence 
 has been unfortunate on many ac- 
 counts. Moreover, a fact has recent- 
 ly come to my knowledge, or rather, 
 a series of facts which have occurred 
 in my manufactory, by no means 
 agreeable to me." 
 
 " I acknowledge, sir," replied Louis, 
 " that my absence was long much 
 longer than I could have wished. 
 But you would regard the motives 
 that kept me away from the mill as a 
 sufficient excuse, if you knew them." 
 
 " I am already aware of them, 
 monsieur, and admit that they were 
 reasonable. But as you had a suffi- 
 cient excuse for absenting yourself,
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 105 
 
 you did wrong not to communicate 
 it before leaving." 
 
 " It would have been better to do 
 so, I acknowledge; but I was sent 
 for in haste, and obliged to leave 
 without any other notice than a note. 
 I have since been so absorbed in 
 care as to hinder me from thinking 
 of anything else." 
 
 " Very well, monsieur, we will say 
 no more about that. There remains 
 the other occurrence that has vexed 
 me. You have excited religious doubts 
 in the mind of a poor fellow of my 
 own belief who is young and inexpe- 
 rienced considerations that should 
 have checked your propensity to 
 make proselytes." 
 
 " Excuse me, sir, if I beg leave to 
 correct an inexactness quite invol- 
 untary, I am sure, but a serious one 
 in the expressions you have just 
 made use of. I made no effort to 
 induce this man to abandon his re- 
 ligion. He first came to me, and 
 said . . ." 
 
 " What he said was prompted by 
 certain things in your evening in- 
 structions. You dwell on the neces- 
 sity of the Catholic faith; you in- 
 fuse doubts in the minds of the work- 
 men who do not partake of your 
 convictions." 
 
 " I have never directly attacked 
 any religion." 
 
 " Your indirect attacks are more 
 dangerous." 
 
 " What could I do ?" 
 
 " Your course was all marked out 
 beforehand. Employed in an estab- 
 lishment the head of which belongs 
 to a different faith from yours ; exer- 
 cising an influence perhaps benefi- 
 cial to the workmen by means of 
 your evening-school, your library, 
 and your visits to their houses, but 
 exercising this influence in my name 
 and under my auspices, you ought 
 not to have allowed yourself to wan- 
 der off to religious subjects." 
 
 " Excuse me, sir, I did not and 
 could not. Have the goodness to 
 listen to my reasons. Morality with- 
 out religion is, in my opinion, merely 
 Utopian. That the Anglican reli- 
 gion sanctions morality I do not deny. 
 Nor can you deny that it is sup- 
 ported in a most wonderful manner 
 by the Catholic Church indeed, my 
 conscience obliges me to say the 
 faith is its most efficient support. 
 In talking to the workmen, who are 
 nearly all Catholics, I give them 
 moral instructions in the name of 
 the belief they practise, or ought to 
 practise." 
 
 " That was a grave error, as it 
 soon proved. In consequence of 
 your imprudent course, a weak-mind- 
 ed man was led to the point of 
 changing his religion. As I am of 
 the same faith, this was an insult to 
 me. Such a thing could not occur in 
 my establishment without my con- 
 sent, and it was inadmissible. If 
 Adams had persisted, I should have 
 discharged him. Toleration has its 
 limits." 
 
 " Ah ! he has not persisted ?" 
 
 " No ; his fears were imaginary, 
 and only needed calming. I have used 
 no other means of leading him back 
 but persuasion. Friendly reasoning 
 brought him back to the point where 
 he was a month ago. Nevertheless, 
 I do not wish a similar occurrence 
 to take place. We must decide on 
 the course you have got to pursue. 
 My wishes may be summed up thus : 
 either you must give up attempting 
 to exercise any influence over my 
 workmen, apaii from your official du- 
 ties, or you must bind yourself by 
 a promise never to touch on reli- 
 gious subjects before them, either in 
 public or in private." 
 
 " Does this prohibition apply 
 equally to the Catholic workmen 
 and those of other religions ?" 
 
 " To all indiscriminately. I must
 
 io6 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 say to you, with my habitual frank- 
 ness, that you manifest a zeal for 
 proselyting that displeases me and 
 excites my fears." 
 
 " What fears, monsieur ?" 
 
 " I fear that, knowingly or un- 
 knowingly, you are the agent of the 
 priests. They always seek, I know, 
 to insinuate themselves everywhere, 
 and to rule everywhere. I will not 
 tolerate it on my premises." 
 
 " You have a wrong idea of the 
 Catholic priesthood, monsieur. The 
 love of power imputed to the clergy 
 it would be difficult to prove. I am 
 not their agent, for the reason that 
 they have no agents. If I desire to 
 do some good to those around me, 
 this wish is inspired by the Gospel, 
 which teaches us in many places to 
 do all the good we can. Now, to 
 bestow money or food on the poor, 
 to instruct the ignorant in human 
 knowledge merely, is but little. We 
 should, above all, give spiritual alms. 
 The alms their souls need is the 
 truth. . . . For me, the truth is 
 Catholicism." 
 
 f I suppose, then, monsieur, with 
 such sentiments, you cannot accept 
 the conditions I propose ?" 
 
 " No, monsieur, I cannot. Doing 
 good in the way you wish would 
 have but little attraction for me. I 
 had the serious misfortune to live for 
 many years as if I had no belief. 
 Now I have returned, heart and 
 soul, to the faith, I wish to make 
 myself truly useful to others, and to 
 repair, if possible, the time I have 
 lost. I wish, therefore, to take the 
 stand of a Catholic, and not of a 
 philanthropist to be useful, not to 
 appear so." 
 
 " Monsieur, I have always had a 
 high respect for people of frankness 
 and decided convictions, and they 
 entitle you to my esteem ; but, your 
 convictions being opposed to mine, 
 we cannot live together." 
 
 " I regret it, sir, but I am of your 
 opinion." 
 
 " I assure you, monsieur, that my 
 regret is not less than yours. But" 
 though forced to separate for grave 
 reasons, there need be no precipita- 
 tion about it." 
 
 "Just as you please, monsieur." 
 
 "Well, you can fix the day of 
 your departure yourself." 
 
 Mr. Smithson and Louis then sep- 
 arated. Mme. Smithson had suc- 
 ceeded! A quarter of an hour later, 
 she imparted the agreeable news to 
 Albert. 
 
 " We are rid of him !" said Albert. 
 " Well, for lack of anything better, I 
 will content myself with this semi- 
 victory. I shall never forget, aunt, 
 the service you have done me on 
 this occasion. I have no hope now 
 of marrying Eugenie, but I am sure 
 the other will never get her, and 
 that is a good deal !" 
 
 " You give up the struggle too 
 readily," said Mme. Smithson, in a 
 self-sufficient and sarcastic tone. " I 
 am more hopeful about the future 
 than you." 
 
 Eugenie was likewise informed 
 that very morning of all that had 
 taken place. Her mother took care 
 to do that. The news, though an- 
 ticipated, agitated her so that she 
 came near betraying her feelings. 
 But she saw in an instant the danger 
 to which she was exposing herself 
 Making an energetic effort to recov- 
 er herself, she laughed as she said : 
 " My cousin ought to be quite satis- 
 fied. Poor fellow ! if he undertakes 
 to rout all he looks upon as rivals, 
 he is not at the end of his troubles. 
 There are a great many men I pre- 
 fer to him !" 
 
 While this was taking place at 
 Mr. Smithson's, Louis was so dis- 
 tressed that he shut himself up in 
 his chamber to recover his calmness. 
 He came to see me that very eve-
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 107 
 
 ning, and related all that had oc- 
 curred. 
 
 " I cannot blame Mr. Smithson," 
 he said. " Every means has evident- 
 ly been used to prejudice him against 
 me. There is some base scheme at 
 the bottom of all this. I have quiet- 
 ly obtained information which has 
 convinced me of Adams' hypocrisy. 
 He never intended to change his re- 
 ligion. His only aim was to get me 
 into inextricable difficulty. He has 
 succeeded. It remains to be discov- 
 ered who prompted him to do all 
 this. ... I have tried in vain to 
 get rid of a suspicion that may be 
 wrong, for I have no proofs ; but it 
 is continually recurring to me." 
 
 " And to me also. Yes, I believe 
 Albert is at the bottom of it all." 
 
 " Well, that is my idea. But what 
 can I do ? Unmask him ? That 
 is, so to speak, impossible. Even 
 suppose I succeeded, it would not 
 destroy the fact that Mr. Smithson 
 regards me with distrust, and has 
 people around him who depict me 
 in odious colors. And in the end, 
 how could I confess my love for his 
 daughter ? I have lost my property 
 through my own fault. I am not 
 sure that Mile. Eugenie loves me. 
 Even if she cherished a profound 
 affection for me, I have reason to 
 believe her parents would regard it 
 with disapprobation. Whichever way 
 I look at things, I cannot hide from 
 myself that my hopes are blasted ! 
 ... It is the will of God : I submit ; 
 but the blow is terrible." 
 
 " Poor friend ! you remained too 
 long with me. It was your prolong- 
 ed absence that has endangered 
 everything. Allow me, by way of* 
 consoling myself for my regret, to 
 give you my advice. I -feel as if it 
 \vere Victor himself who inspires me : 
 he loved you so much ! . . . Remain 
 at Mr. Smithson's some days longer. 
 Instead of manifesting any coolness 
 
 towards him, appear as you used to. 
 Everything is not lost as long as you 
 retain his esteem. If you meet with 
 Mile. Eugenie, do not avoid her. 
 The time has come when she ought 
 to know you as you are. Yes, we 
 have at last arrived at the decisive 
 hour which Victor spoke of the night 
 before he died. Mile. Eugenie must 
 now be enabled to appreciate you as 
 you deserve. She must pity you. . . . 
 She must love you! If this is not 
 the case, however sad it will be to 
 give up an illusion without which it 
 seems impossible to be happy, re- 
 nounce it, and acknowledge without 
 shrinking : ' She does not love me ; 
 she never will love me; she is not 
 the wife God destines me.' But do 
 not act hastily. Believe me, if she 
 is intended for you, whatever has 
 been done, nothing is lost. But it is 
 my opinion she is intended for you." 
 
 These words did Louis good. " I 
 hope you are not deceived," said he, 
 " and this very hope revives me. I 
 will try to believe you are right. 
 We will do nothing hastily, therefore. 
 But do you not think I could now 
 venture to disclose my sentiments to 
 Mile. Eugenie, if I have a favorable 
 opportunity, and see it will give no 
 offence ? One consideration alone 
 restrains me I fear being suspected 
 of seeking her hand from interested 
 motives." 
 
 " The time for such suspicions 
 is past. If Eugenie still cherishes 
 them, it will lower her in my estima- 
 tion. She is twenty-two years of 
 age. She has a good deal of heart 
 and an elevated mind, and is capa- 
 ble of deciding her own destiny. I 
 therefore approve of your plan. If she 
 loves you, she will have the courage 
 to avow it to her parents. If she 
 does not love you, she has sufficient 
 courage to make it evident to you." 
 
 " How I wish the question already 
 decided !"
 
 Io8 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 " No youthful impulsiveness ! You 
 need more than ever to be ex- 
 tremely cautious while feeling your 
 way. Your situation is one of great 
 delicacy Act, but with delibera- 
 tion." 
 
 Such was pretty nearly the advice 
 I gave Louis, often stopping to give 
 vent to my grief, which was as pro- 
 
 found as ever. He left me quite 
 comforted. Though he did not say 
 so, for fear of being deceived, he 
 thought Eugenie loved him, and be- 
 lieved, with her on his side, he 
 should triumph over every obstacle. 
 When a person is in love, he clings 
 to hope in spite of himself, even 
 when all is evidently lost. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 ALL IS LOST ! THE PROSPECT BRIGHTENS. 
 
 Louis spent several evenings in 
 succession with me. He briefly re- 
 lated how the day had passed, and 
 afterwards took up the different 
 events, and enlarged upon them. 
 He often found enough to talk about 
 for hours upon the sometimes un- 
 grateful theme. I can still see him 
 sitting opposite my mother and my- 
 self in the arbor in the little garden 
 behind our house. Everything was 
 calm and delightful around us in 
 those beautiful autumn evenings. 
 Louis alone was troubled. In vain 
 we tried to restore peace to his soul : 
 it was gone ! 
 
 I never comprehended so thor- 
 oughly all the power of love as then. 
 The profound sadness in which I 
 was at that time overwhelmed ren- 
 dered me inaccessible to such passion- 
 ate outbreaks such fits of elevation 
 and depression as Louis was then 
 subject to. I gazed at him with a 
 cool, dispassionate eye, but with the 
 affectionate compassion with which 
 we regard a friend who is trying to 
 make himself unhappy. I was as- 
 tonished; sometimes I was even 
 yes, I acknowledge it irritated to 
 see how utterly he gave himself up to 
 the passion he had allowed to devel- 
 op so rapidly in his heart. Doubt- 
 less my poor friend remained resign- 
 ed to the will of God, but not so 
 completely as he thought. It is 
 true, even when his mind was appar- 
 
 ently the most agitated, we felt that 
 piety was the overruling principle; 
 but then, what a struggle there was 
 between the divine Spirit, which al- 
 ways seeks to infuse calmness, and 
 the gusts of passion that so easily 
 result in a tempest ! 
 
 Ah ! I loved my husband too 
 sincerely, and I recall other loves 
 too pure, to dare assert that love is 
 wrong. But believe me. my young 
 friend, I do not exaggerate in adding 
 that, if love is not always censurable, 
 it is in danger of being so. We are 
 told on every hand that love en- 
 nobles the heart and tends to elevate 
 the mind ; that it is the mainspring 
 of great enterprises, and destructive 
 of egotism. Yes, sometimes ; . . . 
 but for love to effect such things, 
 what watchfulness must not a person 
 exercise over himself! How much 
 he must distrust his weakness ! 
 What incessant recourse he must 
 have to God! Without this, the 
 love that might ennoble is only de- 
 basing, and to such a degree as to 
 lead unawares, so to speak, to the 
 commission of acts unworthy, not 
 only of a Christian, but a man. 
 
 Allow me, my friend, continued 
 Madame Agnes, to make use of a 
 comparison, common enough, but 
 which expresses my idea better than 
 any other. Love is like generous 
 wine. It must be used with sobriety 
 and caution. Taken to excess, it
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 109 
 
 pees to the head, and makes a fool 
 of the wisest. You are young. You 
 have never loved. Beware of the 
 intoxication to which I allude ! If 
 you ever do love, watch over your- 
 self; pray with fervor that God will 
 give you the grace of self-coVitrol. 
 The moment love becomes a passion 
 an overruling passion ah ! how 
 its victim is to be pitied ! When 
 reason and conscience require it, 
 you can I mean with the divine 
 assistance banish love from the 
 heart where it reigns ; but believe 
 me, it will leave you as an enemy 
 leaves the country it has invaded 
 with fearful destruction behind. 
 And first of all, it destroys one's 
 peace of mind. The soul in which 
 passion has reigned continues to 
 bear marks of its ravages a long 
 time after its extinction ! . . . 
 
 Louis had arrived at this deplo- 
 rable state"; he had not full control 
 over his heart ; his happiness depend- 
 ed on the success of his love. Eu- 
 genie's image beset him everywhere. 
 The word is hard, I confess, but it is 
 true. He attached undue importance 
 to whatever had the least bearing on 
 this predominant thought. One day, 
 he announced he had seen Albert 
 walking with a melancholy air. He 
 was sad, then. But why should he 
 be sad unless his cousin had treat- 
 ed him coldly ? And Louis hastily 
 added by way of conclusion : " Mile. 
 Eugenie knows all I have to annoy 
 me ; she follows me in thought, she 
 participates in my sorrows, she re- 
 pays me for them. . . ." Another 
 day he had really seen her. She 
 passed by his window, lovelier than 
 ever, but more thoughtful. She was 
 doubtless as anxious as he to be 
 freed from the suspense in which 
 they both were. 
 
 At last he came with important 
 news. He had had the unhoped- 
 for happiness of meeting Eugenie. 
 
 She was advancing towards him, 
 blushing with embarrassment, and 
 was the first to greet him, with an 
 expression so friendly as to leave no 
 doubt of her sentiments. He re- 
 turned her salutation, but was so 
 overpowered with emotion that he 
 could scarcely speak. After some 
 words of no importance, he said : 
 " I am going to leave you, made- 
 moiselle." 
 
 Eugenie replied that she should 
 regret to see him go. Then, as if 
 to intimate he had enemies in the 
 house, she added : " More than 
 one I wish I could say all will be 
 as afflicted as I at your departure. 
 I refer to those you have benefited, 
 and to whom you might continue to 
 do good." 
 
 " Yes," said Louis, " it is hard to 
 have to leave my work incomplete. 
 However limited it is, my soul is in 
 it. But I must not make myself out 
 a better Christian than I am. It is 
 not my work I shall leave with the 
 most regret . . ." He dared not 
 complete the expression of his 
 thought. 
 
 Eugenie, generally so self-restrain- 
 ed, was visibly affected and intimidat- 
 ed. She was about to reply, when 
 Mme. Smithson suddenly made her 
 appearance. It looked as if she kept 
 watch over her daughter. When 
 she saw her talking with Louis, she 
 could not conceal her annoyance. 
 Saluting him in a freezing, insolent 
 manner, she said : " Eugenie, what 
 are you doing here ? Your cousin 
 is hunting everywhere for you to go 
 to town with him !" 
 
 " There is no hurry," replied Eu- 
 ge"nie, resuming her habitual coolness 
 and dignity. She went away, taking 
 leave of Louis with a visible air of 
 decided sympathy. 
 
 This brief interview was sufficient 
 to render Louis' hopes legitimate. 
 I agreed with him that Eugenie
 
 no 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 would have behaved vtry differently 
 if she regarded him with antipathy, 
 or even with indifference. 
 
 " There is no doubt she knows all 
 that has taken place," said I to my 
 friend. " If there is any plot against 
 you, she cannot fail to be aware of it, 
 or, at least, suspect it. Under such 
 circumstances, the very fact of her 
 showing you unmistakable sympathy 
 is a sufficient proof that she loves 
 you." 
 
 At this time, an occurrence took 
 place that had an unfortunate effect 
 on me, and created new difficulties 
 in Louis' path. It was then in the 
 latter part of the month of Septem- 
 ber. The summer had been rainy 
 and unpleasant. The rains increas- 
 ed in September, and soon caused an 
 alarming rise in all the rivers. I was 
 then at the end of my stay in the 
 
 little village of St. M , where I 
 
 lived unknown to the Smithsons. 
 Faithful to my request, Louis had 
 told no one of my temporary resi- 
 dence in the vicinity. 
 
 Excuse me for giving you here 
 some topographical details, perhaps 
 sorhewhat difficult to comprehend, 
 but necessary for you to know in 
 order to understand what follows. 
 
 St. M is situated in a charm- 
 ing valley. In ordinary weather, the 
 current of the Loire is below the 
 level of the valley through which it 
 winds with a majestic sweep. When 
 a rise occurs, the plain would at once 
 be inundated were it not protected 
 by a dike which the water cannot 
 cross. This dike did not extend to 
 Mr. Smithson's manufactory, though 
 
 but a short distance from St. M . 
 
 When, therefore, the river got very 
 high, the mill ran the risk of be- 
 ing inundated. The dwelling-house 
 alone was out of danger, being on 
 an eminence beyond the reach of the 
 waters of the Loire, even when it 
 joined, swelled by the junction, the 
 
 small stream that drove Mr. Smith- 
 son's machinery. 
 
 Having given you some idea of 
 that region, I will now resume 
 my story. One evening, then, to- 
 wards the end of my stay at St. 
 
 M , Louis told me the Loire was 
 
 rising fast. He assured me, however, 
 before leaving, that there was no 
 danger. " No matter how strong 
 or high the current," he said, " the 
 dike secures you from all danger. 
 It is as firm as a rock." 
 
 My friend was mistaken. The 
 bank had certain weak places which 
 the water had undermined without 
 any one's being aware of it. 
 
 Towards eleven o'clock, there was 
 a tremendous noise in every direc- 
 tion. People were screaming and 
 rushing around the house : the dike 
 had given way ! The water had 
 reached the ground floor. My 
 mother, my sister, and myself were 
 lodged on the first story. The pro- 
 prietor, beside himself, and frighten- 
 ed enough to alarm every one else, 
 came up to tell us we must make 
 haste to escape ; his house was not 
 solid; we were in danger of being 
 carried away. 
 
 " The water is only rising slowly," 
 he said. " By wading two or three 
 hundred yards, we can reach the 
 causeway. There we shall be safe ; 
 for the ground is firm, and the 
 causeway extends to St. Denis. 
 The inundation cannot reach that 
 place, for it is built on a height." 
 
 I did not lose my presence of 
 mind in the midst of the alarm. 
 Victor's death had destroyed all 
 attachment to life. If my mother 
 and sister had not been in danger 
 as well as myself, I should have re- 
 mained where I was, trusting in God, 
 not believing I was under any moral 
 obligation to escape from a house 
 which might withstand more than 
 was supposed ; as it did, in fact.
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 in 
 
 But my mother and sister lost all 
 reason, so to speak. Wild with ter- 
 ror, they fled, and I followed them. 
 When we got down to the ground 
 floor, we found the water had risen 
 to the height of about six inches. 
 There was a mournful sound in every 
 direction which made us tremble. 
 We sprang towards the causeway. 
 I was at that time in delicate health. 
 I had been suddenly roused from 
 sle'ep. The distance I had to wade 
 through the cold water had a fearful 
 effect on me. When we reached the 
 causeway, they had to carry me to 
 St. De'nis : I was incapable of walking. 
 
 While we were thus flying from 
 danger, Louis committed a series of 
 generous but imprudent acts which 
 became a source of fresh difficulties 
 to him. He was sitting alone in his 
 chamber, when, about half-past ten, 
 he heard a dull crash like a dis- 
 charge of artillery at a distance. 
 He hastily ran down into the court, 
 entered the porter's lodge, and inquir- 
 ed where the noise came from that 
 had alarmed him. 
 
 " I do not know, monsieur," re- 
 plied the man, " but I have an idea 
 that the Iev6e has given way. At a 
 great inundation twenty years ago, 
 the Loire made a large hole in the 
 dike, which caused a similar noise. 
 I know something about it, for I 
 was then living near . . ." 
 
 This was enough to alarm Louis, 
 and just then a man passed with a 
 torch in his hand, crying breathless- 
 ly : " The dike has given way at 
 
 St. M ! Help! Quick! The 
 
 village will be inundated ! " 
 
 These words redoubled Louis' 
 terror. St. M would be inun- 
 dated; perhaps it was already. . . . 
 I was there ill, and knew no one ! 
 
 " Is there any danger of the water's 
 reaching us?" asked Louis of the 
 porter. 
 
 "The mill? Yes, ... but not 
 
 Mr. Smithson's : that is impossible. 
 The house stands twenty feet above 
 the river." 
 
 Eugenie and her parents, then, 
 had nothing to fear. I alone was 
 in danger in so great a danger that 
 there was not a moment to be lost. 
 
 " Go and tell Mr. Smithson all 
 that has happened," said Louis. " I 
 am going away. I am obliged to. 
 I shall be back in half an hour, or as 
 soon as I can." 
 
 Of all the sacrifices Louis ever 
 made, this was the most heroic. In 
 fact, had he remained at his post, he 
 might have saved the machinery, 
 that was quite a loss to Mr. Smith- 
 son. Instead of that, he hurried off 
 without any thought of the construc- 
 tion his enemies might put on his de- 
 parture. To complete the unfortu- 
 nate complication, Mr. Smithson had 
 an attack of the gout that very day. 
 When I afterwards alluded to his im- 
 prudence in thus risking his dearest 
 interests, as well as life itself, Louis 
 replied : " I knew Eugenie had no- 
 thing to fear; whereas, you were in 
 danger. I had promised Victor on 
 his death-bed to watch over you as 
 he would himself. It was my duty 
 to do as I did. If it were to do 
 over again, I should do the same. 
 Did Victor hesitate when he sprang 
 into the water to save me ? And he 
 did not know who I was." 
 
 The house I had just left was 
 about half a league from the mill. 
 The water was beginning to reach 
 the highway, though slowly. Louis 
 kept on, regardless of all danger, 
 and arrived at our house in feverish 
 anxiety. I had been gone about fif- 
 teen minutes, and the water was 
 much higher than when we left. 
 Louis learned from a man who re- 
 mained in a neighboring house that 
 I was safe : we had all escaped by 
 the causeway before there was any 
 danger. He added that I must be
 
 112 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 at St Denis by that time. Louis, re- 
 assured as to my fate, succeeded in 
 reaching another road, more elevat- 
 ed, but not so direct to the mill. 
 This road passed just above the Vin- 
 ceneau house. When Louis arrived 
 opposite the house, he saw the water 
 had reached it. He heard screams 
 mingled with oaths that came from 
 the father, angry with his wife and 
 daughter. Having returned home a 
 few moments before, the drunken 
 man was resisting the efforts of both 
 women to induce him to escape. 
 Louis appeared as if sent by Provi- 
 dence. He at once comprehended 
 the state of affairs. His look over- 
 awed the drunken man, who left the 
 house. They all four proceeded to- 
 ward the mill. There was no nearer 
 place of refuge. The first people 
 they saw at their arrival were Du- 
 rand, Albert, and some workmen. 
 An insolent smile passed over Al- 
 bert's face. He evidently suspected 
 Louis of having abandoned every- 
 thing for the purpose of saving 
 Madeleine Vinceneau. But he did 
 not dare say anything. Louis in- 
 timidated him much more than he 
 could have wished. He resolved, 
 however, to make a good use of 
 what he had seen. Louis at once 
 felt how unfortunate this combina- 
 tion of circumstances was, but the 
 imminent danger they were in forced 
 him to exertion. It was feared the 
 walls of the manufactory might give 
 way under the action of the water, if 
 it got much higher, and it was grad- 
 ually rising. 
 
 Louis set to work without any de- 
 lay. The workmen, who had has- 
 tened from every part of the neigh- 
 borhood to take refuge at Mr. Smith- 
 son's, began under his direction to 
 remove the machinery that -was still 
 accessible. They afterwards propped 
 up the walls, and, when these various 
 arrangements were completed, Louis, 
 
 who had taken charge of everything, 
 occupied himself in providing tem- 
 porary lodgings for the people driven 
 out by the inundation. 
 
 Mme. Smithson and her daughter 
 had come down to render assistance. 
 The refugees were lodged in various 
 buildings on a level with the house. 
 Louis would have given everything 
 he possessed for the opportunity of 
 exchanging a few words with Euge- 
 nie at once, in order to forestall the 
 odious suspicions Albert would be 
 sure to excite in her mind. But he 
 was obliged to relinquish the hope. 
 Mme. Smithson and Albert followed 
 her like a shadow. Louis could not 
 approach her without finding one or 
 the other at her side. Overcome 
 by so fatiguing a night, he went 
 towards morning to talce a little re- 
 pose. He felt sure fresh mortifica- 
 tions awaited him in consequence of 
 what had just taken place, and he 
 was right. 
 
 When he awoke after a few hours' 
 sleep, his first care was to go and 
 see Mr. Smithson. He related what 
 he had done, without concealing 
 the fact of his abandoning the mill to 
 go to my assistance. Mr. Smithson 
 was suffering severely from the gout 
 He was impatient at such a time to 
 be on his feet, and was chafing with 
 vexation. 
 
 " I cannot blame you, monsieur," 
 he said. " The life of a friend is 
 of more consequence than anything 
 else. Whatever be the material loss 
 I may have to endure at this time in 
 consequence of your absence, I for- 
 bear complaining. But it was un- 
 fortunate things should happen so. 
 If I had only been able to move! 
 . . . But no. . . . You will 
 acknowledge, monsieur, that I am 
 the victim of misfortune. . . . Did 
 you succeed, after all, in saving the 
 person whose fate interested you 
 more than anything else ? . . ."
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 " She had made her escape before 
 my arrival. I hurried back, but, on 
 the way, a new incident occurred. 
 An unfortunate family was on the 
 point of perishing. I brought them 
 with me, as there was no nearer asy- 
 lum." 
 
 " Are these people employed at 
 the mill ?" 
 
 " The woman works here; her hus- 
 band elsewhere." 
 
 " What is their name ?" 
 
 " Vinceneau." 
 
 " I think I have heard of them. 
 The father is a drunkard ; the mother 
 is an indolent woman." 
 
 " You may have learned these facts 
 from Mile. Eugenie, who takes an in- 
 terest in the family, I believe. I re- 
 commended them to her." 
 
 " Was that proper ? . . . I have 
 every reason to think otherwise. . . . 
 But it is done. We will say no more 
 about it. And since I am so inoppor- 
 tunely confined to my bed, I must 
 beg you to continue to take charge 
 in my place, watch over the safety of 
 the inundated buildings, provide for 
 the wants of the people who have 
 taken refuge here, and, above all, 
 have everything done in order." 
 
 Louis was uneasy and far from 
 being satisfied. There was a certain 
 stiffness and ill-humor in Mr. Smith- 
 son's manner that made him think 
 Albert had reported his return to the 
 mill with the Vinceneau family. He 
 attempted an explanation on this del- 
 icate subject. 
 
 " Man Dieu / you seem very anx- 
 ious about such a trifling affair," said 
 Mr. Smithson. " It appears to me 
 there is something of much more im- 
 portance to be thought of now. . . . 
 It is high time to try to remedy the 
 harm done last night. . . ." 
 
 Louis felt that, willing or not, he 
 must await a more propitious time. 
 He went away more depressed than 
 ever. 
 
 The whole country around was in- 
 undated. I was obliged to send a 
 boat for news concerning my young 
 friend, and give him information 
 about myself. The unfortunate peo- 
 ple who had taken refuge at Mr. 
 Smithson's were at once housed and 
 made as comfortable as possible. 
 It happened that Durand and some 
 others were put in the same building 
 with the Vinceneau family. Nothing 
 occurred the first day worth relating. 
 Louis watched in vain for an oppor- 
 tunity of seeing and speaking to 
 Eugenie. He only saw her at a dis- 
 tance. The next morning O un- 
 hoped-for happiness ! he met her on 
 her way to one of the houses occupied 
 by the refugees. She looked at him 
 so coldly that he turned pale and his 
 limbs almost gave way beneath him. 
 But Eugenie was not timid. She had 
 sought this interview, and was deter- 
 mined to attain her object. 
 
 "Whom have you put in that 
 house ?" she asked, pointing to the 
 one assigned to the Vinceneaus, 
 which was not two steps from the 
 small building occupied by Louis 
 himself. 
 
 " The Vinceneau family and some 
 others," replied Louis. 
 
 At that name, Eugenie's lips con- 
 tracted. An expression of displea- 
 sure and contempt passed across her 
 face. Then, looking at Louis with a 
 dignity that only rendered her the 
 more beautiful, she said : " Then you 
 still have charge of them ? I thought 
 you gave them up to me." 
 
 "I have had nothing to do with 
 them till within two days, mademoi- 
 selle. It was enough to know you 
 took an interest in their condition." 
 He then briefly related all that had 
 taken place the night of the inunda- 
 tion, and ended by speaking of the 
 letter I had written to relieve his 
 anxiety. He finished by presenting 
 the letter to Eugenie, under the pre-
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 text of showing her the reproaches 
 I addressed him. I wrote him that, 
 before troubling himself about me, 
 he ought to have been sure he was 
 not needed at Mr. Smithson's. 
 
 Eugenie at first declined reading 
 the letter. Then she took it with a 
 pleasure she endeavored to conceal. 
 Before reading it, she said : 
 
 "Why did you not tell me your 
 friend was at St. M ?" 
 
 " I have been greatly preoccu- 
 pied for some time, and I seldom 
 see you, mademoiselle. It was in a 
 manner impossible to tell you that 
 my poor friend had come here to 
 be quiet and gain new strength in 
 solitude." 
 
 " I should have been pleased to 
 see her." So saying, Eugenie, with- 
 out appearing to attach any impor- 
 tance to it, read my letter from be- 
 ginning to end. 
 
 Thus all Albert and Mme. Smith- 
 son's calculations were defeated. 
 There is no need of my telling you 
 the inference Louis' enemies had 
 drawn from the interest he had man- 
 ifested in the Vinceneau family. 
 
 " He left everything to save them, 
 or rather, to save that girl," said 
 Mme. Smithson. " He would have 
 let us all perish rather than not save 
 her." 
 
 My being at St. M , and my 
 
 letter, threw a very different light on 
 everything. Thenceforth, Louis, dis- 
 missed by her father, and calumniat- 
 ed by her mother and Albert, was, 
 in Eugenie's eyes, a victim. And he 
 
 had risked his own life to save that 
 of his friend. It is said that noble 
 hearts, especially those of women, 
 regard the role of victim as an attrac- 
 tive one. 
 
 When Eugenie left Louis, theie 
 was in the expression of her eyes, 
 and in the tone of her voice, some- 
 thing so friendly and compassionate 
 that he felt happier than he had 
 for a long time. ... To obtain 
 this interview, Eugenie had been 
 obliged to evade not only her mo- 
 ther's active vigilance, but that of 
 her cousin and Fanny. This vigi- 
 lance, suspended for a moment, be- 
 came more active than ever during 
 the following days. It was impossi- 
 ble to speak to Louis ; but she saw 
 him sometimes, and their eyes spoke 
 intelligibly. . . . 
 
 The water receded in the course 
 of a week. Louis profited thereby to 
 come and see me, and make me a 
 sharer in his joy. I was then some- 
 what better. I passed the night of 
 the inundation in fearful suffering, 
 but felt relieved the following day. 
 My dreadful attack of paralysis did 
 not occur till some weeks afterwards. 
 I little thought then I had symptoms 
 of the seizure that has rendered my 
 life so painful. 
 
 The refugees were still living at 
 the manufactory, the Vinceneau fam- 
 ily among them. Louis had scarce- 
 ly returned to his room that night, 
 when he heard a low knock at 
 his door, and Madeleine Vinceneau 
 presented herself before him.
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 " Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra !" 
 
 Louis was thunderstruck at see- 
 ing Madeleine. He had not spoken 
 a word to her for several days, and 
 intended to maintain a reserve full 
 of circumspection towards her. His 
 connection with the family had twice 
 given rise to the most malevolent 
 interpretations, and he by no means 
 wished a similar vexation to be re- 
 peated. He received the young girl 
 with a coldness that was almost rude. 
 
 " What do you wish ?" said he. 
 
 " To speak with you, monsieur. 
 But I fear I have come at the wrong 
 time. I will return at a later hour." 
 
 " Not later, but elsewhere." 
 
 " Why ?" asked Madeleine, with 
 naivete. 
 
 " But what have you so urgent to 
 tell me ? . . ." 
 
 " Nothing concerning you, mon- 
 sieur; it only relates to myself. I 
 am so unhappy. ... If I ventured 
 to come here at this hour, it is be- 
 cause I feared being seen talking 
 with you. I have a secret to con- 
 fide to you which my parents alone 
 are aware of. If they knew I told 
 you, I do not know what they would 
 do to me." 
 
 " Where are your parents now ?" 
 
 "At my cousin's, a league off. 
 They will not be back for several 
 hours." 
 
 Madeleine was so overwhelmed 
 with grief and anxiety that Louis was 
 filled with compassion. He motioned 
 for her to be seated on a lounge be- 
 fore his desk, and then said : 
 
 " Well, my good Madeleine, what 
 
 has happened ? Tell me your trou- 
 bles. If in my power to remove 
 them, it shall soon be done. What 
 can I do for you ?" 
 
 "You know Durand, the over- 
 seer ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ! . . ." said Louis, 
 frowning with the air of a man who 
 knows more than he expresses. 
 
 " He and my father have become 
 intimate, I know not how or why, 
 within a few weeks since you 
 stopped coming to our house. He 
 often came before the inundation, 
 and paid me a thousand absurd com- 
 pliments. I made no reply to his 
 silly speeches, but they seemed to 
 please my parents. The first moment 
 I set eyes on that man, he inspired 
 me with fear. He looks so bold 
 so false ! And besides . . ." 
 
 " Besides what ? Madeleine, I 
 insist on your telling me everything." 
 
 " Well, he tried every way to make 
 us believe you are ... I dare not 
 tell you. . . ." 
 
 " Go on, child. Nothing would 
 astonish me from Durand. I know 
 he hates me." 
 
 "He says you are a hypocrite 
 a Jesuit, a dangerous man. He 
 told my father you were going tc 
 leave the mill, and seemed to boast 
 of being the cause of it." 
 
 " I suspected it," said Louis to 
 himself. " Adams was only Du- 
 rand's tool. Oh ! what deceit !" 
 
 " Is it true, then, that you are go- 
 ing away ?" asked Madeleine anx- 
 iously.
 
 n6 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 11 Quite true, my child." 
 
 " Oh ! what a hateful man ! I 
 was right in detesting him ! Since 
 we have been here living in the 
 same house with him, he has tor- 
 mented me more than ever. He 
 says he wishes to marry me. . . ." 
 
 " Has he dared go that far ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and, what is worse, my pa- 
 rents have given their consent. Du- 
 rand tells them he has money laid 
 up ; that he is earning a good deal 
 here, and is willing to live with them 
 and provide for the support of the 
 whole family. . . . But I I have a 
 horror of that man ! There is nothing 
 disagreeable I do not say to him. I 
 have told him plainly I would never 
 consent to marry him. My parents 
 were terribly angry at this ; my father 
 beat me, and my mother loaded me 
 with abuse. They ended by saying, 
 if I persisted in refusing Durand, 
 they would find a way of making me 
 change my mind. This scene took 
 place last evening. What shall I 
 do? O God! what shall I do? . . ." 
 So saying, Madeleine burst into 
 tears. 
 
 Louis remained silent. He was 
 reflecting. Self whispered : " Leave 
 this girl to her unhappy fate. Do not 
 embark in another undertaking that 
 will get you into fresh trouble and 
 may endanger everything both Eu- 
 g6nie's love for you, and your repu- 
 tation itself. This unfortunate girl 
 has already been the cause of more 
 than one sad moment ; take care she 
 does not at last ruin you, and like- 
 wise compromise herself. . . ." 
 
 But such selfish promptings had no 
 power over a heart so generous and 
 upright as that of Louis. Besides, 
 he had learned such shocking things 
 about Durand that, if he did not re- 
 veal them in order to save Madeleine, 
 he would regard himself guilty of a 
 crime, and not without reason. After 
 some moments of silent reflection, all 
 
 incertitude ceased. He had decided 
 on the course to pursue. 
 
 " How old are you, my child ?" 
 said he. 
 
 " I am in my twenty-first year." 
 
 " Well, you have hitherto devoted 
 yourself generously to the interests 
 of your parents. They have now 
 made this impossible. There is no 
 choice in the matter. You must leave 
 them." 
 
 " I have thought of it. But where 
 could I go ? I have no place of 
 refuge, now my aunt is dead." 
 
 " I will give you a note to a lady 
 who lives in the city. I may as well 
 say at once it is my sister. She will 
 take care of you, and get you a place 
 as a chamber-maid, if she does not 
 keep you herself." 
 
 " Oh ! how kind you are ! . '. . 
 You revive my courage. When can 
 I go?" 
 
 " When you please." 
 
 " To-morrow ?" 
 
 " Yes, to-morrow morning." 
 
 " And who will inform my pa- 
 rents ?" 
 
 " You yourself. Write a line, and 
 leave it with some one you can trust, 
 to be delivered a few hours after you 
 are gone. You can tell your parents 
 you are going to seek a situation in 
 the city in order to escape from 
 Durand. Promise to be a credit to 
 them, to love them always, and even 
 to render them assistance; and I 
 will say more to them when the pro- 
 per time comes. Above all, I will 
 tell them what Durand really is. ... 
 Thank God, my child, that he en- 
 ables you to escape that man's 
 snares. . . ." 
 
 Everything was done as agreed 
 upon by Louis and Madeleine. The 
 latter left for town the next morning. 
 Her parents were not informed of 
 her departure till about noon. They 
 immediately notified Durand. 
 
 " The engineer has had a hand in
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 117 
 
 this," said he to Vinceneau and his 
 wife. " He shall pay for it." 
 
 " What makes you think he had 
 anything to do with it ?" asked Vin- 
 ceneau. 
 
 " Your daughter went to see him 
 last evening. . . . My police told 
 me." 
 
 " How shall we be revenged ?" 
 
 " By telling everybody what this 
 Tartuffe is. I will see to it. Ah ! 
 he induces young girls to run away 
 without any one's knowing where 
 they are gone ! That is rather too 
 bold !" 
 
 Durand watched for an opportu- 
 nity of speaking to Albert, with 
 whom he kept up daily communica- 
 tion. He told him what had occur- 
 red, adding calumnious suppositions 
 that may be imagined. Albert, de- 
 lighted at the news, went at once to 
 tell his aunt. It was near dinner- 
 time. Mme. Smithson said to her 
 nephew : " Wait till we are at table, 
 then relate this story without appear- 
 ing to attach any importance to it. 
 If I am not very much mistaken, this 
 will be a death-blow to that trouble- 
 some creature. Only be prudent, and 
 do not begin till I make a sign. There 
 are times when your uncle takes no 
 interest in the conversation, no mat- 
 ter what is said. Poor Eugenie will 
 blush well to hear of such infamous 
 conduct, for she loves him. It is hor- 
 rible to say, but so it is. Since I 
 caught them talking together the 
 other day, I have had no doubt 
 about it. Besides, as you have re- 
 marked, she grows more and more 
 reserved toward us, while, on the 
 contrary, she has redoubled her ami- 
 ability towards her father. I really 
 believe, if the foolish fellow had not 
 compromised himself, she would in 
 the end have got the better of us. Her 
 father is so indulgent to her ! . . . 
 But after what has taken place, there 
 can be no more illusion ! She will 
 
 perceive the worth of her hero ! . . . 
 It must be acknowledged there is no 
 alternative ! Her romance has end- 
 ed in a way to make her ashamed of 
 it for ever. . . . You will see, Albert, 
 she will end by thinking it too great 
 an honor to be your wife." 
 
 " Too great an honor ! Hum ! 
 hum ! It will be well if she consents. 
 Eugenie has more pride than any 
 girl I ever saw. Humbled, she will 
 be unapproachable. Believe me, 
 aunt, we must be cautious in availing 
 ourselves of this advantage." 
 
 They took seats* at table at six 
 o'clock as usual. Mr. Smithson ap- 
 peared thoughtful and out of humor, 
 but that often happened. Eugenie 
 was no less serious. Very little was 
 said till the dessert. Albert evident- 
 ly longed to let fly the shaft he held 
 in reserve against Louis. Mme. 
 Smithson was quite as impatient as 
 he, but could not find a propitious 
 opportunity. However, her bitter- 
 ness against Louis prevailed. To- 
 wards the end of dinner, she made 
 Albert an imperceptible sign, as much 
 as to say : " Proceed, but be pru- 
 dent !" 
 
 Albert assumed as indifferent an 
 air as possible, and in an off-hand 
 way began his attack after this man- 
 ner : 
 
 " There is trouble in the refugees' 
 quarter to-day." 
 
 Mme. Smithson looked up with aa 
 air of surprise at the news. Mr. 
 Smithson and Eugenie remained im- 
 passible. 
 
 " The Vinceneaus are in great com- 
 motion," continued Albert. " Their 
 daughter has run away." 
 
 " A poor set those Vinceneaus," 
 muttered Mr. Smithson. 
 
 " Yes," replied Albert, " a poor 
 set indeed! But this time I pity 
 them. Their daughter has gone off, 
 and no one knows where she has 
 gone."
 
 n8 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 " Why did she leave them ?" asked 
 Eugenie. 
 
 " She and her parents had a vio- 
 lent quarrel day before yesterday, 
 but not the first; they say this 
 Madeleine is more amiable in ap- 
 pearance than in reality. Anyhow, 
 there is something inexplicable about 
 her. It seems she was to have been 
 married ; then she refused to be. Re- 
 sult : anger of the parents, obstinacy 
 of the daughter. All that is known 
 besides this is that she went all 
 alone to consult the engineer last 
 evening. Duraad and another work- 
 man saw her go to his room. This 
 morning she disappeared, leaving 
 word she intended to get a situation, 
 no one knows where; she has not 
 thought it proper to leave her ad- 
 dress. . . ." 
 
 While listening to this account, 
 Eugenie turned pale, then red, and 
 finally almost fainted. Mr. Smith- 
 son perceived the sad effect of the 
 story on her, and was filled with in- 
 expressible sorrow. Heretofore he 
 had refused to believe in the possi- 
 bility of her loving. Louis ; but now 
 he tould no longer doubt it. For 
 the first time in his life, he acknow- 
 ledged his wife had shown more 
 penetration than he more prudence. 
 The look that rested on Eugenie 
 was not of anger, however, but full 
 of affection and anxiety. He loved 
 her too much not to pity her, even 
 though he blamed her. 
 
 Eugenie, with characteristic en- 
 ergy, recovered her self-possession in 
 a few moments. Suspicions of a 
 stronger and more painful character 
 than any she had yet had struggled 
 with the love in this proud girl's 
 heart. 
 
 Albert was overjoyed, but con- 
 cealed his satisfaction under a hypo- 
 critical air of compassion. Continu- 
 ing the subject, he said the workmen 
 were all indignant at Madeleine's 
 
 flight. " The engineer has done 
 well not to show himself since the 
 girl's departure was known," he add- 
 ed. " He would have exposed him- 
 self to a public manifestation of rather 
 a disagreeable nature. And I do not 
 see who could defend him " 
 
 " He could defend himself, if he is 
 innocent," thought Eugenie. . . . 
 Then another idea occurred to her : 
 " But if he has plans he cannot yet ac- 
 knowledge, . . . if he loves this Ma- 
 deleine, ... ah ! how he will have 
 deceived me ! . . . No ! it is impos- 
 sible ! . . . And yet it is true he has 
 disappeared : I have not seen him . 
 to-day. . . ." 
 
 By an unfortunate coincidence, 
 Louis had been obliged to come to 
 see me that day. I had been taken 
 with a terrible pain in all my limbs 
 the first symptoms of my paralytic 
 seizure. My mother, frightened be- 
 yond all expression, sent a messenger 
 to our poor friend, conjuring him to 
 come with all possible speed. 
 
 " Enough !" said Mr. Smithson. 
 "The subject does not please me. 
 I do not like to be deceived, as I 
 have so often been before. It seems 
 to me there is some mistake here. I 
 shall ascertain the truth. But this 
 shall be my care. Let it be under- 
 stood that no one but myself is to 
 make any inquiries about the affair. 
 No tittle-tattle !" 
 
 They retired to the salon a few 
 moments after. Albert offered Eu- 
 genie his arm. She refused it, as if 
 to show him, if Louis were driven 
 from her heart, he, Albert, should 
 never have a place there. She seat- 
 ed herself at the piano, and played a 
 succession of pieces with great effect. 
 Her ardent nature required the relief 
 of some outward manifestation. Foi 
 the first time in her life, she blushed 
 before her parents before the cousin 
 she despised. But the torture she 
 suffered from her wounded pride was
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 119 
 
 not the most painful. She had loved 
 Louis she loved him still, as a wo- 
 man of her intelligence and energy 
 alone could love that is to say, to 
 excess. And now she is forced to 
 a&k herself: is an affection so pure met 
 only with hypocrisy, or at least an 
 indifference but too easy to under- 
 stand. Swayed between love and 
 contempt ; by turns ashamed of her- 
 self, then drawing herself up with 
 pride, she would have given ten years 
 of her life to be able at once to solve 
 the doubt that caused her so much 
 suffering. 
 
 While the poor girl was thus aban- 
 doning herself to the most distress- 
 ing anxiety, without any consolation, 
 Mme. Smithson and Albert were 
 talking in a low tone near the fire- 
 place. They appeared dissatisfied. 
 
 " The affair has begun badly," said 
 Albert. " One would think my uncle 
 resolved to thwart me in everything. 
 . . . Why could he not intimate to 
 that fellow that there is no necessity of 
 his remaining any longer ? . . . That 
 is what I hoped and what I expect- 
 ed ! He has certainly done 'enough 
 to deserve being treated in such a 
 way. . . . Instead of that, my uncle is 
 going to undertake an investigation ! 
 ... I wage this arrant piece of craft 
 will find some way of making himself 
 out innocent." 
 
 " That would be rather too much !" 
 said Mme. Smithson. " You are 
 right : we must despatch business, 
 or all is lost. I will talk to your 
 uncle this very evening, and make 
 every effort to prevent their meet- 
 ing. . . ." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 A VILLAIN S REVENGE. 
 
 The whole family were still in the 
 salon, when, about half-past eight, 
 they heard an unusual noise out of 
 doors, and people seemed to be 
 moving about in the darkness. In a 
 few moments, a servant entefed and 
 said a few words to Mr. Smithson in 
 a low tone. He immediately rose 
 and started to go out; but, before 
 leaving the room, he said : " I shall 
 not be gone long. I wish you all 
 to remain here till my reurn." 
 
 Eugenie continued to drum furi- 
 ously on the piano ; then, weary of 
 this monotonous employment, she 
 took a book, and pretended to read. 
 Mme. Smithson and Albert were far 
 from being at ease. Triumphant as 
 they were, they stood in awe of Eu- 
 genie. To keep themselves in coun- 
 tenance, they began a game of cards. 
 
 What was Mr. Smithson doing 
 meanwhile ? He forbade his ser- 
 vants mentioning a word of what 
 had happened, which they were 
 
 aware of as well as he. Sure of 
 being obeyed, he went directly to 
 Louis' apartment. Entering the 
 room, he found him lying all dressed 
 on his bed, groaning and unablt to 
 utter a word. A bloody handker- 
 chief was tied across his forehead, as 
 if he had received a severe wound. 
 At a sign from Mr. Smithson, the 
 servant dismissed all the men hands 
 at the mill who had brought the 
 engineer to his room. When they 
 were gone, the servant removed 
 the handkerchief that concealed the 
 wound. It was a long gash, which 
 was still bleeding. Louis opened 
 his eyes, and put his hand to his 
 neck, as if there was another wound 
 there. The servant untied his cra- 
 vat. The unfortunate young man's 
 neck, in fact, bore marks of violence. 
 The servant seemed greatly af- 
 fected at the sight. He placed the 
 wounded man in as comfortable a 
 position as he could, bandaged hii
 
 120 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 wounds, and tried to revive him with 
 eau-de-Cologne. Louis came to him- 
 self a little, and, extending his hand, 
 pressed that of the good fellow who 
 was tending him so kindly. Mr. 
 Smithson stood a few steps from the 
 bed, looking on as calmly as if gaz- 
 ing at some unreal spectacle in a 
 theatre. No one would have divined 
 his thoughts from the expression of 
 his countenance; but at the bottom 
 of his heart there was a feeling of ani- 
 mosity against Louis, which was 
 scarcely lessened by the sight of his 
 sufferings. At that moment, he be- 
 lieved Louis guilty, and what had 
 happened only a chastisement he 
 merited. Nevertheless, he sent in 
 haste for a physician, who arrived in 
 a short time. Louis' clothes were 
 removed, and his wounds dressed 
 with the greatest care. The relief he 
 experienced, the warmth of the bed, 
 and the skill of the attentive physi- 
 cian, produced a speedy and favor- 
 able reaction. He recovered the 
 perfect use of speech, and, address- 
 ing those around him with an at- 
 tempt at a smile, he said : 
 
 " They have brought me to a sad 
 condition." 
 
 " You will get over it," replied the 
 doctor. 
 
 " How did it happen ?" asked Mr. 
 Smithson coldly. 
 
 " It is a long story to tell," re- 
 plied Louis. " I have not recovered 
 from the violent concussion, and am 
 still in severe pain; but I will en- 
 deavor to tell you how it happened. 
 It is time for you to know the truth 
 about many things, Mr. Smithson. 
 What is your opinion of Durand ?" 
 
 " He is a capable hand, but some- 
 what unaccountable." 
 
 " Well, I have found him out. . . . 
 He is a dangerous man. The condi- 
 tion you see me in is owing to him." 
 
 " What induced him to ill-treat 
 you in this way ?" 
 
 " He has hated me for a long 
 time, though secretly. Before I 
 came here, he did somewhat as he 
 pleased, and was guilty of many 
 base acts. He robbed you in many 
 ways saying he had paid the work- 
 men money that was never given 
 them, and having an understanding 
 with one and another, in order to 
 cheat you. I found out his dishon- 
 est trafficking, and put a stop to it. 
 This was the origin of his dislike." 
 
 " Why did you not notify me at 
 once ?" 
 
 " My silence proceeded from mo- 
 tives of delicacy. You will recollect 
 the man came here with excellent 
 recommendations ; he was a Pro- 
 testant ; and you liked him, and 
 thought more of him than of many 
 others." 
 
 " That is true. Go on." 
 
 " I afterwards discovered he lent 
 money on security. My reproaches 
 offended him still more. Within a 
 short time, he has become intimate 
 with that drunken Vinceneau and his 
 indolent wife, and, since the inunda- 
 tion drove them here for shelter, he 
 has permanently installed himself in 
 their house. He only did this to 
 annoy their poor daughter, Made- 
 leine, with his audacious attentions. 
 The girl was indignant. Young as 
 she is, she felt there was something 
 vile I may say criminal in the 
 depths of his deceitful soul. But her 
 father and mother countenanced him. 
 They hoped a son-in-law so much 
 richer than they would enable them 
 to give themselves up to their shameful 
 inclinations the husband to drink, 
 and the wife to idleness. Madeleine 
 was, therefore, ordered and in such 
 a way ! to accept Durand's offer. 
 She came to consult me on the sub- 
 ject, and said the man inspired her 
 with invincible horror. On the other 
 hand, her parents threatened her with 
 the worst treatment possible if she
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 121 
 
 resisted their orders a treatment al- 
 ready begun. Now, I had learned 
 only a few days previous the follow- 
 ing particulars respecting Durand : 
 His name is not Durand, but Renaud. 
 He is not a Protestant, but a Catho- 
 lic, if such a man can be said to have 
 any religion. His fine recommenda- 
 tions did not come from his employ- 
 ers; he wrote them himself. He is 
 not a bachelor, but is married, and 
 the father of three children. Be good 
 enough to open my desk, Mr. Smith- 
 son. . . . You will find a letter from 
 Durand's wife, in which all these 
 facts are stated with a minuteness of 
 detail, and such an accent of truth, 
 that there can be no doubt after 
 reading it. It was addressed to the 
 cure, begging him to threaten Du- 
 rand or rather, Renaud with the 
 law if he did not send for his wife 
 and children. They are dying of 
 want at Lille, whence he fled without 
 saying anything to them; They lost 
 all trace of him for a year, and only 
 heard of him again about six months 
 ago." 
 
 Mr. Smithson opened Louis' desk, 
 and took out the letter. The details 
 it contained were, in truth, so nume- 
 rous and so precise that there could 
 be no doubt they really referred to the 
 so-called Durand. 
 
 " What an infamous impostor !" 
 exclaimed he, as he finished the let- 
 ter. " Continue your account, mon- 
 sieur. I am eager to know how this 
 sad affair terminated." 
 
 " My friend, Mme. Barnier," con- 
 tinued Louis, " has not been able to 
 leave St. Denis, where .she took re- 
 fuge at the time of the inundation. 
 A violent affection of the muscular 
 system obliges her to keep her bed. 
 I learned this morning from a letter 
 that she was worse, and wished to 
 see me immediately. I went to St. 
 Denis. On my way back this evening 
 on foot, I met Durand not three hun- 
 
 dred steps from the mill. I cannot 
 say he was waiting for me, but am 
 inclined to think so. When he per- 
 ceived me by the light of the moon, 
 a gleam of fury lighted up his fea- 
 tures. I had no weapon of defence. 
 He, as usual, carried a strong, knotty 
 cane in his hand. 
 
 " ' Where is Madeleine ?' said he. 
 
 " ' At my sister's,' I replied. In 
 fact, I had sent her there with a let- 
 ter of recommendation. 
 
 " ' Why did you send her away ?' 
 
 " ' Because I wished to withdraw 
 her from your criminal pursuit.' 
 
 " ' Criminal ? ; . ; How was my 
 pursuit criminal ? I wished to marry 
 her.' 
 
 " 'You have not the right.' 
 
 " ' What do you say ? I haven't a 
 right to marry ?' 
 
 " ' No, you have not. You are 
 married already.' 
 
 " ' It is false.' 
 
 " ' I have the proof in my pos- 
 session a letter from your wife.' 
 Then I told him what I knew of his 
 history, and ended thus : ' You have 
 hitherto gone from one crime to 
 another. It is time for you to reform. 
 Promise to begin a new life, and I 
 pledge my word to keep what I know 
 to myself.' 
 
 " ' I promise humble myself and 
 to you ! . . . There is one man too 
 many in the world, you or I. By 
 heaven ! this must be ended.' 
 
 " I heard no more. Before I 
 could ward off the blow, he hit me, 
 causing the wound you see on my 
 head. Then he continued striking 
 me with diabolical fury. I could not 
 defend myself, but called for help. 
 Two men heard me in the mill, and 
 came running with all their might. 
 As soon as Durand saw them, he fled 
 I know not where. I beg he may 
 not be pursued ; the crime is too se- 
 rious." 
 
 Louis had ended his account.
 
 122 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 " Monsieur," said Mr. Smithson, 
 " you have been strangely unfortu- 
 nate since you came here. It has all 
 arisen from a misunderstanding. I 
 distrusted you. I was wrong. You 
 have a noble heart. I see it now. 
 What you have said explains many 
 things I did not understand. You 
 have been odiously calumniated, 
 monsieur ! Now that we have come 
 to an understanding, promise not to 
 leave me. I will go further : forgive 
 me." 
 
 Louis was affected to tears, and 
 could not reply. 
 
 " And now, monsieur," said Mr. 
 Smithson, " can I render you any 
 service ?" 
 
 " I wish my father and sister to be 
 cautiously informed of what has hap- 
 pened to me." 
 
 " I will go myself," said Mr. Smith- 
 son, " and give them an account 
 of your unfortunate adventure. You 
 may rely on my making the commu- 
 nication with all the discretion you 
 could wish. Will to-morrow be soon 
 enough ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes. To go this evening 
 would made them think me in great 
 danger." 
 
 They continued to converse some 
 minutes longer, -then Mr. Smithson 
 returned to the house. When he en- 
 tered the salon, he found the family 
 exceedingly anxious. They suspect- 
 ed something serious had occurred, 
 but the servants had not dared com- 
 municate the slightest particular. Mr. 
 Smithson had forbidden it, and in his 
 house every one obeyed to the letter. 
 
 " M. Louis, . . ." began he. At 
 this name, Eugenie turned pale. She 
 still loved the engineer, and waited 
 with dread for h.er father to allay the 
 suspicions so hateful to her, or to 
 confirm them. 
 
 " M. Louis came near being killed. 
 He was only wounded, and will soon 
 be well again." 
 
 " What happened to hiru ?" cried 
 Eugenie eagerly. 
 
 Mrne. Smithson and Albert ex 
 changed a look of intelligence. Mr. 
 Smithson related the facts he had 
 just learned from Louis. In propor- 
 tion as he unveiled the infamy of 
 Durand's conduct, and revealed the 
 nobility of Louis' nature, an expres- 
 sion of joy, mingled with pride, dawn- 
 ed on Eugenie's face. It was easy to 
 read the look she gave her mother 
 and Albert a look of mingled hap- 
 piness and triumph which seemed to 
 say : " He is innocent; it is my turn 
 to rejoice !" Mr. Smithson, always 
 sincere and ready to acknowledge an 
 error, ended his account by express- 
 ing his regret at having been hard, 
 suspicious, and unjust towards Louis. 
 " I shall henceforth regard him with 
 the highest respect; and I hope, if any 
 of you, like me, have been deceivei 
 about him, that my words and exam- 
 ple will suffice to correct your mis- 
 take." 
 
 Mme. Smithson and Albert pre- 
 tended not to hear his last words ; 
 but they struck Eugenie particularly. 
 Had she dared, she would have 
 thrown her arms around her father's 
 neck, and given vent to her joy and 
 gratitude. She was obliged to re- 
 frain, but her sentiments were so leg- 
 ible in her face that no one could 
 mistake them. You will not be sur- 
 prised to hear that Mme. Smithson 
 and her nephew cut a sad figure. 
 
 A few moments after, they all re- 
 tired to their rooms. As Eugenie 
 embraced her father, she could not 
 refrain from timidly asking him one 
 question : " IF it really true that M. 
 Louis' life is not in danger, father ? 
 It would be very sad for so good a 
 man to be killed by a villain on our 
 own premises." 
 
 " There is no danger, my child, 
 I assure you," replied Mr. Smithson 
 kindly. He then tenderly kissed his
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 123 
 
 daughter for the second time. This 
 mark of affection on the part of so 
 cold a man had a special value I 
 might even say, a special significance. 
 " This voluntary expression of love 
 from my father," said Eugenie to 
 herself, " shows he is aware of all I 
 have suffered, and that he sympathiz- 
 es with me." And she went away 
 full of joy and hope. Once more in 
 her chamber, she reflected on all the 
 events pf the last few days. Louis 
 had been calumniated many times 
 before, and she believed him guilty ; 
 but he had always come out of these 
 attacks justified, so that the very cir- 
 cumstances which at first seemed 
 against him turned to his benefit. 
 What had happened during the 
 evening now at an end threw a new 
 light on the state of affairs. Louis 
 was an upright man. He was sin- 
 cere, and the persecution he had un- 
 dergone made him so much the wor- 
 thier of being loved. For the first 
 time, Eugenie ventured to say to 
 herself boldly : " Yes, I love him !" 
 Then she prayed for him. At length 
 a new doubt a cruel doubt rose in 
 her heart : " But he, does he love 
 me ?" immediately followed by an- 
 other question : if Louis loved her, 
 would her father consent to receive 
 him as a son-in-law ? . . . He had 
 won his esteem that was a good 
 deal ; but Mr. Smithson was not a 
 man to be led away by enthusiasm. 
 . These questions were very embarrass- 
 
 ing. Nor were they all. Eugenie 
 foresaw many other difficulties also : 
 Louis was poor ; he was a Catholic, 
 not only in name, but in heart and 
 deed. His poverty and his piety 
 were two obstacles to his gaining 
 Mr. Smithson's entire favor. These 
 two reasons might prevent him from 
 ever consenting to give Louis his 
 daughter's hand. Such were Euge- 
 nie's thoughts. Reflection, instead 
 of allaying her anxiety, only served 
 to make it more keen. 
 
 " One hope remains," thought she, 
 " but that is a powerful one : my fa- 
 ther loves me too well to render me 
 unhappy. I will acknowledge that 
 the happiness of my life depends on 
 his decision." 
 
 At that same hour, Louis, in the 
 midst of his sufferings, was a prey to 
 similar anxiety. But he had one ad- 
 vantage over Eugenie. " It is not 
 without some design," he said, " that 
 Providence has directed everything 
 with such wonderful goodness. I trust 
 that, after giving me so clear a 
 glimpse of happiness, I shall at last 
 be permitted to attain the reality." 
 
 This was by no means certain, for 
 the designs of God, though ever 
 merciful, are always unfathomable. 
 No one can tell beforehand how 
 things will end. But we must par- 
 don a little temerity in the heart of a 
 lover. It is sad to say, but even in 
 the most upright souls love over- 
 powers reason. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 The next morning, Eugenie had 
 news that surprised her, but seemed 
 a happy augury: her cousin had 
 suddenly decided to go home ! His 
 departure was announced by Fanny. 
 As long as things remained unde- 
 cided, and Albert had some hope, 
 Fanny had appeared cross and dis- 
 
 satisfied. But now she made her 
 appearance as she used to be smil- 
 ing, chatty, and agreeable, without 
 any one's knowing why. The artful 
 soubrette felt it was high time to 
 change her tactics. In consequence 
 of the blunders Albert had commit- 
 ted, and Eugenie's marked antipa-
 
 124 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 thy to him, he would henceforth be 
 blotted out of the list of mademoi- 
 selle's admirers. If, therefore, Fan- 
 ny wished to reinstate herself in her 
 mistress' good graces, if she wished 
 to make sure of that cherished asy- 
 lum the object of all her aims for 
 the last ten years she must pave the 
 way by her subserviency to her fu- 
 ture patrons Eugenie and the hus- 
 band of her choice, whoever he might 
 be. With a keener eye, or at least 
 bolder, than Eugenie's, Fanny had 
 no doubt it would be Louis. 
 
 With the assurance of those people 
 who make others forget their faults 
 by appearing to be ignorant of them 
 themselves, Fanny went with a single 
 bound over to the side of the man 
 she regarded as a personal enemy the 
 night before. Eugenie perceived the 
 sudden tack. It greatly amused her, 
 though she pretended not to see it. 
 
 " Where is my father ?" she asked 
 Fanny.' 
 
 " Monsieur is going to town with 
 M. Albert, and also to notify Mr. 
 Louis' family of the misfortune that 
 has happened to him a painful er- 
 rand. M. Louis has a father who is 
 greatly attached to him, and a sister 
 who is still fonder of him a very 
 amiable woman, with a strong mind." 
 
 " Ah ! indeed ; where did you learn 
 these particulars ?" 
 
 " Here and there. Mademoiselle 
 knows the good God has given me 
 ears to hear with." 
 
 " And especially a tongue that can 
 ask questions, Fanny." 
 
 Eugenie went down to the break- 
 fast-room, where she found the rest 
 assembled. Mr. Smithson wore a 
 cheerful air. Albert was in an ill- 
 humor, which he badly concealed 
 under pretended elation. Mme. 
 Smithson appeared anxious, but Eu- 
 genie saw with delight that she was 
 more affectionate towards her than 
 she had been of late. 
 
 A policeman from St. M passed 
 
 by the window. 
 
 " What is that policeman here for ?" 
 inquired Eugenie. 
 
 " We had to search Durand's room, 
 my child," replied Mr. Smithson. 
 " The man cheated me in a shame- 
 ful manner. I have obtained posi- 
 tive proofs of it. We found letters 
 from his wife and other people which 
 prove him utterly heartless and base 
 in short, one of the most dangerous 
 men I ever saw." 
 
 Mr. Smithson and Albert started a 
 short time after. The parting between 
 the two cousins was not, as you 
 may suppose, very affecting. As Mr. 
 Smithson entered the carriage, he 
 said to his wife : " Go and tell M. 
 Louis I am on my way to his father's. 
 I intend to bring him back with me, 
 and hope the sister will accompany 
 him ; for no one knows so well how 
 to take care of him, or to do it so ac- 
 ceptably. Do not delay giving him 
 this information ; it will do him more 
 good than a visit from the doctor." 
 
 Mme. Smithson made a brief reply, 
 in which a slight confusion and a 
 lingering antipathy were perceptible. 
 The commission was evidently dis- 
 agreeable, but she obeyed her hus- 
 band. As soon as We was out of 
 sight, she proceeded towards the 
 wounded man's room. Eugenie re- 
 turned to the house. She expected 
 her mother would be back in a few 
 minutes, and was greatly surprised 
 when a quarter of an hour half an 
 hour nearly a whole hour passed 
 without her returning. She became 
 extremely anxious. She feared her 
 mother had found Louis in too dan- 
 gerous a state to be left till Mr. 
 Smithson returned. " Perhaps," she 
 also thought " perhaps mother and 
 M. Louis are having a painful expla- 
 nation. Mother is very kind, but at 
 times she is dreadful ! Exasperated 
 by my cousin's abrupt departure, I
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 125 
 
 fear she may, under the impulse of 
 vexation or animosity, say something 
 painful to the poor sick fellow. . . ." 
 And at this, she gave her imagination 
 full course. 
 
 At length Mme. Smithson reap- 
 peared. Eugenie refrained from 
 questioning her, but she looked as if 
 she would read the bottom of her 
 mother's heart. 
 
 " We had rather a long talk," said 
 Mme. Smithson, without appearing 
 to suspect how anxious her daughter 
 had been. " He is a good young 
 man, that M. Louis; a little serious, 
 a little too gloomy, but that seems 
 to please certain people ! . . . He is 
 delighted because his sister is com- 
 ing " 
 
 " I am not surprised," said Eu- 
 genie. 
 
 The conversation was kept up for 
 some time in this discreet tone, nei- 
 ther of them wishing to let the other 
 see what she really thought. It 
 seemed to Eugenie, however, that 
 her mother, instead of manifesting 
 any irritation against Louis, was 
 making an effort to reconcile herself 
 to him. Had she then an idea he 
 might become her son-in-law, and 
 did she wish to accustom herself to a 
 prospect but recently so contrary to 
 her views ? . . . 
 
 The carriage arrived an hour after. 
 Eugenie felt somewhat agitated at 
 the thought of meeting Louis' father 
 and sister. " Shall I like them ? Will 
 they like me ?" she said to herself, as 
 she proceeded resolutely to the door 
 to receive them. She first shook 
 hands with Aline. The poor girl was 
 pale with anxiety, but her very anx- 
 iety increased her beauty. She made 
 a conquest of Eugenie at the first 
 glance. Her thoughtful air, the dis- 
 tinction of her manners, her intelli- 
 gent and animated countenance, were 
 all pleasing to her. Eugenie felt, if 
 Aline did not become her friend, it 
 
 would be because she did not wish 
 to. Their interview lasted only a few 
 minutes; then Aline followed Mr. 
 Smithson, who had taken her father's 
 arm, to Louis' room. Eugenie was 
 also pleased with M. Beauvais. He 
 had a cold, stern air, but so had Mr. 
 Smithson himself. 
 
 Quite a series of incidents of no 
 special importance occurred after this, 
 which it would take too much time 
 to relate. I must hasten to end my 
 story, as you wish, I fear. 
 
 A week after, Mr. Smithson 's house 
 was en fete to celebrate Louis' conva- 
 lescence. Both families assembled 
 on this occasion. Aline, Eugenie, 
 and Mme. Smithson, who had again 
 become the excellent woman she was 
 when we first knew her, formed a 
 trio of friends such as is seldom 
 found. And one would have taken 
 Mr. Smithson and Louis' father for 
 two old friends from boyhood, so 
 familiarly did they converse. They 
 seemed to understand each other at 
 half a word. 
 
 " What a delightful reunion /" said 
 Mr. Smithson when they came to the 
 dessert. " It is hard to think we 
 must all separate to-morrow. But it 
 is settled that you, M. Louis, Vre to 
 come back as soon as you are perfect- 
 ly well." 
 
 " I give you my word," said Louis; 
 "and promise also never to leave 
 you from the time you see me again." 
 " I hope you will carry out that 
 intention. We will never separate 
 again. But you are young, and it is 
 more difficult for a young man to 
 foresee what may occur." 
 
 "As far as it depends on me, I 
 can." As Louis said these words, he 
 glanced at Eugenie, who sat opposite. 
 His look seemed to say : " There is 
 the magnet that will keep me here 
 for ever !" Eugenie blushed. Every 
 one noticed it. 
 
 " It is useless for you to say that,"
 
 126 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 said Mr. Smithson. " I shall always 
 be in fear of your escape till you are 
 positively bound here. But how 
 
 shall we bind you to St. M ? 
 
 There is one way," and Mr. Smith- 
 son smiled as he spoke ; " which has 
 occurred to the parents; will the 
 children consent ?" 
 
 Eugenie and Louis looked at each 
 other. In the eyes of both beamed 
 the same joy. 
 
 " The children make no reply, . . ." 
 resumed Mr. Smithson. 
 
 " Pardon me," exclaimed Louis. 
 " I dare not be the first to answer." 
 
 " Silence implies consent," replied 
 Mr. Smithson. " If Eugenie is not 
 of your mind, let her protest against 
 it. Otherwise I shall give my own 
 interpretation to her silence." 
 
 " I do not protest," said Eugenie, 
 unusually intimidated. 
 
 " Oh ! what strange lovers !" con- 
 tinued Mr. Smithson. " I think we 
 shall have to tell them they love 
 each other." 
 
 " Perhaps we are already aware of 
 it," said Louis. "At least, I have 
 been for a long time." 
 
 " And have you not confessed it to 
 each other ?" 
 
 " I riad forbidden myself to do so." 
 
 " Louis, you have a noble heart," 
 said Mr. Smithson. " To keep si- 
 lence in such a case requires a cour- 
 age amounting to heroism. But I 
 have remarked that the heroic quali- 
 ties you have given so many proofs 
 ot since you came here always turn 
 to the advantage of those who con- 
 tinue under their influence. This 
 
 proves that God, even in this world, 
 rewards the deeds of the upright 
 much oftener than is supposed. 
 Doubtless they are also recompensed 
 in heaven, but they often have on 
 earth a foretaste of what awaits them 
 hereafter." 
 
 Such was the betrothal of my two 
 friends. The next day, Louis came 
 to town, in order to obtain the medi- 
 cal aid necessary to complete his 
 cure. I had returned myself a few 
 days previous. I cannot tell you 
 with what pleasure I received him, 
 and learned the welcome news from 
 the lips of the fiancte herself, who 
 greatly pleased me at the very first 
 interview, and never gave me any 
 reason to change my opinion. My 
 intercourse with them and Aline 
 three choice spirits was so delight- 
 ful that it sustained me in the midst 
 of the terrible trials through which I 
 was then passing. My grief for the 
 death of my husband had grown 
 more calm, but his memory followed 
 me constantly and everywhere. 
 
 In addition to my mental troubles, 
 I underwent physical sufferings that 
 were sometimes excruciating. And 
 I was filled with a dread that was 
 still worse. I trembled at the thought 
 I might always be a burden to my 
 poor mother and sister. I had not 
 fully learned that, when God sends a 
 trial, he likewise gives the strength to 
 bear it, and some way of mitigating 
 it. How many times I have since 
 realized this ! God comes to the aid 
 of those whose will is in conformity 
 with his. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 The marriage of Lbuis and Eu- 
 genie took place a month afterwards. 
 For them, and I might. almost say for 
 myself, it was the beginning of a life 
 of serene happiness that lasted six 
 years. The better these two souls 
 
 became acquainted, the more they 
 loved each other. They were always 
 of the same mind on all subjects 
 whatever, particularly when there was 
 a question of doing good. Eugenie, 
 under her husband's influence, be
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 127 
 
 came in a few months a woman of 
 angelic piety. The good works 
 Louis had previously begun under 
 such unfavorable circumstances were 
 resumed at once, and carried on with 
 a zeal and prudence that had the 
 happiest influence on the whole coun- 
 try round. St. M was trans- 
 formed into a Christian republic. 
 The wicked to be found everywhere 
 were few in number, and, instead 
 of ruling over the good, considered 
 themselves fortunate in being tole- 
 rated. Ah ! if it were thus every- 
 where ! . . . Every summer, I went 
 to pass three months with my friends. 
 I was happier there than I can ex- 
 press. It was delightful to behold a 
 family so admirably united, so be- 
 loved and respected everywhere 
 around ! Mr. Smithson himself was 
 hardly to be recognized. The sight 
 of the wonders effected by his son-in- 
 law and daughter destroyed one by 
 one all his prejudices against the 
 true religion. . . : 
 
 Alas ! the happiness of this world 
 is seldom of long duration. Eugenie 
 had been married six years, and was 
 the mother of two children, when she 
 was seized with a severe illness that 
 endangered her life. She got over 
 it, however, but remained feeble and 
 languid. The physicians insisted on 
 her residing permanently in the South. 
 A large manufactory being for sale 
 on the delightful shores of the Medi- 
 terranean, a few leagues from Mar- 
 seilles, on the picturesque and charm- 
 ing road leading from the Phocaean 
 City to Toulon, Louis purchased it, 
 and they all went away ! 
 
 No words could describe the sadness 
 they experienced at leaving so dear 
 
 a spot as St. M , where they were 
 
 greatly beloved. They likewise re- 
 gretted separating from me. When 
 I saw them start, I felt almost as dis- 
 tressed as I was at the death of my 
 husband ; but I did not tell them so, 
 
 for fear of increasing their regret. 
 After they went to Provence, they had 
 one more year of happiness ; but the 
 amelioration that took place in Eu- 
 genie's health did not last any longer. 
 She died three months later. 
 
 Some time after, Louis came to 
 seek consolation from his sister and 
 me. His very aspect made us heart- 
 sick. His grief was beyond the 
 reach of any human consolation. It 
 would have been wrong had he vol- 
 untarily given himself up to it. But, 
 no ; he struggled against it. It pre- 
 vailed, however, in spite of himself, 
 as phthisis resists every remedy and 
 wears the sufferer to the grave. We 
 represented to him the good he 
 might still effect, and reminded him 
 he had one child left to bring up ; 
 the other being dead. He listened 
 kindly to our representations, and 
 said he had had more happiness on 
 earth than he merited ; that he sub- 
 mitted to the divine will, and resign- 
 ed himself to live as long as God 
 wished. But all this was said with a 
 dejection and involuntary weariness 
 of everything, that was no good sign. 
 Louis was one of those souls, all 
 sensibility, who die as soon as their 
 hearts receive a deep wound. Had 
 he been an unbeliever, he would have 
 taken his own life, or died of grief in 
 a few months. Religion sustained 
 him four years longer. 
 
 During that time, his friends al- 
 ways found him resigned. He be- 
 came more devout than ever, and 
 more zealous in doing good. A 
 sudden illness at length carried him 
 off. The physicians asserted that 
 he might have recovered if grief 
 had not undermined his constitution, 
 once so robust. When he died, he 
 left his son to be brought up by 
 his sister. God gave him the hap- 
 piness, before his death, of seeing his 
 father-in-law enter the bosom of the 
 church.
 
 128 
 
 Madame Agnes. 
 
 Madame Agnes had finished her 
 story. 
 
 " Such, my friend, is the history 
 of my life," said she. " It is not 
 very entertaining, I confess, but I 
 think it instructive. All who had a 
 part in it suffered, but they never 
 lost courage. Such a misfortune 
 could not happen to them, because 
 they only expected from life what it 
 has to give many days of trial, min- 
 gled with some that are joyful. But 
 whether their days were sad or joy- 
 ful, my friends were never deprived 
 of the light of the divine presence. 
 They received from the hand of God 
 
 happiness and sorrow with equal 
 gratitude, aware that he disposes all 
 things for the good of those he loves, 
 and that in him all they have loved 
 on earth will be found again. 
 
 " My friend, imitate the example 
 of these dear ones now gone ! Keep 
 intact the gift of faith, which was 
 their dearest, most precious treasure. 
 Let it also be yours ! If you rely on 
 God, you will never lack resignation 
 and hope, even in the midst of the 
 most bitter trials. Faith, while waiting 
 to open the gates of heaven to you 
 faith, practical and ardent, wonder- 
 fully softens every trial here below."
 
 THE 
 
 FARM OF MUICERON 
 
 ^Translate* from tije JFrcnci) of |&arfe Hi)rtl. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. ANNIE BLOUNT STORKS 
 
 New York: 
 THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY,
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by 
 
 THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.
 
 THE FARM OF MUICERON. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHAT I am going to relate to you 
 is a true story in every respect, see- 
 ing that I had it from my late father 
 in his lifetime the harness- maker 
 of our hamlet of Val-Saint, and who 
 was never known to tell a falsehood : 
 may God have mercy on his soul ! 
 
 In the village of Ordonniers, 
 which was the next one to us, and 
 in our commune, where flows la 
 Range, lived a farmer named Louis 
 Ragaud. The maiden name of his 
 wife was Pierrette Aubry ; but after 
 her marriage, according to our cus- 
 tom, she was called by every one 
 La Ragaude. 
 
 They were rich, and no one was 
 jealous of them, as it was known 
 that they had commenced with no- 
 thing, having been simply servants 
 in the employ of M. le Marquis de 
 Val-Saint. Little by little they had 
 risen, without having injured any 
 one, always kind to the poor, never 
 miserly or boasting ; so that, when at 
 the end of twenty years they found 
 they had saved enough to buy the 
 beautiful farm of Muiceron, which 
 they had previously rented, all the 
 neighbors said : " Behold the true 
 justice of the good God !" 
 
 They had been married a long 
 time, and had no children. Now, 
 wealth is a great deal, but not enough 
 for perfect contentment of heart. 
 The good man Ragaud had fields 
 and meadows that yielded rich crops, 
 strong oxen, and even vines that 
 bore well though it must be ac- 
 knowledged that the wines of our 
 province were not very renowned. 
 
 As for the farm buildings, except 
 those of the chateau, there were 
 scarcely any in a circle of six leagues 
 which were as well kept ; and never- 
 theless, Ragaud sighed when looking 
 around him no child, alas ! and no 
 family, with the exception of a cou- 
 sin, who left for the army more than 
 thirty years before, and had never 
 been heard of since ; so that, very 
 naturally, he could not be counted 
 upon. 
 
 La Ragaude sighed still more. 
 She was good and very devout, but 
 unable to bear sorrow ; and this was 
 so severe, so constant, it had ended 
 by destroying all her happiness. 
 Often, when looking at the neighbors' 
 children playing before the doors, 
 she felt her heart throb with pain, 
 and would hasten to seek refuge in 
 her own house, where she could give 
 free vent to her tears. As this hap- 
 pened more than once, and as she 
 always reappeared with red eyes, it 
 had been much remarked, and sun- 
 dry comments made. Not that there 
 is much time to be lost" in the fields, 
 but a reflection here and there 
 scarcely retards work. There are 
 even those who say that the tongue 
 assists the arm, and that gossipping 
 helps push the plough. It is woman's 
 tattle, I believe ; but a good number 
 of men here and elsewhere have 
 the habit of repeating it, and I do 
 likewise, without inquiring further. 
 
 The gossips of the neighborhood 
 above all, those who had larger 
 families than incomes were deter- 
 mined to find out the true cause 
 of Pierrette Ragaud's tears ; and, as
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 often happens, preferred seeking for 
 wicked reasons rather than stop 
 their babbling. 
 
 " It is a thing I cannot under- 
 stand," said one, " why the mistress 
 of Muiceron is so unhappy that she 
 weeps constantly a woman who is 
 so well off. We must believe that 
 things at the farm are not so well as 
 they appear. Perhaps it is her hus- 
 band who makes all the trouble !" 
 
 " Her husband ! Magdaleine Pie- 
 dau ?" replied another ; " you must 
 be well put to that you imagine such 
 a thing. Master Ragaud is the first 
 workman in the country; and, as for 
 his using bad words, that he has 
 never done, any more to his wife 
 than to others." 
 
 " Bah ! what you say is true," re- 
 plied Magdaleine Piedau ; " but all 
 the same, neighbor, Ragaud can fly 
 into a rage as well as any other man. 
 I saw and heard him, day before 
 yesterday, beside himself with anger 
 against one of his yoke of oxen. 
 You know Capitaine, the big black 
 one ? Ah ! my dear, I pitied the 
 poor beast he beat him well ! with- 
 out counting that he swore so that 
 you would not have known him. 
 Bah ! don't talk to me !" 
 
 " Ah ! that may be, but I speak 
 of people. Now, an ox is not a 
 person !" 
 
 " There you are right, thank God ! 
 Men are often rough to beasts, and 
 very polite to Christians ; but, in my 
 opinion, we must be gentle and 
 patient to both. A beast that works 
 well deserves to be well treated, 
 and Ragaud had no right to beat 
 his ox. I don't say he would 
 treat his wife so; but, at least, we 
 must allow that Pierrette Ragaud 
 does not always look as if her 
 life were a holiday. Ah! she has 
 trouble, that is very sure, poor crea- 
 ture !" 
 
 " And the reason ?" 
 
 " The reason ! Go and ask her. 
 Magdaleine, if you are so curious." 
 
 " I wouldn't dare ; for, after all, it 
 don't concern me very much. What 
 I have said was only in the way of 
 friendly gossip." 
 
 " In that case, we can speak of 
 other things; for I don't know any 
 more about it than you. We will 
 leave it for God to clear up. Go 
 and catch your boy, who will fall 
 into the pond, Magdaleine Piedau, 
 and lend me your sickle, that I may 
 cut some grass for my cows. . . . 
 But to think that Ragaud ill-treats his 
 wife no, no; that is out of the ques- 
 tion. After that, where may we 
 hope to find a good man ? One don't 
 know. . . ." 
 
 " No, neighbor, one never knows 
 how it is with them. You speak like a 
 priest, my good woman. The de- 
 ceased Piedau, my man, that every 
 one believed so good, . . ." 
 
 " Good-evening, Magdaleine." 
 
 " Was a drunkard and big eater. I 
 concealed it for ten years, and wept 
 alone like the mistress of Muiceron." 
 
 " Good-evening, neighbor." 
 
 n. 
 
 One summer day, when La Ra- 
 gaude was washing her earthen pans 
 in the sun, she saw the curt of 
 Ordonniers advancing through the 
 path in the woods. He was a wor- 
 thy priest, beloved by all, and well 
 deserving of it on account of his 
 great charity. I have heard it said 
 that, in the years when bread was so 
 dear, he gave away his last measure 
 of wheat, and then, having no more 
 for himself, was obliged to go to the 
 miller, Pierre Cotentin, and ask for 
 some flour on credit. 
 
 " It is not my custom," said he 
 gaily, " and you are not bound to 
 oblige me; but the times are hard, 
 and you must never refuse to give 
 alms, even to your curt"
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 The miller filled the bag willingly ; 
 and as for the money, although he 
 was very fond of it, he would never 
 hear the word mentioned. 
 
 Said he, " M. le Cure has an emp- 
 ty purse. We must not ask him where 
 the last cent went, poor dear man ! 
 Pierre Cotentin can well feed him it 
 is justice ! Who will have the heart 
 to be jealous ?" 
 
 And in fact, the cure was so re- 
 spected that not a boy, no matter 
 how bad he was, ever failed to take 
 off his cap when passing him. 
 
 When La Ragaude saw^the black 
 cassock coming towards Muiceron, 
 she quickly arranged her pans, and 
 threw aside her working-apron ; for 
 she was a careful woman and tho- 
 rough housekeeper. 
 
 " Good-morning, M. le Cure; how 
 are you ?" she asked joyfully. 
 
 " Very warm, very warm," re- 
 plied the curt / " otherwise, well." 
 
 " My dear monsieur, why did you 
 not wait until the cool of the eve- 
 ning to do us the honor of visiting 
 us ? It is roasting in the road. I 
 thought just now I would send a ser- 
 vant to replace my husband in the 
 fields. A storm is rising, the flies 
 bite, Ragaud is not as strong as he 
 was at twenty, and I am afraid of 
 the beasts they are difficult to con- 
 trol when they become impatient." 
 
 " Ah ! your husband is absent ?" 
 
 " Have you something to say to 
 him, monsieur?" 
 
 " To him and to you also, my 
 good woman." 
 
 " Come in and refresh yourself," 
 said she. 
 
 M. le Cure entered, and took a 
 seat near the table. He appeared 
 preoccupied, and answered like a 
 man who did not hear what was 
 said to him. He even placed his 
 cane against the bread-box, and his 
 hat on top something which he had 
 never done before, as the slightest 
 
 motion might have sent them to the 
 floor. When he put his hand in his 
 pocket for his breviary, he found he 
 had forgotten it, which embarrassed 
 him not a little ; as, it must be said, 
 no man was more exact and particu- 
 lar than he in words as well as in 
 actions. 
 
 La Ragaude, not being a fool by 
 nature, quietly replaced the cane and 
 hat in a safe place, but was, in her 
 turn, very much astonished to see the 
 cure so absent, as it was the first 
 time it had ever happened; and from 
 that concluded he must have some- 
 thing in his head of great impor- 
 tance. What could it be ? 
 
 W T hile busying herself around the 
 room, without showing it, Pierrette 
 Ragaud had distractions also. She 
 drew new wine for cider, and washed 
 a glass which had not been used. 
 But that I do not believe she would 
 have perceived then or afterwards; 
 for she was so accustomed to scrub 
 everything you could have used the 
 side walls of the stable for a mirror. 
 
 M. le Cure tasted the wine through 
 civility, but, as he said nothing, she 
 began to feel rather impatient. Wo- 
 men are curious. My deceased fa- 
 ther was accustomed to say, from 
 that came all the evil from the com- 
 mencement of the world. It is true 
 the dear man was rather in his do- 
 tage towards the end ; but it is also 
 true that I have heard others say 
 the same thing. 
 
 Pierrette at last commenced to 
 question the cure" very respectfully 
 and gently ; for, in truth, she could 
 no longer restrain herself. 
 
 "Although the master is out, M. 
 le Cure," said she, " will you not 
 tell me what I can do to serve you ? 
 without pressing to know, you un- 
 derstand, monsieur." 
 
 M. le Cure raised his eyes, and 
 replied as gravely as though he were 
 preaching a sermon :
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 "I have come to know, in the 
 name of the good God, Mme. 
 Ragaud, if you are disposed to act 
 charitably." 
 
 " Oh ! if it is to aid those who 
 are suffering and in need, my hus- 
 band and I will be most happy to 
 assist you," frankly cried La Ragaude, 
 who spoke with her whole heart and 
 soul. " Thank God ! there is yet 
 money in the drawer. Tell me how 
 much you want, monsieur." 
 
 The good curt shook his head, 
 laughing, a,nd repeated two or three 
 times, " Good, good," which was a 
 sign that he was pleased. 
 
 " You are always ready to give 
 money to the poor, I know," said 
 he; "but to-day that is not the 
 question. I have come to ask you 
 for something of greater importance." 
 
 " More so than money ! Heaven 
 of our Lord !" said Pierrette, slightly 
 amazed. " I do not know, M. le 
 Cure, how, then, I can oblige you." 
 
 She said that, although she had a 
 generous heart; but money with us 
 is always the great affair. In the 
 fields, as in the city, the poor man 
 who eats his bread while working 
 knows that the francs are not picked 
 up under the horses' feet. 
 
 " Money," replied M. le Cure, 
 " when the soul is wanting in cha- 
 rity, is given, and there it ends ; but 
 what I have come to ask of you is 
 a good work which will not end for 
 a long while, and which will need 
 good- will, and great patience especi- 
 ally, on your part." 
 
 " I can guess what it is," said 
 Pierrette. 
 
 " Indeed !" replied the curt. 
 "Well, that spares me the difficulty 
 of explaining myself. Let us hear, 
 Mme. Ragaud, what you have 
 guessed." 
 
 " I have heard it said you were 
 very much worried about your sur- 
 plices and altar-linens, since Catha- 
 
 rine Luguet left the country so 
 shamefully, like a good-for-nothing 
 girl, to seek her fortune in Paris," 
 said La Ragaude, blushing for this 
 Catharine was a distant cousin 
 " and doubtless, M. le Cure, you 
 wish me to replace her, and take 
 charge of the sacristy." 
 
 "And if it were so, would you 
 refuse me ?" 
 
 " Certainly not, monsieur. I 
 would willingly do my best to please 
 you. Not that I have as light a 
 hand as Catharine for plaiting and 
 folding ; but for washing and ironing, 
 I can say, 4 without boasting, I am 
 the equal of any one." 
 
 " Thank you," said the curd. " I 
 accept an offer made so willingly. 
 But to speak truly, I have not come 
 for that. " 
 
 " Then," replied Pierrette, in as- 
 tonishment, " I cannot imagine 
 what you want me to do." 
 
 " This is it," said the curt, tak- 
 ing a serious tone: "This morning, 
 Pierrette, a bundle was left at my 
 house . . ." 
 
 "I bet," cried La Ragaude, "it 
 was the beautiful monstrance pro- 
 mised by M. le Marquis for Corpus 
 Christi !" 
 
 " No, it was a new-born infant, a 
 beautiful boy, Mme. .Ragaud; and, 
 since the good God has allowed 
 you to remain childless, and that 
 this privation has greatly afflicted 
 you, I immediately thought he des- 
 tined this child for you." 
 
 " Monsieur," replied Pierrette, 
 with emotion, " it is true that it is 
 very hard for me to be alone in the 
 house, and to think that I will die 
 and leave no one after me to inherit 
 Muiceron; but I prefer it to work- 
 ing all my life for a child sprung, 
 perhaps, from a wicked race." 
 
 " I know where it comes from," 
 said the curt ; " but still I can tell 
 you nothing, as it is a secret of the
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 confessional. But have confidence in 
 me; as for the race, it is not bad." 
 
 " It is the same thing. I don't be- 
 lieve in these foundlings." 
 
 " Say nothing further about it," 
 replied the curt rather sadly ; " I 
 will send it to the hospital." 
 
 And then, without appearing to 
 feel either pique or bitterness, M. le 
 Cure commenced to converse on 
 other subjects, speaking of the next 
 harvest, the price of the new wine, 
 and of the last fair, with even voice 
 and kind looks, that showed plainly 
 he did not wish his parishioner to 
 think he was pained by her rather 
 prompt refusal. 
 
 This kindness of a heart truly 
 charitable had more effect on good 
 Pierrette than reproaches or scold- 
 ing. She did her best to reply to 
 the curj, but her eyes were wet 
 against her will, and soon she be- 
 came so absent-minded the curt with 
 difficulty repressed his mirth, seeing 
 that he had gained ground by the 
 ell, without seeming to do it inten- 
 tionally. 
 
 "You see," said he, "by often 
 hearing the bells ring, one becomes 
 a bell-ringer ; and as I love all my 
 parishioners, like a true pastor, I go 
 everywhere, inquiring and advising, 
 so that I may be useful in case of 
 need. In that way, Mme. Ragaud, 
 without ever having driven a plough 
 or taken care of cattle, God has given 
 me the grace of being able to advise 
 on all rural subjects, as well as the 
 first master-farmer in the neighbor- 
 hood. Thus, I will say to you: 
 ' When there are more pears than 
 apples, keep your wine, good man.' 
 This is a country proverb hundreds 
 of years old. Now, as this year there 
 are more pears than they know what 
 to do with, believe me, keep your 
 vintage, and you will have news to 
 tell me of it by next Easter." 
 
 " I do not know how Ragaud will 
 
 decide," replied Pierrette ; " he is 
 always afraid when the cellar is 
 full. . ." 
 
 " The proverb never fails, my 
 good woman; and that is easily 
 understood when one reflects how 
 and why proverbs have obtained 
 credit." 
 
 " But, M. le Cure," interrupted La 
 Ragaude, " if you knew where this 
 poor abandoned child came from, it 
 seems to me . . ." 
 
 "What child?" said the curt, 
 taking a pinch of snuff, so as to 
 appear indifferent. " Oh ! yes, the 
 little one of this morning. What, 
 do you still think of it ? Bah ! let it 
 pass; after all, the hospital is not a 
 place where one dies from want of 
 care." 
 
 " I know it; but it is sad, monsieur, 
 very sad, for one of those little 
 innocents to say afterwards, ' I was 
 in a hospital ' ; that always gives a 
 bad idea." 
 
 "What can be done, Mme. 
 Ragaud ? One becomes accustomed 
 to everything. Come, come, don't 
 make yourself uneasy. We were say- 
 ing, then, . . . what were we say- 
 ing ? Ah ! I remember now. I was 
 telling you that proverbs must be 
 believed, and for the reason that 
 these little village-sayings are only 
 repeated after they have been veri- 
 fied by the great and long experience 
 of our fathers. Thus, you will see 
 that the last part of the one I just 
 quoted is equally curious : ' When 
 there are more apples than pears, 
 then, good man, you can drink.' 
 Well, wasn't it a fact last year? 
 There were so many apples that a 
 jug of cider was only worth two 
 farthings ; Jhere was enough for eveiy- 
 body, and the wine was so abundant 
 that you are not listening to me, 
 Pierrette Ragaud ?" 
 
 " Excuse me, M. le Cure", I am 
 listening attentively ; but I was think-
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 ing perhaps my husband would not 
 return ; and, nevertheless, he should 
 have a little talk with you." 
 
 " About the vintage ? We have 
 time enough until then for that," 
 replied the curt with a spice of 
 malice. 
 
 "About the little innocent, dear 
 monsieur. The truth is, I feel my 
 heart ache when I think he will go 
 to the hospital through my fault." 
 
 " And as for me, my good woman, 
 I am sorry that I spoke to you about 
 it; yes, sorry," he repeated earnest- 
 ly, " for I have worried you, and I 
 had no such intention when I came 
 to visit you. I see now that you 
 are inclined on the side of the good 
 work; but I don't wish to force you 
 to take it in hand. Here, now, if 
 the hospital frightens you, I have 
 thought of another arrangement, 
 which might work well. My old 
 Germaine, notwithstanding her thirty 
 years of servics, is still active, and 
 the work in my house don't kill her. 
 We will buy a good milking-goat at 
 the August fair; until then, you will 
 lend us one, and, God willing, the 
 little one will remain where his good 
 angel deposited him." 
 
 " May the Lord bless you !" cried 
 ( a Ragaude, the tears streaming from 
 tier eyes. " But what a shame for us 
 to let you burden yourself with such 
 a heavy load, when you already give 
 more than you can afford ! No, no, 
 holy and good Virgin Mary ! For my 
 part, I would not sleep easy after 
 such an act." 
 
 The good curt clasped his hands, 
 and in his heart rendered thanks to 
 all the saints in paradise. He was 
 very much touched, and as he w'as 
 about to thank Pierrette as she de- 
 served, Ragaud returned from the 
 fields. 
 
 They cordially saluted each other ; 
 and, very naturally, as the good man 
 saw his wife wiping her eyes, and the 
 
 curt almost ready to do likewise, he 
 asked what had excited them. There- 
 upon M. le Cure commenced a long 
 discourse, so gentle and so touching 
 he spoke of charity, of the rewards of 
 heaven, the happiness of generous 
 hearts, with words so beautifully turn- 
 ed that never in the parish church, 
 on the greatest festivals, had he 
 preached better. Pierrette, as she 
 afterwards said, thought she was lis- 
 tening to the holy patron saint of 
 Ordonniers, who in his lifetime, it is 
 related, spoke so well that the birds 
 stopped singing to listen to him. 
 Ragaud remained silent, but he shook 
 his head, and turned his cap around 
 in his hands signs of great emotion 
 with him. 
 
 Meanwhile, he said neither yes nor 
 no, but asked time for reflection, pro- 
 mising to give his answer the next 
 day before twelve o'clock. He was 
 perfectly right, and M. le Cure, who 
 felt in the bottom of his heart that 
 the cause was gained, wished even to 
 wait until Sunday ; but Ragaud did 
 not like to take back his word. 
 
 " I said to-morrow, M. le Cure, and 
 it will be to-morrow," said he, when 
 conducting his pastor to the threshold 
 of the door. 
 
 " Dear, holy soul of the good God !" 
 cried Pierrette, looking after the curt 
 as he leisurely walked down the road, 
 repeating his rosary as he went along. 
 " Good dear priest, that he is ! We 
 need many more like him, Ragaud !" 
 
 " Good, holy man, in truth," replied 
 the farmer; "but what he propos- 
 es to us is an affair of importance. 
 You are young and healthy yet, 
 wife, but in ten years your arms will 
 not be as strong as now. You must 
 think of that, even if God keeps you 
 in good health. A child is a com- 
 fort in a house, but all the burden falls 
 on the mother. Suppose this little 
 one should become refractory and 
 vagabond, like Coten tin's son."
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 " That is true," said La Ragaude. 
 
 " Suppose he should get bad ideas 
 toi his head, and send religion and 
 honesty to the devil." 
 
 " That would be a great misfor- 
 tune," again said La Ragaude, but this 
 time sighing. 
 
 " I know you," continued the good 
 man " you become attached to every 
 one. Didn't you weep like a little girl 
 because I beat Capitaine, who is only 
 an ox, and who deserved it ? And hav- 
 en't I seen you half crazy because Bru- 
 nette had the gripes ? and she was 
 only a cow. . . . Can it be hoped that 
 you would be more reasonable about 
 a child who would become ours ? 
 for we must do the thing well or not at 
 all; isn't it so?" 
 
 " It is just as you say," replied 
 Pierrette, sighing still louder ; " but 
 what, then, shall we do ?" 
 
 " My opinion is that we must con- 
 sider it well," answered Ragaud. 
 
 " You only consider the bad side," 
 said La Ragaude gently; "but sup- 
 pose the little one should preserve the 
 blessing of his baptism, and let himself 
 be well governed later, we would be 
 very happy and well rewarded." 
 
 " That is true," said the farmer. 
 
 " If," continued La Ragaude, " I 
 am easily worried about animals, I 
 know well it would not be the same 
 thing with a Christian. You see, 
 husband, the poor beasts suffer with- 
 out being able to complain or ex- 
 plain themselves ; and, therefore, I am 
 always afraid of their being treated 
 unjustly. But a boy has his tongue, 
 and can defend himself. . We can talk 
 sense to him, and if he won't listen, 
 why, we will put him to school." 
 
 " Bah ! you will spoil him so that 
 he will be master of the house be- 
 fore he is in breeches." 
 
 " Don't fear," cried Pierrette ; " that 
 will never be, or I should think my- 
 self wanting in gratitude to the good 
 God." 
 
 " If I could be sure of that, my 
 wife, I would attempt it. But, come ; 
 let the night pass before deciding." 
 
 They did not mention it again 
 until the next day ; but Pierrette took 
 care, before retiring, to light a taper 
 at her bedside, beneath a beautiful 
 picture of Our Lady of Liesse. 
 
 Early the next morning, she went, 
 as usual, to feed her turkeys and 
 drive her cows to the meadow. On 
 her return, she saw Ragaud dressing 
 himself in his Sunday clothes. 
 
 " I think, wife," said he, " we had 
 better, at least, see this little one be- 
 fore deciding." 
 
 Pierrette hastened to throw aside 
 her apron ; and then it appeared she 
 had expected such a decision, as at 
 dawn she had dressed herself in 
 her new gown of gray serge, with 
 her bright-flowered neckerchief from 
 Rouen, which had only been worn 
 at the last feast of the good S. Anne, 
 in July. 
 
 It was thus the worthy couple pro- 
 ceeded on their way to the priest's 
 house. As it was Thursday, and 
 neither festival, nor fair, nor market- 
 day in the village, the neighbors star- 
 ed as they saw them pass, and, unable 
 to imagine the cause, chattered non- 
 sense, half from malice, half from 
 spite; and Simonne Durand, well 
 known for her viper tongue, said 
 aloud : " We must believe the Ra- 
 gauds are going to obtain the priest's 
 blessing on their fiftieth anniversary, 
 as they are so finely dressed on a 
 week-day." 
 
 This wicked jealousy went a little 
 too far, and profited nothing to the 
 spiteful thing, as every one knew 
 the Ragauds had only been married 
 twenty years at the furthest; but, 
 when the mind is full of malice, there 
 is little time for reflection. 
 
 When the good friends arrived at 
 the pastoral residence, M. le Cure had 
 just entered after saying his Mass;
 
 10 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 and we need not ask if he had pray- 
 ed well. Germaine, his old servant, 
 held the baby in her lap, and was 
 feeding him with boiled goat's milk. 
 Pierrette could not restrain her de- 
 light on seeing what a beautiful child 
 it was, and that it was at least six or 
 seven months old. She snatched it 
 from Germaine's arms, and commenc- 
 ed kissing it, not caring that she had 
 interrupted his little repast. This 
 showed that the child was good-na- 
 tured ; for instead of crying, as a sick- 
 ly, cross baby would have done simi- 
 larly situated, he crowed with joy, 
 and put out his little hands, dazzled 
 with the fine, flowered neckerchief of 
 his new mamma. 
 
 " How pretty and healthy he is !" 
 cried La Ragaude. " My dear M. le 
 Cure, you told me it was a new-born 
 child." 
 
 " Did I say so, Pierrette ? It was 
 because I did not know much about 
 it." 
 
 " So it seems," replied the good 
 woman, gaily. " The little darling is 
 at least seven or eight months old ; 
 don't you think so, Germaine ?" 
 
 " I know one a year old not so 
 large as he," answered the old ser- 
 vant. " But that is not all, Mme. Ra- 
 gaud ; you see him in the day-time, 
 but it is at night that he is good and 
 amusing. He sleeps without stirring, 
 like a little corpse. For my part, I 
 would not be afraid to bring him up." 
 
 Ragaud had not yet said a word, 
 and still upon him all depended. 
 
 " Come and talk a little while with 
 M. le Cure," said he, pulling his wife 
 by the skirt. 
 
 Pierrette quickly rose to obey him, 
 according to her good habit, but she 
 did not give up the young one ; so 
 that Ragaud gently reproved her for 
 again showing herself as ready to be- 
 come attached to men as to beasts. 
 
 We need not be sorcerers to divine 
 what happened. In less than a quar- 
 
 ter of an hour, the contract of adop- 
 tion was passed satisfactorily, without 
 notary or scribbling. It was signed 
 with a friendly shake of the hands ; 
 and to say which one of these good 
 hearts was the best satisfied would 
 not be very easy. 
 
 in. 
 
 Now, without further delay, I am 
 going to show you, as they say, the 
 under-card in relation to the little 
 one. True, it was a secret of the 
 confessional, at least for the time 
 being; but later, it was everybody's 
 secret. The story is simple, and will 
 not be long. You remember that 
 our curt, in conversation with Pier- 
 rette, led her to mention a certain 
 Catharine Luguet, against whom the 
 good woman appeared very much 
 incensed. This Catharine was an 
 orphan, whose parents, dying, left her 
 when quite young without any means 
 of support. Germaine watched over 
 her like a daughter, and M. le Cure, 
 to keep her near him, paid her ap- 
 prenticeship to a seamstress; after 
 which, having grown up, and being 
 very skilful with her needle, he placed 
 her in a little room near the church, 
 and gave her charge of the sacristy. 
 But, unfortunately, the poor child 
 was as pretty as a picture, and lov- 
 ed compliments, dress, and dancing, 
 which is a great danger for a young 
 girl, especially in a village. Catha- 
 rine commenced by degrees to make 
 people talk about her, and not with- 
 out cause. The Ragauds, who were 
 distantly related to her on the 
 mother's side, at first reprimanded 
 her, and finally would not see her. 
 The girl was quick-tempered, resented 
 the treatment, and one fine day went 
 off, saying that she could easily find 
 in Paris people who would be happy 
 to receive her. 
 
 Two years passed without news of 
 her. Her name was no longer men-
 
 The Farm of M nicer on. 
 
 II 
 
 tioned in the village, and from that 
 M. le Cure surmised some misfortune 
 had happened. He prayed for the 
 poor girl, and unceasingly begged 
 the good God to mercifully receive 
 her through his grace, if not during 
 her life, at least at the hour of death. 
 His prayer was heard at a moment 
 when he scarcely expected it. One 
 morning, when Germaine had left the 
 village at day-dawn to make some 
 purchases in the city, she took it into 
 her head to pay a visit to one of her 
 good friends, who was a Gray Sister in 
 a large hospital. They talked about 
 the patients ; and the sister,very much 
 affected, spoke of a young woman 
 she had received the week before, 
 and who appeared very near her end. 
 
 " I have put her by herself," said 
 she, " and I will confide to you, Ger- 
 maine, that this poor afflicted creature 
 has a child ; and, between ourselves, 
 I very much believe she is dying as 
 much of shame as of want." 
 
 Germaine wished to see her ; but, 
 at the first look, the sick woman 
 uttered a loud cry, and hid her head 
 under the counterpane. 
 
 " What is the matter ?" said Ger- 
 maine. " I frighten her." 
 
 " We have awakened her," re- 
 plied the good sister, " and she is 
 nervous. I should have entered 
 alone." 
 
 But the poor girl sobbed without 
 showing her face. At last the sister 
 calmed her. Germaine, on her side, 
 spoke kindly, and finally she drew 
 down the covering. You can imag- 
 ine the rest. 
 
 It was Catharine Luguet, but how 
 changed ! She, formerly so pretty, 
 so bright, and so laughing and now 
 her mother herself would scarcely 
 have recognized her. The innocent 
 little being that slept in a cradle by 
 her side told all her story. What she 
 had found in Paris, what had brought 
 her back to the country, there to 
 
 die, were dishonor, misery, and an 
 orphan without a name but also 
 sincere and true repentance ; and the 
 good God, who has certainly received 
 her in paradise, struck the blow, that 
 she might be saved. 
 
 Who was astonished, and at heart 
 happy, in spite of his sorrow, which 
 can be well understood ? It was our 
 cure. Holy man that he was, he was 
 happier to have his lost sheep 
 brought back to him, even although 
 half dead, than not to have found 
 her at all. The next day, he has- 
 tened to Issoudun, and remained the 
 greater part of the afternoon with 
 poor Catharine. 
 
 Issoudun was the nearest large 
 city to our village, and, if I have for- 
 gotten to tell you so, I beg you will 
 excuse me. 
 
 Although my father gave me some 
 slight details of the unfortunate girl's 
 story, I will not relate them; for 
 many long years she has reposed in 
 consecrated ground, and, as the de IT, 
 good man wisely said, " The s ns 
 which have received the pardon of 
 God should be hidden by man;" 
 and this is true charity. 
 
 It is only necessary to say that 
 this first visit of our curt was fol- 
 lowed by many others. Catharine 
 declined visibly, and her little one,, 
 from whom she would not be sepa- 
 rated, was a great worry to her. 
 The sisters took care of him, and 
 fed him to the best of their ability 
 during the day, but they could not 
 attend to him at night. He was 
 beautiful and healthy, and grew like 
 a weed which was a miracle, con- 
 sidering the state of the mother but 
 his first teeth commenced to appear,, 
 and rendered him restless and trou- 
 blesome. One morning, when M. le 
 Cure and Germaine went together to 
 the hospital, they found poor Catha- 
 rine so ill they fea-ed she would not 
 pass the day.
 
 12 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 " My daughter," said Germaine to 
 her, "be reasonable; let me have 
 your child. I will take great care of 
 him." 
 
 "As you please," replied Catha- 
 rine. 
 
 He was instantly carried away; 
 and, that no one should penetrate 
 the secret, a confidential woman, 
 employed in the hospital, came in 
 the night-time, and left him at the 
 priest's house in the village. That 
 same night, poor Catharine became 
 speechless, but was conscious until 
 the moment of her death, which soon 
 happened, and never was there seen 
 a more peaceful and touching agony. 
 The sisters saw with admiration 
 that after death she regained her 
 beauty, and her face its youthful 
 look of twenty years. 
 
 " She is smiling with the angels," 
 said the pious souls, and it was not 
 to be doubted ; for the angels re- 
 ceive with as great joy the repentant 
 as the innocent. 
 
 The little one was baptized and 
 registered under the name of his 
 poor mother. Our curd easily pro- 
 cured all the necessary acts; but for 
 the family name, the dear innocent 
 had none to bear, at least for a long 
 time. He was called Jean-Louis ; 
 about the rest, there was silence. 
 As to the secret of his birth, although 
 confided in confession, Catharine, be- 
 fore dying, said to the curd : 
 
 " You will tell all, my father, if it 
 is necessary, later, for the future of 
 my child." 
 
 And you will see in the end that 
 it was a wise speech. 
 
 Between ourselves, this holy, good 
 man of a cure, who was gentle and 
 merciful, as much from a sense of 
 duty as by inclination of heart, had 
 always blamed the Ragauds for their 
 rigorous severity against the poor de- 
 parted. Says the proverb, " In trying 
 to do too much, one often fails to do 
 
 well." Perhaps it would have been 
 better to have patiently borne with 
 the poor inexperienced girl than to 
 have driven her from the protection 
 of her only relatives on account of 
 malicious gossip. But Ragaud did 
 not understand jesting ; he was, as the 
 saying runs, as stiff as a poker, and, 
 as soon as the wicked tongues com- 
 menced to wag about her, he said, 
 " There is no smoke without fire," 
 and closed his mind to all explana- 
 tions, and his door to the girl. Thus 
 had they acted towards Catharine, 
 without thinking that then she was 
 only giddy and coquettish faults 
 which might have been cured as 
 long as the soul was not spoiled. 
 The treatment was too harsh ; it 
 caused the flight to Paris, which 
 took place in a moment of anger and 
 spite, and all the misfortunes that 
 followed. In strict justice, the Ra- 
 gauds should in a measure make re- 
 paration for an action done with good 
 intentions, but which had ended 
 so badly. Our curd foresaw that 
 sooner or later they would be sorry 
 for it ; therefore^ in burdening them 
 with the child, he acted shrewdly, 
 but also with great fairness. I cer- 
 tainly will not blame him, nor you 
 either, I think. 
 
 IV. 
 
 From the day that poor Catharine's 
 child was installed in the house of 
 her relatives, there was a change in 
 Muiceron. Pieirrette no longer wept, 
 and, far from being grieved, as former- 
 ly, at the sight of other children, she 
 willingly drew them around her. On 
 Saturdays, when she baked her bread 
 for the week, she never failed to 
 make a large crumpet of wheaten 
 flour, beaten up with eggs, and a 
 bowl of curds and fresh cream, for 
 the sole purpose of regaling the 
 young ones of the neighborhood. 
 We need not inquire if, on these
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 evenings, the house was full. The 
 children were well satisfied, and their 
 mammas also ; for Saturday's supper 
 remained whole for Sunday, and, in 
 the meantime, the little rascals went 
 to bed gayer than usual, thanks to 
 a glass of white wine that watered 
 the crumpet and filled the measure 
 of joy in all those little heads. 
 
 It was also remarked that Ragaud's 
 jests were more frequent at the 
 meetings of the church wardens of 
 the parish on the appointed days 
 after Vespers. Sometimes he even 
 went off in the morning to his work 
 singing the airs of the country-dances, 
 which was a sure proof that his heart 
 was at peace ; for, by nature, he was 
 a man more serious than gay, and as 
 for singing, that was something quite 
 out of his usual habit. 
 
 These good people thus already 
 received a holy reward for their 
 generous conduct. According to the 
 old adage, " Contentment is better 
 than wealth " ; and now they, who 
 had so long possessed riches without 
 contentment, had the happiness of 
 enjoying both. Quite contrary to 
 many Christians, who imagine that 
 the good God owes them everything, 
 the Ragauds every evening thanked 
 Heaven for this increase of wealth. 
 Now, if gratitude is pleasing to men, 
 it is easy to believe that it draws 
 down blessings from on high; and 
 from day to day this could be clear- 
 ly seen at Muiceron. 
 
 Little Jean-Louis grew wonder- 
 fully, and gave good Pierrette neither 
 trouble nor care. At his age, chil- 
 dren only cry from hunger, and as 
 he, well fed and well cared for, had 
 nothing to complain of, it followed 
 that he grew up scarcely ever shed- 
 ding a tear. 
 
 When he was one year old, it 
 seemed that the good boiled goat's 
 milk was no longer to his taste, as he 
 put on a discontented look when he 
 
 saw the smoking bowl. Ragaud, one 
 evening, for a joke, put his glass to 
 the boy's lips, and, far from turning 
 his head, he came forward boldly, 
 and drank the cider like a man. 
 This highly delighted Master Ra- 
 gaud, who wished to try if a piece 
 of dry pork, in the shape of a rattle, 
 would please him as well ; but to 
 that Pierrette objected, maintaining 
 that a root of marsh-mallow was a 
 hundred times better, particularly as 
 the little fellow was getting his double 
 teeth. 
 
 " You wish to bring him up like a 
 woman," said Ragaud, shrugging his 
 shoulders; but, nevertheless, he let 
 the mistress have her own way. 
 
 There were no other disputes about 
 him until he had attained his third 
 year, for then his excellent health, 
 which had caused so much happi- 
 ness, was nothing in comparison with 
 the good instincts which commenced 
 to develop. He was lively and gen- 
 tle, chattered away delightfully, and 
 was always so obedient and tender, 
 that to pay him for his good behav- 
 ior, the Ragauds nearly killed him 
 with kindness. In regard to his ap- 
 pearance, I will tell you that in 
 height he surpassed most children of 
 his age, his hair was black and curly, 
 his eyes dark also and very bright. 
 With all this, he was not very hand- 
 some, as, growing so fast, he had kept 
 very thin ; but Pierrette said wisely, 
 he would have time to grow fat, and 
 since he ate, drank, and slept when 
 he was tired, there was nothing to 
 fear. 
 
 One thing will astonish you, that 
 neither of the Ragauds perceived for 
 an instant that the child was the 
 living image of poor Catharine Lu- 
 guet ; and still the likeness was so 
 striking, M. le Cure spoke of it in- 
 cessantly to Germaine, and expected 
 on every visit to Muiceron to be 
 embarrassed by some remark on th
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 subject. But whether the good people 
 had really forgotten their relative, or 
 did not wish by even pronouncing her 
 name to recall a sorrowful remem- 
 brance, certain it is that nothing in 
 their words or actions, which were 
 perfectly frank and simple, betrayed 
 in the slightest degree that they ever 
 thought of it. 
 
 About tjiat time, Pierrette com- 
 menced to be more uneasy, as Mas- 
 ter Jean-Louis often escaped on the 
 side of the stables, and delighted in 
 racing up and down the bank, bor- 
 dered with tall grass, of the stream 
 that ran behind the bleaching- 
 ground of Muiceron. With such 
 a bold boy, who would not lis- 
 ten to any warning, an accident very 
 often happens; therefore, the good 
 woman placed around his neck a 
 medal of S. Sylvain, in addition to 
 that of the Blessed Virgin Mary, 
 which he had worn ever since his 
 arrival at the farm. 
 
 S. Sylvain is a patron saint vene- 
 rated in our province, who won hea- 
 ven in leading the life of a peasant 
 like us. Pierrette had a great devo- 
 tion for him, and said that the saints 
 above remember with tenderness 
 those of their own former condition 
 on earth ; consequently, no one in 
 the good God's heaven could better 
 protect a child daily exposed to the 
 accidents of rural life. One day es- 
 pecially, when he wished to be very 
 active in helping his mother Pierrette 
 by putting little pieces of dry wood 
 in the fire, while she was soaking the 
 clothes in lye, a plank of the big tub 
 gave way all at once, and the boiling 
 water floated around the room, and 
 only stopped within half a foot of the 
 child, who might have been drowned 
 and scalded, in less time than it takes 
 to say it. Pierrette for two entire 
 days was so overcome she could 
 speak of nothing else. 
 
 In the same manner, once, when 
 
 Ragaud carried the little fellow with 
 him to the fields, he amused him by 
 placing him on one of the oxen ; bt t 
 the animal, tormented by the flies, 
 shook his head so roughly that his 
 rider, about as high as your boot, was 
 thrown on the ground ; but before any- 
 one could run to assist him he was 
 already standing, red, not with fear, 
 but with anger, and quickly revenged 
 himself on the beast by striking him 
 with a willow-wand that he used 
 for a whip, and which he had not let 
 go in his fall. Ragaud was terribly 
 frightened at the time, but afterwards 
 proudly related the adventure, and 
 said to his neighbors that his son, 
 Jean Louis, would be as brave a man 
 as General Hoche, the hero of the 
 war of La Vendee, and who, accord- 
 ing to the old men of the neighbor- 
 hood, never in his lifetime feared 
 either man or beast. 
 
 As for the resemblance to General 
 Hoche, Pierrette cared precious little, 
 not being the least warlike by nature. 
 Truth to say, I scarcely believe she 
 knew precisely who was this very 
 great personage, notwithstanding his 
 immense renown in the province ; 
 therefore, she simply contented her- 
 self with having a Mass of thanksgiv- 
 ing said in S. Sylvain's Chapel, think- 
 ing that his protection was worth 
 more than all the vanities of this world. 
 
 The great love of this good house- 
 hold for the little orphan increas- 
 ed day by day. Pierrette and her 
 husband accustomed themselves to 
 call him " My son" so often and so 
 sincerely that I do believe they real- 
 ly ended by fancying it was so. 
 The neighbors could do no less than 
 they; so that every where and by 
 every one he was called the Ragauds' 
 son so true it is that custom often 
 takes away reflection. 
 
 From that grew the idea that this 
 little mite would one day be the big 
 man of the neighborhood; and those
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 who thought they were making a 
 wise discovery, in supposing it would 
 be thus, fell into the intentions of the 
 Ragauds, as surely as the brook flows 
 into the river ; for at this same time, 
 one autumn evening, when the fire 
 burnt brightly on the hearth, Ragaud, 
 seated at table opposite his good 
 wife, commenced all at once to com- 
 pliment her talent for housekeeping, 
 praising everything around him, from 
 the walls and window-panes, glisten- 
 ing with cleanliness, to the chests 
 and benches, newly waxed once a 
 month. He took pleasure in recall- 
 ing his great happiness during the past 
 twenty years, attributing all his bless- 
 ings, after God, to the account of Pier- 
 rette's virtues ; and as, like the thread 
 in a needle, Jean Louis was sitting be- 
 tween them, eating his soup, he seized 
 him in his arms, and tossed him up 
 three times nearly to the rafters. 
 
 " You see, my son," said he, re- 
 seating himself, and still keeping the 
 boy on his knees, " you drew a 
 good number in the lottery ; for 
 although you came to us like the 
 down off the thistle, you have, never- 
 theless, a mother such as cannot be 
 found in a hundred leagues ; and as 
 for your father, my brave fellow, he 
 will leave you enough crowns to make 
 you as respected in life as though you 
 were a prefect." 
 
 " Happily," replied the wise Pier- 
 rette, " the little one is not old enough 
 to understand what you are talking 
 about ; for this, my dear husband, 
 is a very improper speech for the 
 child's ears. We would nil him 
 with vanity, and not only does pride 
 offend the good God, but it renders 
 a man very disagreeable to those 
 around him." 
 
 " You are always right," replied 
 Ragaud, without taking offence ; 
 * but a good fire, a good wife, money 
 honestly earned, and new cider 
 
 nothing like these for untying the 
 tongue and making it a little too 
 long. Come, go to bed, my Jeannet, 
 kiss your parents, and say your pray- 
 ers well ; to-morrow we will go to 
 gather the thatch in the fields near 
 Ordonniers, and if you only bring 
 me as much as will fill your apron, 
 you shall have two cents on Sunday 
 to buy a gingerbread." 
 
 " Very well," said Pierrette, laugh- 
 ing, " that will be a fortune which 
 will not make him too vain." 
 
 A little while afterwards, when they 
 were alone, the conversation was re- 
 commenced, but they proceeded regu- 
 larly about the business, and, finally, 
 debated the question as to how the will 
 should be drawn, according to law, 
 so as to leave Muiceron to the child. 
 The difficulty was that Ragaud knew 
 very little about writing in any shape, 
 and Pierrette nothing at all. They 
 talked away, without making any pro- 
 gress, far into the night, and at last 
 acknowledged they would have to 
 finish where they should have begun, 
 namely, by going next day to con- 
 sult Master Perdreau, the notary of 
 Val-Saint, on the subject. There- 
 upon, they went off well pleased to 
 sleep in their big bed, with the canopy 
 of yellow serge ; and as the next 
 morning the work of the thatching 
 pressed, on account of the rains which 
 were about to commence, Ragaud 
 postponed his trip to another day. 
 
 Now, the good God, who has 
 his own designs, permitted that it 
 should be entirely otherwise from 
 what these good people had intend- 
 ed, and in a manner so astonishing 
 that no one, no matter how wise, 
 could have foreseen it; for La Ra- 
 gaude, who had nearly completed her 
 forty-second year, became the follow- 
 ing year the mother of a beautiful 
 little girl, who was most fondly wel- 
 comed by the delighted parents.
 
 i6 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 v. 
 
 THOSE who are fond of singular 
 events in this world had here a chance 
 to be satisfied ; for, certainly, this 
 affair surpassed anything in the or- 
 dinary run. Pierrette quickly recov- 
 ered, and nursed her little one with- 
 out fatigue. Far from becoming 
 even the least pale or thin, it was 
 remarked, even by the envious and 
 there are always some of the tribe 
 around the happy that she was 
 rejuvenated, fresh as a cherry, and 
 the baby in her arms made her resem- 
 ble the good S. Anne, mother of our 
 Blessed Lady, whose chapel was 
 near our parish church. 
 
 Besides, the great esteem felt for 
 the Ragauds, their charity, honesty, 
 and well-known piety, caused it to be 
 acknowledged and it was true that 
 this new blessing, the choicest and 
 most unexpected they could have 
 desired, was the recompense of the 
 Lord God on account of little Jean- 
 Louis. M. le Cure said it to who- 
 ever would listen to him ; and, as we 
 have seen he was fond of repeating 
 proverbs, he did not fail to add : " If 
 there is one truth that each and 
 every one of us can prove if he wishes, 
 it is ' that a good action is never lost? 
 Now, if this is always true in regard 
 to men, judge if we should believe it 
 when the good God, all-powerful, is 
 our creditor !" 
 
 M. le Marquis de Val-Saint was 
 the first and most sincere in rejoicing 
 at the happiness of his good farmers. 
 Mademoiselle, his daughter, asked to 
 be godmother, and had made under 
 her own eyes, by her maids, a complete 
 
 outfit of fine Holland linen, of w tich 
 all the little garments were scalloped, 
 embroidered, and trimmed with lace 
 such as are only displayed in the 
 shop-windows of the city. 
 
 M. le Marquis naturally stood god- 
 father with mademoiselle, and, not to 
 be behind her in presents, ordered that, 
 on the day of the baptism, there should 
 be feasting and village-dances on the 
 lawn before the chateau. 
 
 It was a day to be remembered in 
 the neighborhood. As for the eating, 
 singing, and laughter, you can well 
 think nothing was wanting ; they 
 spoke of it for months afterwards, 
 Only one person wore a rather long 
 face, and that was our cure / not that 
 he was ever the enemy of pleasure 
 and enjoyment, but that, contrary to 
 his advice, M. le Marquis had three 
 casks of old wine, reserved for his 
 own table, tapped ; and the conse- 
 quence was that, out of two hundred 
 persons present, men, women, and 
 children, not one, towards twilight, 
 was able to walk straight on his legs. 
 
 Apart from that, everything passed 
 off splendidly ; and, to conclude, I will 
 tell you that they had awaited the 
 complete recovery of Mother Pier- 
 rette, so that she might be present 
 at the celebration with her little girl 
 in her arms ; which, to my mind, was 
 the prettiest part of the show. 
 
 The little Ragaudine had three 
 beautiful names Nicole-Eveline, af- 
 ter M. le Marquis and mademoiselle, 
 her god-parents ; and Jeanne, in ho- 
 nor of our great S. John the Baptist, 
 on whose feast she had the good for- 
 tune to be born. One fact, which
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 would have touched devout hearts 
 if they had known it, was that little 
 Jean-Louis had also come into the 
 world on S. John's day, four years 
 before. M. le Cure, who had it from 
 poor Catharine, but who could not 
 breathe a word of it, was nevertheless 
 so inspired by the thought that he 
 made at the baptism a speech which 
 drew all the handkerchiefs out of the 
 pockets ; and if I have one regret, it 
 is that I cannot give a full report of 
 his touching words. But I was not 
 born at that time, and my father, 
 from his great age, had forgotten 
 them when he related this story to 
 me. 
 
 If you fancy that this event affect- 
 ed in the least degree the condition 
 of Jean-Louis, you are vastly mista- 
 ken. True, there was no longer 
 thought of his inheriting Muiceron ; 
 but the tenderness and care of his good 
 parents were the same afterwards as 
 before. Pierrette would have thought 
 it a sin to have acted otherwise ; for 
 she was always the first to say : " It 
 was the boy's guardian angel that 
 obtained for me my little girl from 
 the good God." Ragaud thought the 
 same as his wife, but was a little more 
 anxious than she about the temporal 
 prospects of the boy. It was evident 
 that, between the fear of injuring 
 his daughter, and the dread of leav- 
 ing Jeannet in want, his good heart 
 did not know which side to turn. 
 Finally, in his embarrassment, he de- 
 termined to consult M. le Cure ; and 
 the good pastor, who had always an 
 answer ready, solved the difficulty in 
 fifteen minutes' conversation. Ac- 
 cording to his advice, it would suffice 
 to place aside every year a small sum, 
 drawn from the harvest of such and 
 such a field, and never to touch eith- 
 er capital or interest. In that way, 
 before twenty years, Master Jean- 
 Louis would find himself, without 
 any injury to the little girl, master of 
 
 a. nice little treasure, and capable, in 
 his turn, of being a land-owner. This 
 affair settled, Ragaud returned home 
 perfectly satisfied, and told the ,vhole 
 story to Pierrette, who highly approv- 
 ed of the step. 
 
 Thus, instead of one child at Mui- 
 ceron, there were two, and that was 
 all the difference. The little things 
 grew up calling themselves brother 
 and sister, there being nothing to 
 make them doubt but that it was 
 really so. Never were quarrelling 
 or bad words heard between them. 
 Ragaud often repeated to Jeannet 
 that, as he was the eldest, he should 
 live patiently and amicably with his 
 young sister; and Jeannet, from his 
 gentle heart and natural sweetness 
 of disposition, easily put the counsel 
 in practice. 
 
 It is commonly said that girls are 
 more forward than boys, as much in 
 body as in mind ; and another proof 
 of the truth of this remark was i- 
 dent as the Ragaud children grew 
 up. At six years old, the little girl 
 was so bright, so cunning, so bold, and 
 had such a strong constitution, you 
 would have thought her the twin- 
 sister of Jean-Louis ; but with all 
 that, there was no resemblance, either 
 in face or disposition, even though 
 they say that, by living together, peo- 
 ple often grow to look alike. Jean- 
 ne Ragaud had very light hair, was- 
 joyous and petulant, a little quick- 
 tempered and rough in her actions, 
 like her father ; Jean had a thought- 
 ful look, and although he was always 
 ready to play, his tastes were rather 
 quiet. They both loved to lead 
 the sheep to pasture in the field 
 near La Range; but when it was 
 the turn of the little boy, you would 
 have said the sheep took' care of 
 themselves, so quiet was it around 
 them ; and the reason of this was, 
 that the shepherd was stretched in 
 the wood, in the shade of an old
 
 IS 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 willow-tree, face to the sky, watch- 
 ing the clouds pass over his head. 
 Very different was it when Jeannette, 
 armed with a switch, left the farm, 
 driving the flock before her in the 
 noisiest style; she drove off the dog, 
 ran faster than he after the sheep 
 which tried to get away from her; 
 and if she ever sat down, it was only 
 because she was forced to do so 
 from want of breath. As for the 
 clouds, little did she care for all that 
 Jean pretended to see in them the 
 beautiful and moving things that 
 kept him lying on the grass for entire 
 hours, silently gazing with fixed eyes 
 on the blue sky above him. She 
 obstinately declared that a cloudy 
 sky pleased her more than one en- 
 tirely blue, because generally clouds 
 brought rain ; and nothing, according 
 to her taste, was more delightful than 
 a good soaking, which obliged the 
 shepherdess and sheep to return 
 together at full gallop to the house, 
 running and paddling through the 
 pools of muddy water. 
 
 This divergence of character grew 
 more and more perceptible every 
 day, and led Pierrette to exclaim : 
 
 " Come next S. Martin's day, and 
 if this continues, my little chickens, 
 I will have you change clothes ; 
 for, in truth, I begin to see that I 
 was mistaken, and that Jeannette 
 is the boy, and Louisieau the little 
 girl." 
 
 These words did not fall on the 
 ear of a deaf person ; for, after that, 
 La Ragaudine became bolder and 
 more resolute than ever. She dom- 
 ineered over father and mother, who 
 were weak enough to be amused by 
 it; and as for Jean-Louis, when he 
 ventured to offer a little friendly ad- 
 vice, she replied proudly, with her 
 chin in the air : 
 
 " Hold your tongue; mother said I 
 was the boy. " 
 
 Thereupon good Jeannet was terri- 
 
 bly confused, and could not find 
 words to reply. 
 
 Soon the time came when they 
 must think of school. In those days, 
 there were no parish schools taught 
 by the Sisters and Christian Brothers, 
 as now. Our good curt, through 
 pure zeal, had taken charge of the 
 boys' education, and Germaine did 
 the same for the girls. Thus the 
 Ragaud children did not have to 
 accustom themselves to new faces 
 in this little change of their everyday 
 life. But old Germaine could not 
 say as much; for until then, having 
 only taught the village girls, who 
 were very obedient, even though a 
 little stupid, she thought the devil 
 himself possessed the school the 
 day that Jeannette put foot in it. 
 What tricks and drolleries this little 
 witch of eight years invented to dis- 
 tract the others would be difficult 
 to enumerate. Threats, scolding, 
 shameful punishments, had no effect. 
 At the end of a fortnight, she had 
 received all the bad marks of the 
 class, and the fool's cap appeared to 
 be her ordinary head-dress, so that 
 the greatest wonder was if she by 
 chance was seen without it. 
 
 Jean-Louis, in the adjoining room, 
 accomplished wonders. In less than 
 four months, he learned to read and 
 write; as for his catechism, he knew 
 it so well he could explain it like a 
 priest. Never did he go to sleep 
 without knowing his lessons for the 
 next day ; so that M. le Cure held 
 him in high favor, and taught him 
 many things that are found in books, 
 but which are not generally known 
 in the country. 
 
 Thus it turned out that all the 
 praises and dainties fell to the lot of 
 Jeannet as a reward for his good con- 
 duct. Every Thursday he returned 
 to the farm, holding up with both 
 hands the front of his blouse, filled 
 with fruit and candies of Germaine's
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 manufacture. Jeannette kept close 
 to his side, not at all displeased at 
 having nothing you can well imag- 
 ine why. The cunning monkey knew 
 that hardly would they have turned 
 on their heels, before Jean-Louis 
 would open his blouse, and say, 
 " Here, little pet, choose.'' 
 
 So that, without giving herself the 
 least trouble, that imp of a Jeannette 
 feasted at will on the choicest mor- 
 sels. Our curt was not long duped ; 
 without scolding Jean-Louis, who by 
 acting in tl.at manner only proved 
 his good heart, he warned Germaine 
 that she must try some other 
 means of correcting the headstrong 
 Jeannette, who could not be allowed 
 to grow up with such perverse habits. 
 Germaine, very much hurt, replied 
 that she had used every punishment 
 unsuccessfully, except whipping, which 
 she had never dared. 
 
 "Well," said the cure, "the next 
 time she misbehaves, whip her, Ger- 
 maine. I authorize you to do it." 
 
 They had not to wait long. One 
 very rainy day, Jeannette managed 
 to arrive the last at school, and seeing 
 all the children's wooden shoes and 
 leather leggings ranged outside of the 
 door, she gathered up the greater 
 part of them in her skirt, and ran off 
 to the well, that she might throw 
 them to the bottom, running the risk 
 of tumbling in herself at the same 
 time. Germaine, who was still light- 
 footed, and feared something wrong 
 was contemplated, spied her through 
 the window, rushed after her, and 
 caught her just in time to prevent 
 the act. 
 
 " This is the way," cried she, holding 
 the young one tightly by the arm 
 ' this is the way you, wicked good-for- 
 nothing child, employ your time, in- 
 stead of learning your lessons !" 
 
 For the first time, Jeannette, in 
 spite of her daring spirit, was so over- 
 come she could not say a word in 
 
 defence. She saw quickly that she 
 would be well punished, and returned 
 to the class very downcast. 
 
 Germaine commenced by making 
 her pupil kneel in the middle of the 
 room, and then, seating herself in her 
 straw arm-chair, with a severe and 
 troubled look, related the whole af- 
 fair, taking care to make it appear in 
 its worst light. 
 
 " Now," added she, looking around 
 at her little audience, who showed a 
 just indignation, " if I ask you, my 
 children, what punishment Jeanne 
 Ragaud deserves for having attempt- 
 ed to enjoy herself in such a mali- 
 cious and shameful manner, you will 
 doubtless answer that I should ex- 
 pel her from the class; but do you 
 think that would be a great sorrow 
 for a girl so careless of her duties ? 
 No, no, I say that would only please 
 her; and therefore, Jeanne Ragaud, 
 you will immediately receive a severe 
 chastisement, but which, nevertheless, 
 is not equal to your great fault." 
 
 Thereupon Germaine readjusted 
 her spectacles, drew from the bottom 
 of her big work-bag a leather whip 
 with several thongs, and Jeannette, 
 more dead than alive with anger and 
 shame, received in full view the well- 
 deserved punishment. 
 
 She neither cried, nor wept, nor 
 made any protestation, not even an 
 attempt to defend herself; but she 
 did not ask pardon either, and sat 
 straight up on her bench, whiter than 
 Mother Germaine's cap. It was the 
 only day they had ever seen her 
 quiet and good. 
 
 Towards evening, Jeannet, as usual, 
 took his post where he could meet 
 her, that they might return home to- 
 gether; but great was his surprise 
 to see the little thing advance with 
 measured steps, instead of running 
 and bounding according to her cus- 
 tom. What astonished him still fur- 
 ther was that she neither spoke nor
 
 20 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 laughed. Her little face was all 
 changed ; but whether from grief or 
 anger he could not discover. It end- 
 ed by making him feel very anxious, 
 as he feared she was ill. 
 
 " What is the matter ?" he asked gen- 
 tly. " Surely, Jeannette, something 
 troubles you ; for this is the first time 
 in my life I have ever seen you 
 sad." 
 
 The child turned away her head, 
 and pretended to look at the trees. 
 
 " You will not answer me," con- 
 tinued Jean-Louis ; " and yet I only 
 question you from pure love, not 
 from curiosity. When one is trou- 
 bled, it is a relief to speak to a friend. 
 Am I not strong enough to defend 
 you by tongue and arm, in case you 
 need it ?" 
 
 " Nothing is the matter," replied 
 Jeannette. " What do you fancy 
 ails me? Let us hurry, it is 'grow- 
 ing late ; the crows are beginning to 
 flutter around the steeple." 
 
 " I am not thinking now about 
 the crows, nor you either, Jeannet- 
 te," said he, taking in his own her 
 little, trembling hand; "and as for 
 going faster, that is not possible ; we 
 are already walking at such a rate 
 we can scarcely breathe." 
 
 Jeanne stopped short, and quickly 
 drew away her hand. 
 
 " Then, don't go any further," cri- 
 ed she in a rebellious tone. 
 
 " Come, now, be good ; we can't 
 think of stopping here. Why do you 
 speak to me so roughly? Don't 
 you know that I am your friend and 
 your brother ?" 
 
 "When you will know what has 
 happened," replied she impatiently, 
 " well then then " 
 
 "Then I will console you as 
 well as I can, my Jeannette." 
 
 "Oh! yes, but you can't do it, 
 Jean-Louis; in my trouble nobody 
 can console me." 
 
 "Let us see," said he. 
 
 " There is nothing to see," she 
 cried. " I won't tell you anything." 
 
 "Then it will be difficult," he re- 
 plied sadly. " Jeannette, if I were 
 unhappy, I would not make such a 
 fuss about telling you." 
 
 They continued on in silence. 
 When they reached the top of the 
 hill in the meadow of Fauche, from 
 which could be seen the buildings 
 of Muiceron, Jeannette suddenly 
 stopped, and all the anger heaped 
 up in her little heart melted into 
 sobs. 
 
 " What will mother say when she 
 sees you return with red eyes ?" said 
 good Jeannet, terribly distressed. " I 
 beg of you, my darling, speak to me ; 
 you would never cry like this for 
 nothing." 
 
 " O Jean-Louis ! I am so un- 
 happy," she cried, throwing herself 
 in his arms; "and if they make me 
 go back to school, I will certainly 
 die." 
 
 " Now, stop ; don't cry any more. 
 You shall not go back," said he, kiss- 
 ing her; " for none of us wish to see 
 you die." 
 
 Jeannette this time did not need 
 urging, but frankly related all her 
 wrongs and the affair of the whip. 
 Jean-Louis for the moment was so 
 furious he would willingly have 
 beaten Germaine ; but after a little 
 reflection, he thought that after all 
 the correction was not altogether 
 unjust. 
 
 He spoke wisely to the little thing, 
 and succeeded in calming her in a 
 measure; but he could not make her 
 change her mind about returning 
 to school. On this point it was as 
 difficult to make an impression as 
 on a stone wall. 
 
 " What will we do ?" said he. " For 
 you see, Jeannette, father has al- 
 ready received so many complaints 
 about you he will most assuredly 
 not consent to let you remain idle
 
 The Farm of Muiceron 
 
 21 
 
 at the farm. To-morrow we will 
 leave without saying a word. Do 
 what I tell you; say your prayers 
 well to-night ; and as, after all, you 
 were a good deal in fault, the best 
 thing will be to ask Germaine's par- 
 don, which she will willingly grant." 
 
 " I would rather run off into the 
 woods," cried the rebellious child. 
 " I would rather be eaten up by 
 the wolves." 
 
 " No, no, that is foolish," said he 
 " they would hunt for you, and the 
 woods around Val-Saint are not 
 so big but what they could find 
 you; and then everybody would 
 know your fault, and father would 
 be so angry." 
 
 " Very well," said she resolutely. 
 " I will go see my godmother." 
 
 " That can easily be done," repli- 
 ed Jeannet ; " and it is a very good 
 idea. Dry up your tears now; to- 
 morrow morning we will go together 
 and see mademoiselle ; ?he will 
 know what to do." 
 
 This agreement made, Jeanne's 
 great sorrow was quickly dissipated. 
 She recovered her good humor, her 
 lively manner, and was as full of fun 
 and frolic as ever. The grief of child- 
 ren is like the clouds in the sky a 
 mere nothing causes them, a nothing 
 scatters them ; and the sun appears 
 more beautiful than ever after a 
 shower. Jean and Jeannette reach- 
 ed the house, running together hand 
 in hand. Neither Ragaud nor Pier- 
 rette suspected anything ; and nev- 
 ertheless, that night, without any 
 one even dreaming of it, the whim 
 of a little eight-year-old witch led to 
 many new events which changed 
 the life of our good friends, as you 
 will see in the end. 
 
 VI. 
 
 It is time that I should tell you 
 about the chateau of our village, and 
 of its worthy lord, M. le Marquis de 
 
 Val-Saint. The chateau was an im- 
 posing edifice, so high and wide, with 
 such thick walls, and so well sur- 
 rounded with deep ditches filled with 
 running water, that my father truly 
 said such a building had nothing to 
 fear from either time or man. Before 
 the great Revolution, our lords lived 
 in great style. I have heard it said 
 that one of them, who was a great 
 warrior, could lead into the field more 
 than a thousand soldiers, all of them 
 his tenants, armed and equipped at 
 his own expense. What makes me 
 believe this was not false is the fact 
 that there still remains in front of the 
 chateau a great lawn, flanked on each 
 side by buildings of such length 
 they must surely have been used for 
 barracks. But as to that, he that 
 chooses may believe ; I cannot posi- 
 tively affirm it, and, besides, it has 
 very little bearing on the story of 
 Jean-Louis. 
 
 As was to have been expected, our 
 lords were driven away at the time 
 when the masters had to fly. that 
 their valets could take their places. 
 Thank God ! this fine condition of 
 things did not last long. At the end 
 of a few years, the legitimate owner 
 of the chateau of Val-Saint, who was 
 a little child at the time the family 
 left France, was put in possession of 
 his property. He afterwards mar- 
 ried, and had an only daughter, the 
 godmother of Jeannette. 
 
 Never was there seen a happier 
 family or better Christians; from 
 father to son, they were models. M. 
 le Marquis always remembered the 
 time when he was in poverty and 
 exile, obliged to earn his bread as a 
 simple workman. It made him kind 
 and compassionate to the poor, and, 
 consequently, he was adored by all 
 around him ; and I have heard that 
 Madame la Marquise even surpassed 
 him in excellence and charity. Fre- 
 quently in the winter she was seen
 
 22 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 visiting the cottages, followed by her 
 servants carrying bundles of wood 
 and bowls of soap, which she loved 
 to distribute herself to the most 
 needy. 
 
 Contrary to many great ladies, who 
 flock to the city for amusement and 
 gaiety in the winter, she made her 
 husband promise that they would 
 remain at Val-Saint during the entire 
 year; for, said she, "in summer 
 nearly every one has what is neces- 
 sary ; but in winter there is much suf- 
 fering among the poor, and if we are 
 not at home to succor and relieve the 
 indigent, who will replace us ?" You 
 will agree with me that she spoke as 
 a true Christian ; and you will also 
 allow that if all our fine ladies 
 thought and acted in like manner, 
 they would gain in the benedictions 
 of the poor what they might lose in 
 pleasure, and it would certainly be 
 for the best. Between ourselves, M. 
 le Marquis did not give in very wil- 
 lingly to this proposition ; it was not 
 that the dear man was fond of foolish 
 dissipation ; but after passing through 
 so much trouble, and having the 
 happiness to see his true king once 
 more on the French throne, he could 
 not resist the temptation of going to 
 Paris occasionally to salute him, and 
 was very desirous that madame 
 should appear at court. She always 
 excused herself on account of her 
 delicate health ; and this reason, alas ! 
 was only too true. Besides, she was 
 quick-witted, like all women, and, 
 without saying anything, saw that a 
 new revolution was not far off. M. 
 le Marquis, on the contrary, boldly 
 maintained that, as his dear masters 
 had only returned by a miracle, 
 they would not be off very soon 
 again. 1830 proved that our good 
 lady was right. After that, there was 
 no further talk about going to Paris ; 
 but it was very sad at the chateau. 
 M. le Marquis became gloomy and 
 
 half sick from grief, and rnadame, 
 who had not been well for a long 
 time, felt that the blow would kill 
 her; in fact, she died shortly after- 
 wards, leaving a little daughter, ten 
 years old, and poor monsieur, very 
 lonely in his fine chateau. 
 
 As he feared God, he knew that a 
 brave Christian should not sink under 
 trials. By degrees he appeared re- 
 signed to his fate, and resumed his 
 ordinary occupations. Besides the 
 care of his large estate, he hunted, 
 fished, and visited his good neighbors. 
 He gave large sums for the resto- 
 ration of our church and several 
 chapels in the neighborhood. All 
 this, and his great watchfulness over 
 the peasants who were his tenants, 
 made his time pass usefully. The 
 evenings were rather wearisome. Our 
 curd noticed it, and frequently visited 
 the chateau towards dusk, so that he 
 could entertain him with the little 
 news of the district, and read the 
 public journals to him. They dis- 
 cussed politics. When I say dis- 
 cussed, it is only a way of speaking, 
 as the curt and his lord always were 
 of the same opinion ; but they could 
 regret the past together, and build up 
 new hopes for the future ; and in that 
 manner bed-time came before they 
 knew it. 
 
 Little mademoiselle was brought up 
 very seriously, without companions 
 of her own age, or any amusements 
 suitable to her rank. She was under 
 the care of an old governess, named 
 Dame Berthe, who was tall and se- 
 vere in appearance, very well educa- 
 ted, but so soft-hearted in regard to 
 her pupil she always said atnen to all 
 her caprices, only regretting she could 
 not guess them beforehand. 
 
 M. le Marquis exercised no con- 
 trol over his daughter ; his great con- 
 fidence in Dame Berthe made him 
 refer everything to her. All that he 
 asked of mademoiselle was that she
 
 The Farm of M nicer on. 
 
 should always look well and happy ; 
 and in these two respects he had every 
 reason to thank the good God. As 
 for the rest, he used to say it would 
 take a very skilful person to find any- 
 thing to reprimand in such a sweet, 
 good girl; and there'he was right. 
 
 All the petting in the world could 
 not spoil such a lovely nature, and 
 every year she became more attrac- 
 tive. You may tell me there was 
 nothing very wonderful in that, since 
 she had all she desired. I will an- 
 swer that, on the contrary, many in 
 her place would have become for 
 that very reason wicked and disa- 
 greeable. But mademoiselle inherit- 
 ed from her departed mother, besides 
 a gentle and sweet face, a soul still 
 more gentle and sweet. She would 
 not have hurt a fly; her temper was 
 so equal it resembled the tranquil 
 water of a lake ; she knew that she 
 was a rich heiress, and remained sim- 
 ple in her manners, never haughty 
 to others, always ready to be of ser- 
 vice, and succeeded wonderfully in 
 calming monsieur, her father, who, 
 notwithstanding his goodness, was 
 liable sometimes to be carried away 
 with anger. Finally, I can say, with- 
 out extravagance, that this last 
 daughter of our dear lords had, by 
 the grace of God, all the virtues of 
 her race united in her. Nevertheless, 
 as nothing on earth is absolutely per- 
 fect, I must add that she had two 
 defects one of body ; for when she 
 was approaching her fifteenth year, 
 having grown too fast, it was very 
 evident that her spine was becom- 
 ing curved; and notwithstanding the 
 greatest medical skill was employed, 
 she became fearfully crooked. M. 
 le Marquis was greatly afflicted ; but 
 as for her, she quickly made her de- 
 cision. 
 
 " No one will want me," she said 
 sweetly ; " and so, dear father, I will 
 always remain with you." 
 
 This idea consoled her perfectly. 
 Being lively and gay, she laughed 
 about her deformity so pleasantly 
 that the people of the chateau 
 ended by thinking it not th-e slight- 
 est misfortune, quite as an acci- 
 dent of the very least importance; 
 and, far from no one seeking her 
 hand, the suitors came in procession 
 to ask the honor of alliance with her. 
 She was too keen not to see that her 
 great wealth was the principal cause 
 of their eagerness, and consequently 
 refused all offers of marriage firmly 
 and decidedly; and on that point 
 the whole world could not make her 
 change her mind. 
 
 Her second defect was of the heart; 
 her great good-nature made her weak, 
 as she never knew how to refuse 
 when any one wept before her ; neith- 
 er could she deny herself anything 
 where her innocent whims and capri- 
 ces were in question. It was certain- 
 ly a fault; for having in her own 
 hands wealth, power, and no superior 
 to control her, you can imagine that 
 her kindness of heart would make 
 her liable to fall frequently in the 
 pathway of life, and drag others after 
 her. 
 
 Now we will again take up the 
 story of the little Ragaudins at the 
 time when we left them. 
 
 You will remember that the foolish 
 little Jeannette was resolved not to 
 return to school, from shame of the 
 whipping she had received that day, 
 and was determined to go with the 
 willing Jean-Louis, and complain to 
 her godmother. They left the 
 farm the following morning at the 
 usual hour, passed right by the 
 priest's house, and slowly ascended 
 the slope before the chateau. 
 
 Mademoiselle had just come in 
 from Mass, and was sitting in the 
 parlor of the grand tower that over- 
 looked the whole country. Dame 
 Berthe was preparing her breakfast ;
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 for although there were in the ante- 
 room four or five big valets, who 
 passed their time in gossiping for 
 want of work, she thought no one 
 but herself was capable of pouring 
 the chocolate into the large silver 
 cup, and presenting it to her dear 
 mistress. Mademoiselle, as it hap- 
 pened, felt a little bored that morning, 
 and gently reproached Dame Berthe 
 for not having found something to 
 amuse her. 
 
 " If I were not eighteen years old," 
 said she, throwing herself in her big 
 arm-chair, " 1 would willingly play 
 with my doll. You have done well, 
 my poor Berthe; I feel like a little 
 girl, and mourn for my playthings. 
 What can you invent to-day ? Fa- 
 ther went away last evening. I am 
 too tired to walk ; tell me a story. . ." 
 
 Dame Berthe thought a moment; 
 but in regard to stories, she scarcely 
 knew any but those she had told 
 and retold a hundred times. Mercy 
 knows, that was not astonishing ; two 
 persons who are always together, 
 know the same things, and have 
 never anything new to tell each 
 other 1 . 
 
 Mademoiselle looked at her gov- 
 erness laughingly, and took an inno- 
 cent delight in witnessing her em- 
 barrassment. It was just at this 
 moment that the Ragaud children 
 emerged from the chestnut grove 
 before the chateau, and advanced 
 straight to the bridge that led to the 
 grand entrance. 
 
 Mademoiselle, who was rather 
 near-sighted, scarcely distinguished 
 the little things; but she heard the 
 wooden shoes, which went click-clack 
 on the stone bridge, and requested 
 Dame Berthe to see who it could be. 
 
 " It is little Jeanne of Muiceron, 
 and her brother, Jean-Louis, who 
 have doubtless come to make you a 
 visit," she replied ; " for they are in 
 their Sunday clothes " 
 
 Here the good lady was mistaken ; 
 for Pierrette held the holiday clothes 
 under lock and key, and would not 
 let them be worn on a week-day 
 without explanation. 
 
 Mademoiselle rose up joyfully; she 
 dearly loved her god-daughter and 
 all the Ragaud family, and. more 
 than that, in her frame of mind, it 
 was an amusement that came like a 
 gift from heaven. 
 
 " Make them come in, poor little 
 things," said she ; " and I beg of you, 
 Berthe, to run to the kitchen, and 
 order cakes and hot milk, as I wish 
 them to breakfast with me." 
 
 Jean-Louis was the first to enter 
 the parlor. Jeannette kept behind 
 him, much less assured than you 
 would have imagined. Until now she 
 had scarcely ever seen her mistress, 
 except on Sunday, when coming out 
 from High Mass. Twice a year, on 
 New Year's day and the anniversary 
 of Jeannette's baptism, all the farm 
 came in great ceremony to present 
 their respects to monsieur and made- 
 moiselle. Besides this, the visits to 
 the chateau were very rare ; and to 
 come alone, of their own free will, 
 and clandestinely, was something en- 
 tirely out of the usual run. Jeannette 
 began to understand all this, and felt 
 more like crying than talking. 
 
 Happily, mademoiselle took the 
 thing quite naturally, and asked no 
 questions. She kissed and caressed 
 her god-daughter, seated her on her 
 lap, and petted her so much that for 
 the first half-hour the little thing had 
 only permission to open her mouth 
 that the bonbons could be put in. 
 
 She thus had time to regain confi- 
 dence, and Jean-Louis, who feared to 
 hear her scolded, recovered his spirits. 
 Notwithstanding all this, both were 
 slightly overcome when mademoi- 
 selle, after breakfast, suddenly asked 
 them if they had not some favor to 
 ask, promising to grant any request
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 on account of the trouble they had 
 taken in coming to visit her. 
 
 This was' the critical moment. 
 Jeannet became red with embarrass- 
 ment, and the little girl appeared stu- 
 pefied. Dame Berthe gave her a 
 slight tap on the cheek, to encourage 
 her not to be ashamed before such a 
 good godmother; but that did not 
 untie her tongue. 
 
 " Speak now," said Jeannet, push- 
 ing her with his elbow. 
 
 " Speak yourself," she replied in a 
 whisper. " I don't know what to say." 
 
 " What is it that is so difficult to 
 obtain ?" asked mademoiselle. " Is it 
 something beyond my power ?" 
 
 " Oh ! no, no," said Jean-Louis. 
 " If mademoiselle wished, she has 
 only to say a word . . ." 
 
 " I will say it, my child ; but still, 
 I must know what it is about." 
 
 " Very well, mademoiselle, this is 
 it Jeanette does not wish to return 
 to school." 
 
 " She must be verylearned, then," re- 
 plied mademoiselle, smiling. " Come 
 here, Jeanne; read me a page out 
 of this big book." 
 
 Only think of the blank amaze- 
 ment and terror of Jeannette at that 
 moment ! She did not know A from 
 B, and found herself caught like a 
 mouse in a trap. One last resource 
 was left it was to burst into tears. 
 This was quickly done, and she was 
 heard sobbing behind her godmother's 
 arm-chair, where she had hidden 
 herself at the first mention of read- 
 ing- 
 Mademoiselle, already very much 
 moved, profited by this incident, and 
 asked an explanation of the whole 
 affair, which Jeannet related, trying 
 his best to excuse the little thing. 
 Mademoiselle was very much amused 
 at the recital, and was weak enough, 
 instead of scolding Jeannette, to 
 praise her for her spirit. She replaced 
 her on her lap, wiped her tears, and, 
 
 without further reflection, decided the 
 case in her favor. 
 
 " But," said she, " I do not wish 
 my god-daughter to be as ignorant 
 as a dairy-maid. Isn't that true, 
 Jeanne ? You will nofmake me blush 
 for you? I don't want you to go any 
 longer to Germaine's school, but it is 
 on condition that you be a good girl, 
 and learn to read and write. I will 
 teach you myself; how will you like 
 that ?" 
 
 " O godmother !" cried the little 
 one, enchanted. 
 
 " Very well," replied mademoi- 
 selle ; " then it is all arranged. Jean- 
 Louis will return to Muiceron to tell 
 your parents, and in future I will 
 take care of you and teach you." 
 
 And it was thus that the good 
 young lady, without understanding 
 the consequence of her act, in an 
 instant changed the destiny of 
 Jeanne Ragaud. Dame Berthe 
 dared not object, although she saw 
 at a glance there was much to blame 
 in this decision. " Indeed, where the 
 goat is tied, there he should browse," 
 said our curt. Jeanne, the child of 
 peasants, should have remained a 
 peasant, instead of becoming the 
 plaything of a marquise. But made- 
 moiselle's intention was not bad ; and, 
 for the time being, to have taken away 
 her distraction would have been cruel, 
 and Dame Berthe, although very 
 wise, had not the courage to do it. 
 
 VII. 
 
 In the village, every one had his 
 own idea on the subject. The Ra- 
 gauds were happy, and rather proud ; 
 M. le Cure shrugged his shoulders, 
 keeping his remarks for a later pe- 
 riod ; Germaine was silent ; Jean- 
 Louis willingly sacrificed the com- 
 pany of his little sister for what he 
 thought her greater good; and, for 
 the rest of the people, some said it
 
 26 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 was foolish, others that the Ragauds 
 were always lucky. 
 
 Jeannette was puffed up with joy 
 and pride. It is justice to say that 
 in a little while she became another 
 child; her mind was so well occu- 
 pied she lost all her wilfulness, de- 
 voted herself to her studies, and was 
 no longer disobedient and rebellious. 
 M. le Marquis, enchanted to see his 
 daughter so happy in her new duties, 
 cheerfully approved of the measure, 
 and declared the chateau was a dif- 
 ferent place after this humming-bird's 
 warbling was heard in the house. 
 
 As long as the summer lasted, the 
 thing went on without great incon- 
 venience, as the little one often went 
 home to sleep, and thus did not 
 entirely lose sight of her first destiny ; 
 but with the bad weather, made- 
 moiselle feared she might take cold 
 by being so much exposed, and sent 
 word to the Ragauds that she would 
 keep her all the time. 
 
 Henceforward Jeannette was treat- 
 ed like a daughter of the chateau. 
 She had her own little room, well 
 warmed, and a servant to obey her 
 orders; her hair was braided in 
 tresses that hung below her waist, 
 which soon made her discover that 
 she had the longest and thickest hair 
 of any child in the village. Her cos- 
 tume was also changed. She had 
 fine merino dresses, prunella shoes 
 with rosettes, and the calico apron, 
 with big pockets, was replaced by a 
 little silk affair, which only served to 
 look coquettish. In the morning 
 she read with her godmother, or em- 
 broidered at her side; after dinner 
 she drove out in an open carriage, 
 and on Sundays assisted at Mass and 
 Vespers, kneeling in the place re- 
 served for the chateau, whilst her 
 parents remained at the lower end of 
 the nave, admiring her from a dis- 
 tance. 
 
 In the village were some sensible 
 
 people, who openly condemned the 
 whole proceeding ; especially Jacques 
 Michou, formerly a comrade in the 
 same regiment with Ragaud, and his 
 great friend, who one day, in virtue of 
 his long friendship, ventured a re- 
 monstrance on the subject. 
 
 "You see," said he to Ragaud, 
 " the preferences of great ladies never 
 last long. Suppose mademoiselle 
 marries, or takes another caprice, 
 what will become of Jeanne, with 
 the habits of a nobleman's daughter ? 
 She will not be able to wear wooden 
 shoes or dress in serge; and her 
 stomach will reject the pork, and 
 cabbage, and rye bread. As for her 
 mind, it will be pretty difficult ever 
 to make her feel like a peasant again. 
 Believe what I say, Ragaud, take 
 your daughter home; later she will 
 Jhank you, when her reason shall 
 have been matured." 
 
 It was certainly wise counsel ; but 
 Ragaud had two reasons, sufficiently 
 good in his opinion, to prevent his 
 accepting such advice. In the first 
 place, he thought it a great honor to 
 see his daughter the friend and com- 
 panion of M. le Marquis. This came 
 from the heart on one side, as he was 
 devoted body and soul to the good 
 masters who had made his fortune; 
 but I would not swear, on the other 
 side, that it was not mingled with a 
 good deal of pride. Old Ragaud 
 was easily puffed up with vanity, and 
 sometimes at the wrong time, as will 
 be seen in the sequel. 
 The second reason was, he had 
 long been persuaded that made- 
 moiselle led too secluded a life. 
 
 " So many crowns, and so few 
 amusements," he often said. " Poor, 
 dear soul ! it must be hard for her." 
 
 Therefore, he regarded as a fortu- 
 nate stroke her love for Jeannette; 
 and if it would have drawn down the 
 lightning from heaven on the roof of 
 Muiceron, he could not, as much
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 from conscience as from pity, have 
 deprived mademoiselle of the daily 
 pleasure that gave the busy-bodies 
 so much to talk about. And then, 
 it must be acknowledged that even 
 among our most intelligent farmers 
 there prevails a pernicious mania, 
 which pushes them to elevate their 
 children above themselves. They 
 thus act contrary to the designs of 
 God, who lets the seed fall where 
 the tree should grow ; and against 
 themselves, as they are often, in the 
 end, humiliated by what should have 
 been their glory. But what can you 
 expect ? A man is a man. 
 
 You cannot pour more water in a 
 pitcher than it will hold, and in a 
 head more truth than it can under- 
 stand. 
 
 Ragaud was ill at ease when he 
 perceived mademoiselle's splendid 
 white horses draw up before the 
 church door. Only fancy that before 
 the' eyes of the entire parish those 
 fine horses were used as much for 
 Jeannette as for the daughter of M. 
 le Marquis! It was precisely on a 
 Sunday, a little before High Mass, 
 that our friend, Jacques Michou, had 
 offered his good advice ; the moment 
 was unpropitious, and Ragaud thus 
 replied to his old comrade : 
 
 " Friend Jacques, I thank you for 
 your words, as they are said with 
 good intention; but I nevertheless 
 believe that I have not arrived at 
 my age without knowing how to 
 manage my own affairs ; which I say 
 without wishing to offend you. As 
 for dressing in serge, my daughter, 
 being my only child, will have enough 
 money to buy silk dresses if she 
 should desire them; and that will 
 not diminish her wealth. As for the 
 pork, do you* think it never appears 
 on the tables of the nobility ? Who 
 knows to the contrary better than I ? 
 Twice a year M. le Marquis has a 
 supply from Pierrette. Thus, my 
 
 daughter will not lose at the chateau 
 the taste of the meals at the farm. 
 If we speak of rye bread, which is 
 certainly the ordinary country food, 
 we have ours half mixed with flour, 
 that makes the bread as fine as the 
 best made in the city. I can tell 
 you that mademoiselle will not refuse 
 it to Jeannette, as she often eats it 
 herself; in proof of which she fre- 
 quently sends to Muiceron for some, 
 without inquiring whether the flour 
 is fresh or stale. So you may rest 
 quiet, and let each one act as he 
 pleases." 
 
 And so, you see, without being im- 
 polite, a man can be made to feel his 
 advice is despised. 
 
 We will now, if you please, leave 
 Jeannette to parade her fine dresses 
 in the chateau, like the linnets that 
 sing and hop in the sun, never car- 
 ing for sportsmen or nets, and return 
 to Muiceron and Jean-Louis. 
 
 I think the dear fellow thought 
 pretty much as Jacques Michou in 
 relation to the little one ; but it was 
 in the secret of his heart, and, as his 
 friends appeared happy, he asked 
 nothing more. His character as a 
 child, so gentle and devoted, did not 
 change as he grew up. Different 
 from Jeannette, who became a young 
 lady without learning much, he re- 
 mained a peasant, but advanced in 
 knowledge like a schoolmaster. His 
 love of books did not interfere with 
 his rustic labors. After one year in 
 class, M. le Cure was obliged to teach 
 him alone, as he knew too much to 
 go with the others. But as Ragaud 
 could not do without an assistant c n 
 the farm, and disliked to take a stran- 
 ger, Jeannet returned to Muiceron, 
 contented himself with one lesson on 
 Sunday, and studied by himself th 
 rest of the week. 
 
 After his first communion, which, 
 at his own request, was made rather 
 late, but with perfect comprehension
 
 28 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 and a heart filled with love, he be- 
 came still better. He was at that 
 time a fine boy of thirteen, larger 
 than usual for his age, with a hand- 
 some face, brunette complexion, and 
 beautiful, large, dark eyes. M. le 
 Marquis remarked his distinguished 
 air, which meant that he did not 
 resemble the other young village 
 boys. The truth was, Jeannet, who 
 always had lived a peasant, had the 
 manner and bearing of a gentleman 
 dressed from caprice in a blouse ; 
 and yet I can assure you it was 
 neither vanity nor pretension that 
 gave him that appearance. 
 
 Who would imagine that about 
 this time he nearly committed a 
 fault from excessive love of study ? 
 And nevertheless, it so happened in a 
 way which you will soon understand. 
 One day, M. le Cure, wishing to 
 know how far this good child's mind 
 could follow his, amused himself by 
 explaining to him the Latin of his 
 Breviary. Jean-Louis caught at 
 this novelty like a fish at a bait. He 
 became passionately fond of the lan- 
 guage, and, as he had no time d r- 
 ing the day, gave up the greater 
 part of the night to its study. Now, 
 the young need good, sound sleep ; 
 above all, when weaned with work- 
 ing in the fields. Ragaud soon 
 jnderstood it; I do not know how. 
 He was very angry, and was not al- 
 together wrong ; for, besides the fact 
 .'hat Jeannet lost flesh every day, 
 he was afraid of fire, as his room 
 was next to the grain-loft. Ragaud 
 scolded Jean-Louis ; M. le Cure also 
 came in fpr his share of reprimand ; 
 and for the first time these three 
 persons, who had always agreed so 
 perfectly, were very unhappy on 
 each other's account. 
 
 " If you wish to wear the cassock," 
 said Ragaud to his son, " say it. 
 Although it will be a great sacrifice 
 for me to lose your company and 
 
 assistance, I will not prevent you 
 from following your vocation. But 
 if not, I beg of you to give up all 
 this reading and writing, which keeps 
 you up so late. I think that to tend 
 the cows and till the earth, the village 
 language is enough. You will know 
 one day that for you, more than for 
 others even, the work of the hands is 
 more useful than that of the mind." 
 
 Thereupon he turned his back, 
 and Jeannet, who was going to ask 
 his pardon, and assure him of his 
 submission, could not reply. As he 
 was very quick under his quiet man- 
 ner, he pondered all the rest of the 
 day upon his father's last phrase. 
 What did it mean ? What was he to 
 know one day ? What harm was there 
 in becoming learned, as he would 
 eventually be rich ? The poor boy 
 suspected nothing ; and yet from that 
 moment a secret and profound sad- 
 ness entered into his heart. He 
 bundled up his books, and took them 
 back to M. le Cure with many 
 thanks. Our curt admired his obe- 
 dience, and Jeannet profited by the 
 opportunity to confide his grief to 
 his dear friend. 
 
 The good pastor reflected a mo- 
 ment. It was, in truth, a great pain, and 
 one which he did not expect so soon, 
 to be obliged to confide to this child 
 the secret of his birth ; but sooner or 
 later he must know it, and whether 
 to-day or to-morrow mattered little. 
 
 " My son," said he, " you are good 
 and reasonable ; I hope your conduct 
 will never change. Sit down there 
 near me, and listen." 
 
 He related to him what we already 
 know. He did it with gentle and 
 holy words, fitted to pour balm into 
 the wound that he was forced to 
 make. He endeavored especially to 
 show forth the mercy of God and the 
 generosity of the Ragaude. Poor 
 Jeannet little expected such a blow; 
 he became pale as death and for an
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 instant appeared overwhelmed with 
 astonishment and grief. His head was 
 in a whirl ; he rose, threw himself on 
 his knees, weeping and clasping his 
 hands. Our curd let this first burst 
 of grief exhaust itself; and then, with 
 kind remonstrance, finished by prov- 
 ing that, after all, grateful joy was 
 more seasonable than this great 
 affliction. How many in his place 
 had been abandoned, without parents, 
 without support, without instruction, 
 condemned to want and suffering, 
 and doubtless lost both for this world 
 and paradise? Instead of such a 
 fate, the good God had warmed the 
 little bird without a nest, had preserv- 
 ed him from evil, had provided for his 
 wants; and now to-day, thanks to all 
 his blessings, he was, more than any 
 other, fitted to become a man worthy 
 to rank with those around him. 
 
 " It is true ! it is true !" cried Jean- 
 Louis. " But how can I reappear at 
 the farm ? Alas ! I left it thinking 
 myself the son of the house, and I 
 will re-enter it ~. foundling !" 
 
 " There you do not speak wisely, 
 Jeannet," said our curt ; " you will 
 re enter Muiceron such as you left it, 
 with the only difference that you are 
 now obliged to be still more obedi- 
 ent, more industrious, and more de- 
 voted to your parents than ever in 
 the past. It is not by having learn- 
 ed the truth that your position is 
 changed ; on the contrary, by not 
 knowing it, you ran the risk of injur- 
 ing it. When you believed yourself 
 the son of the house, you naturally 
 thought it allowable to follow your 
 inclinations, and act as you wished. 
 Now you must feel that is no longer 
 possible. ' An honest heart must 
 pay its debts.' I know your heart; 
 as for the debxt, you see now how 
 important it is. Your life will not 
 suffice to pay it, but you can greatly 
 lessen it by taking upon yourself the 
 interests of your benefactors ; by re- 
 
 lieving Ragaud, who is growing old, 
 of the heaviest work in the fields ; by 
 caring for good Mother Pierrette, who 
 is a true soul of the good God ; and 
 even by continuing to consider Jean- 
 nette as your sister ; which gives you 
 the right to offer her good advice. 
 For remember what I tell you : ' The 
 distaff is known by the wood ' ; which 
 means that it needs a strong ash-stick 
 to support a roll of hemp, whilst a 
 mahogany wand is only suitable for 
 silk. Hence, I warn you that Jeanne 
 Ragaud, after being accustomed to 
 display herself in the marquis' car- 
 riages, will one fine day fancy herself 
 a silken distaff, and we will have to 
 untwist the thread." 
 
 " Jeanne will one day know I am 
 not related to her," said Jean-Louis, 
 weeping. " What then can I say to 
 her ?" 
 
 " Why will she know it ? It would 
 be useless to tell her. And besides, the 
 little thing's heart is not spoiled; she 
 will remember that you are the friend 
 of her childhood and her elder." 
 
 " Father Ragaud," replied Jean- 
 net, " told me this morning, if I wish- 
 ed to wear the cassock, he would 
 not hinder me." 
 
 " Well, then ?" 
 
 " Well, then, M. le Cure, if I am 
 ever sufficiently learned, can I not 
 aspire to that great favor ?" 
 
 " Before our present conversation 
 would you have thought of it, Jean- 
 net ?" 
 
 " I believe not," replied he frankly, 
 lowering his head. 
 
 " Then, my boy, give up the idea. 
 To wear the cassock is, as you say, a 
 great favor ; who knows it better than 
 I, who, after wearing it forty years, 
 acknowledge my unworthiness ? But 
 you must not start on a road without 
 knowing where it leads; and the 
 cassock, taken through vexation or 
 disappointment, carries its wearer 
 direct to the path in which he walks
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 with his back to heaven. You can 
 save your soul by remaining on the 
 farm, which I would not answer for 
 if you followed a vocation formed in 
 half an hour." 
 
 " Yes, I will remain a farm-laborer," 
 said Jeannet; " that is my fate for all 
 time." 
 
 " You are vain, God pardon me !" 
 cried M. le Cure. " I never before 
 noticed this monstrous fault in you, 
 which has caused the loss of so many 
 of the best souls. Farm-laborer ! 
 that means a tiller of the fields and 
 shepherd. My son, it is one of the 
 noblest positions in the world ; it 
 was the calling of Abraham, of Jacob, 
 of the great patriarchs of the Bible, 
 that I wished you to imitate; and 
 they were not minor personages. If 
 I were not a priest, I would wish 
 to be a laborer; at least, I would 
 gather with my own hand the wheat 
 that I had planted, instead of receiv- 
 ing it as the gift of a master, often a 
 capricious and bad Christian. Yes, 
 yes, my Jean, take care not to be 
 more fastidious than the good God, 
 who took his dear David, from mind- 
 ing sheep, to be the ancestor of our 
 Saviour. And then, I will ask you, 
 how would your destiny be elevated 
 
 if you were really the legitimate cfciM 
 of the Ragauds, Would you desire 
 to be greater than your father ? And 
 what is he ?" 
 
 Jeannet was convinced by all these 
 good reasons, uttered in rather a firm 
 tone, but which did not indicate dis- 
 pleasure. He threw himself into the 
 curfs arms, and acknowledged his 
 fault with a contrite and penitent 
 heart. His excellent good sense 
 showed him that, in reality, it was 
 only vanity that had made him speak 
 thus. He promised to return to 
 Muiceron, to preserve his secret, and 
 to be the model of field laborers. 
 
 Our curt gave him his blessing, 
 and watched him, as he returned to 
 the farm, with much emotion. Ah ! 
 if poor Catharine had known how to 
 sacrifice her self-love as her child 
 had just done, how different would 
 have been his fate! "But," sighed 
 the good pastor, " there will always 
 be frogs who will burst with the 
 ambition of becoming oxen ; and if 
 the ox, who thought the frog foolish, 
 had known the elephant, undoubted- 
 ly he would have acted in the same 
 manner. Poor human nature ! poor 
 beasts ! The true Christian is the only 
 wise man !"
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 JEAN-LOUIS, on leaving the cur/, 
 went to pray in the church, which 
 remained open all day for the con- 
 solation of devout souls. In the 
 presence of God he reviewed the sad 
 history of his life, shed many tears, 
 but soon felt wonderfully strengthen- 
 ed. This fourteen-year-old boy had 
 a more resolute heart than many a 
 man of thirty. What he swore be- 
 fore the altar of God and the statue 
 of Our Blessed Lady was the oath 
 of a Christian, who knows the value 
 of an engagement made in the face 
 of heaven. It was the contract of 
 his whole life that he then signed, 
 and it will be seen if he knew how 
 to keep it. His first weakness on 
 learning the secret of his birth had 
 passed ; he determined to be coura- 
 geous, humble, and docile, should it 
 cost him his heart's blood; and full 
 of these brave resolutions, he retook 
 the road to Muiceron. 
 
 Nevertheless, he failed in one, and 
 you as well as I will excuse him 
 for it. 
 
 As he had remained rather long in 
 the village, Pierrette, who had heard 
 him reprimanded, and had seen him 
 depart with his books under his arm, 
 became very anxious, fearing that he 
 had been more hurt than he had 
 shown. She was standing on the 
 threshold of the door, watching the 
 path by which he would return ; and 
 when she perceived him, she could 
 not conceal her joy, for the child's 
 face was bright and animated, and 
 seemed the mirror of a happy heart. 
 
 " Oh ! I am so happy to see you, 
 
 my Jeannet," cried the good woman 
 in a burst of joy. 
 
 "Were you alarmed at my ab- 
 sence ?" asked Jean-Louis, running to 
 her. 
 
 " Alarmed ?" said she. " No . . . 
 that is to say, yes, I was a little. . . . 
 Your father sometimes conceals his 
 great kindness under rather too quick 
 a manner. A child like you, who 
 never deserves to be scolded, will be 
 easily hurt at a severe word ; and I 
 thought, on seeing you go away so 
 quickly, you were unhappy. But 
 now you are at home again, are you 
 neither hot, nor hungry, nor troubled ? 
 Where do you come from ? What 
 do you think of doing ? Tell all to 
 your mamma, who loves you so 
 dearly." 
 
 These gentle questions pierced the 
 soul of the poor child more than the 
 severest words would have done. 
 Gratitude and grief choked him and 
 prevented him from replying, and 
 made his emotion the greater, as 
 these two sentiments seldom go to.- 
 gether. He looked at his dear mo- 
 ther, with his great, black eyes filled 
 with tears, and could only take her 
 hand and press it to his bosom. 
 
 Thus they entered the house to- 
 gether, and Ragaud, whom they 
 thought in the fields, but who had 
 returned by the door that opened on 
 .the bleaching-yard, was standing be- 
 fore the hearth, as if awaiting them. 
 You doubtless know, as you must 
 have many times experienced it, that 
 when one suddenly sees somebody, 
 thought to be half a league away, with- 
 out wishing it, he looks rather taken
 
 The Farm of Mmceron. 
 
 aback, as we say. You can well be- 
 lieve that Pierrette and the child so 
 looked, as they remained dumb as 
 fish, like poachers hiding from the 
 forest-guard. 
 
 "Well," said the good man in a 
 loud voice, " what is the matter with 
 you both ? It seems I was not ex- 
 pected. And the supper, wife ?" 
 
 " Here it is," Pierrette hastened to 
 reply ; " only move a little to one 
 side, that I may take off the pot." 
 
 And in the twinkling of an eye, 
 the excellent green-cabbage soup 
 was smoking on the table; but Jean- 
 net, who stood like one petrified, did 
 not move. 
 
 " You are not hungry, then ?" asked 
 Ragaud. " What is the matter ? You 
 look as if you had been crying." 
 
 " Excuse me," replied Jeannet. " I 
 do not feel like eating this evening." 
 
 " None of that," answered Ragaud ; 
 "to punish his stomach is the act 
 of a spoiled child. Sit down and 
 eat; be quick about it, do you hear ?" 
 
 Jeannet obeyed, but only to sit 
 down ; eat, he could not. 
 
 >" See here," said Ragaud in a jok- 
 ing manner, looking at him, " you 
 are of the true modern style. For- 
 merly, my boy, when parents reprov- 
 ed their children, they did it oftener 
 with the hand than the voice, and 
 things were not the worse for it. My 
 father used to give us blows with 
 his cudgel without counting them ; in 
 his opinion, it was a language easily 
 understood, and which he preferred 
 to reasoning, as it saved his time. 
 We rubbed our backs, and it was 
 over; none of us thought of losing 
 our appetites, still less of crying. 
 But nowadays children must be 
 handled with gloves ; and even with 
 that they think themselves martyrs. 
 The parents must endure everything 
 without a murmur, even to see the 
 house catch fire. Ha ! ha ! is what 
 I say true ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes," said Jean-Louis, " you 
 have always been good and kind to 
 me; and believe me, believe me when 
 I say that I am truly grateful, that I 
 thank you with my whole soul. I 
 was guilty without knowing it; but I 
 am penitent and sorry for having 
 offended you. I have carried back 
 my books, which, in reality, I did 
 not need, and never again will you 
 have to reproach me about them." 
 
 "That is right, that is right," 
 said Ragaud. " You are a good child, 
 Jeannet, and now it is ended. What 
 I said, you see, was to your own 
 interest ; so now eat and be cheerful. 
 I don't like tears, above all in a 
 boy who will soon be a man ; give me 
 your hand without any bad feeling." 
 
 " No, no ! embrace him," said Pier- 
 rette. "His heart is full; isn't it so, 
 my son ?" 
 
 " Kiss me, if you wish," said Ra- 
 gaud, extending his honest, bearded 
 face. " Generally I don't like these 
 baby-kisses ; but if it is necessary, in 
 order that you may eat your soup, 
 make yourself happy, boy." 
 
 Just at this time it was too much 
 for Jean-Louis; nearly fainting, he 
 fell on his knees by the side of Ra- 
 gaud ; he threw his arms around him, 
 pressed him to his breast, and kissed 
 him in the tenderest manner, to the 
 great astonishment of the good far- 
 mer, who could not understand such 
 a wonderful display of affection. 
 
 " Good, good," said he ; " but be 
 easy, Jeannet. Don't I tell you I am 
 no longer angry ?" 
 
 "O my father! my dear father!" 
 cried the child, " how can I ever re- 
 pay you?" 
 
 And seeing that Ragaud looked at 
 him in amazement, he added, sobbing, 
 
 " Father, mother, I know all . . ." 
 
 " Explain yourself," said Ragaud, 
 beginning to understand what he 
 meant. "What do you know, my 
 child?"
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 33 
 
 " All" he repeated in a tone 
 which expressed everything. 
 
 " There," cried good Pierrette, her 
 heart melting with pity, " I under- 
 stand. I know now what he means. 
 But after fourteen years that the 
 secret has been so well kept, where 
 has the creature been found wicked 
 enough to make this poor child so 
 unhappy ?" 
 
 " Dear mother," exclaimed Jean- 
 Louis, " he who told it to me did it 
 from true kindness of heart; you 
 must not be displeased with him. 
 It is to him I owe my life, after God 
 and you. Do not mistake my tears ; 
 they do not come from grief, but 
 from the gratitude which will last 
 through all eternity." 
 
 " My dear, dear child," said Pier- 
 rette, " you have already well repaid 
 us by your tender affection and good 
 conduct. Isn't it true, Ragaud ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied he ; " and I will 
 add, my boy, that the Lord God, 
 through love of whom we received 
 you, made joy and prosperity enter 
 into the house at the same time with 
 you. Thus, although I like the gra- 
 titude which comes from a truly filial 
 heart, in good conscience I think 
 we are quits." 
 
 " Oh ! never, never," cried Jean- 
 net. " At the moment of my death I 
 will still thank you." 
 
 " On condition that you die before 
 us, which is scarcely probable," said 
 Ragaud, smiling. " Come, child, get 
 up, and let it all be over. Since, 
 from what I can make out, no other 
 than our curl has told you the story, 
 I am happy to think we are all ' big 
 John, as before ' that is to say, that 
 nothing is changed. You will remain 
 our child, the elder brother of Jean- 
 nette, and the prop of my old age." 
 
 " Your servant and your slave for 
 ever !" cried Jean-Louis. 
 
 " Bah ! bah ! No slave, Jeannet ; 
 that is an accursed word to fall from 
 
 your lips. Let it all remain in the 
 cure's library, which it never should 
 have left. As for me, I am not 
 learned ; but, to my mind, a slave is a 
 man changed into a beast of burden. 
 I ask you if I have brought you up 
 in that way ? No, my son, you will 
 serve me it is my wish but in work- 
 ing as a free man by my side, accord- 
 ing to your strength. Is it well un- 
 derstood ?" 
 
 " I have no other desire but to 
 please you ; and I pray to God, my 
 father, that I may prove it to you 
 every day." 
 
 " I hope so, my boy. The past, 
 they say, is the guarantee of the 
 future; and never have you caused 
 me serious displeasure. As for the 
 little affair of this morning, I tell you 
 it was nothing. Don't regret it ; the 
 only result will be that we will love 
 each other still more." 
 
 " I think so, too," said Pierrette, 
 " if it is possible." 
 
 " O my dear parents !" cried 
 Jeannet, kissing them both, " if ever 
 the history of your kindness could be 
 written, who would believe it true ?" 
 
 " Don't let that trouble you," said 
 Ragaud, laughing heartily, " there is 
 no chance of its being written ; and, 
 besides, things do not improve by 
 being known to men, as evil is more 
 easily believed than good." 
 
 "It is very well," said Pierrette,, 
 "that mademoiselle kept Jeannette 
 at the chateau this evening; she 
 would have been in the way, dear 
 little thing !" 
 
 " As regards that," replied Ragaud, 
 " I request you, Jean-Louis, never to 
 breathe a word to Jeannette of what 
 has just been said. Do you under- 
 stand me ? I have my own idea 
 about it." 
 
 " I promise you, my father," an- 
 swered Jeannet. 
 
 The name of the little girl, thus 
 pronounced by chance, led to further
 
 34 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 conversation about the two children. 
 They remembered the infant plays, 
 where she was so lively and wilful, 
 her great romps with the shepherd's 
 dog, and many other little details, 
 which recalled the innocent pleasures 
 of her infancy and gave such zest to 
 their tranquil country life. Jeannet, 
 well consoled, and with lightened 
 heart, told his parents a crowd of 
 little events, which he loved to relate 
 in praise of Jeannette, and which 
 proved the goodness of her heart and 
 mind, to the great delight of the Ra- 
 gauds. From that to remarking that 
 the little girl had nearly disappeared 
 from the family was but a step, and 
 which, in my opinion, was a leap 
 easily made. In the meantime, Ra- 
 gaud, who appeared half asleep I 
 rather think so as not to talk up- 
 on the subject suddenly awakened, 
 and ended by acknowledging that if 
 Jeannet were not at Muiceron, the 
 house would be as destitute of chil- 
 dren as it was fifteen years before. 
 
 " My dear husband," said Pierrette, 
 " it is not to-day that we are to learn 
 that parents must sacrifice every- 
 thing to the happiness of their chil- 
 dren." 
 
 " For their happiness, yes," replied 
 Ragaud ; " but it remains to be seen 
 if Jeannette will always be as happy 
 as she is now." 
 
 And as he was clear-sighted, when 
 the momentary vanity had passed, he 
 related with earnestness the conver- 
 sation with Jacques Michou, which he 
 had so unwillingly heard at the time. 
 
 " There," said Pierrette, " is some- 
 thing which does not please me. If 
 people already commence to talk 
 about our daughter, it is a sign that 
 we should think about our course 
 in regard to her, and perhaps change 
 it." 
 
 "Think about it we should," re- 
 plied Ragaud ; " but to change it 
 is another question. For then we 
 
 would have to take Jeannette from 
 mademoiselle ; and as her regard for 
 our little girl is a great honor for us 
 and a great happiness for her, never 
 will I behave in that manner to the 
 daughter of our lords, 'seeing that I 
 owe them everything." 
 
 " It is very embarrassing," said 
 Pierrette, who spoke rather from the 
 feelings of the heart than of the 
 head. 
 
 " Not so very much," replied Ra- 
 gaud. " By acting with gentleness 
 and respect, without causing pain to 
 mademoiselle, we can, in the end, 
 make her wishes accord with ours." 
 
 " Oh ! if Jeannette could return," 
 cried Jean-Louis, " what happiness 
 for us all, dear father !" 
 
 " You !" said Ragaud. " You may 
 boast of being very brave in her 
 absence ; but I can remember seeing 
 you many and many a time racing 
 together over the meadows ; the girl 
 would torment you to her heart's 
 content, and you, like a big simple- 
 ton, never once stumbled so as to 
 humbug her in return. Thus you 
 accustomed her to think herself the 
 mistress, which she did not hesitate to 
 show." 
 
 " She is so sweet," said Jeannet, 
 " and so good-natured ; if she had 
 half killed me, I would not have 
 minded it." 
 
 " If you only wished to know 
 Latin that you might talk such non- 
 sense," replied Ragaud, " you did 
 very well to give up the study. 
 You, too," added he, turning towards 
 Pierrette, forgetting he should be the 
 first to accuse himself "you, too, have 
 so completely spoiled Jeannette, I 
 will be obliged to undertake the 
 difficult task of repairing your work. 
 But patience; to-morrow I will take 
 the shovel and the spade. I will 
 do it' 
 
 " What are you going to do ?" 
 asked Pierrette, alarmed.
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 35 
 
 '* I am going to see," said Ragaud, 
 " if my daughter is of the good and 
 true blood of her father. I will ask 
 mademoiselle to give her to me for 
 the octave of S. Martin ; and during 
 that time I will make her resume her 
 peasant-life as though she should 
 rrever quit it again. If she becomes 
 sullen and cross, I won't say what I 
 will do; but if, as I believe, she 
 will appear happ^y and contented, we 
 will know that the chateau does not 
 injure her, and then we will sleep in 
 peace. How do you like that ?" 
 
 " Oh ! th.at is a capital idea I 
 never would have dreamt of," said 
 Pierrette, clasping her hands in ad- 
 miration. 
 
 Ragaud appeared pleased at be- 
 ing thought so brilliant ; he resettled 
 himself in his big linen collar, drank 
 a glass of good cider, and knelt down 
 to say the Our Father and Hail 
 Mary, which he always did before 
 retiring. 
 
 Jeannet made no remark ; he had 
 too much sense to think that this lit- 
 tle trial would be sufficient and sa- 
 tisfy every one ; but he would see 
 Jeannette for a whole week, and he 
 decided to amuse her in such a way 
 that she would not regret her life at 
 the chateau. 
 
 Ragaud's plans were fully carried 
 out. Mademoiselle willingly gave 
 up Jeannette, thinking by that means 
 she would have still stronger claims 
 for keeping her afterwards ; and the 
 little one, led by her father, returned 
 to Muiceron the eve of S. Martin's 
 day, which is, among us, the feast of 
 the vine-dressers. 
 
 If you are anxious to know how 
 she behaved, I will inform you that 
 the very next day, and without any 
 one having to tell her, she tumbled 
 over the things in the chest to find 
 her woollen skirts and coarse linen 
 apron. She had grown so mush, she 
 was obliged to rip and remake for a 
 
 full hour before she could put them 
 on, which caused much talk and 
 laughter that rang through the 
 house. Her wooden shoes, which 
 had remained in a corner during the 
 past fifteen months, were likewise too 
 small; and as that could not be 
 remedied by the needle and thread, 
 it was a real difficulty ; but Jeannette, 
 who had not lost her habit of hav- 
 ing an answer for everything, declared 
 she would wear Pierrette's. You can 
 imagine the amusement this caused ; 
 and, in fact, at her first step she 
 stumbled, and nearly fell down. 
 
 Thereupon Jeannet darted off like 
 an arrow, and brought a new pair 
 from the harness- maker at Ordon- 
 niers. 
 
 Jeannette was equally well pleased 
 with the eating, sleeping, and all the 
 old habits of her country life. Never 
 had she appeared happier, more ac- 
 tive, and better disposed to assist 
 her mother in her household labors. 
 It could be well imagined that, having 
 heard of the gossiping about her, she 
 wished to prove by every means the 
 good people were wrong ; and Ra- 
 gaud had only one wish, which was 
 that the busy-bodies of the village 
 could look through the key-hole and 
 see her at work. 
 
 This was scarcely possible ; but he 
 could, at least, satisfy Jacques Michou, 
 the first grumbler, whom he had so 
 well repulsed, as you may remem- 
 ber. 
 
 For that purpose, without mention- 
 ing the return of Jeannette to the 
 farm, with a frank and simple air, 
 he asked his old comrade to come 
 and break bread with him on S. 
 Martin's day. M. le Cure was also 
 invited, and on the morning of the 
 feast Ragaud gave Pierrette her 
 lesson : 
 
 " Understand well this day I wish 
 you to be quiet. You can tell the 
 child all that must be done, not
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 only for the cooking, but for the ta- 
 ble and the serving of it. I don't 
 wish to have the shame of seeing the 
 children seated at table, whilst the 
 mother is going around the hearth, 
 skirts pinned up, doing the servant's 
 work ; which is not proper. It is very 
 well to be a good woman, always 
 ready to sacrifice herself; but it is al- 
 so well every one should know there 
 is but one mistress of Muiceron." 
 
 " Jeannette is too little," Pierrette 
 gently objected; "she could not 
 reach up to the stove, and I am 
 afraid the dishes will be too heavy 
 for her arms to carry, little darling !" 
 
 " You will make Marion, the dairy- 
 maid, aid her in the heavy work," 
 said Ragaud. " I don't ask impossi- 
 bilities, and I would be the first to 
 fear if our little girl ran the risk of 
 burning herself. What I wish is that 
 she, and not you, should have all the 
 trouble." 
 
 Pierrette yielded to this good ar- 
 gument, although a little afraid that 
 Jeannette would have too much 
 trouble. As for the little girl, she 
 was very proud to give orders to 
 Marion, and commenced immediate- 
 ly to play her part of mistress of the 
 farm. 
 
 Then could be seen how bright 
 she was. She came and went, pass- 
 ing from the barn-yard to the wood- 
 house, from the wood-house to the lin- 
 en-chests; bravely looking on when 
 they bled the chickens and cut up 
 the meat; selecting the beautiful, 
 white table-cloths ; superintending, 
 polishing the glasses, dusting, flying 
 about like a will-o'-the-wisp. Big 
 Marion trotted after her on her heels, 
 scarcely able to follow her, stifled 
 half with heat and half with laughter 
 at the sight of such an active young 
 mistress. 
 
 Who would have thought, on see- 
 ing her thus occupied, that the very 
 evening before she had been seated 
 
 at the right of mademoiselle in her 
 beautiful carriage, driving around the 
 country ? It was really wonderful to 
 see her so quick at everything, young 
 as she was ; and you would have 
 been as much surprised as the Ra- 
 gauds, who gazed at her in astonish- 
 ed admiration parental vanity easi- 
 ly forgiven in this case and asked 
 each other where Jeannette could 
 have learned so much that even 
 housekeepers of thirty hardly knew. 
 
 The truth was, she had never 
 learned anything from anybody or 
 anywhere ; but she was precocious in 
 every respect. It was enough for her 
 to hear or see a thing once always to 
 remember it; so she had only to 
 think an instant to put in practice 
 what she had observed. Add to this 
 she was as sly as a fox, and ardently 
 loved to give satisfaction, and you 
 will easily understand there was no- 
 thing very astonishing in her per- 
 formance. 
 
 About twilight, Jacques Michou 
 made his appearance, accompanied 
 by the curt, whom he had overtaken 
 on the road. Jeannette came forward 
 to meet them, and made a low rever- 
 ence in true peasant style, totally un- 
 like the bows made in M. le Marquis' 
 salon. It was a great surprise for 
 these honest souls, who had been 
 conversing along the way about the 
 blindness of Ragaud in regard to 
 his daughter, and they were both too 
 frank not to show their satisfaction. 
 
 " So you have come back, my 
 child?" said the curt, patting her 
 kindly on the head. 
 
 " To wait upon you, M. le Cur6," 
 she sweetly replied. 
 
 " And your beautiful dresses ?' 
 asked Jacques Michou. 
 
 " They are hanging up in the ward- 
 robe," said Jeannette, laughing. 
 
 " Indeed ! And do you like to have 
 them there as much as on your back, 
 my little girl ?"
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 37 
 
 " Why not ?" she replied. " I am 
 happy here with my father, my mo- 
 ther, and Jeannet." 
 
 " It is your best place," said the 
 curt. " I am delighted, Mme. Ra- 
 gaud, to see your daughter at home. 
 Is it for some time ?" 
 
 " If mademoiselle does not reclaim 
 her," said Pierrette, blushing, for she 
 never would speak falsely, "it will 
 be for ever." 
 
 " Well, I hope it will be so," said 
 he. " And you, Jeannette, do you de- 
 sire it also ?" 
 
 " I am always happy with my dear 
 parents." replied the little one ; " but 
 mademoiselle is so kind and good, I 
 am always happy with her also. If 
 my mother sends me to the chateau, 
 I will go ; and if she commands me to 
 return, I will come back." 
 
 They could not help being pleas- 
 ed with this speech of the good, 
 obedient little girl, and they took 
 their places at table without any 
 further questions or raillery. Jean- 
 nette, during the supper, rose more 
 than twenty times to see that all 
 was right ; and Ragaud, you can well 
 imagine, did not fail to inform his 
 guests that everything had been pre- 
 pared under his daughter's eye. It 
 was strictly true, as they clearly saw; 
 and, consequently, the compliments 
 were freely bestowed. Nevertheless, 
 when the dessert was brought on, 
 Ragaud could not resist saying to 
 Michou, with a significant look, as he 
 held up his glass : 
 
 "Well, my old fellow, will you 
 now give me credit for knowing how 
 to bring up my children ?" 
 
 Jacques nodded his head, and, 
 holding up his glass, replied, " I will 
 come to see you eight years from 
 now, comrade, and then I will an- 
 swer your question." ^ 
 
 " Very good," said Ragaud. " M. 
 le Cure, you will be witness. I pro- 
 raise to give a cow to Jacques Mi- 
 
 chou, if, at that time, Jeannette is not 
 the best housekeeper in the coun- 
 try." 
 
 " I take the bet," replied Jacques, 
 laughing; "and I add that I hope 
 to lose it as surely as the good God 
 has no master." 
 
 " Come, come," said the curt 
 gravely, "it is not worth such an 
 oath. Between good men, my friends, 
 it is enough to say yes or no. I 
 consent to be witness, and I also say 
 I hope that Jacques will lose the 
 bet." 
 
 They stopped as they saw Jean- 
 nette, who returned to the table, 
 crimson with pleasure. Behind her 
 came big Marion, carrying, with 
 great care, a large dish, upon which 
 stood, erect on his claws, a beautiful 
 pheasant that seemed ready to crow. 
 As it was at the end of the meal, 
 every one looked at it with amaze- 
 ment, especially Pierrette, who had 
 not been let into the secret. It was 
 a surprise invented by Jeannette, 
 who clapped her hands and laughed 
 heartily, and then wished them to 
 guess what it was. After she had 
 thoroughly enjoyed their astonish- 
 ment, she rapidly took out the feath- 
 ers, and then they saw it was a de- 
 licious pudding, stuffed with plums, 
 which she had manufactured, with 
 Marion and Jeannet's assistance, af- 
 ter the style of M. le Marquis' cook. 
 Pierrette, it must be acknowledged, 
 wept tears of admiration ; for this was 
 a wonder that surpassed her. imag- 
 ination. 
 
 This magnificent performance in- 
 creased Ragaud's good humor ; and 
 I verily believe, but for the presence 
 of M. le Cure", he would have emp- 
 tied more than one bottle in honor 
 of Jeannette and the pheasant. But 
 our good pastor, without being the 
 least in the world opposed to inno- 
 cent enjoyment, did not like the ga- 
 iety which comes from drinking, as
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 we already know. Consequently, 
 they soon rose from the entertain- 
 ment, and wished each other a cor- 
 dial good-night. The little pet was 
 so worn out with her extraordinary 
 efforts, she soon after fell asleep in 
 her chair, and they had to carry her 
 off to bed. She was thoroughly tired, 
 and Pierrette observed it was not 
 surprising, after such a day's work, 
 which, perhaps, she herself could not 
 have stood. 
 
 IX. 
 
 That night something occurred 
 which appeared of small importance at 
 the time, but that had great results, 
 which many persons never under- 
 stood, and that I will reveal to you at 
 the proper time and place. For many 
 years it was a great mystery ; and I 
 remember, when I was young, my ho- 
 nest and pious father was conversing 
 in a whisper one evening, in the dim 
 twilight, with an old friend, and I hid 
 myself under a chair to find out 
 what he was saying; but not one 
 word of the secret could I make 
 out. Nevertheless, one fearful expres- 
 sion I remembered for a long while. 
 When my father was tired with talk- 
 ing, he dismissed his chum, saying : 
 
 " Now we will stop ; and be silent 
 as the grave. You know you might 
 lose your head !" 
 
 And at these terrible words, the 
 friend replied by placing the finger 
 of his left hand on his lips, and with 
 his right pulled down his cap over 
 his ears, as if to make sure that his 
 head was still safe on his shoulders. 
 It was really a gesture which froze 
 one with terror; and as for me, I 
 shook so I thought I would overturn 
 the chair which served me for a hid- 
 ing-place. 
 
 And now, I beg of you not to be 
 as curious as I was, for you would 
 gain nothing by it. I am only going 
 to tell you what happened the night 
 after the dinner on S. Martin's day. 
 
 No matter how late it might be 
 Ragaud, excellent manager as he 
 was, never went to bed without hav- 
 ing carefully made the tour of all his 
 buildings with a dark lantern. He 
 remained seated by the fire, while 
 Pierrette carried off the little girl to 
 bed, and Jean-Louis retired to his 
 room. When all was still, he rose 
 and went out softly to commence his 
 round. 
 
 It was a beautiful night, rather 
 dark, but mild for November. Ra- 
 gaud walked through his little or- 
 chard, from whence could be seen 
 the stables and barns, behind which 
 rose the tall fir-trees, unruffled by a 
 breath of wind. He passed into 
 the barn-yard, silent likewise ; chick- 
 ens, geese, ducks, and turkeys slept 
 soundly, heads under their wings, on 
 the perches appropriated to them by 
 Pierrette. All was quiet and in good 
 order, and Ragaud, content with him- 
 self and the world, prepared to re- 
 enter, when, accidentally raising his 
 head, he saw in the distance some- 
 thing so astonishing he remained as 
 though nailed to the spot, and nearly 
 dropped his lantern in the excitement 
 of the moment. 
 
 The chateau of Val-Saint, which 
 could be seen from a certain point in 
 the garden, like a great, black mass 
 in the horizon, appeared as though 
 lighted up with sparks of fire. A 
 light would be seen first at one win- 
 dow, then at another, and then dis- 
 appear as quickly as it came. Good 
 Ragaud could not believe his eyes. 
 Surely something extraordinary was 
 taking place at the chateau; for M. 
 le Marquis and mademoiselle, with 
 all due respect, went to bed with the 
 chickens, and the servants were not 
 allowed to remain up. 
 
 " What t]je devil is the matter 
 with me to-night ?" thought Ragaud 
 " Am I dreaming on my feet, or must 
 I fancy the two or three glasses of
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 39 
 
 white wine more than usual at des- 
 sert have turned my brain ?" 
 
 Not a bit of it; he saw perfectly 
 clear. The light danced about the 
 windows, as though to mock him, 
 and finally went out entirely. But 
 now comes the crowning mystery. 
 A great, blue star appeared on the 
 summit of the high tower, and rose 
 upward until it was hidden by a 
 cloud. 
 
 At the same instant, Ragaud felt 
 two heavy hands resting on his shoul- 
 ders and something breathe heavily 
 on his neck. . 
 
 Indeed, only put yourself in his 
 place. There was something to fear ; 
 and so the brave fellow, who in his 
 youth had fought in our great battles, 
 was all over goose-flesh. But it was 
 only momentary ; for, quickly turning, 
 he saw that he had on his back the soft 
 paws of his dog Pataud, who, mak- 
 ing the rounds at his side, took this 
 means of caressing him. 
 
 " Down, Pataud, old fellow !" said 
 he gently; " it is not daybreak. Go 
 lie down ! Be quick ! Be off to your 
 kennel ! Do you hear me ?" 
 
 Pataud heard very well, but obedi- 
 ence was not to his taste that night. 
 He wagged his tail, and appeared in 
 splendid humor ; one would think he 
 suspected something was going on at 
 the chateau. 
 
 " So you think there is something 
 in the wind up there, do you ?" asked 
 Ragaud, snapping his fingers in the 
 air. " Will you come with me, and 
 see what it is all about ?" 
 
 At these words, he started as 
 though to leave the garden, and Pa- 
 taud this time seemed to consent. 
 
 " This comes from having an ani- 
 mal well brought up," thought Ra- 
 gaud. " If you could speak, my cun- 
 ning old fellow, doubtless you would 
 tell me what I wish to know ; but as 
 that can't be expected, I must remain 
 very anxious until the morning." 
 
 He re-entered the house after this 
 reflection, having obliged Pataud to 
 remain quiet by giving him a friendly 
 kick over the threshold of the kennel. 
 
 To sleep was difficult ; he had the 
 faithful heart of an old servant, who 
 could not repose when he feared evil 
 was impending over his masters. 
 He remembered that ten years be- 
 fore, on a similar night in November, 
 lights appeared in every window the 
 whole length of the facade of the 
 chateau, and on the next day, alas ! 
 it was known they had been lighted 
 during the agony of our beloved mis- 
 tress, Mine, la Marquise de Val-Saint. 
 Was it not enough to make him ap- 
 prehend some misfortune for his dear 
 lord? 
 
 Poor mademoiselle's health was 
 not very robust, and she frequently 
 said, in such a mournful tone, that 
 the country air was not good for her. 
 
 " To-morrow," said Ragaud to 
 himself, " I will take back Jeannette 
 the first thing in the morning ; if 
 mademoiselle is sick, it will do her 
 good to see her again ; and perhaps I 
 would have done better if I had let 
 her remain. Who knows but the 
 dear soul was so fondly attached to 
 the child, she has become ill in cou- 
 sequence ?" 
 
 You must know Ragaud listener] 
 to the voice of his conscience as a 
 devotee hears a sermon ; and once 
 persuaded that it was his duty to 
 take back to mademoiselle her favor- 
 ite plaything, twenty-five notaries 
 could not have shaken his decision. 
 Consequently, at the first break of 
 day, he took from the chest his Sun- 
 day clothes, and was in holiday trim 
 when Pierrette came down to go out 
 and milk the cows. You can well 
 imagine her astonishment. 
 
 " Wife," said Ragaud. " go and 
 make Jeannette get up quickly, and 
 tell her to put on her chateau dress." 
 
 " Is it possible the child will leave
 
 40 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 us so soon ?" replied Pierrette, deeply 
 grieved. 
 
 " I wish it," said the good man, 
 " for reasons, Pierrette, that you will 
 know later." 
 
 She obeyed without answering. 
 Jean-Louis, meanwhile, entered the 
 room. 
 
 " Light the fire, boy," said Ragaud, 
 " and warm us up something. I 
 must go to the chateau with your 
 sister, and I will not take her out in 
 the cold, fasting." 
 
 " Father," said Jean-Louis, while 
 rapidly breaking up the fagots, " did 
 you see a bright light last night 
 around the big tower of the chateau ?" 
 
 " Did you ?" asked Ragaud. 
 
 " I saw something like a rocket 
 go up from the chateau," the boy re- 
 plied. 
 
 " Yes, I saw it also," answered 
 Ragaud ; " and Pataud did, too. 
 What do you think it could have 
 been, Jeannet ?" 
 
 " I think," said Jean-Louis, " they 
 illuminated the chateau and fired off 
 rockets in honor of S. Martin." 
 
 " Very probable, child ; that is a 
 good idea," said Ragaud laughing. 
 " Perhaps, after all, it is the whole 
 secret; but, any how, I would rather 
 go and find out." 
 
 "Shall I go with you, father?" 
 asked Jeannet^ 
 
 " No, stay and help your mother; 
 if I want you, I will tell you. It is 
 enough that I must carry off the little 
 girl." 
 
 Jeannette all this time was dress- 
 ing as fast as possible, without ask- 
 ing why or wherefore. She yawned 
 and rubbed her eyes, not having had 
 her full sleep ; but I think the idea 
 of returning to her godmother was 
 not very disagreeable. 
 
 However, she was sufficiently 
 wide awake to swallow down a big 
 bowl of sweetened milk ; after which, 
 Pierrette wrapped her up in a warm 
 
 shawl, and kissed her good-by with a 
 full heart. 
 
 All this had taken two hours ; and 
 Ragaud not wishing to hurry her, 
 the village clock struck eight when 
 they reached the door of the chateau. 
 
 The first person they saw, contrary 
 to the usual custom, was Master Jean 
 Riponin, who was M. le Marquis' 
 man of business. From his imposing 
 manner and the great fuss he was 
 making ordering every one here and 
 there with a voice as rough as the 
 captain of a fire-brigade it was diffi- 
 cult to fancy there was any one above 
 him in the chateau ; Ragaud, sharp 
 fellow that he was, took it in at a 
 glance, and, instead of approaching 
 the steward, as he had always done, 
 without ceremony and a good shake 
 of the hand, he remained at a slight 
 distance, and touched his hat. 
 
 " It is you, Master Ragaud ?" said 
 Jean Riponin with a patronizing air. 
 " Wait a moment ; I will speak to you 
 after I have given my orders to these 
 stupid things." 
 
 " Don't disturb yourself," replied 
 Ragaud. " I have not come on busi- 
 ness to-day ; I only wish to see made- 
 moiselle." 
 
 " It is I who have received full 
 power from M. le Marquis at his 
 departure," replied Riponin, a little 
 provoked. " Mademoiselle is not up 
 yet ; and, if she were, be assured, Ra- 
 gaud, she would send you back to 
 me. So let me know what you want 
 without further delay, as I am in a 
 hurry." 
 
 " Did you not say M. le Marquis 
 had left ?" asked the farmer, as much 
 from interest as to cut short the 
 puffed- up superintendent. 
 
 " Yes, this morning before the day- 
 dawn," said he ; " and it seems it 
 was something very hurried, for he 
 had only time to hand me all the 
 keys of the house, except those of 
 his desk and safe, which were forgot-
 
 The Furm of Muiceron. 
 
 ten in his great haste. But he must 
 have already perceived it, and I ex- 
 pect to receive those two keys by ex- 
 press." 
 
 " Indeed," thought Ragaud, " it 
 will be time enough to see them 
 when they come that is to say, if 
 they will ever come." For he knew 
 Master Riponin was not a man who 
 regarded the marquis' crowns as 
 relics once that he saw the heap. 
 Fortunately, M. le Marquis was of 
 the same opinion ; therefore, he kept 
 Riponin in his service on account 
 of many other good qualities that he 
 possessed ; but as for the desk and 
 safe, he never saw anything but the 
 key-holes. 
 
 While Riponin and Ragaud were 
 conversing, mademoiselle, who had 
 just risen, drew aside her curtains to 
 see what caused such a noise in 
 the court; and the cunning little 
 Jeannette, as soon as she perceired 
 her godmother, kissed her hand to 
 her. In less than a minute, Dame 
 Berthe appeared at the door. 
 
 " M. Ragaud," said she, " I am 
 sent by mademoiselle to beg that 
 you will go to her immediately ; and 
 you, Jeannette, run and kiss your god- 
 mother." 
 
 " M. Riponin, I wish you good- 
 morning," said Ragaud, carelessly 
 turning his back on the steward. 
 
 The steward watched him enter the 
 chateau with anything but a pleas- 
 ed expression ; but he dared not show 
 his displeasure before Dame Berthe, 
 whom he knew was not friendly to him. 
 
 Dear mademoiselle's eyes filled 
 with tears when she saw her darling 
 
 O 
 
 pet. The little one was tender- 
 hearted, and was deeply moved by 
 this proof of affection. Ragaud, like- 
 wise, showed great emotion, and 
 Dame Berthe said it would have 
 been a cruel shame to have longer 
 deprived the chiteau of its chief 
 delight. 
 
 "Ragaud," said mademoiselle, 
 " my dear Ragaud, if you had not 
 come to-day, I was going myself to 
 bring back Jeannette. You see, I am 
 so unhappy." 
 
 " I did not think you loved the 
 child so much," replied Ragaud; " it 
 is a great honor for Jeannette and 
 for us all, dear mademoiselle, and I 
 desire nothing so much as to con- 
 tribute to your happiness." 
 
 " Only think," said mademoiselle, 
 sighing, " I am always alone ; and 
 now that my father has left home, . . . 
 and perhaps for such a long time !" 
 
 " Will M. le Marquis go far ? ... 
 Excuse my curiosity," said Ragaud ; 
 " but you know, mademoiselle, I only 
 ask the question from the great in- 
 terest I feel in your dear family." 
 
 Mademoiselle was about to reply ; 
 but Dame Berthe stopped her short 
 by glancing at Jeannette, who was 
 listening with profound attention. 
 
 " I will take her with me," said 
 she in a low tone to her govern- 
 ess, "and then tell everything to 
 Ragaud ; our family never keeps a 
 secret from this old servant." 
 
 When mademoiselle had with- 
 drawn, under the pretext of showing 
 some new article of the toilet to 
 Jeannette, Dame Berthe carefully 
 closed the door, and approached 
 Ragaud. 
 
 " Can I rely on your devotion ?" 
 she asked in such a solemn manner 
 Ragaud could only bow his head in 
 assent. " And even on your life ?" 
 continued Dame Berthe with a still 
 more serious air. 
 
 " If I must give it in exchange for 
 that of my master, yes, certainly," 
 replied the faithful old fellow with- 
 out any hesitation. 
 
 " Very well. Sit down, Ragaud ; 
 you are going to learn a secret the 
 greatest secret a Christian can keep." 
 
 Ragaud sat down, rather astonish 
 ed, his heart beating in spite of
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 himself. However, strictly speaking, 
 the words of Dame Berthe appeared 
 a little exaggerated, and he felt so 
 without being able to account for it, 
 except from his own gO9d sense. 
 
 " Master Ragaud," said the govern- 
 ess, who was a devoted reader of 
 newspapers, and had learned to talk 
 in their style, " great events are pre- 
 paring, and, before. log, the face of 
 the world will be changed." 
 
 " Ah !" said Ragaud. " Excuse me, 
 my good lady, but the face of the 
 world, ... I don't know what that 
 means." 
 
 " When I speak of the world," 
 resumed Dame Berthe, " I mean 
 France France Ragaud, our coun- 
 try." 
 
 " Now I understand better ; yes, 
 I know that France is our country. 
 Well, then, what is going to be 
 changed in France ?" 
 
 " Everything," said she, rising in 
 a frantic manner. " France, my good 
 Ragaud, is tired of the odious yoke 
 that has weighed her down for ten 
 years." 
 
 ", My oxen are also sometimes 
 tired of the yoke," said Ragaud dry- 
 ly ; " but that does not pay them 
 while the whip is around." 
 
 " Yes, but a nation can't be whip- 
 ped like a beast of burden," replied 
 Dame Berthe. " Come, Ragaud, I see 
 you do not understand what I am 
 aiming at." 
 
 " No, not at all," said he. " I am 
 not learned, my good lady; some- 
 times I hear such expressions as you 
 use when M. le Cure* reads aloud 
 from some public journal; but, be- 
 tween ourselves, it always puts me to 
 sleep. You see, the useful things in 
 the newspapers, for a farmer, are the 
 price of grain and the announce- 
 ment of the fairs ; the rest is all twad- 
 dle for me." 
 
 "So it appears," answered Dame 
 Berthe, a little hurt. " I am now go- 
 
 ing to talk in a way that you can un- 
 derstand. Well, then, Ragaud, M. le 
 Marquis left home last night. Where 
 do you think he has gone ?" 
 
 "It is not my custom to inquire 
 into the private affairs of my mas- 
 ters," replied Ragaud. " By chance I 
 walked through my garden late last 
 night, awd I saw the chateau lighted 
 up. I was afraid mademoiselle was 
 ill; so this morning I brought back 
 Jeanne tte to amuse her. In the 
 court, M. Riponin told me of the 
 departure of M. le Marquis ; and 
 now I do not wish to hear anything 
 further, unless you judge it neces- 
 sary." 
 
 . " It will certainly be useful," said 
 Dame Berthe, who was longing to tell 
 all she knew, " you will agree with 
 me, M. Ragaud, when you know 
 that M. le Marquis was called off 
 by a letter, which assured him that 
 they were only waiting for him ..." 
 
 " To change the face of the world" 
 said Ragaud with dry humor. 
 
 " Precisely," replied Berthe serious- 
 ly. " It appears that the insurrection 
 has broken out near Angers, where 
 there are thousands of armed men. 
 Monsieur, who fought with the Chou- 
 ans in his youth, will be appoint- 
 ed general, and they will advance 
 to the capture of Paris, where nothing 
 is suspected. The usurper will be 
 driven out, M. Ragaud, and our dear 
 young legitimate prince will ascend 
 the throne. Won't it be magnifi- 
 cent ? Dear Eveline will go to court. 
 Poor child ! she has been so long 
 tired of the country." 
 
 " Hum ! " said Ragaud, not the 
 least bit excited. "Are they very 
 sure of all that?" 
 
 "Sure? How can it be doubted, 
 when the friend of M. le Marquis in 
 that province declares, do you un- 
 derstand declares positively that it 
 only needs a spark to set fire to the 
 powder ?"
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 43 
 
 " To the powder !" cried Ragaud, 
 this time very much frightened. " Are 
 they dreaming of blowing up the mag- 
 azine at Angers ? That would be 
 a terrible misfortune, my dear lady." 
 
 " Be easy," replied Dame Berthe, 
 shrugging her shoulders. " I always 
 forget that you don't read the papers. 
 ' Setting fire to the powder ' means 
 to kindle the insurrection, to inflame 
 the minds and hearts of the people ; 
 and it is expected that, at the first 
 word, the country will rise as one 
 man." 
 
 " They are going to fight ?" said 
 Ragaud. " Battles are not gay, and 
 the poor fare badly in time of war." 
 
 " Fight ? Oh ! you are blind, my 
 dear M. Ragaud," replied Dame Ber- 
 the, laughing with the most charm- 
 ing simplicity. " Do you expect a 
 few little regiments to withstand mil- 
 lions of men ? Before a week, the in- 
 surgents will be counted by millions. 
 And now, if you wish to know the 
 real truth, . . . well, . . . the army 
 itself is with us." 
 
 " Ah ! indeed," said Ragaud. 
 "This is great news." 
 
 " Do you think those gentlemen 
 would be so silly as to commence 
 the work without being assured of 
 this support ?" replied the governess, 
 clasping her hands. " My God ! Ra- 
 ge*id, for whom do you take M. le 
 Marquis and his friends ?" 
 
 " For brave men, most assuredly," 
 said the farmer, unable to repress a 
 smile; "and since all is so well 
 arranged, Dame Berthe, allow me, 
 with all due respect, to ask you two 
 questions. In the first place, when 
 will the marriage come off? In the 
 second, what does my dear master 
 wish me to do under the circumstan- 
 ces ?" 
 
 " When will the marriage take 
 place ? You mean, when will the 
 king enter Paris ?*' 
 
 " Just so, my good lady." 
 
 " I don't think this great event could 
 possibly take place before a month, 
 or three weeks at soonest. Although 
 this revolution, inspired by God, must, 
 I am fully convinced, spread likr 
 lightning, time flies rapidly ; and then 
 we must always think of unforeseen 
 accidents." 
 
 " Doubtless, doubtless ; it is alway 
 more prudent," said Ragaud. 
 
 " As for what M. le Marquis 
 expects of you, my good Ragaud, 
 it is very easy. It would be shame- 
 ful, you know, when all France is 
 rising in arms for her true sovereign, 
 to see Val-Saint and the neighbor- 
 hood sleeping in carelessness and 
 indolence. You are, then, designat- 
 ed you, Jacques Michou, who for 
 forty years has been the head-keeper 
 of the estate, Master Perdreau, the 
 notary of the family, and some other 
 old servants you are expected to 
 prepare the people for the change 
 about to take place, and make them 
 cry ' Long live the King !' through- 
 out the commune." 
 
 " And if they won't do it ?" asked 
 Ragaud innocently ; " for, in truth, 
 that is to be well considered." 
 
 " They will do it ; they will all do 
 it," cried Dame Berthe. " France is 
 burning with the desire of uttering 
 this cry of love and gratitude," she 
 added, remembering that she had 
 just read this expression in her morn- 
 ing paper. 
 
 " So much the better," said Ra- 
 gaud : " and it only remains to thank 
 you for your confidence, my dear 
 lady, and I will do my best to fulfil 
 the wishes of M. le Marquis." 
 
 The entrance of mademoiselle, 
 who thought there had been time 
 enough for the secret to be told and 
 retold, cut short the conversation, as 
 she brought Jeannette with her. Ra- 
 gaud bowed politely to the ladies of 
 the chateau, kissed his daughter, told 
 her to be good and obedient, and
 
 44 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 closed the door behind him, his head 
 full of all he had just heard. 
 
 Dame Berthe overtook him at the 
 head of the staircase. 
 
 " Ragaud," said she, " you told me 
 you were up late last night. Did you 
 not see, about midnight, a blue light 
 go up from the summit of the 
 tower?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Ragaud, " and I 
 was dumb with astonishment; I do 
 not conceal it." 
 
 " It was the given signal to warn 
 several chateaux of the neighbor- 
 hood of the departure of M. le Mar- 
 quis. Watch all these nights, for we 
 expect a messenger, who will come 
 to announce the triumph of the holy 
 cause, and then a second light will 
 go up at the same hour. This one 
 will be red, and, when you see it, you 
 will instantly march, with the armed 
 bands you will have assembled, to 
 join the grand army." 
 
 "All right," said Ragaud; "we 
 will do our best." 
 
 And he descended the staircase 
 slowly, without appearing the least 
 excited. 
 
 " Eveline," said Dame Berthe, 
 pressing mademoiselle to her breast, 
 " thank God, my dear child. I have 
 had the happiness of completely 
 winning over good Ragaud to the 
 holy cause. He is even more ardent 
 than myself, and as well disposed as 
 we could wish. Before long, we will 
 see Val-Saint and Ordonniers rise 
 and march to victory under the com- 
 mand of this brave peasant. Jac- 
 ques Cathelineau and M. Stofflet 
 should be of the same stamp. What 
 I admire in Ragaud is that cold 
 determination, which would make 
 one fancy he was not enthusiastic ; 
 but I am not deceived by appear- 
 ances." 
 
 " Perhaps," said mademoiselle, 
 " all will be over in time for us to go 
 and finish the winter in Paris." 
 
 " I have no doubt of it," replied 
 Dame Berthe ; " and thus, my dear 
 child, as I have thought the dress- 
 makers might be half crazy with the 
 quantity of court-dresses that would 
 be ordered, I have already decided 
 what your costume is to be on the 
 entrance of the king into Paris ; for I 
 expect the daughter of the command- 
 er-in-chief to be the first to salute 
 her sovereign ; and I will immediate- 
 ly commence to embroider the satin 
 train, so as to be ready." 
 
 " How good you are ! You think 
 of everything !" said mademoiselle, 
 very much overcome. " I wish I 
 was there now ! . . ." 
 
 " Oh !" cried Dame Berthe, " only 
 be patient." 
 
 After leaving the chateau, Ragaud, 
 with his hands in his pockets, went 
 off in search of his old comrade, Jac- 
 ques Michou, that he might consult 
 with him over Dame Berthe's reve- 
 lations. Jacques lived alone being 
 a widower and childless in a little 
 house close to the edge of the woods 
 that bordered La Range. He had 
 no one about him but a niece of his 
 late wife, whom he fed and clothed ; 
 in return for which, she cooked for 
 him and cleaned his hunting-gun. 
 The girl was little trouble to him ; 
 she was idiotic and half dumb, and, 
 among other little eccentricities, liked 
 to sleep with the sheep. So, in the 
 summer she camped out on the 
 meadow with the flock, and in win- 
 ter slept in the sheep-fold, which cer- 
 tainly had the advantage of keeping 
 her very warm, but could have had 
 no other charm. From this habit 
 she had acquired the name of Bar- 
 bette throughout the country ; and it 
 was not badly given, as with us a 
 great many shepherd-dogs are called 
 Barbets, on account of the race ; and 
 since the poor girl shared their office, 
 she had at least a claim to the name 
 if she so pleased.
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 45 
 
 Jacques Michou, on his side, had 
 his particular fancies. First of all 
 was the idea (which he would only 
 give up with his life) that, in virtue 
 of his badge and his gun, he Was the 
 head-keeper of M. le Marquis de 
 Val-Saint. Now, we must acknow- 
 ledge it was mere show, there was 
 nothing in it; for our good lord ne- 
 ver wished to displease any one, not 
 even the poachers. He said there 
 was always some good in those men ; 
 and as in everything he pursued one 
 aim which was, as you know, to en- 
 rol one day or other all our boys in a 
 regiment for the benefit of the king 
 he preferred to be kind to these bold 
 and cunning rascals, who were not 
 easily hoodwinked. After a while, 
 Jacques Michou became weary of 
 carrying the delinquents before M. 
 le Marquis only to see them gracious- 
 ly dismissed, so it ended by his let- 
 ting them alone; and at the end of a 
 few years, his principal occupation 
 was to carefully keep to the right of 
 the estate in making his rounds 
 when he knew the poachers were 
 at work on the left. However, he 
 took pride in letting them know that 
 each and every one could be caught 
 at any moment he wished ; he knew 
 every path in the woods as well as 
 the bottom of his sauce-pan,- and all 
 the thieves as though they belonged 
 to his family. When he met the 
 rascals, he threatened them with 
 loud voice and gesture, and swore 
 tremendous oaths that made heaven 
 and earth tremble. " But," he would 
 shout, " what can I do ? Robbers 
 and vagabonds that you are, if M. 
 le Marquis allows himself to be plun- 
 dered, the servant must obey the 
 master's orders; but for that, you 
 would see !" And the end of the story 
 was nothing was seen. 
 
 You can understand very well that 
 the brave old fellow, having only the 
 title of keeper, and nothing to show 
 
 for it but the fine silver badge, en- 
 graved with the arms of the family 
 of Val-Saint, which he wore on the 
 shoulder-strap of his game-bag, clung 
 all the closer to the empty honor; 
 and allowed no joking on the subject; 
 When Ragaud entered his friend's 
 house, he found him carving play- 
 things out of cocoanut-shells some- 
 thing which he did wonderfully well 
 and in a few words related what had 
 taken place at the chateau. 
 
 " We will find ourselves flounder- 
 ing in the mire," said Ragaud. " As 
 for me, I am ready to promise before 
 the good God that I will give my 
 life to fulfil the commands of our 
 dear master; but it remains to be 
 seen if many around here are of my 
 opinion." 
 
 " Many ?" exclaimed Jacques, 
 shrugging his shoulders. " Bah ! I 
 am very sure you will not find one 
 out of a dozen !" 
 
 "If it is true," replied Ragaud, 
 with hesitation; "I wonder if it is 
 really true about the insurrection in 
 Anjou ?" 
 
 " Nonsense," said Jacques Michou. 
 "That poor M. le Marquis is 
 crazy on one point, which takes him 
 out of the country every five or six 
 years for change of air, and that is 
 good for his health; for every man 
 needs hope to keep him well. Xhat 
 is the truth of the business." 
 
 " Do you think, then, we had bet- 
 ter not attempt to fulfil his orders ?" 
 asked Ragaud. 
 
 "As for that, a good master must 
 always be obeyed, old fellow; we 
 can say a few words here and there 
 quietly. You will find the people 
 as stupid as owls, and they will un- 
 derstand you as well as though you 
 spoke Prussian. We shall have done 
 our duty. As to monsieur, he will 
 return before long, a little cross for 
 the moment, but not at all discou- 
 raged take my word for it "
 
 46 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 " It is a great pity," said Ragaud, 
 " that a man of such great good sense 
 couldn't listen to reason ! " 
 
 "Why so?" replied Jacques. "A 
 great lord like him is bound in hon- 
 or to be devoted, body and soul, to 
 his king; for you see, Ragaud, the 
 king who is not on the throne is the 
 real one no doubt about that. But 
 often one tumbles over in running 
 too fast ; and since it appears not to 
 be the will of the good God that 
 things should return to the old style, 
 it would have been much better not 
 to have sent off letters, gone off at 
 night, and fared off signals. It is just 
 as if they had played the flute. Men 
 stop a moment, listen, and then, the 
 music ended, each one returns to his 
 plough." 
 
 "You speak capitally," said Ra- 
 gaud ; " it is just what I think also ; so 
 I will do as you say neither more nor 
 less. But we will agree on one point, 
 old fellow, which is, to have an eye 
 on the chateau, so that we can de- 
 fend the doors if the women are 
 threatened." 
 
 "Bah ! bah ! No fear about that," 
 said Michou, shaking him by the 
 hand. " I will give my life for all 
 that belong to the house of Val-Saint, 
 comrade. I would as willingly fire 
 a pistol in defence of monsieur, 
 mademoiselle, and the old fool of a 
 governess, as for the hares and rab- 
 
 bits on the estate. But for these 
 it would be powder thrown away, 
 as monsieur, we must believe, only 
 likes butcher's meat, and prefers 
 to leave his game for those devils 
 of thieves!" 
 
 Thereupon the worthy old souls 
 refreshed themselves with a jug of 
 cider, and conversed together for 
 some time longer, principally repeat- 
 ing the same ideas on the same sub- 
 ject, which was the one we have just 
 related something which often hap- 
 pens to wiser men than they, and, 
 therefore, I consider it useless to tell 
 you any more of their honest gos- 
 sip. 
 
 They separated about mid-day, 
 and I will inform you what was the 
 result of the great insurrection. At 
 Angers, as with us, it was as Mi- 
 chou hall predicted. M. le Marquis 
 returned from his trip rather fa- 
 tigued and thoroughly disgusted with 
 France, which he called a ruined 
 country. Mademoiselle wept for a 
 week that she could not go to Paris. 
 Dame Berthe commenced Novenas 
 to the Blessed Queen Jeanne, in 
 order that the next enterprise, which 
 would not be long delayed, might 
 succeed better than the last; and 
 the result of all was that Jeannette 
 remained more than ever at the cha- 
 eau, as she was the greatest conso- 
 lation to her dear godmother. 
 
 x. 
 
 I think we will do well, at this pe- 
 riod of our story, to pass over several 
 years, during which time nothing of 
 great importance occurred. In the 
 country, days succeed each other 
 in undisturbed tranquillity, unmark- 
 ed by many great events. Accord- 
 ing as the spring is rainy or dry, the 
 villagers commence the season by 
 making predictions about the sum- 
 mer, which, twenty times out of twen- 
 
 ty-two, are never fulfilled. It must 
 be acknowledged that we peasants 
 seem afraid to appear too well pleas- 
 ed with the good God; and, though 
 it is a great fault, unfortunately 
 it is not rare. Men grumble and 
 swear, first at the sun, and then at 
 the wind, for burning and parching 
 their fields; and when the rain com- 
 mences, there is another cause for 
 displeasure; and most of all, at the
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 47 
 
 end of summer, when, after these 
 doleful repinings, the harvests have 
 been plentiful, far from thanking the 
 Lord God, who, instead of punishing 
 them, has sent blessings, they in- 
 stantly commence to worry about 
 the approaching vintage. And so 
 S. Sylvester's day finds them with 
 well-stacked barns and cellars filled 
 with barrels of wine, but not to 
 make them wiser the year after from 
 such experience, which should teach 
 them faith in divine Providence. 
 
 Whence I conclude that men are 
 only incorrigible, gabbling children, 
 and that the good God must have 
 great patience and mercy to tolerate 
 them. Much more could be said on 
 this subject; but, not being a priest, 
 I prefer to leave off moralizing, and 
 return to our friends. 
 
 Therefore, we will, if you please, 
 resume our narrative about seven 
 years from where J we left off, at 
 which time Jeannette Ragaud had 
 nearly completed her sixteenth year 
 and Jean-Louis his twentieth. 
 
 Weeks and months, rapidly passing, 
 had brought them from childhood to 
 youth without their knowing it, and 
 they had each followed their inclina- 
 tions, as might easily have' been fore- 
 seen. Jeannette, well educated, co- 
 quettish, and extremely pretty, was 
 the most charming little blonde in 
 the province. She scarcely ever 
 came to Muiceron, except on Sun- 
 days and festivals, between Mass 
 and Vespers ; and if you ask me how 
 this could have happened, so con- 
 trary, as you know, to the wishes of 
 father and mother Ragaud, I will 
 reply that I know nothing, unless 
 there is a special wind which blows 
 sometimes over men's desires, and 
 prevents their ripening into facts. 
 To be convinced of this truth needs 
 only a little unreserved frankness. 
 See, now, you who listen to me, 
 you may be more learned than 
 
 a schoolmaster, and more malicious 
 than a hump-back that I will not 
 dispute; but if you will swear to 
 me that everything in this life has 
 happened as you desired, without 
 change or contradiction, I will not 
 hesitate to think you, but for the 
 charity which should reign among 
 Christians, the greatest liar in your 
 parish. 
 
 If any one spoke to Ragaud about 
 the dangerous road in which he had 
 placed his daughter, and that there 
 was no longer chance to retrace his 
 steps, he did not show displeasure or 
 excuse himself, as heretofore. His 
 serious and rather sorrowful air, join- 
 ed to a very convenient little cough, 
 showed more than by words that he 
 did not know how to reply, and the 
 poor man was truly sensible of his 
 weakness and error; but what could 
 he do ? Something always happen- 
 ed to prevent him from carrying out 
 his intention of taking Jeannette from 
 the chateau. 
 
 Sometimes mademoiselle was sick ; 
 sometimes it was a festival of the 
 church that needed a reinforcement 
 of skilled embroiderers to make 
 vestments and flowers for the altars ; 
 another day Dame Berthe had gone 
 off for a month's vacation. In win- 
 ter the pretext was that Jeannette's 
 health would be endangered if she 
 resumed her peasant life, as she could 
 not bear the exposure; and when 
 that was over, the summer days 
 were so long, mademoiselle would 
 have died of ennui without her dar- 
 ling Jeannette; and all this mademoi- 
 selle explained with such a gentle, 
 winning air, old Ragaud never could 
 refuse her ; so that at last he was so 
 accustomed to ask and be refused 
 each time that he went for Jeannette, 
 he finally abandoned the attempt; 
 and seeing that his visits to the 
 chateau were mere matters of form, 
 he submitted with good grace, by
 
 48 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 making none at all, at least with 
 that intention. 
 
 As for good Pierrette, she remain- 
 ed quiet; but accustomed to submit, 
 and filled besides with admiration 
 for the great good sense of her hus- 
 band, she told all her troubles to 
 the good God, and awaited, without 
 complaint, the time when he would 
 decree a change. But yet I must 
 say things were not so bad as you 
 might fancy. Life at the chateau 
 had not spoiled Jeannette's heart. 
 She was rather light-hearted, and the 
 vanity of fine clothes had more effect 
 on her than that of position ; but as 
 for her parents, she adored them, 
 and overwhelmed them with embra- 
 ces and kisses on her visits to the 
 farm, which gave her undisguised 
 pleasure. Our curt, who watched 
 her closely, and who never liked to 
 see country girls quit the stable for 
 the drawing-room, was forced to ac- 
 knowledge that the affair had not 
 turned out so badly as he appre- 
 hended; and although he did not 
 hesitate to scold mademoiselle for 
 spoiling Jeannette which he had 
 the right to do, as he had known her 
 from her birth, and had also baptized 
 her it was easy to see, by his fond, 
 paternal air, that he loved the child 
 as much as at the time when Ger- 
 maine whipped her. 
 
 I will also tell you that this good 
 pastor was beginning to feel the 
 weight of years. He lost strength 
 daily, and, like all holy men, his 
 character softened as he drew nearer 
 to the good God. Besides, fearing 
 that soon he would be unable to visit 
 his beloved flock, he thought rightly 
 it was better not to be too severe, as 
 it might wean them from him. 
 
 " For," said he, " if it is true that 
 flies are not caught by vinegar, it is 
 still more evident that men are never 
 won by scolding and threats." 
 
 It was a sound argument, and, con- 
 
 sequently, who was more venerated 
 than the curt of Val-Saint ? I will 
 give only one proof. His parishion- 
 ers, seeing that walking fatigued 
 him, consulted among themselves at 
 a fair, and resolved to buy him a 
 steady animal, with a sheep-skin sad- 
 dle and leather reins, embroidered in 
 red, according to the country fash- 
 ion. 
 
 It so happened that just at that 
 moment a pedlar, owning a good 
 mule, wished to barter it for a 
 draught-horse, put up for sale by 
 a farmer from Charbonniere. The 
 bargain was made after a short par- 
 ley, and our good friends returned 
 home joyfully, and, without saying a 
 word, tied their present to the tree 
 before the priest's house. It was 
 too good an act to be kept silent; 
 the next day the curd and all the 
 parish knew it. I need not ask 
 who was deeply ''moved. The fol- 
 lowing Sunday our dear curt thank- 
 ed his flock with words that repaid 
 them a hundred-fold ; and really, if 
 you know anything, about country 
 people, you must say, without mean- 
 ing any wrong by it, they are not 
 accustomed to be generous; there- 
 fore, a little praise was fully their 
 due. 
 
 As for the mule, it was a famous 
 beast. She was black, and sniffed 
 the air at such a rate, she always 
 seemed eager to start off at full gal- 
 lop ; but, fortunately for our dear old 
 curt, it was only a little coquetry she 
 still practised in remembrance of 
 her youthful days, and never went 
 further. After making six or seven 
 paces, she became calmer, dropped 
 her head, and trotted along as quietly 
 as a lady taking up a collection in 
 the church. Otherwise she was gen- 
 tle and easily managed, except at 
 the sight of water, into which she 
 never could be induced to put her 
 foot.
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 49 
 
 " But who has not his faults ?" as 
 the beadle of Val-Saint was accus- 
 tomed to say to his wife, when she 
 scolded him for returning home rath- 
 er the worse for having raised his 
 elbow too often. 
 
 In speaking a little here and there 
 about each and every one, don't 
 think that I have forgotten Jean- 
 Louis ; on the contrary, I have kept 
 the dear boy as the choicest mor- 
 sel. 
 
 You must not expect me to relate 
 in detail all his acts and gestures. In 
 the first place, he spoke little, and 
 what he said was so kind and gentle 
 that, if he was forced to deal with 
 the noisiest brawler in the neighbor- 
 hood, he soon conquered him by his 
 mildness. One reason of this was 
 that, having learned so young the 
 painful circumstances of his birth, and 
 being proud by nature, he controlled 
 himself before people, in order not to 
 provoke any insolence. I must also 
 add that the greater part of our 
 young men get into trouble over 
 their wine ; and for Jeannet there was 
 nothing to fear in that respect. Why, 
 you can easily guess : because he 
 knew nothing of the tavern, but the 
 entrance and the sign just what could 
 be seen in passing along the street. 
 
 The good fellows, his companions, 
 loved him dearly ; the wicked were 
 forced to respect him, and feared him 
 also, as Jeannet had grown up tall, 
 and had arms strong enough to stop 
 a mad bull ; and as for work, no one 
 could compete with him. Only one 
 thing on earth he feared, and that 
 was to commit a sin. And do you 
 know, that those who have only this 
 fear can overcome, with a sign, a rag- 
 ing madman ? It daily happens, as 
 much in the city, among the black 
 coats, as in the village, among the 
 blouses. Try it, and you will be 
 convinced, and then you will ac- 
 knowledge I speak the truth. 
 
 The Ragauds, as they watched 
 this pearl of a boy grow up, learned 
 to love him more than many parents 
 do their legitimate sons. He was 
 worth five hired men, and Ragaud, 
 with his strict sense of justice, had 
 calculated the value to the last cent, 
 and for the past ten years had plac- 
 ed to his credit in the savings-bank, 
 every ist of January, one thousand 
 francs, upon which the interest was 
 accruing. Jean-Louis knew nothing 
 of the secret, and never did he 
 dream his labor was worth remune- 
 ration. The boy's mind and heart 
 were so thoroughly at ease that, 
 knowing he had not a cent, and 
 nothing to expect on the death of 
 his parents, as they had a daughter, 
 he never troubled himself about the 
 present or the future, believing firmly 
 that the good God, who had given 
 him a family, would provide for his 
 daily wants ; for this second blessing 
 was nothing, in his eyes, in compari- 
 son with the first. 
 
 Pierrette was careful that her Ben- 
 jamin's pocket was never empty. 
 At Easter and on S. John's day she 
 always gave him a five-franc piece; 
 and even this was often too much, 
 as Jeannet's clothes and linen were 
 always kept in perfect order by his 
 devoted mother, and, consequently,, 
 as he never indulged in dissipation, 
 and seldom joined in the village 
 games, he did not know how to spend 
 it. He would have liked sometimes 
 to treat himself to a book when the 
 pedlar the same who had sold the 
 mule to the farmers for M. le Cure 
 came around, and Ragaud, sure now 
 of his good conduct, would certainly 
 not have objected; but one day,, 
 after having searched over the pack- 
 age, he bought for thirty sous what 
 he thought was a good and entertain- 
 ing work, as it bore the seal placed by 
 the government on all publications 
 peddled through the country ; but, to
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 his horror, he found it filled with 
 villanous sentiments. This saddened 
 and disgusted him for several days; 
 these thirty sous laid heavy on his 
 mind, not from the avaricious 
 thought that he had thrown his 
 money to the wind, but from the 
 idea that he had wronged the poor ; 
 for thirty sous was the exact price of 
 a six-pound loaf of bread of the best 
 quality. Between ourselves, I verily 
 believe he accused himself of it in 
 confession, as what I ever heard of 
 the good boy makes me think it most 
 likely he would do so. 
 
 Perhaps you would like to know 
 if Jean-Louis had grown up handsome 
 or ugly. Well, he was ugly, at least 
 according to common opinion ; we 
 villagers admire red faces and those 
 who look well fed, and dress showily. 
 Jeannet's face was long and pale ; his 
 features delicate; teeth white and 
 beautiful, in a large mouth that sel- 
 dom smiled ; and his deep, dark eyes 
 were brilliant as stars; and when 
 those eyes looked in displeasure at 
 any one, they were fearful. Besides, 
 Jean-Louis, who was tall, appeared 
 so thin you would have thought 
 him a young gray-beard, ready to 
 break in two at the first breath of 
 wind. With us, thin people who 
 have not a pound of flesh on their 
 bones are not admired, and it is 
 quite an insult to be called thin. I 
 think that is all nonsense, for vigor 
 does not come from fat, but from 
 good health, flesh strengthened by 
 exercise and good habits; and as 
 Jeannet was acknowledged to be the 
 strongest boy in the neighborhood, 
 he was only called thin from jealousy, 
 as he certainly could thank God for 
 being a sound young man, as strong 
 as the foundation of a barn. 
 
 The only amusement he allowed 
 himself was sometimes, on great fes- 
 tivals, to assist at the pigeon-shoot- 
 ing which M. le Marquis had estab- 
 
 lished on the lawn before the chateau. 
 It was a difficult game, which de- 
 manded good sight, coolness, and, 
 above all, great strength of wrist. 
 Jeannet, on two successive years, car- 
 ried off the prize; the first was a sil- 
 ver goblet, the second a beautiful 
 knife, fork, and spoon of the same 
 metal. On these occasions his pale 
 face became red with pleasure; do 
 you think it was from vanity ? Not 
 at all. If his heart beat quickly, it 
 was at the thought of the splendid 
 presents he would make his good 
 mother Pierrette ; and, in reality, he 
 made her promise she would never 
 drink a drop or eat a mouthful but 
 out of the goblet or with the knife 
 and fork. We must say, in spite of 
 the crowns heaped up at Muiceron, 
 the earthen pipe and tin cups were 
 alone used. At first Pierrette was ill 
 at ease with her silver service, but 
 she nevertheless accustomed herself 
 to the use of it, so as to please Jean- 
 net; and at last, to make her feel 
 more comfortable, Ragaud, on his 
 next trip to the city, bought himself 
 a similar -set, very fine, for eighty- 
 four francs, which he constantly said 
 was rather dear; but at heart he 
 thought it very suitable, as it was 
 not proper for his wife to eat with 
 silver and he with tin ; and to Jean- 
 net's mind, who regretted that he 
 had not drawn four prizes instead of 
 two, so as to delight both his dear 
 parents, a brighter idea had never 
 entered his good father's head. 
 
 If I relate all these little anecdotes 
 at length, it is to show you Jeannet's 
 good heart ; and without speaking ill 
 of little Jeannette, who had also her 
 fine points, I think her brother sur- 
 passed her in delicate attention to 
 their parents, which I attribute to 
 the difference in their education. 
 Believe me, it is always better to let 
 a cabbage remain a cabbage, and 
 never attempt to graft a melon upon
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 it. You will make nothing worth 
 eating ; for the good God, who creat- 
 ed the cabbage on one side, and the 
 melon on the other, likes each to re- 
 main in its place, without which you 
 will have a hybrid vegetable, which 
 will not really be of either species. 
 
 Pierrette, like a true woman, know- 
 ing Jeannet's excellence, often thought 
 he could make some woman very 
 happy, and that it was her duty to 
 speak to him of marriage, since he 
 was twenty years old, and they knew 
 he would never have to enter the 
 army, even though he should draw 
 the fatal number. One evening, when 
 she was spinning beside the hearth, 
 with Jean-Louis near her, making 
 a net for catching birds, she com- 
 menced to speak of the happiness of 
 her married life, the blessings she had 
 received from heaven, and her per- 
 fect contentment on all points. Jean- 
 Louis listened with pleasure, and ac- 
 knowledged that a happy marriage 
 was something to be envied, but, ac- 
 cording to his custom, never thinking 
 of himself, he did not dream of wish- 
 ing this fine destiny might one day 
 be his. 
 
 " And you, my Jean, would you 
 not like to marry ?" 
 
 Jean-Louis dropped his shuttle, 
 and looked at Pierrette with aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 " What an idea !" said he. " I have 
 never even thought of it, dear mo- 
 ther." 
 
 " It is nevertheless very simple, 
 my son. Ragaud was your age when 
 he married me, and, when his parents 
 asked him the same question, he 
 thought it right, and instantly re- 
 plied, yes !" 
 
 " Doubtless he knew you, and 
 even loved you ; then I could easily 
 understand it." 
 
 "That is true," replied Pierrette, 
 slightly blushing; " for a year before, 
 the dear man had cast glances at me 
 
 on Sundays at High Mass ; at least, 
 he told me so after we were engaged. 
 Why don't you do likewise ?" 
 
 " For that, I should be obliged to 
 think of some of the girls around us, 
 and I have never troubled myself 
 about them yet." 
 
 " That is queer," said Pierrette in- 
 nocently. " You are not like other 
 men ; for without showing particular 
 attention, it is allowable to look at 
 the girls around when one wishes to 
 be established." 
 
 " Bah !" said Jeannet ; " but I don't 
 care about anything of the kind. 
 When I am in the village on Sun- 
 day, I have something else to think 
 about." 
 
 " About what, dear boy ?" 
 
 " Well, then, I think that we will 
 all be quiet at Muiceron until eve- 
 ning, and I hasten to return, so as to 
 sit down near you, as I am now, and 
 laugh and talk to amuse you ; and I 
 don't wish any other pleasure. Be- 
 sides, it is the only time in the week 
 when we can see Jeannette ; and, to 
 speak the truth, dear mother, I would 
 not give that up for all the marriages 
 in the world." 
 
 " All very well," replied Pierrette ; 
 " but without giving up those plea- 
 sures, you can take a wife." 
 
 " Oh !" said Jeannet, " I see that 
 you are tired of me. or else you 
 would not speak thus." 
 
 " What do you say ?" replied Pier- 
 rette, kissing him on the forehead. 
 "It is not right to speak so, and 
 surely you do not mean it. On the 
 contrary, whether you marry or 
 remain single, I never wish you to 
 leave me. There is room enough for 
 another woman, and even for chil- 
 dren. What I proposed, my Jean, 
 was for your happiness, and nothing 
 else." 
 
 " Well, then, dear mother, let me 
 remain as I am ; I never can be hap- 
 pier than now."
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 " But when we come to die, it will 
 be so sad to leave you alone !" 
 
 Jeannet started up, and leaned 
 against the mantel. A clap of thun- 
 der at the time would not have as- 
 tonished him more than such a 
 speech. He to be left alone in the 
 world, no longer to have his father 
 and mother beside him ! And never- 
 theless it was something to be an- 
 ticipated ; but his life flowed on so 
 smoothly and happily, the thought 
 of such a misfortune had never be- 
 fore struck terror to his heart. 
 
 He remained silent a moment, 
 looking fixedly at the bright wood 
 fire that burned upon the hearth; 
 and suddenly, as it often happens 
 when some remark has penetrated 
 the very soul, he saw, as in a picture, 
 his dear good mother Pierrette and 
 father Ragaud stretched on their 
 biers, and laid in the cold ground, in 
 the dread repose of death that never 
 awakens. But, no ! it was not possi- 
 ble ; and yet it happens any day, 
 sometimes for one, sometimes for an- 
 other. Muiceron, where they all liv- 
 ed in tranquil happiness, was truly 
 a paradise on earth, but most assur- 
 edly not the celestial paradise where 
 immortality alone exists. 
 
 For the first time since the me- 
 morable day when he had suffered 
 so cruelly on learning the secret of 
 his birth, Jeannet felt his poor heart 
 ache with a similar grief. Pierrette, 
 who thought it perfectly natural to 
 have opened his eyes to such a de- 
 sirable event, continued her spin- 
 ning. Seeing Jean-Louis in deep 
 thought, and receiving no answer, 
 she simply fancied her argument had 
 been conclusive, and that he felt the 
 necessity of establishing himself, and 
 so was debating in his own mind the 
 relative attractions of the girls in the 
 neighborhood. Besides, Jeannet's 
 back was to her, and she did not 
 see the change in his face. 
 
 "Think a little," said she, pur- 
 suing her idea ; " there is no greater 
 pleasure for parents who feel them- 
 selves growing old than to see their 
 children well married. Then they 
 can die in peace, thinking that, after 
 they are gone, nothing will be 
 changed; only, instead of the old 
 people, young ones will take their 
 place, the work will go on, all hearts 
 will be happy, and kind prayers and 
 fond recollections will follow them 
 to the tomb." 
 
 " Oh !" cried Jean-Louis, covering 
 his face with his hands, " if you say 
 another word, I will die !" 
 
 "What!" said Pierrette, "die 
 of what ? Are you ill ?" 
 
 Jeannet, in spite of his twenty 
 years, burst into tears like a little 
 child; he clasped Pierrette in his 
 arms, fondly embraced her, and said 
 in a tone melting with tenderness : 
 
 " My mother, my dear, dear mo- 
 ther, I shall never marry never, do 
 you hear ? And I beg of you never 
 to mention the subject again. I 
 have but one heart, and that I have 
 given you undivided; nothing remains 
 for another. When you speak of 
 marriage, it makes us think of death 
 and the grave; and that is beyond 
 my strength I cannot speak of it. 
 If the good God calls you before me, 
 my dearest mother, it will not be 
 long before I rejoin you ; and thus it 
 will be better for me to die single 
 than to leave a family after me. And 
 now, as I do not wish to marry, and 
 you only desire my happiness, do not 
 urge me further." 
 
 " Your heart is too gentle for a 
 man," said Pierrette, feeling the tears 
 of her dear child on her brow ; " you 
 make me happy, even while opposing 
 me, and I see that I have made you 
 unhappy without wishing it. Be 
 consoled, my Jeannet ; we will never 
 speak ofct again. If you change your 
 mind, you will tell me. Meanwhile,
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 53 
 
 we will live as before. Don't be 
 worried ; it will be a long time yet 
 before we leave you. I am in good 
 health, and your father also ; and so 
 Muiceron will not change masters 
 soon." 
 
 " No, no, thank God !" cried Jean- 
 Louis; " the Blessed Virgin will watch 
 over us. We have not lived together 
 for twenty years now to separate, my 
 darling mother !" 
 
 Truth to say, this was not very 
 sound argument , for, whether twenty 
 years together, or thirty, or forty, 
 friends must separate, all the same, 
 at the appointed hour; but Jeannet 
 spoke with his heart torn with sorrow, 
 and Pierrette was perfectly willing to 
 acknowledge, in her turn, that she 
 really desired things should happen 
 as he wished. 
 
 From that time the question of 
 marriage was put in her pocket, and 
 never taken out again. God and his 
 holy angels looked down with delight 
 upon this innocent household, full "of 
 tenderness and kindness, and did not 
 allow evil to overshadow it. How- 
 ever, the child Jeannette deserved to 
 be cured of her little sins of vanity, 
 and you will see the means taken by 
 the Heavenly Father to make her a 
 Christian according to his will. 
 
 XI. 
 
 About this time came a year which 
 is still remembered, although a good 
 long time has since elapsed. Swarms 
 of locusts devoured the young wheat 
 before it ripened, while the field-mice* 
 moles, and other villanous pests, 
 gnawed and destroyed it at the roots. 
 Corn especially suffered in this un- 
 lucky season; not a plant escaped. 
 Before it had grown ten feet in height, 
 it was blighted, and then withered 
 and died. It would take too long 
 to enumerate all the difficulties that 
 overwhelmed the peasants. Hail- 
 storms beat down the meadows at hay- 
 
 making time ; splendid cows died of 
 the pest; sheep were suddenly at- 
 tacked and perished; and as for the 
 horses, decimated by the glanders, 
 which became epidemic, and was 
 very dangerous, as it often passed 
 from animals to men, it would be im- 
 possible to count the victims. 
 
 This year, at least, those who had 
 begun the season by prophesying 
 evil had their predictions fully accom- 
 plished; but, thank God! such an 
 unfortunate season rarely happens. 
 The poor people were fearfully dis- 
 couraged; and, in sooth, it was not 
 strange that men dreaded the future, 
 in face of such a present. 
 
 Nevertheless, greater activity was 
 never seen in the fields. To save the 
 little that remained, each one did his 
 best, even down to the little children, 
 in reaping, gathering the harvest, pil- 
 ing the carts, in spite of the locusts, 
 the hail, and the devil, who was said 
 to have a great deal to do with the 
 affair, and which I am very much in- 
 clined to believe. The people even 
 worked until late in the night. It was 
 a devouring fever, which made every 
 one half crazy, and it was a miracle 
 that no one died of it; for, in our 
 province, we are accustomed to work 
 slowly, without hurry or excitement, 
 and it is commonly believed every- 
 thing happens when and how it is 
 decreed, but none the worse on that 
 account; but I wish to prove that 
 they could hurry up when occasion 
 required. 
 
 Our friend, Jean-Louis, did won- 
 ders in these sad circumstances. He 
 seemed to be everywhere at once in 
 the fields, the stables, at the head of 
 the reapers, at the barn when the 
 carts were unloaded; encouraging 
 some, urging on others, in a friendly 
 way ; hurrying up the cattle ; when 
 necessary, giving a helping hand to 
 the veterinary surgeon ; and, with- 
 al, gentle and kind to everybody.
 
 54 
 
 The Farm of M nicer on. 
 
 You think that, with order, energy, 
 and intelligence, work will always be 
 rewarded with success. He who first 
 said, " Help yourself, and Heaven 
 will aid you," did not speak falsely. 
 God does not work miracles for those 
 who fold their arms in idleness, but 
 he always gives to humble and perse- 
 vering labor such abundant reward 
 that, for many centuries, no matter 
 what may be the suffering, the truth 
 of the Holy Scriptures has always 
 been verified, that " never has any 
 one seen the just man die of hunger, 
 or his seed begging their bread." 
 
 In virtue of this rule, it came to 
 pass that, at Muiceron, the harvest 
 of hay, as well as of wheat, rye, and 
 corn, was far better than could have 
 been expected by the most sanguine. 
 The unfortunate ones, who lost nearly 
 all their crops, said that Ragaud had 
 dealt in witchcraft to protect himself 
 from the prevailing bad luck. This 
 nonsense made every one laugh, but 
 did not stop their envy and jealousy ; 
 and so unjust do men become, when 
 their hearts are envenomed by rage 
 and disappointment, that some of the 
 worst the laziest, undoubtedly 
 went so far as to declare openly, in 
 the village inn, that it would be for 
 the good of the public if some of the 
 splendid hay-stacks at Muiceron were 
 burned, as the contrast was too great 
 between the well-kept farm and the 
 ruined fields around. 
 
 Fortunately, our friend, Jacques 
 Michou, was drinking in a corner 
 while this delightful conversation 
 took place ; he rose from his seat, 
 and, placing his hand on the shoulder 
 of him who had been the loudest in 
 threats, declared he would instantly 
 complain of him to the police ; and 
 that, merely for speaking in such a 
 manner, he could be sent to prison 
 for a month. No further grumbling 
 was heard after this speech, and it 
 can be easily understood no wicked 
 
 attempt was made. So true is it 
 that a little courage will easily defeat 
 the most wicked plans; for vice is 
 very cowardly in its nature. 
 
 While all the country around Val- 
 Saint, Ordonniers, and many other 
 neighborhoods, were thus afflicted, 
 M. le Marquis had been busy with 
 some of his grand affairs, of which 
 we have already heard, and started 
 on a journey for some unknown 
 place. He returned this time a little 
 happier than usual, as it was near the 
 beginning of 1847 ; and it is not ne- 
 cessary to remind you that it preced- 
 ed 1848. At this time even the stu- 
 pidest felt that a revolution was ap- 
 proaching, and our good lord and all 
 his friends were doubly certain of 
 the impending storm. He was there- 
 fore excusable in having neglected 
 the care of his large estate, so as 
 to devote himself to that which was 
 the first desire of his heart. But he 
 who should have watched over hit 
 interests in his absence, the superin- 
 tendent Riponin, he it was that was 
 every way blamable ; for, whether in- 
 tentionally, that he might continue 
 his orgies in the midst of disorder, or 
 through idleness and negligence, he 
 had allowed the place to fall into a 
 fearful state of ruin. Nothing was 
 to be seen but fields devastated by 
 the ruin, or grain rotting as it stood , 
 the animals that died had not been 
 replaced ; and even the vegetable 
 garden of the chateau presented a 
 most lamentable picture of disorder 
 'and neglect. Ragaud and Michou 
 had seen all this ; but they were too 
 insignificant to dare say a 'word, and 
 too proud, besides, to venture a re- 
 monstrance, which certainly would 
 not have been received. 
 
 M. le Marquis, on his return, was 
 anything but agreeably surprised. 
 He summoned Riponin before him, 
 and reprimanded him in a manner 
 which he long remembered. OUT
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 55 
 
 master was goodness itself, but he 
 could not be unreasonably imposed 
 upon ; his old noble blood would 
 fire up, and he could show men that 
 for more than five hundred years his 
 ancestors, as well as he, had been 
 accustomed to command and obey 
 only the laws of the Lord God. 
 
 Rip on in was a coward ; he trem- 
 bled and asked pardon, promised to 
 do better, and gave a hundred poor 
 excuses. M. le Marquis would not 
 receive any such explanation ; he or- 
 dered Riponin out of his presence, 
 and seasoned the command with 
 several big military words, which I 
 will not repeat. It was a sign that 
 he was terribly angry. Thus the un- 
 faithful steward was obliged to re- 
 tire without further reply ; and, be- 
 tween ourselves, it was the best he 
 could do. 
 
 Thereupon M. le Marquis, still in 
 a fury, sent off for Ragaud, who 
 came in great haste, easily divining 
 what had happened. 
 
 " Ragaud," said the master, " you 
 are no better than the rest. I will lose 
 forty thousand francs on my crops; 
 and if you had seen to it, this would 
 not have happened." 
 
 " Forty thousand francs !" quietly 
 replied Ragaud. " I beg your pardon, 
 M. le Marquis; but you mean sixty 
 thousand francs, and that, I think, is 
 the lowest calculation." 
 
 M. le Marquis was naturally cheer- 
 ful ; this unexpected answer made 
 him smile, instead of increasing his 
 anger. He looked at his old ser- 
 vant, whom he highly esteemed, and, 
 folding his arms, said : 
 
 " Is that your opinion ? Come, 
 now, let us say fifty thousand ; I think 
 that is enough." 
 
 " No, no, sixty," replied Ragaud. 
 " I will not take off a crown ; but 
 there is yet time to save half." 
 
 " Is that so ? What can I give 
 you, if you do that much ?" 
 
 " Nothing, M. le Marquis, but 
 permission to be master here for a 
 week, and the honor of serving you." 
 
 " Old fool !" said the marquis. 
 "And your own work, what will be 
 come of it?" 
 
 " It is all finished," replied the 
 good farmer; "don't be uneasy, my 
 dear master, only give me, as I said 
 before, full power." 
 
 " Be off, then. I know your devo- 
 tion, and I have full confidence in 
 you ; but you will not object to my 
 making a present to your children ?" 
 
 " Presents !" said Ragaud, much 
 moved. ". What else have you done 
 for the past twenty years, M. le 
 Marquis ? Is it not the least you can 
 do to let me be of some use to you 
 for once in my life ? I owe every- 
 thing to you, down to the roof that 
 shelters me, my wife, and the chil- 
 dren. Presents ! No, no, if you do 
 not wish to pain me." 
 
 " Proud and obstinate man that 
 you are," said the marquis, smiling, 
 " have everything your own way. I 
 am not so proud as you ; you offer to 
 save me thirty thousand francs, and 
 I don't make such a fuss about ac- 
 cepting it. Isn't that a present ?" 
 
 " It is thirty thousand francs that 
 I will prevent you from losing," said 
 the obstinate Ragaud. 
 
 " Yes, as though one would say 
 grape-juice was not the juice of the 
 grape," replied the marquis, who was 
 highly amused at the replies of his 
 old servant. " Well, if I ask you to 
 drink a glass of old Bordeaux with 
 me, will you take that as the offer of 
 a present you must refuse ?" 
 
 " Certainly not," said Ragaud, 
 " but it is too great an honor for m 
 to drink with my lord." 
 
 M. le Marquis made them bring 
 refreshments on a silver waiter, and 
 kept Ragaud in close conversation 
 for a full hour, knowing well that 
 this friendly manner of treating him
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 was the greatest reward he could 
 give the good, honest soul, to whom 
 God had given sentiments far above 
 his condition. Afterwards, he dis- 
 missed him with such a warm shake 
 of the hand that Ragaud was nearly 
 overcome and could scarcely restrain 
 his tears. 
 
 " Well," said he, returning to Mui- 
 ceron, where he found Jean-Louis 
 occupied with arranging the wood- 
 pile, " what do you think we are 
 going to do, my boy, after having 
 worked like ten men to get in our 
 crops and fill the barns ?" 
 
 " I was thinking about that," re- 
 plied Jeannet; "and, meanwhile, I 
 have put the fagots in order, so that 
 mother can easily get at them, when 
 I am not at hand, to make the fire." 
 
 " You have never thought to take 
 a little rest ?" asked Ragaud, who 
 knew well beforehand what would 
 be the reply. 
 
 " Why, yes," said Jean-Louis, " an 
 hour's rest now and then is very 
 pleasant ; but after that, my dear fa- 
 ther," he continued, laughing, " I 
 like to stretch my legs." 
 
 "Well, then, let us imagine no- 
 thing was done at Muiceron, and 
 that, at this very moment, we should 
 be obliged to begin ; what would you 
 say ?" 
 
 " All right; and I would instantly 
 begin the work. I hope you don't 
 doubt me?" he replied, with his 
 usual air of quiet resolution. 
 
 " No, I do not doubt you, my 
 good boy," resumed Ragaud ; " and 
 to prove my confidence in your 
 courage and good-will, I have to-day 
 promised to undertake an enterprise 
 which, in honor, we are bound to 
 accomplish." 
 
 And he related to him what we 
 already know. 
 
 " Hum !" said Jean-Louis, after 
 having listened attentively; "it will 
 be pretty hard work, but with the 
 
 help of God nothing is impossi- 
 ble." 
 
 " That is just what I think," re- 
 plied Ragaud ; " but for that, I would 
 not have undertaken such a task. 
 Now, Jeannet, we must begin to put 
 the place in order to-morrow at the 
 latest." 
 
 " That will be time enough, father, 
 and we will do our best," said Jean- 
 Louis. 
 
 The subject was dropped for the 
 rest of the evening. Ragaud did not 
 trouble his head about the means his 
 son would employ ; and Jeannet, with- 
 out being otherwise sure of himself, re- 
 mained tranquil, like all those who 
 ask the assistance of divine Provi- 
 dence in the management of their af- 
 fairs. Nevertheless, it was a diffi- 
 cult task, not only on account of the 
 severe manual labor, but also from 
 the certainty of incurring the deadly 
 hatred of Riponin, who was a very 
 wicked man. The thought of it 
 somewhat disquieted Ragaud, and 
 Jean-Louis from the first understood 
 the full danger; but what could be 
 done ? Duty before everything. 
 
 The next morning Jean-Louis 
 was up before sunrise. During the 
 night, he thought over his plan, like 
 the general of an army ; he remem- 
 bered having read somewhere that 
 a troop can do nothing, unless con- 
 ducted by able chiefs. He would 
 need one hundred hands, and, for 
 one all alone, that would be a great 
 many. His first care was to knock 
 at the window of a fine young man 
 of his own age, who, from infancy, 
 had been his most intimate friend. 
 He was called Pierre Luguet, and 
 lived in the hamlet of Luchonieres, 
 which is a small cluster of twelve or 
 fifteen houses a little lower down 
 than Ordonniers, but on the other 
 side of La Range. By good fortune, 
 the stream at this place is so choked 
 up with a big heap of gravel and old
 
 The Farm of M nicer on. 
 
 57 
 
 Btumps of willow-trees, which serve 
 as stepping-stones across the water, 
 that any one who is light-footed can 
 cross as easily as on a narrow bridge. 
 
 This name of Luguet, I suppose, 
 strikes your ear oddly. He was 
 really tne nephew of poor Catha- 
 rine, and thus first cousin of Jean- 
 Louis, who undoubtedly knew it, as 
 you can imagine. Perhaps it was 
 the reason these two young men 
 were so much attached. They say 
 the voice of blood cannot be smoth- 
 ered ; and although it is not always 
 true, in this case it was very evident 
 that, whether for that reason or sim- 
 ply from similarity of character and 
 pursuits, good conduct and age, 
 Pierre Luguet was the only one of 
 the neighborhood whom Jeannet 
 ever sought, and that Pierre was 
 never happier than when he could 
 detain Jean-Louis for several hours 
 in conversation or some innocent 
 amusement. 
 
 Jean-Louis went straight to the 
 house of his friend, who, recognizing 
 his voice behind the shutter, quickly 
 opened it and let him in. He liv- 
 ed in a little room in front of the 
 farm- buildings, and, consequently, the 
 noise did not awaken his parents. 
 Jeannet entered by the window, and, 
 without losing any time, explained 
 his plans to Pierre, while he rapidly 
 dressed. 
 
 " You," said he, " must be my 'lieu- 
 tenant. We must get together one 
 hundred young men, each one re- 
 solved to do his part. M. le Mar- 
 quis will not begrudge the crowns; 
 we will promise them good wages, 
 and they must work all night, if neces- 
 sary; and, to encourage every one, 
 we will keep a roaring fire in Michou's 
 house, so that Barbette will always 
 have the soup warm and a tun of 
 cider ready for tapping. In this man- 
 ner the laborers will be contented, and 
 not obliged to return home twice a-day 
 
 for their meals. As for you, Pierre, 
 be assured that M. le Marquis will 
 reward you most generously for your 
 work ; and, besides, you will be doing 
 a good action, for it is a great sin to 
 see the estate of the master worse 
 cared for than that of his servants." 
 
 " I am not thinking about the 
 price," said Pierre Luguet, putting 
 on his blouse. " I ask no more than 
 you will have." 
 
 " That is good; we will see about 
 it," replied Jeannet, laughing in his 
 sleeve ; for he knew well that he was 
 going to work for the honor of it, and 
 he did not wish to make Pierre go 
 by the same rule, knowing that he 
 supported his old parents. 
 
 They decided upon the places 
 where they would expect to find the 
 best men, and separated, one to the 
 left, the other to the right, promis- 
 ing to meet again at twelve o'clock. 
 
 There was really great rejoicing 
 when the young men of Val-Saint 
 and Ordonniers learned that they 
 were required to work for M. le Mar- 
 quis under the lead of the two best 
 men of the neighborhood. They had 
 nothing to fear from brutality and 
 injustice, as in the time of Riponin ; 
 and the news of his disgrace put all 
 the brave fellows in the best humor. 
 
 Riponin was cordially detested, and 
 for double the pay not one would 
 have volunteered to serve under him, 
 or have undertaken such a disagreea- 
 ble and bungled affair ; but with Jean- 
 net it was another thing, and although 
 he warned them beforehand that 
 he would allow neither idleness nor 
 bad language, and that they must 
 work long and steadily, they follow- 
 ed him, singing as joyously as though 
 they were going to a wedding. 
 
 Before noon, the two bands met 
 on the edge of the wood, where 
 dwelt our old friend, the game-keep- 
 er. Pierre Luguet, after leaving 
 home, had taken care to pass by, so
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 as to forewarn him. Jacques Mi- 
 chou threw up his cap at the news \ he 
 also despised Riponin, and, more than 
 any other, he had good reason for 
 hating him. He therefore laid his 
 plans, and borrowed from the cha- 
 teau a huge kettle, such as is used 
 during the vintage for pressing the 
 grapes, which he put up, for their 
 service, in his little barn. Every- 
 thing was ready at the appointed 
 hour, and I can assure you the de- 
 lightful surprise was fully appreciated 
 by our young friends. The two lead- 
 ers had taken the precaution to tell 
 each one of the boys to bring half a 
 loaf of bread, a piece of goat's cheese, 
 and a slice of pork; so the soup was 
 doubly welcome, as it was not ex- 
 pected, and the cider still more so, 
 as they had counted only on the river- 
 water. This good beginning put 
 them in splendid humor ; and when, 
 after being fully refreshed, they 
 marched up to the chateau to pay 
 their respects to M. le Marquis be- 
 fore beginning their work, one would 
 have said, from the noise and sing- 
 ing, that it was a band of conscripts 
 who had drawn the lucky number. 
 
 They instantly put their shoulders 
 to the plough. Jeannet wisely made 
 them commence with the worst fields, 
 so that, when the first excitement 
 was over, and they would be rather 
 fatigued, they could find that they 
 had not eaten the white bread first. 
 Thus, having been well selected, well 
 fed, well paid, and, above all, well 
 led, our boys did wonders, not only 
 that afternoon, but on the following 
 days. The weather, however, was 
 decidedly against them; rain drench- 
 ed the laborers, and strong winds 
 prevented them from building up the 
 hay-stacks ; but their ardor was so 
 great that nothing discouraged them ; 
 and often, when Jeannet, moved by 
 sympathy, put it to vote whether 
 they should continue or not, he saw 
 
 with pleasure that not one man de- 
 serted his post. 
 
 At the end of a week, half the 
 work was so well under way it could 
 easily be seen that, in spite of the 
 bad season and worse management, 
 M. le Marquis would not lose all his 
 crops this time, but that, on the con- 
 trary, his barns would make a very 
 good show, if not in quality, at least 
 in quantity. The worthy gentleman 
 came several times himself to visit 
 the laborers and distribute extra pay. 
 On these occasions it was admirable 
 to see the modesty of Jean-Louis, 
 who always managed to disappear, 
 leaving to Pierre Luguet the honor 
 of showing the progress of the work 
 to M. le Marquis; and as workmen 
 are generally just when they are hot 
 found fault with, brow-beaten, or ill- 
 treated, they rendered to Jean-Louis 
 greater honor and respect the more 
 he concealed himself from their ap- 
 plause. In short, everything went 
 on well to the end without inter- 
 ruption. 
 
 The given fortnight was not over 
 when the last cart-load, ornamented 
 on top with a huge bouquet of flow- 
 ers and sheaves of wheat tied with 
 ribbons, was conducted in triumph, 
 accompanied with songs of joy, under 
 the windows of mademoiselle, who 
 appeared on the balcony, with Jean- 
 nette Ragaud on her right and Dame 
 Berthe on the left. M. le Marquis 
 was in the court of honor, enchanted 
 with the success of the measure ; and 
 Ragaud and Michou could not re- 
 main quiet, but clapped their hands, 
 and cried " Bravo !" to the brave 
 young men. 
 
 Jean-Louis tried to escape this 
 time also, but was not allowed. His 
 friends raised him in their arms, and 
 placed him on top of the cart with 
 his good comrade, Pierre Luguet ; 
 and thus they made their appear- 
 ance, both standing alongside of the
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 59 
 
 bouquet, Jeannet crimson with shame 
 and vexation, whilst Pierre sang loud 
 enough to crack his throat. 
 
 You can imagine that this cart, 
 upon which had been heaped the 
 last gleanings of the harvest, was 
 piled up immensely high, so that the 
 top was on a level with the first floor 
 of the chateau, and mademoiselle 
 could thus converse at her ease with 
 the young men. 
 
 She spoke most graciously to Jean- 
 Louis, and congratulated him with 
 words so complimentary that the 
 poor fellow wished himself under the 
 grain, rather than on top. What 
 embarrassed him still further was to 
 see his sister Jeannette playing the 
 part of great lady as much as her 
 mistress. With his usual good sense, 
 he considered it out of place, and 
 would have been much better pleased 
 if she had appeared ill at ease in her 
 false position ; but, far from that, she 
 leaned over the balcony, laughing and 
 talking like a vain little parrot, and 
 even rallied Jean-Louis on his sub- 
 dued manner. 
 
 He did not wish to spoil the affair 
 by looking severe and discontented, 
 but he was grieved at heart, and 
 hastened to put an end to the scene. 
 
 Mademoiselle, at the close of her 
 complimentary remarks, presented 
 each of the two friends with a little 
 box of the same size, wrapped in 
 beautiful paper, and tied with pink 
 ribbon. 
 
 " They are filled with bon-bons," 
 said she in her sweet, gentle voice ; 
 " and you will not refuse to eat them 
 in remembrance of me ?" 
 
 Then she made them a most 
 friendly bow, which they returned 
 ,vith great respect, and the big cart 
 was driven off to the barn to be un- 
 loaded. 
 
 " Bon-bons !" said Pierre to Jean- 
 net, taking out his box after they 
 h^d descended from their high post 
 
 of honor. " What do you think, Jean- 
 Louis ? It seems to me this play- 
 thing is too heavy only to contain 
 candies." 
 
 " At any rate," replied Jean-Louis, 
 " they can't do us any harm, as the 
 boxes are not very large." 
 
 They quickly untied the pretty 
 pink ribbon, and found in Pierre's 
 box fifteen bright twenty-franc 
 pieces, while Jeannet's contained a 
 beautiful gold watch, with a chain 
 of equal value. 
 
 To add to the general happiness, the 
 sky, which until then had been cloudy 
 as though threatening rain, suddenly 
 cleared, and the sun went down in 
 the full splendor of August, and shed 
 a brilliant light over the bare fields, 
 as Jean-Louis was carried in triumph 
 by his comrades, who cried out that 
 surely he controlled the weather, as 
 the very winds seemed to obey him ; 
 and, strange as it may appear, the sea- 
 son continued so fine that never wa* 
 there a more delightful autumn than 
 after the unfortunate spring and sum 
 mer. 
 
 If I dared express my opinion, I 
 would tell you that, without calling il 
 miraculous, the good God scarcely 
 ever fails to send joy after sorrow, 
 peace after war, heat after cold, as 
 much to the visible things of the 
 earth as to the secret ones of the 
 heart. It is, therefore, well not to 
 throw the handle too quickly after 
 the axe ; and, to prove this, I will tell 
 you a short and true story, which I 
 just happen to remember. 
 
 It relates to Michel Levrot, of 
 the commune of Saint-Ouaire, who, 
 against everybody's advice, married 
 a woman from near Bicherieux. 
 She was a bad "Christian and totally 
 unworthy of the good little man, who 
 was rather too gentle and weak in 
 character. For a year they got along 
 so-so, without any great disturbance ; 
 but gradually the wicked creature
 
 6o 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 grew to despise her poor husband, 
 for no other reason but that he was 
 too good for her, and let her have 
 her own way completely. She wast- 
 ed money at fairs, bought more fine 
 clothes and silver jewelry than she 
 knew what to do with, kept up a. row 
 in the house from morning until night, 
 and ended by being nearly always 
 drunk; all which made Michel 
 Levrot so unhappy that one sad day 
 in a moment of despair, without 
 stopping to think of his eternal salva- 
 tion, he threw himself headlong into 
 the river Coussiau, which, fortunately, 
 was not so deep as La Range, al- 
 though nearly as wide. 
 
 As he was out of his head, and 
 acted without thinking, his good 
 angel most assuredly took care of 
 him ; for, if he had been drowned, he 
 certainly would have lost his soul; 
 but, although he did not know how 
 to swim, he floated on his back, and 
 the current carried him to the bank 
 of the stream, where he was picked 
 up, half-dead and in a swoon, by 
 some of the neighbors, who rubbed 
 and warmed him, and managed to 
 bring him back to life. Those who 
 had saved him were good, pious men, 
 who spoke to him in such a Chris- 
 tian manner, they made him feel 
 ashamed of his cowardice and want 
 of confidence in the Heavenly Father; 
 so he promised to go and see our 
 cur/, who lifted him upon his beast 
 that is to say, made peace enter his 
 soul; after which he explained to 
 him that, having no children, he had 
 the right to leave this wicked and 
 perverse woman, who deserved a 
 
 severe lesson, and not return home 
 until she should be converted or 
 dead. 
 
 He left that part of the country, 
 entirely cured of his desire to kill 
 himself, and made the tour of France, 
 honestly earning his bread by work- 
 ing at his trade, which was that of 
 an upholsterer. From time to time 
 the neighbors sent him news of his 
 abominable wife, who led such a 
 scandalous life it was easy to pre- 
 dict she would not make old bones ; 
 for, if strong drink and vice soon 
 kill the most robust men, they are 
 still more fatal to women. After 
 a few years, he received the welcome 
 intelligence that his house was rid 
 of its baneful mistress. He then re- 
 turned to Saint-Ouaire, and was char- 
 itable enough to give fifty francs for 
 Masses for the unfortunate soul. 
 Some time after, he married the 
 daughter of Pierre Rufin, a good 
 worker and housekeeper, who, besides 
 other excellent qualities, never drank 
 anything stronger than honey and 
 water that she took for a weak sto 
 mach, which she had from child 
 hood. They lived most happily, and 
 had a family of five handsome chil- 
 dren. I knew him when he was very 
 old, and 'he always loved to relate 
 this story of his youth, never failing 
 to return thanks to the good God, who 
 had saved him from drowning. 
 
 " For," said he, " my dear children, 
 if I had been drowned that day from 
 want of a little patience, I should 
 have lost my soul, besides the good 
 wife you see here and all my present 
 happiness."
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 6t 
 
 XII. 
 
 THE Sunday after the last day of 
 the harvest, M. le Marquis invited all 
 the boys up to the chateau, where a 
 magnificent banquet was prepared, 
 and they were expected to remain 
 until the evening. He ordered a 
 splendid repast, and music besides; 
 the principal barn, which ordinarily 
 was crammed full at this season, but 
 that, owing to the bad season, was 
 comparatively empty, was decorated 
 for the occasion. Our master desired 
 that nothing should be spared to 
 make the fete a great success. All 
 the fine linen of the chateau and 
 the closets were heaping-full of it 
 the china, and silver were put into 
 requisition, so that there never was 
 given a more superb banquet to 
 great personages than to our delight- 
 ed villagers. As for the fricassee, it 
 is remembered to this day; it was 
 composed, to commence with, of a 
 dozen kinds of poultry, so well dis- 
 guised under different sauces that 
 one ate chicken in confidence as 
 chicken, because it was so written on 
 little strips of paper laid beside each 
 plate, but without being positive that 
 it was not turkey or pigeon ; and 
 every one agreed in acknowledging 
 that such a delicious compound had 
 never passed down country throats, 
 and that the wines, if possible, sur- 
 passed the eating ; so that the good 
 fellows commenced to be merry and 
 perfectly happy when the roast ap- 
 peared. 
 
 Of this roast I will say a word be- 
 fore passing to other things, for I 
 
 fancy you have seldom seen it equal- 
 led. With all respect, imagine a huge 
 hog, weighing at least a hundred 
 pounds, roasted whole, beautifully 
 gilded, and trimmed with ribbons, and 
 reposing so quietly on a plank cover- 
 ed with water-cresses you would 
 have thought him asleep. 
 
 It was really a curious and most 
 appetizing sight, and sufficiently rare 
 to be remarked ; but see how stupid 
 some people are ! On seeing this 
 superb dish, whose delicious perfume 
 would have brought the dead back 
 to life that is to say, if they were 
 hungry some of the fellows said 
 that M. le Marquis might have better 
 chosen another roast, as pork was 
 something they ate all through the 
 year. Whereupon Master Ruinard, 
 the head-cook of the chateau, made 
 a good-natured grimace, and apostro- 
 phized them as a heap of fools, but 
 without any other sign of displeasure ; 
 and then seizing his big knife, that 
 he sharpened with a knowing air, he 
 cut the animal open, and out tumbled 
 snipe, woodcock, rennets, and par- 
 tridges, done to a turn, and of which 
 each one had his good share. As 
 for the hog, no one touched it, which 
 proved two things first, that you 
 must not speak too soon; secondly, 
 that when a great lord gives an enter- 
 tainment, it is always sure to be re- 
 markably fine. 
 
 At the dessert, which was abun- 
 dant in pastry, ice-cream, and fresh 
 and dried fruits, they served a deli- 
 cate wine, the color of old straw, 
 the name of which I don't know ex- 
 actly, but which was sweet and not
 
 62 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 at all disagreeable. At this time, M. 
 le Marquis, accompanied by made- 
 moiselle, Dame Berthe, and Jeannette, 
 entered and mingled with the guests, 
 who rose and bowed low. Our good 
 master thanked the young men for 
 the great service they had rendered 
 him ; and as he could not drink with 
 each one, he touched his glass to 
 that of Jean-Louis, saying it was to 
 the health of all the commune. They 
 cried, " Long live M. le Marquis !" 
 until the roof shook ; and as their 
 heads were as heated as the boilers 
 at the big yearly wash, they whisper- 
 ed among themselves that it would 
 be well to carry Jean-Louis again in 
 triumph, as much to please the mas- 
 ter as to render justice to him who 
 was the cause of all this festivity. 
 
 Now, our Jean-Louis was the only 
 one who remained composed after 
 all this eating and drinking. He 
 had eaten with good appetite, and 
 fully quenched his thirst, but not one 
 mouthful more than was necessary. 
 He heard all that was said without 
 appearing to listen ; and when others 
 might have felt vain, he was displeas- 
 ed; he therefore watched his chance, 
 slid under the table, and, working his 
 way like an eel between the legs of 
 his comrades, who were too busily 
 occupied to notice him, in three 
 seconds was out of the door, running 
 for dear life, for fear of being caught. 
 
 He was delighted to breathe the 
 fresh air, and did not slacken his 
 pace until he had gone a good quarter 
 of a league, and was near Muiceron. 
 Then he stopped to take breath, 
 laughing aloud at the good trick he 
 had played. 
 
 "Thank goodness!" thought he, 
 " I have at last escaped. They can 
 run as fast as they choose now ; there 
 is no chance of catching up with me. 
 What would M. le Marquis and the 
 family have thought to have seen 
 me hoisted up on the shoulders of 
 
 those half-tipsy fellows, and paraded 
 around the court, like a learned beast 
 on a fair-ground ? Not knowing that 
 I had come to the chateau only to 
 oblige the master, who had besides 
 given me a valuable watch, it would 
 have looked as though I wished to 
 receive in vain applause what I re- 
 fused in money. None of that, none 
 of that for me ; there is enough non- 
 sense going on, without my mixing 
 myself up in it. They can drink and 
 dance until sunrise to-morrow, if they 
 so please, it is all the same to me; 
 and I will go home to bed, after hav- 
 ing told all to my dear mother, who 
 will not fail to approve of my conduct, 
 and laugh heartily at my escape." 
 
 As he said this to himself, he enter- 
 ed the wood, of which we have al- 
 ready spoken, that skirts La Range 
 and throws its shade nearly to the 
 fir-trees which surround Muiceron. 
 It was such a delightful spot, either 
 by night or day, that it was difficult 
 to pass through it without feeling a 
 disposition to loiter and meditate, 
 particularly for such a dreamer as 
 Jean-Louis. After all, now that he 
 was safe, there was nothing to hurry 
 him home for at least half an hour. 
 He therefore put his hands in his 
 pockets, and strolled along, resting 
 both mind and body in a dreamy 
 reverie for the benefit of the one, and 
 walking slowly to the great good of 
 the other. 
 
 Really, the evening was delicious. 
 The great heat of the day had been 
 succeeded by a fresh breeze, which, 
 passing over the orchards around, 
 brought into the wood the sweet 
 odor of young fruit, mingled with 
 that of the foliage and bark of the 
 trees, damp with the August sap. 
 The hum of insects was heard, and 
 not far off the joyous murmur of the 
 stream leaping over the stones. As 
 the ground had been thoroughly 
 soaked for several weeks past, quan*
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 tides of wild flowers strewed the soil, 
 and added to the balmy air a taste 
 of spring, entirely out of season. 
 You surely must have felt, at some 
 time or other, how such nights and 
 such scenes enervate the brain. The 
 will cannot resist the bewitching in- 
 fluence ; insensibly we become dream- 
 ers, and feel a strong desire to 
 converse with the stars. August 
 nights especially are irresistible, and 
 I imagine no one, unless somebody 
 depraved by wicked deeds and 
 thoughts, or a born idiot, can fail 
 to understand and acknowledge the 
 effect. 
 
 Judge if our Jean-Louis, with his 
 pure soul and young heart of twenty 
 years, was happy in the midst of 
 these gifts of the good God. He 
 was like a child who hears for the 
 first time the sound of the bagpipes ; 
 and I beg you will not sneer at this 
 comparison, for the reveries of an in- 
 nocent heart have precisely the same 
 gentle effect on the soul as the grand 
 harmonies that roll through vast 
 cathedrals on the great festivals of 
 the church. 
 
 Doubtless, that he might better 
 listen to this music, he seated him- 
 self on the moss at the bottom of a 
 birch-tree, rested his head against 
 the trunk, and looked up at the 
 leaves, shaken by the wind, his feet 
 crossed, and in the most comfortable 
 position possible, to dream at his ease. 
 Now, whether he was more fatigued 
 than he imagined, on account of his 
 week's hard labor, or whether the 
 unusual feasting at the chateau made 
 him drowsy, certain it is that he first 
 closed one eye, then both, and ended 
 by falling as soundly asleep as 
 though he were in his bed at Mui- 
 ceron. 
 
 It happened that, during this time, 
 a storm arose behind the hill of 
 Chaumier, to the right of the river 
 that runs through the parish of Val- 
 
 Saint and Ordonniers something 
 which our sleeper had not foreseen, 
 although he was very expert in 
 judging of the weather. Ordinarily, 
 the river cuts the thunder-clouds, so 
 that this side of La Range is seldom 
 injured by storms; but this time it 
 was not so. At the end of an hour 
 or two *that his sleep lasted, Jean- 
 Louis was suddenly awakened by a 
 clap of thunder which nearly deaf- 
 ened him ; and in an instant the rain 
 commenced to fall in great drops 
 that came down on his face, and of 
 which he received the full benefit as 
 he lay stretched out on the grass. 
 
 He rose at a bound, and started 
 off on a gallop, that his best clothes 
 might not be injured. Muiceron 
 was not far distant, and the storm 
 had just commenced ; he therefore 
 hoped to reach the house in time to 
 escape it. Not that he thought only 
 of his costume, like a vain, effeminate 
 boy, but because his mother Pierrette 
 was very careful, and did not like to 
 see his Sunday suit spoiled or spotted 
 with the rain. 
 
 But the storm ran faster than he ; 
 the rain fell as from a great watering- 
 pot on the trees, lightning glared on 
 all sides at once, and one would have 
 said that two thunder-clouds were 
 warring against each other, trying 
 to see which could show the greatest 
 anger. 
 
 In the midst of this infernal noise, 
 Jean-Louis suddenly saw what he 
 thought, by the flash of lightning, to 
 be a little brown form trotting before 
 him in the middle of the path. He 
 was not a boy to be alarmed by 
 the raw-head-and-bloody-bones stories 
 with which we frighten children to 
 make them behave, and which many 
 grown-up men, with beards on their 
 chin, half believe to be true; but, 
 nevertheless, the thing appeared 
 quite unusual. He hastened his 
 steps, and, as sometimes he could see
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 in the lightning-glare as well as at 
 noon-day, he soon recognized the 
 costume of the women of the, coun- 
 try, or at least the cloak they throw 
 over their clothes when the weather 
 is threatening. 
 
 " Oh !" said the kind-hearted Jean- 
 net, " here is a poor little thing half 
 frightened to death on account of 
 the storm. I must catch up with her, 
 and offer to take her to the village." 
 
 For Jean-Louis, although he had 
 very little ever to do with girls, was 
 so kindly disposed he was always 
 ready to be of service to his neigh- 
 bors, whether they wore blouses or 
 petticoats. 
 
 But as he hurried on, that he 
 might put in practice his charitable 
 thought, there came a flash of light- 
 ning that seemed to set the woods 
 on fire, and, immediately after, a ter- 
 rible clap of thunder as loud as 
 though the heavens were rent asun- 
 der. Jeannet involuntarily closed 
 his eyes, and stopped short, fastened 
 to the ground like a stake. It was 
 what the savants call an electric 
 shock. But don't expect me to ex- 
 plain that expression, for I know 
 nothing about it, and, besides, I 
 don't worry my head about such 
 things. 
 
 When our boy opened his eyes, 
 after one or two seconds, which ap- 
 peared to him very long, his first 
 care was to explore the path, in order 
 that he might discover the unknown 
 country-girl ; but there was nowhere 
 to be seen a trace of a girl, a cloak, 
 or anything that resembled a human 
 being. 
 
 " Well, this is at least singular," 
 said he very uneasily. " Has my sight 
 grown dim ? No ; I would stake my 
 head that I saw before me a flesh- 
 and-bone woman. I saw it that I 
 am positive and sure. If she has 
 been hurt by this stroke of lightning, 
 which must surely have fallen near 
 
 here, she must be lying on the ground ; 
 for I have never heard that the storm 
 kills people by making them melt 
 like snow under the March sun." 
 
 This sudden disappearance excit- 
 ed him to such a degree that, with- 
 out thinking of the rain, which was 
 pouring down in torrents, and had 
 drenched his new coat of Vierzon 
 cloth, he resolved to enter the copse, 
 at the risk of losing his way, and 
 search around until he would discov- 
 er the lost girl. But before leaving 
 the beaten path, by a sudden in- 
 spiration, he cried out with a loud 
 voice : 
 
 " If there is any one here who 
 needs assistance, let her speak. I 
 will bring two strong arms to the 
 rescue." 
 
 Instantly a faint voice, stifled and 
 weeping, replied, " Oh ! for S. Syl- 
 vain's sake, good people, have mercy 
 on me !" 
 
 " Holy Virgin Mary !" cried Jean- 
 Louis, " is not that the voice of my 
 sister Jeannette ? She is the last 
 person for three leagues around I 
 would have expected to find in such 
 a plight at this hour of the night. 
 But I must be mistaken ; it can't be 
 possible." 
 
 And with that, more dead than 
 alive from the violent palpitation of 
 the heart which suddenly seized 
 him, Jean- Louis rushed towards a 
 thicket of young chestnut-trees that 
 bordered the path, and from which 
 seemed to come the weak, mournful 
 voice that implored pity. He pushed 
 aside the branches with a vigorous 
 hand, and soon discovered a girl, in 
 cloak and hood, crouched upon the 
 ground, and so doubled up in a heap 
 she could have been mistaken at 
 first sight for a large ant-heap or 
 bundle of old rags left there by some 
 passing beggar. 
 
 " For the love of our Lord and 
 Saviour, tell me who you are, and
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 don't be afraid of me," said Jeannet, 
 leaning over the poor little thing. 
 
 She raised her head, and instantly 
 let it fall again on her knees, around 
 which her hands were clasped; but 
 as the lightning continued without 
 ceasing a moment, the movement 
 sufficed for Jean-Louis to recognize 
 her. 
 
 It was really Jeanne Ragaud, but 
 so paralyzed with fear, so wet and 
 fainting, she seemed about to breathe 
 her last. Her piteous moans were 
 enough to break one's heart. Her 
 whole body trembled, and thus hud- 
 dled up in the middle of the mud in 
 the dense underbrush, her situation 
 was so perilous I verily believe she 
 would have met her death in that 
 lonely spot, but for the assistance sent 
 by Heaven. 
 
 "Jeanne, Jeanne!" cried Jean- 
 Louis, coming close to her, " keep 
 up your courage, my darling. Rouse 
 up, I beg of you. Be brave ; you are 
 already chilled through. It is danger- 
 ous to remain in the woods in such a 
 storm." 
 
 But the poor little creature did not 
 move. The fright and cold of the 
 terrible tempest had totally bewilder- 
 ed her. Jeannet vainly shook her by 
 the shoulders, trying to raise her on 
 her feet, and to unclasp her hands, 
 which had stiffened around her knees. 
 He could not make her change her 
 position in the least. What could be 
 done? He did not know precisely 
 how long she had wandered in the 
 wood before falling down; and al- 
 though he had just heard her speak 
 a moment before, he feared that she 
 was about to die, as perhaps she had 
 been struck by lightning. 
 
 He made the sign of the cross, and 
 invoked the angels of paradise. Im- 
 mediately he remembered that not 
 far from this grove was a miserable 
 cabin, used by the wood-cutters, 
 half tumbling down, but still suffi- 
 
 ciently sound to shelter a Christian. 
 This thought gave him fresh strength ; 
 and taking the little thing, doubled 
 up as she was, in his arms, he raised 
 her from the ground, and carried her, 
 without stopping, to the wretched 
 hut. 
 
 Well was it that he thought of 
 this retreat, and, still better, that it 
 was not far distant ; for Jeannette, al- 
 though slender and not tall, was in 
 a dead faint, and consequently so 
 heavy that Jeannet was perfectly ex- 
 hausted when he reached the shel- 
 ter. 
 
 By a still greater mercy, he had 
 his flint in his pocket, and, luckily, it 
 had not been injured by the damp- 
 ness. He thus was able to strike a 
 light, after having laid the poor girl 
 on the dry earthen floor. He quick- 
 ly lighted some handfuls of brush 
 and straw that strewed the ground, 
 and by their smoky light discovered, 
 in a corner of the cabin, a good moss 
 mattress, which the wood-men used 
 when they came to sleep in the 
 place, and near by a little board, up- 
 on which laid a packet of auribus 
 little resin candles very much used in 
 our province. 
 
 " May God be praised for helping, 
 me !" thought the brave boy, delight- 
 ed at having found poor little Jean- 
 nette. " It is a poor bed-room in 
 comparison with the fine apartments 
 at the chateau, but worth a palace 
 when we think of the thicket just 
 now." 
 
 He unfastened his sister's cloak, 
 with a thousand respectful precau- 
 tions, just as he would have touched 
 the veil that covers the statue of 
 Our Lady, and in the same manner 
 took off her shoes and stockings, 
 which he found very difficult, as, ow- 
 ing to the dampness, the fine thread 
 stockings clung tightly to the skin. 
 That accomplished, he built up the 
 fire with all the rubbish he could find,
 
 66 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 and, turning the moss mattress in such 
 a manner that Jeannette's feet were 
 in front of the fire, he stretched her 
 gently upon it, and seated himself 
 beside her, waiting for her to recover 
 her senses. 
 
 Thus passed half an hour without 
 the little one stirring ; fortunately, 
 her cloak was very thick, so that the 
 rest of her clothes were not wet, and 
 he could thus hope for the best. 
 But it was the first time Jeannet had 
 ever watched by the side of a faint- 
 ing girl; and, not knowing by expe- 
 rience what to do in such a case, the 
 time seemed to him very long be- 
 fore she revived. He himself was 
 dripping wet, and, although he scarce- 
 ly gave it a thought, he shivered as 
 one who might soon have the chills- 
 and-fever. 
 
 " It would be very queer if I also 
 should have an inclination to faint ; 
 what then would become of us ?" 
 thought Jean-Louis, who really began 
 to feel very uncomfortable. 
 
 As this idea entered his head, Jean- 
 nette moved her little feet before the 
 tire, and began to sigh, and then to 
 yawn, which was the best sign that 
 there was no danger of dying, as 
 there is always hope as long as a 
 sick person can yawn. A minute 
 afterwards, she raised herself, and 
 looked around with astonished eyes 
 that asked an explanation. 
 
 " Well," said the happy Jeannet, 
 " how do you feel, my poor little sis- 
 ter ?" 
 
 " Is it you ?" she asked, still trem- 
 bling. "O Jeannet! how frightened 
 I was. " 
 
 And as she spoke, she tried to 
 throw her arms around his neck, like 
 a child who seeks refuge on his mo- 
 ther's breast. Jean-Louis drew back 
 something which was entirely dif- 
 ferent from his usual manner of re- 
 ceiving her caresses. 
 
 " Are you angry ?" said she. " I 
 
 have done nothing wrong, except to 
 venture out to-night to return home; 
 but the weather was not bad when I 
 started, and I did not dream of such 
 a storm." 
 
 " I angry ? Why should 1 be ?" cri- 
 ed Jean-Louis, kissing both her hands. 
 " No, no, my pet ; on the contrary, I 
 am most happy to see you a little re- 
 stored. But I am thoroughly drench- 
 ed with the rain ; that is the reason I 
 don't wish you to touch me." 
 
 " That is true," said she ; " I did 
 not notice it before. What were you 
 doing before this good fire, instead 
 of drying yourself ?" 
 
 " I was looking at you," replied 
 Jeannet innocently. 
 
 " Big goose !" cried the little thing 
 laughing heartily with her usual good 
 humor. " Hadn't you any more sense 
 than that? And now you are just 
 ready to catch the ague." 
 
 " Don't be uneasy, Jeannette ; it is 
 not the first time I have had a check 
 of perspiration. What I hope is that 
 you will not suffer by this adven- 
 ture, any more than I. But tell me, 
 why did you run away from the fete 
 at the very moment the dancing was 
 about to commence ?" 
 
 " I cannot say why," replied Jean- 
 nette. " Sometimes we have ideas 
 we must follow, whether or no. It 
 is as though some one stronger than 
 we were pushing us by the shoulders 
 the way he wished us to go. To 
 speak frankly, I saw you leave has- 
 tily, and I instantly became more 
 serious, and felt less desire to be 
 amused. I said to myself, Doubtless 
 Jeannet, who is better than I, knows 
 that father and mother are alone 
 waiting for him at Muiceron, and he 
 cannot bear the thought of their sit- 
 ting up for him until late at night. 
 And I, what am I doing ? Am I 
 not also a child of the house ? Jean- 
 net will relate all that happened at 
 the dinner, and they will ask, And
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 67 
 
 Jeannette ?' ' Oh ! yes, Jeannette ; 
 does Jeannette think of anything else 
 but amusing herself and talking non- 
 sense far away from her parents ?' 
 At these thoughts my heart throb- 
 bed so I nearly burst into tears; 
 just then mademoiselle was busy 
 replying to the compliments every 
 one was offering her ; so I left the 
 barn, and went after my cloak, and, 
 without further reflection, started for 
 Muiceron. You know how afraid 
 I am of thunder and lightning; 
 when I saw the storm coming up, I 
 became bewildered, and don't know 
 which way I went, but I suppose it 
 was the wrong one. When I regain- 
 ed what I thought was the right 
 path, the storm was still raging, and 
 I would have died of fright, but for 
 you, my old fellow." 
 
 " Thank God you escaped this 
 time !" said Jean-Louis, very much 
 touched by the simple recital, which 
 showed the good heart of the little 
 girl ; " but, nevertheless, you ran a 
 great risk. Now, Jeannette, let us 
 hurry home ; we must quit this place, 
 as it must be late." 
 
 " I suppose it is," said she. 
 " Haven't you your watch to see what 
 time it is ?" 
 
 " I left it hanging up in my room," 
 replied Jeannet. " I did not wish 
 to wear it when at dinner in the 
 chateau, for fear it might look as 
 though I wished to display it before 
 those who had none ; and it is well 
 I did not take it, as it would have 
 been ruined by the rain." 
 
 " How can I walk barefooted ?" 
 asked Jeannette. " I can't put on 
 my wet stockings." 
 
 " And your shoes still less," replied 
 her brother, laughing. " But if you 
 will let me, Jeannette, I can carry 
 you." 
 
 " Poor Jeannet ! , Not at all ; it 
 would be too much for you," said 
 she. " Go to Muiceron, and bring me 
 
 my wooden shoes. It is all quiet now 
 outside ; I don't hear any noise, and 
 I will not be afraid to remain here 
 alone for a little while." 
 
 It was really the best and shortest 
 way of getting over the difficulty. 
 Jean-Louis opened the door of the 
 cabin, and saw that the sky was 
 clear and bright ; not this time with 
 the lightning's glare, but with the 
 soft rays of the moon and beautiful 
 stars of the good God. All was 
 quiet and peaceful, except that great 
 drops fell from the trees, still wet 
 with the heavy rain, and that the 
 ruts in the road were filled with 
 water, that made them look like little 
 rivulets. 
 
 " Watch the fire, Jeannette, and be 
 patient ten minutes," said he; "and 
 in two strides I will be there and 
 back again." 
 
 It took a little longer time than 
 that to return, as on entering the 
 farm he met Ragaud, who was look- 
 ing to see if the storm had injured 
 the palings around the barn-yard, 
 and was therefore obliged to stop 
 and in a few words relate the night's 
 adventure. 
 
 The good man, while grumbling 
 and scolding at the imprudence of 
 his daughter, who, he said, had no 
 more sense than a child six years old, 
 felt fearfully anxious, as was easily 
 shown by the rapid questions he ask- 
 ed Jean-Louis. To assure himself that 
 nothing was kept behind, and that 
 the boy, from kindness of heart, had 
 not disguised the truth, he hastily 
 took down his big woollen scarf from 
 the hook, and hurried off. 
 
 " I will lecture the giddy child 
 well," said he. " Go before, Jeannet ; 
 I will follow you. It is not far, so 
 hurry." 
 
 "Mother will be anxious," said 
 Jeannet. " Let me go alone ; I will be 
 back the sooner." 
 
 " Your mother has been asleep a
 
 68 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 long time," replied Ragaud, " or else 
 she would have been on our heels 
 before this, and we would have had 
 to carry her back also. Fasten the 
 bolt, without any noise, and let us be 
 off." 
 
 With that they started. Ragaud 
 was quick and light for his age, and 
 they proceeded at a rapid rate, which 
 soon brought them to their journey's 
 end. Jean-Louis carried a bright 
 lantern and a bundle of woollen stock- 
 ings and wooden shoes he had taken 
 at random out of the chest ; for it was 
 all-important that Jeannette's feet 
 should be well warmed, and that she 
 should be in her comfortable bed as 
 soon as possible, so as to prevent 
 fresh chills. 
 
 It was nearly midnight when they 
 reached the hut, which enables us to 
 see what a long time had elapsed 
 since Jean-Louis' flight from the 
 chateau, what a good sound sleep 
 he had had in the wood, and proves 
 that the storm and Jeannette's swoon 
 were not slight affairs. 
 
 As soon as they entered Jeannet 
 the first, Ragaud behind him they 
 saw that the lantern was a wise pre- 
 caution. The heap of brush-wood 
 was burnt up, and there was no 
 light, except from a little pile of red 
 ashes, as even the resin candle glued 
 to the wall was flickering and falling 
 in big drops, which announced its 
 speedy death. 
 
 " Here we are, my Jeanne," cried 
 Jean-Louis from the threshold of the 
 door. " Father is with me, and we 
 have brought fresh lights." 
 
 No answer. The child was so 
 weak and faint, it looked as though 
 she had swooned again. Ragaud, 
 at this sight, forgot the scolding he 
 intended giving his daughter by way 
 of welcome, and, leaning over her, 
 placed his hand on her forehead, 
 which was icy cold. 
 
 " She is very ill, I tell you," mur- 
 
 mured the good man. " Bring the 
 lantern here, Jeannet. God have 
 mercy on me, how pale the poor 
 child is ! ... Jeanne, Jeanne, don't 
 you know us ?" 
 
 " Ah ! yes, my father," she whis- 
 pered, looking languidly at him. " I 
 hear you, but I am so sleepy . . ,. 
 so sleepy ... I can't talk." 
 
 " But you must wake up, and leave 
 this place," said Ragaud. " Try and 
 rouse yourself, my child ; in five min- 
 utes we will be at the house." 
 
 She made the effort, and tried to 
 stand on her feet ; but for Jeannet, 
 who was near and caught her, she 
 would have fallen down. 
 
 " I am so tired !" she said again, 
 closing her eyes. 
 
 " Shall we carry you on a chair 
 to see the king ?" asked Jean-Louis. 
 " Perhaps that will be the best way." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said she, smiling at 
 this remembrance of her childhood ; 
 " that will be fun." 
 
 Undoubtedly you know what is a 
 chair to see the king? It is a child's 
 play, which generally is done by 
 three persons two boys and a girl ; 
 the boys clasp hands in such a man- 
 ner that a good seat is made for the 
 girl, who thus, without any fatigue to 
 the bearers, can be carried as easily 
 as in a carriage. 
 
 Ragaud highly approved of the 
 idea. Jeannet, who thought of every- 
 thing, tied the lantern to a piece of 
 cord, and suspended it to Jeannette's 
 neck, who recovered enough strength 
 to laugh ; and thus, well lighted and 
 very happy, they started on their re- 
 turn to the farm, which they soon 
 reached safe and sound. 
 
 They entered Muiceron by the 
 kitchen door, so softly that Pierrette, 
 who was sleeping in the big front 
 room, did not hear the slightest 
 noise. Jeannette appeared perfectly 
 restored ; she was gay, although still 
 pale and shivering ; but she assured
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 69 
 
 them the warmth of the bed would 
 soon make her feel better. So they 
 embraced, and, after many good- 
 nights, retired to their rooms. 
 
 The next morning Ragaud told 
 Pierrette all the events of the pre- 
 ceding night, but forbade her entering 
 Jeannette's room, for fear she might 
 be awakened too soon after her great 
 fatigue ; but at the same time, unable 
 to restrain his own curiosity, he took 
 off his wooden shoes, softly lifted the 
 latch, walked on tiptoe to the bed, 
 and peeped between the curtains, 
 just to see, for a second, how the 
 child was resting. 
 
 Alasi poor Jeannette was sitting 
 up in bed, her face on fire, her eyes 
 wandering in delirium, her whole 
 body burning with fever. She knew 
 no one. Her excitement was so great 
 she beat the air with her bare arms, 
 while her throat was so choked up 
 the voice was nearly stifled. Ragaud 
 thought she was dying ; he uttered a 
 loud cry, which brought Pierrette to 
 the bedside, where the poor mother 
 fell down, half fainting with grief and 
 fright. 
 
 In an instant the whole farm was 
 in a tumult. Big Marion set up a 
 blubbering, crying that the child was 
 dying ; the cow-herds and stable- 
 boys burst into the room, and, seeing 
 every one in tears, began to whine 
 in their turn without exactly know- 
 ing why. Jean-Louis alone, when 
 he saw his sister's dreadful condition, 
 did not shed a tear or make a sound, 
 but, darting out of the room like an 
 arrow, leaped on a horse's bare back, 
 and galloped off for the doctor, who 
 lived half a league beyond Val-Saint, 
 towards the large town of Preuilly. 
 
 By good fortune, he found him at 
 home, as it was quite early ; and, 
 while explaining the pressing case 
 that brought him, spied the doctor's 
 wagon under the shed, and quickly 
 harnessed to it the horse which he 
 
 had ridden, so that, in less time than 
 it takes to say it, doctor, wagon, 
 horse, and Jean- Louis were on the 
 way to Muiceron, and reached there 
 before any one else had thought 
 that, before such great lamentation, 
 no matter what was the trouble, it 
 would have been better to have run 
 promptly for assistance. 
 
 And here you will excuse me if I 
 add, by way of advice, that presence 
 of mind, which is not counted among 
 the virtues, is one nevertheless, and 
 not at all to be disdained in the life 
 of this world; and, therefore, I beg 
 of you always to keep a good share 
 in reserve, for I do not doubt you 
 may soon find use for it, if not to-day, 
 perhaps to-morrow, and you will al- 
 ways do well to remember what I 
 say. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The doctor, on seeing the room of 
 the patient filled with people lament- 
 ing from useless tenderness of heart, 
 instead of doing something for her 
 relief, began by being very angry. 
 He was a good man, rather rough 
 and coarse in manner, but skilful in 
 his profession, and understood per- 
 fectly how to manage peasants, for 
 he had always practised' in the coun- 
 try, and was himself of the upper 
 class of villagers. 
 
 " What is such a lot of noisy, lazy 
 bawlers doing around a sick girl, 
 who needs air and quiet ?" he cried. 
 " Get out of here, the whole of you, 
 and don't one dare come within ten 
 yards. You, Ragaud, can stay if 
 you choose, but keep as quiet as you 
 are now, and don't look as if you 
 were more dead than alive, with your 
 miserable face a foot long ; you, 
 Mme. Ragaud, stop hugging your 
 daughter. Let her go; don't you see 
 you are smothering her ? And above 
 all, don't be dropping your tears on 
 her face ; she don't know you. Jean- 
 Louis, don't stir from here ; you are
 
 7 o 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 reasonable and courageous, and will 
 be useful to me. And now open the 
 window, and let out this smell of the 
 stables brought by those abominable 
 cow-herds, who ought to have been 
 driven out with a pitchfork. Good. 
 Now tell me what has happened to 
 this child." 
 
 All being thus quieted, and the 
 room purified by the fresh morning 
 air, which came freely in through the 
 open window, a slight change for the 
 better was soon seen in Jeannette. 
 She let them lay her head on the 
 pillow, and, although she was still in- 
 sensible, her pretty face, crimson and 
 swollen with the fever, looked less ex- 
 cited. The doctor counted her pulse 
 while he listened to the night's ad- 
 venture, which was correctly related 
 by Jean-Louis, as neither the father 
 nor mother could have put two ideas 
 together at that particular moment. 
 
 "Just as I thought," said the doc- 
 tor ; " a violent fever brought on by 
 exposure to the cold, and wet feet. 
 All the danger is in the head, and I 
 do not deny that it is very great. 
 The child has a cerebral fever; do 
 you understand ? Cerebral means of 
 the brain. Now the brain is the in- 
 side of the head ; so the sickness is 
 there, under this beautiful blonde 
 hair, which you must instantly cut 
 off. I hope, Mme. Ragaud, you will 
 not hesitate to sacrifice your daugh- 
 ter's hair to save her life ?" 
 
 " O my God !" cried poor Pier- 
 rette, sobbing. " Do what you please, 
 my dear doctor ; if it would be of any 
 use to cut off one of my arms, I 
 would willingly allow it." 
 
 " Yes, my good woman, but that 
 would not help you much, and her 
 not at all; so keep your arms, we 
 will need them for something else. 
 Come, we must relieve her. Jump 
 in the wagon, Jeannet, and go to the 
 chateau, and tell them to send me 
 some ice, mustard, and other things 
 
 that I will write on this slip of paper ; 
 and remember to tell mademoiselle 
 not to be uneasy, and not to put her 
 foot in this house short of a week. 
 While waiting for the return of Jean- 
 Louis, Mme. Ragaud, draw a bucket 
 of water from the well, and bring it 
 to me immediately." 
 
 Poor Pierrette obeyed without say- 
 ing a word, which was very beautiful 
 in her; for hearing it announced that 
 her daughter was ill from cold, the 
 words ice and well-water confused 
 her terribly. She had already been 
 horrified when commanded to open 
 the window. Indeed, Dr. Aubry 
 was no fool, as had been well proved 
 for twenty years ; and the best way 
 was to think that he knew what he 
 was about, no matter how unreason- 
 able his words might sound. 
 
 Jean-Louis performed his errand 
 with his usual promptitude ; he 
 brought back what was needed for 
 the first applications. During his ab- 
 sence, the doctor had constantly ap- 
 plied bandages, soaked in very cold 
 water, to Jeannette's head ; but that 
 was not effective enough, and, as 
 soon as the ice was brought from the 
 chateau, he prepared to use it. It 
 was the moment to accomplish the 
 sacrifice of Jeannette's beautiful hair, 
 which was still dressed as for the 
 previous night's dance. To tell the 
 truth, the thick, heavy braids were 
 enough to weigh down the poor sick 
 head. Pierrette showed great cour- 
 age; she only cared for the relief of 
 her child. As for the doctor, he 
 thought no more of cutting off this 
 splendid hair than of pulling up a 
 bunch of nettle out of the flower- 
 beds in his garden. 
 
 Ragaud sat as though nailed to his 
 chair, and seemed neither to hear nor 
 see any thing passing around him. You 
 would have pitied the poor old man. 
 But our Jeannet, so brave until 
 then, could not look on inauferer-tly
 
 The Farm of M nicer on. 
 
 at the murderous play of the scissors 
 around that dear head, which would so 
 soon be shorn of its crowning beauty. 
 As the doctor cut off a tress and 
 threw it on the floor, as if it were a 
 noxious weed, he picked it up and 
 smoothed it with his hand, as 
 though to repay by caresses the con- 
 demnation it had received. Thus 
 he soon had all the fair hair in his 
 hands ; and then, as he thought that 
 soon too soon, perhaps it might be 
 the only living vestige of Jeannette, 
 his courage vanished ; he sank on a 
 chair near the window, hid his face 
 in the mass of hair, that was still 
 warm, and sobbed as though his 
 heart would break. . . . 
 
 This touched Dr. Aubry, who was 
 kind-hearted under his rough exte- 
 rior. He never talked sentiment, 
 being too much accustomed to tears 
 and lamentations around sick-beds; 
 but he loved Jeannet, and thought 
 him more refined and superior in 
 tone to the surrounding boys. So 
 he approached the poor child, and, 
 tapping him on the shoulder, he said 
 by way of consolation : " Bah ! you 
 big ninny, that will improve her hair; 
 in one year it will be handsomer and 
 thicker than ever, and you will have 
 enough of this to make a hundred 
 yards of watch-chain." 
 
 " In one year !" cried Jean-Louis, 
 who only heard this word of all the 
 fine consolation. " Then you don't 
 think she will die ?" 
 
 " What are you talking about ? 
 Die ? A beautiful young girl of sev- 
 enteen, who has always been healthy 
 and good, don't die from having got 
 her feet soaked on a stormy night. 
 Be reasonable, follow my orders, 
 keep everything around quiet and 
 fresh, don't fatigue her with words 
 and embraces when she recovers her 
 senses, and, with the help of God, I 
 will answer for her." 
 
 " Oh !" said Jean -Louis, throwing 
 
 his arms around the doctor's neck, 
 " may Heaven listen to you, M. Au- 
 bry !" 
 
 These cheering words brought old 
 Ragaud back to life ; big tears rolled 
 from his dry, fixed eyes, and relieved 
 him greatly. Pierrette fell on her 
 knees by the bedside; for, before 
 thanking the doctor, it was right to 
 raise her heart to God, who saw fur- 
 ther still than he. 
 
 M. Aubry again repeated his or- 
 ders, which he always did oftener 
 six times than once with his village 
 patients; for it must be acknow- 
 ledged we are very stupid about 
 nursing, and, outside of the common 
 remedies, which are purgatives, emet- 
 ics, and quinine to break the fever, 
 all the rest of the medical gibberish 
 appears to us very strange, and often 
 rather contrary to good sense. Tiiat 
 is the reason those who are cured 
 burn a candle to S. Sylvain. But 
 for his kind protection, there would 
 be as many deaths as sick people ; 
 and if you find fault with that ex- 
 pression, I will tell you that I am 
 very sorry for it, but that is the way 
 we talk, and I cannot express myself 
 differently or more delicately than I 
 was taught. 
 
 The doctor drove off in his wagon, 
 to which the farm-horse was still 
 harnessed, and he had the privilege 
 of keeping it several days, which was 
 a great convenience to him, as his 
 own beast was out at pasture. He 
 took care to pass by Val-Saint, 
 where he found mademoiselle very 
 anxious and sad about her god- 
 daughter's accident. As soon as she 
 heard it was a serious illness, she 
 rushed to the bell, crying that she 
 must have the carriage immediately 
 to go to her darling; but M. Aubry, 
 who had his own way with every 
 one, caught her by the arm. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said he ; 
 " but you are not going there at all."
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 ' Why not ?" she asked. " I can- 
 not stay here without seeing my 
 Jeanne, when I know she is suffer- 
 ing." 
 
 " You shall not go," repeated M. 
 Aubry firmly. " It would be danger- 
 ous for you ; and I am your physician 
 as well as hers." 
 
 " What nonsense !" said made- 
 moiselle, who, gentle as she was, 
 did not like him to oppose her. " You 
 will never make me believe a brain 
 fever is contagious." 
 
 " That is yet to be seen," replied 
 M. Aubry, who could lie when neces- 
 sary as well as any dentist ; " and, if 
 you should get sick, I declare that, 
 daughter of a marquis as you are, I 
 would not have the time to take 
 care of you. At this moment I have 
 more sick people maimed, wounded, 
 and down with fever than I can 
 manage, and I don't want another 
 case; without counting that your 
 chateau is perched up as high as the 
 devil, and, to get up here, I would lose 
 half a day." 
 
 " You horrid man !" said made- 
 moiselle, who could not help smiling, 
 lor she knew the doctor's way, and 
 never took offence at what he said. 
 " You talk like a car-driver ; but you 
 are perfectly capable of doing as you 
 say, so I dare not risk it. But when 
 can I go ?" 
 
 " We will see about that ; neither 
 to-morrow nor next day, nor for 
 several days after. I will come and 
 bring news of her." 
 
 " But how will you find time, with 
 all your patients ?" asked made- 
 moiselle, delighted to catch the doctor 
 in a little falsehood. 
 
 " You give me the change for my 
 money," said M. Aubry, laughing in 
 his turn. " I see you are as malicious 
 as ever. Well, then, to speak frankly, 
 it is not the contagion that I fear, 
 but your chattering and gabbling, 
 which never stop. If La Ragaudine 
 
 recovers, it will depend upon quiet 
 and repose. Not even the buzzing of 
 a fly must be heard in her room for 
 a week; therefore, it would be useless 
 for you to go there. But now you 
 can act as you think proper." 
 
 " You should have told me this at 
 first," said mademoiselle. " I will not 
 go; but promise me you will always 
 tell the truth about her. and never 
 conceal any danger." 
 
 " My God ! no," said the doctor 
 quietly; " and, to commence, since you 
 do not wish me to disguise the truth, 
 I will tell you that, if Jeanne Ragaud 
 does not recover her senses to-night, 
 she will be dead to-morrow at twelve 
 o'clock." 
 
 " But you are a monster !" cried 
 mademoiselle, the tears streaming 
 from her eyes. " How can you be so 
 hard-hearted as to tell me such news 
 without any preparation ?" 
 
 " There !" said the doctor, " you 
 are off again. I thought you wished 
 me to tell you the whole truth." 
 
 " My poor Jeanne ! Dead to-mor- 
 row !" sobbed mademoiselle. 
 
 " One moment pay attention to 
 what I say if she does not recover 
 her senses to-night; but she will, for 
 she was already a little better before 
 I left Muiceron." 
 
 " Oh ! I wish you would go away !" 
 cried mademoiselle. " I hate to hear 
 you talk ; you will set me wild. . . . 
 Come now, doctor, speak seriously : 
 is poor dear Jeannette really in dan- 
 ger ?" 
 
 " I tell you yes, but I have great 
 hope. And now I am going away ; 
 you are not angry with me, dear 
 mademoiselle ?" 
 
 " I will have to forgive you," said 
 she, giving him her hand; " but know 
 well that I detest you from the 
 bottom of my heart, and, when I am 
 sick, I will send for another doc- 
 tor." 
 
 " Bah ! I bet you won't," replied
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 73 
 
 M. Aubry, perfectly unmoved ; " you 
 are so amiable and gentle when the 
 fever comes on !" 
 
 Mademoiselle laughed through her 
 tears; she knew from experience it 
 was not easy to have the last word 
 with M. Aubry, and she let him go 
 without further discussion. 
 
 The good God showed that he 
 loved Muiceron. For three days 
 Jeannette was very ill, after which 
 her youth and good constitution 
 overcame the disease. M. Aubry de- 
 clared he would answer with his 
 head for hers, and soon the dear 
 child recovered strength and color. 
 But this was the moment to be 
 careful ; for convalescence is very 
 uncertain and dangerous, they say, in 
 such a case, and the least imprudence 
 will suffice to cause a relapse. There- 
 fore the doctor for ever repeated : 
 
 " Attend to what I say ; because 
 she is better, that is no reason to 
 think she is cured. Don't let her 
 stir any more than you would let 
 loose a chicken among the fir-trees ; 
 these affections of the brain are terri- 
 ble if there is a relapse." 
 
 That word, affections, was another 
 that Pierrette could not manage to 
 understand; each time he said it 
 she was terribly perplexed, and look- 
 ed intently at the doctor, to see if he 
 could not use a more appropriate one 
 in its place. 
 
 " For," thought she, " I see no- 
 thing affectionate in such a wicked 
 fever that nearly brought my daugh- 
 ter to the threshold of the grave. 
 Whoever does or speaks ill is always 
 called a great enemy ; and I don't 
 think an enemy can ever be affection- 
 ate, or friendly, or anything else of 
 the sort." 
 
 And you will acknowledge the ar- 
 gument was not bad for a good 
 countrywoman, who knew nothing 
 except to read her Mass-prayers by 
 force of habit. 
 
 It is not necessary to inform you 
 that all the people around were very 
 much interested in Jeannette's illness ; 
 and if there is a consolation that sof- 
 tens the bitterness of grief, it is surely 
 that which is given by friends who 
 offer to share trouble. Many of the 
 neighbors were anxious to relieve 
 Pierrette by taking her place at night ; 
 but you understand that a mother is 
 always mother, and, unless she had 
 fallen dead at her daughter's bedside, 
 she would yield her post to no one. 
 Happily, the great danger which de- 
 manded such extreme care did not 
 last long ; and as at the end of a week 
 the fever left Jeannette, and she then 
 slept tranquilly the greater part of the 
 night, Pierrette consented to lie down, 
 without undressing, on a little bed 
 temporarily placed in the sick-room 
 by Jean-Louis, and thus was enabled 
 to obtain some rest. 
 
 But many weeks elapsed before 
 Jeannette was strong enough to re- 
 sume her accustomed life ; and as she 
 daily felt herself improving, the great 
 difficulty was to keep her quiet in 
 bed, and furnish her amusement, so 
 that she would not get up too soon, 
 at the risk of falling ill again; and 
 here, again, Jean-Louis, with his de- 
 votion and thoughtfulness, provided 
 a remedy. 
 
 Not far off lived a beautiful young 
 girl, a year or two older than Jean- 
 nette, and the friend of her childhood, 
 named Solange Luguet, the sister of 
 Pierre; she was tall, rather thin and 
 pale, like Jean-Louis, whom she 
 somewhat resembled in features and 
 character. This will not astonish 
 you, as I have already told you they 
 were first-cousins without knowing 
 it; and, whether legitimate or illegiti- 
 mate, near relatives generally have a 
 certain family resemblance. 
 
 Solange led a retired life, some 
 said from piety, others from shyness. 
 She was a skilful seamstress, and em-
 
 74 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 broidered beautifully; consequently, 
 she never wanted work, and passed 
 her time by her little window, sewing 
 from morning till night. Jean-Louis 
 was very fond of her. He often 
 wished Jeannette's tastes and habits 
 were as quiet, and he sometimes held 
 up Solange to her as a model. But 
 Jeannette's character was entirely 
 different, and what seemed to Solange 
 the perfection of happiness would 
 have been miserably tiresome for her ; 
 nevertheless, the two girls were great 
 friends, and were always happy to 
 meet. 
 
 It was, therefore, Solange Luguet 
 whom Jeannet thought of as a 
 means of distracting Jeannette during 
 her convalescence. He went to her, 
 and begged that she would come and 
 pass several hours every day with 
 Jeannette. Solange willingly con- 
 sented, as she could take her work 
 with her, and whether she embroider- 
 ed at home or at Muiceron was all 
 the same to her ; and, besides, she 
 could be useful to her friends, especi- 
 ally Jean-Louis, for whom it was 
 easy to see she felt a great prefer- 
 ence. 
 
 Now, Solange, in spite of her repu- 
 tation for piety and shyness, was 
 very lively and bright. The first 
 day she came to the farm Jeannette 
 was quite subdued; without saying 
 it, she was afraid her companion 
 would be very serious and frown at 
 the least joke. But it was just the 
 contrary ; Solange amused her so 
 much with her stories, and gossip 
 which was never ill-natured and 
 songs, that Jeannette never let her 
 go until she promised to return next 
 day. This pleasant arrangement 
 suited everybody. Ragaud and 
 Jean-Louis gradually resumed their 
 outdoor work, and Pierrette was less 
 tied down. We all know that weari- 
 ness of mind is the worst of ills, as it 
 renders one sad, and sadness makes 
 
 both body and soul sick : so this little 
 spoiled Jeannette, who laughed and 
 chatted from morning till night, re- 
 covered four times as rapidly, thanks 
 to Solange's agreeable company, and 
 was soon able to sit up an hour or 
 two about noon. 
 
 Who had caused all this happi- 
 ness ? Even he who never gave it 
 a second thought, and to whom it 
 was so perfectly natural to serve 
 others that it seemed a part of his 
 everyday life; for the excellent 
 Jeannet spoke so seldom of himself, 
 neither Jeanne nor the Ragauds ever 
 dreamt of thanking him for having 
 brought Solange, seeing that they 
 knew nothing, and simply thought 
 the Luguet girl came of her own free 
 will, which certainly she never would 
 have done, if even the idea had ever 
 entered her head. 
 
 As soon as mademoiselle received 
 permission, she hastened to Jean- 
 nette's side. Every other day her 
 beautiful carriage was seen coming 
 down the road, and, a minute after, 
 she alighted, accompanied by Dame 
 Berthe, who always brought a little 
 basket filled with dainties and deli- 
 cacies fitted to tempt an invalid's 
 stomach. 
 
 Poor mademoiselle found the days 
 very long since Jeanne had left, and 
 was very impatient for her complete 
 recovery, that she might carry her 
 back to the chateau. She did not 
 hesitate to express her desire at each 
 visit before the Ragauds, never re- 
 marking that neither ever replied to 
 her proposition. The reason was 
 that Ragaud had received such a 
 severe shock by the narrow escape 
 of his daughter, he had promised 
 and sworn never again to expose the 
 child to such a fearful risk, which 
 had so nearly proved fatal. He saw 
 in this terrible sickness a warning 
 from the good God; and, as he felt 
 it in the bottom of his heart, he ac-
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 75. 
 
 knowledged in the end that if Jean- 
 ne had not led a life above her posi- 
 tion, nothing like it would have hap- 
 pened. 
 
 Between ourselves, mademoiselle, 
 who was much better informed than 
 Ragaud, should have even more 
 clearly understood it. Still further, 
 as M. le Cure, who you can well im- 
 agine came constantly to Muiceron 
 since the accident, had been confi- 
 dentially told by Ragaud of his good 
 resolutions, which he highly approv- 
 ed, and cautiously approached the 
 subject whenever an opportunity of- 
 fered of conversing with mademoi- 
 selle. But " none are so deaf as those 
 who will not hear," said this good 
 pastor; "and even without a scene 
 mischief will come of taking Jean- 
 nette from the chateau. Her ac- 
 quaintance there is too long formed." 
 
 It did not happen precisely so. 
 Jeanne, without scenes or difficulty 
 with any one, had been forced to 
 seek refuge under the paternal roof, 
 and should have remained there un- 
 til the present time from her own 
 free will and accord; but when one 
 has strayed ever so little from the 
 right path, it is not easy to return to 
 it, even when it has not gone as far as 
 mortal sin ; and you will see this 
 time again that I have strong proofs 
 to support what I have advanced, as 
 Jeanne Ragaud had to undergo 
 severe and bitter trials before she 
 could entirely give up the half-noble 
 position she had involuntarily filled, 
 and resume fully the simple peasant 
 life. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 One day, when mademoiselle was 
 making her accustomed visit, after 
 she had talked and laughed, and 
 played dinner-party with the fruits 
 and delicacies she had brought to 
 Jeannette, she suddenly exclaimed : 
 
 " You are looking admirably, my 
 child as pretty as a picture; your 
 
 color is more brilliant than even be- 
 fore you were sick, and your short 
 hair, which made me feel so sad the 
 first time I saw it, is more becoming 
 than the way in which you formerly 
 wore it ; but you are very badly 
 dressed. What have you done with 
 all the dresses I gave you ?" 
 
 " They are still at the chateau, god- 
 mother," replied Jeannet. " I have 
 not needed them for a long time. 
 If you will send me some of them, I 
 will try and look better at your next 
 visit." 
 
 "You are very much thinner, poor 
 little thing, so that none of them will 
 fit you ; besides, it will be a long while 
 yet before you can go out. What 
 you want is a dressing-gown, and I 
 will have one made for you, if you 
 will promise me to wear it." 
 
 "When you come, I will," an- 
 swered Jeannette, who knew well 
 such a dress did not suit her posi- 
 tion, and that her parents would not 
 like it. 
 
 " No, I wish you to wear what I 
 will send, and not only when I am 
 here, but every day ; do you under- 
 stand, child ? I wish it." 
 
 " O godmother !" said Jeannette, 
 " I beg you will not insist upon it ; 
 such a dress is very well at the cha- 
 teau, but here I cannot dress differ- 
 ently from my mother." 
 
 " I do not wish to transform you 
 into a princess," replied mademoi- 
 selle ; " but neither do I like to see 
 you dressed, as you are, in serge. 
 I have my own reasons for it." 
 
 Jeannette bowed her head, al- 
 though at heart she was very much 
 dissatisfied. Pretty Solange, who 
 was silently working away in her cor- 
 ner by the window, gave her an en- 
 couraging glance, to keep her firm 
 in her good resolution; but for ten 
 years Jeannette had given in to all 
 her godmother's whims and caprices, 
 and dared not answer.
 
 7 6 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 Two days afterwards, a large band- 
 box, directed to Jeannette, was 
 brought to Muiceron. She was still 
 in bed, and was quite curious until it 
 was opened ; and there was the pro- 
 mised dress, made of beautiful blue 
 cashmere, so fine and soft it looked 
 like silk. As to how it was made, I 
 really cannot describe it; but it is 
 enough to know that mademoiselle 
 herself could have worn it without 
 impropriety, so that it can easily be 
 understood it was not suitable for 
 Jeanne Ragaud. 
 
 " Isn't it beautiful ?" exclaimed 
 Jeannette, admiring the dress, fit for 
 a marchioness. " But I will never 
 wear it ; do you think I should, 
 Solan ge ?" 
 
 " No, indeed," said Solange. 
 " Don't do it for the world, Jean- 
 nette ; it would be very wrong for you 
 to wear it, and the neighbors would 
 laugh at you." 
 
 " Help me to get up," replied 
 Jeanne. " It will be no harm to try 
 it on once; it will amuse us. Can 
 I?" 
 
 v " Yes, to be sure," said good So- 
 lange ; " I should like to see you for 
 once dressed as you were at the 
 chateau." 
 
 Jeannette jumped quickly out of 
 bed, and Solange, to amuse her, 
 brushed her short hair in such a way 
 that she looked like a little angel ; 
 then she put on some fine white pet- 
 ticoats, and, last of all, the beautiful 
 robe, which fitted her splendidly. 
 Thus dressed, Jeannette was one of 
 the prettiest young ladies you can 
 imagine; and I rather think she 
 looked at herself in the mirror with 
 great satisfaction. 
 
 She sat down in the big arm-chair 
 her godmother had sent her from the 
 chateau as soon as she was conva- 
 lescent, and it was easy to see she 
 was not ill at ease in her beautiful 
 present, but that, on the contrary, 
 
 was infinitely satisfied, and not at all 
 anxious to take it off. 
 
 However, she feared the arrival 
 of her parents, and did not wish 
 them to see her in such a costume. 
 Solange, from the same thought, had 
 not resumed her work, and remained 
 standing before her, ready to undress 
 her. You see the will was good, 
 but the devil was upon the watch. 
 At the very moment that Jean- 
 nette, with a little sigh of regret, 
 was about to put off her gay trap- 
 pings and don her peasant dress, the 
 big white horses of mademoiselle 
 were heard pawing the ground in the 
 yard. 
 
 " It is my godmother !" said Jean- 
 nette, blushing. " Well, I am not 
 sorry ; she will see that I do honor to 
 her present." 
 
 Mademoiselle entered immediate- 
 ly after, and, seeing Jeannette so pret- 
 ty and so stylish in her beautiful 
 dress, kissed her heartily, and loaded 
 her with praises. 
 
 "You are perfectly lovely," said 
 she ; " and for the penalty, I have 
 prepared a great surprise. There is 
 a handsome gentleman, who has 
 come with me, and wishes very much 
 to see you." 
 
 " Will you please tell me who it 
 is ?" asked Jeannette. 
 
 " No ; I wish to see if you will 
 recognize him. Come in, Isidore," 
 cried mademoiselle to some one 
 who was waiting outside the door. 
 
 The said Isidore immediately ap- 
 peared a tall young man, well made, 
 and dressed in the latest Parisian 
 style. His hair was elaborately curl- 
 ed, and his cravat, gloves, and shoes 
 were so elegant he looked as though 
 he had just been taken out of a 
 bandbox. He made a low bow to 
 Jeannette, and paid her a compli- 
 ment such as we read in books. 
 
 Jeannette, much amazed, rose with- 
 out speaking, and, as her astonished
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 77 
 
 look showed she did not recognize 
 him in the least, mademoiselle laugh- 
 ingly relieved her embarrassment. 
 
 "What!" said she, "you don't 
 remember Isidore Perdreau, the son 
 of Master Perdreau, my father's no- 
 tary, and the playmate of your child- 
 hood ?" 
 
 " You must excuse me," said 
 Jeanne; " but he is so much changed." 
 
 " In size, perhaps," said M. Isidore, 
 " but not in beauty, as you most cer- 
 tainly are." 
 
 " He has returned from Paris, and 
 will in future live at Val-Saint. It 
 is very good in him," said mademoi- 
 selle, " for his life will be very differ- 
 ent ; but his father wishes to associate 
 him with himself in business." 
 
 " To all true hearts one's native 
 place is dear," replied M. Isidore, 
 placing his hand on his waistcoat. 
 
 " Don't you remember the young 
 girl by Jeannette ?" asked mademoi- 
 selle. 
 
 " Not precisely," he replied. 
 
 " I am the sister of Pierre Luguet, 
 with whom you used to go hunting 
 for blackbirds." 
 
 " Pierre Luguet ? Ah ! yes, little 
 Pierre ; and where is he now ?" 
 
 "Always in the same place," re- 
 plied Solange, without stirring. 
 
 M. Isidore did not condescend to 
 continue the conversation with one 
 so little disposed to talk, and, turning 
 towards Jeanne, lavished upon her 
 some more foolish compliments, 
 which, without being exactly to the 
 taste of the child, were not displeas- 
 ing to her vanity. 
 
 It was evident that mademoiselle 
 encouraged Isidore, and thought him 
 very charming. It was not because 
 she was wanting in sense or pene- 
 tration, but the custom of living alone 
 in her big chateau, where she rarely 
 saw any one but country people, and 
 the new distraction of carrying out a 
 plot that she had concocted, and 
 
 which you will soon guess, made her 
 see things dimly ; and whilst Solange, 
 simple girl a's she was, saw at the 
 first glance that young Perdreau had 
 become an insolent, ridiculous fop, 
 this high-born young lady, who had 
 read so many books, was ready to 
 faint at the least word of that simple- 
 ton for simpleton was the name 
 he well deserved until after-circum- 
 stances proved that he was worthy of 
 a still more odious title. 
 
 Dame Berthe behaved just like her 
 mistress; but, as the good creature 
 had scarcely any common sense, that 
 can very easily be understood. Isi- 
 dore, since his return three days be- 
 fore, had never ceased to flatter 
 her and relate long stories about 
 Paris, principally his own inventions, 
 but to which, nevertheless, the old 
 governess, with eyes, ears, and mouth 
 wide open, listened with devoted at- 
 tention. So, when Solange showed 
 such coldness to her old school- 
 fellow, mademoiselle looked at her 
 with anything but a gentle expres- 
 sion, and Dame Berthe instantly 
 shrugged her shoulders and made 
 big eyes at her. 
 
 But Solange remained perfectly in- 
 different ; in the first place, because 
 her back was turned to the ladies, 
 and, secondly, because she worked 
 away as though she expected to be 
 paid a franc an hour. 
 
 Meanwhile, Pierrette and Ragaud 
 came back from the pool Saint- Jean, 
 where they had commenced to soak 
 the hemp, and Jean-Louis soon fol- 
 lowed. When they saw such fine 
 company in the room, they all three 
 stopped, rather ashamed of their 
 working-clothes, which was doubt- 
 less the reason they did not observe 
 that Jeannet, in her elegant costume, 
 was a great contrast to them. 
 
 Ragaud, as you already know, was 
 rather given to vain-glory, and his 
 vanity was easily tickled. It was
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 the only defect of this good man, but 
 it must be acknowledged this defect 
 clung to his heart as 1 a tree is tied 
 by its root to the ground ; so that 
 in Isidore Perdreau he only saw the 
 favorable side to wit, a young man, 
 brought up in the capital, very rich 
 and handsome, who could be re- 
 ceived in the best houses, and who 
 did not disdain to hasten to greet 
 old friends so far beneath him. Pier- 
 rette, without further reasoning, was 
 very sensible of what she likewise 
 considered a great honor. So the 
 excellent couple, whose honest souls 
 were rather stupefied for the mo- 
 ment, quite overwhelmed Perdreau 
 with the warmth of their reception, 
 and pressed him so earnestly to re- 
 peat his visit you would really have 
 thought they were welcoming the re- 
 turn of their own son. 
 
 Mademoiselle was in a gale of de- 
 light, and, when she re-entered the 
 carriage with her attendants, the 
 lackeys' faces were in a broad grin 
 at seeing her so gay, and even the 
 horses made two or three little jumps 
 on starting, as though they, too, par- 
 ticipated in the good-humor of their 
 mistress. 
 
 " Well, what did I tell you ?" asked 
 mademoiselle of Isidore, who was 
 seated opposite to her. " Is she pretty 
 enough, well-bred enough ? And, in 
 spite of all your Parisian acquain- 
 tances, do you think she is a woman 
 to be scorned ?" 
 
 " O mademoiselle !" cried Per- 
 dreau, " she is adorable, delightful ! 
 But you brought her up; isn't that 
 enough ?" 
 
 "She will make a lovely bride," 
 said mademoiselle ; " and it will be 
 the happiest day of my life when I 
 shall see you both leave the church 
 arm-in-arm." 
 
 " How becoming the wreath of 
 orange-blossoms will be to her !" 
 cried Dame Berthe. 
 
 " But will she have me ?" asked 
 Isidore in a hypocritical tone. 
 
 " Bah ! be assured she will be 
 most happy, and her parents im- 
 mensely honored," replied mademoi- 
 selle ; '' besides, I have only to say a 
 word, as you know." 
 
 "You are an angel!" said M. 
 Perdreau, as he kissed mademoiselle's 
 hand; "and if I had not seen you 
 again before Jeanne Ragaud, my 
 happiness would make me crazy. I 
 can only say that you are the most 
 beautiful and graceful woman in the 
 world, and she is the second." 
 
 Poor mademoiselle, who was hump- 
 backed and anything but handsome, 
 and, besides, nearly thirty, smiled 
 nevertheless at this insolent speech, 
 so out of place from the mouth of 
 her notary's son ; so true is it that 
 compliments are swallowed as easily 
 as ripe strawberries, no matter how 
 false they may be, if the mind is not 
 properly balanced, and cannot rise 
 above the frivolity and nonsense 
 heard on all sides in this world. 
 
 While the carriage rolled away to 
 the chiteau, each one at the farm 
 had something to say, and Perdreau 
 was there, also, the subject of conver- 
 sation. 
 
 " He is a very pleasant fellow," 
 said good Ragaud, " not at all proud, 
 and much better-looking than when 
 he left home. He must have stud- 
 ied very hard in Paris, and his dear, 
 good father will have a worthy suc- 
 cessor." 
 
 " When I think," replied Pierrette, 
 " how readily he accepted your invi- 
 tation to supper, never raising the 
 slightest difficulty, that proves he 
 has a good heart." 
 
 " We won't know what to say to 
 him," remarked Jeannette, " he is so 
 much more learned than we." 
 
 " Yes, but very simple with it all," 
 said Pierrette. "I will not be the 
 least embarrassed. I am sure he will
 
 The Farm of M nicer on. 
 
 79 
 
 like to talk over all his boyish tricks 
 and adventures how he stole ap- 
 ples from Cotenfin's garden, and how- 
 he would keep M. le Cure waiting 
 when it was his turn to be altar-boy." 
 
 " He was always full of fun," re- 
 plied Ragaud, "and is so still; but 
 that is no defect." 
 
 " Oh ! certainly not," cried Jean- 
 nette. 
 
 " For what evening have you in- 
 vited him ?" asked Jean-Louis, who 
 had not yet expressed an opinion. 
 
 "Next Sunday," said Ragaud; 
 " that will not take us from our work, 
 and we can bring him back with us in 
 the wagon after Vespers." 
 
 " What a beautiful dress you have 
 on !" said Jeannet, looking at his sis- 
 ter. 
 
 " Mademoiselle gave it to me," 
 she replied, looking down. " I put 
 it on to receive her; but I will not 
 wear it again." 
 
 " Until Sunday ?" asked Jean- 
 Louis. 
 
 " Certainly," said Pierrette, " Jean- 
 nette must be prettily dressed in 
 honor of Isidore." 
 
 Jean-Louis said nothing ; he walk- 
 ed to the window where Solange was 
 sitting, and leaned on the back of her 
 chair, apparently absorbed in watch- 
 ing her embroider. 
 
 " Jeannet," said Solange, without 
 raising her eyes, " what do you think 
 of all this ?" 
 
 " It makes me sad," he replied. 
 
 " You have reason to feel so," said 
 she. " That smooth-tongued Isidore 
 has turned all their heads. Mademoi- 
 selle is even more carried away than 
 the others ; and, from the way things 
 are going on, there will be trouble 
 before long." 
 
 Jean-Louis sighed. As they had 
 spoken in a low tone, and the Ra- 
 gauds were conversing with Jeannette, 
 their little conversation had not been 
 remarked. 
 
 " Will you go home with us after 
 Mass next Sunday ?" continued So- 
 lange. " Pierre will be glad to see 
 you, and Michou has promised to 
 dine with us at noon, and taste our 
 boiled corn." 
 
 " Thank you," said Jeannet, " I 
 will go with pleasure." 
 
 This was on Tuesday; the four 
 following days Isidore Perdreau 
 came constantly to Muiceron, some- 
 times with mademoiselle, sometimes 
 alone, and was most cordially re- 
 ceived by the Ragauds, and Jean- 
 nette also, I regret to say. 
 
 If you are of my opinion, you will 
 allow that nothing is pleasanter than 
 to listen to a story when there is 
 only question of good people and 
 happy events. It makes our hearts 
 glad, and we forget for a little while 
 that life is like the clouds in the sky, 
 streaked with white, gray, and black, 
 and that often the dark clouds over- 
 shadow the light ; but as truth must 
 be loved above all, I am very sorry 
 to tell you that for the present I 
 have nothing good to relate. You 
 must pardon me, then, if I am oblig- 
 ed to sadden you by the recital of 
 sinful and criminal acts, and believe 
 me that, if it is painful for you to 
 have to listen to them, it is not less 
 so for me to recount them to you. 
 
 When mademoiselle once became 
 possessed with the charming idea of 
 marrying her god-daughter to Isidore, 
 never was the caprice of a woman 
 without occupation more obstinately 
 pursued .and more firmly fastened in 
 the very bottom of her brain. Very 
 true, she only sought the happiness 
 of her beloved Jeannette, and thought 
 she had thereby secured it. She in- 
 cessantly repeated to Dame Berthe 
 that it would be the greatest misfor 
 tune if Jeannette should marry a 
 peasant, that after all the care she had 
 lavished upon her for ten years 
 she could not bear to see her milking
 
 8o 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 the cows, and hardening her hands 
 by washing and working in the 
 fields. On the other side, she would 
 not risk the happiness of her pet by 
 marrying her to a man she did not 
 know ; consequently, she should mar- 
 ry some one in the neighborhood ; 
 and Isidore was the only person 
 around who united all the requisites 
 desired by mademoiselle, as the 
 other young men were only of the 
 laboring class. She communicated 
 her idea to M. le Marquis, who, with 
 out making any objections, thought 
 the project might be attempted. 
 He himself went to see M. Perdreau, 
 the father, and announced to him 
 his wishes upon the subject, and Isi- 
 dore was immediately recalled from 
 Paris. 
 
 Old Perdreau, the notary, passed 
 for one of the most honest men in 
 his profession. For thirty years 
 M. le Marquis had closed his eyes 
 and left him the entire control of his 
 affairs, which, truth to say, were not 
 very complicated, as the principal 
 wealth of the chateau consisted of 
 fertile land, woods, meadows, and 
 vineyards, the revenues of which he 
 received and controlled. 
 
 More than that and this was the 
 worst our master made him the 
 special confidant of his most secret 
 expeditions. Thus, when he left 
 home on one of his mysterious jour- 
 neys, where he expected to encounter 
 great dangers, Perdreau alone knew 
 exactly the hiding-places of M. le 
 Marquis, the plots that were there 
 concocted in a word, the great con- 
 spiracies that monsieur and his 
 friends thought legitimate in their 
 souls and consciences, although they 
 could scarcely be called such in my 
 opinion. 
 
 This was very astonishing, it must 
 be acknowledged, as it bound M. le 
 Marquis hand and foot to his notary. 
 But what could you expect ? My 
 
 late beloved father, who had been 
 an enthusiastic Chouan, contrary to 
 most of the people of his province, 
 who did not care a fig for all that 
 fuss, said that perfectly honest souls 
 can never think ill of any one, and 
 that is the reason they are often 
 duped and vilified without their even 
 dreaming of it. 
 
 For it is time to let you know that 
 Master Perdreau, the notary of Val- 
 Saint, was, and had been always, the 
 most cunning rascal, not only of our 
 neighborhood, but of the whole 
 country for twenty leagues around, 
 including all the towns, little and big. 
 His only idea was to make money, 
 and for that he would have sold his 
 master, his conscience in case he 
 had one his best friends, his soul, 
 and even the sacred vessels of the 
 tabernacle. In the way of hypocrisy, 
 deep wickedness, theft, stinginess, 
 and falsehood he had nothing to 
 fear from any rival, saving, perhaps, 
 his only son, Isidore, who was rapid- 
 ly learning to play the knave, and 
 promised, with the help of the devil, 
 to become very soon the true pendant 
 of monsieur, his father. 
 
 In order to perfect this shameful 
 education, Isidore had finished his 
 studies in Paris, and Master Perdreau, 
 I need not say, had chosen a college 
 for him where he would neither 
 learn virtue nor the fear of God. 
 
 For the consolation of good peo- 
 ple, evil-doers seldom profit by their 
 crimes. Thus, at this period of our 
 story, Master Perdreau was on the 
 eve of reaping the fruits of thirty 
 years of criminal conduct, and it was 
 precisely the opposite of what he had 
 sought all his life that was about to 
 happen to him. 
 
 Holding in his hand the secrets 
 of M. le Marquis, he had used them 
 to obtain large sums from the poor 
 deluded man, under the pretence of 
 advancing his interests; and with
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 81 
 
 this money, added to other thefts, he 
 had first supplied his son with means 
 for continuing his dissipation in Paris, 
 and then speculated so often and so 
 well in a place not very Christian 
 called, I believe, the Exchange that 
 he had nothing left he could call his 
 own but his little country office and 
 debts enough to drive him crazy. 
 Judge, then, if he thought himself 
 favored by fortune when M. le Mar- 
 quis came and proposed Jeanne Ra- 
 gaud to him for daughter-in-law. 
 Never did a drowning man grasp 
 more eagerly at the plank held out 
 to keep him from death. The girl's 
 fortune was well known. Muiceron 
 and the adjoining property was worth 
 at least one hundred thousand francs ; 
 and to rightly estimate the money 
 good Ragaud laid by every year, one 
 would have to count on his fingers a 
 tolerably long while. Further, Jean- 
 nette was an extremely pretty girl, 
 brought up as a young lady, and 
 there was no doubt her godmother 
 would leave her perhaps might give 
 her at her marriage a very hand- 
 some present. All being thus arrang- 
 ed to the satisfaction of this scoun- 
 drel of a notary, he had only to rub 
 his hands and chuckle at the idea 
 of having fooled everybody during 
 his whole life. 
 
 I will not sadden you by relating 
 what was the conversation on the 
 subject between father and son on 
 the evening of Isidore's arrival in the 
 village, and the means which they 
 proposed to accomplish their ends, 
 which was to wheedle old Ragaud 
 into giving up all the property to his 
 daughter, only reserving for himself 
 a modest annuity. As for the shame- 
 ful way in which these arrant swin- 
 dlers held up to ridicule M. le Mar- 
 quis, whom they called " old fool," and 
 mademoiselle, whom they stigmatiz- 
 ed as the " yellow dwarf," on ac- 
 count of her crooked figure, it would 
 
 make me sick to relate all they 
 said. However, in saying that Per- 
 dreau deceived everybody, I have 
 rather exaggerated, for two men in the 
 village saw through his villany, and, 
 thank God, they were two of the 
 most worthy namely, Jacques Mi- 
 chou, and our dear, holy cure. The 
 first, who, as you know, had never 
 been drawn into the promising con- 
 spiracies of his good lord, had always 
 suspected Perdreau for catching so 
 readily at the alluring bait. He had 
 watched him closely, and, to fully un- 
 ravel his plans, pretended to become 
 very intimate with M. Riponin, the 
 steward, who was scarcely any better 
 than the notary, but who owed Per- 
 dreau a grudge for his having duped 
 him in some knavish trick they un- 
 dertook together. Since then, Mi- 
 chou, who knew how to play one 
 against the other, in order to serve his 
 master, made one thief steal from the 
 other, and fully succeeded in his de- 
 sign. As for our curt, he knew both 
 the good and the bad, and looked 
 out for a squall. The great misfor- 
 tune was that mademoiselle was so 
 fully possessed with her idea of the 
 marriage she neglected to consult 
 him and ask his advice. 
 
 Alas ! I am bound now to avow 
 that poor little Jeannette, whose sia 
 was more of the head than the heart,, 
 allowed herself to be very quickly 
 caught in the net held out to her.. 
 Never did a giddy, inconstant little 
 fish make the leap as willingly as- 
 she. In a village marriages are 
 soon arranged. The parties are sup- 
 posed to be well acquainted. At the 
 first proposition, when the interests* 
 agree, they have only to say ye ;. 
 and so it happened no later than the 
 second Sunday after the arrival o 
 Isidore Perdreau. 
 
 Every one assisted to hurry up the 
 affair with lightning speed. Jeanne 
 solemnly believed all the nonsense
 
 82 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 poured into her ear by Isidore, 
 thought herself adored by him, and 
 regarded him as infinitely superior to 
 all other men in style, manner, and 
 fine speeches. Ragaud and Pier- 
 rette were puffed up with pride ; mon- 
 sieur and mademoiselle did not con- 
 ceal their satisfaction ; and the people 
 around, with the sole exception of 
 Michou, who was looked upon as a 
 cross, peevish old fellow, hastened to 
 congratulate the fortunate couple. 
 
 Sickness was no longer thought of. 
 Jeannette, happy and triumphant, 
 rapidly regained her strength. The 
 poor silly child only thought of her 
 new dresses and of the promised 
 visit to Paris after her marriage, the 
 delights of which Isidore dwelt upon 
 in glowing terms, which would have 
 turned a stronger head than hers. 
 Never, in fact, did a family rush blind- 
 folded and more willingly into a bot- 
 tomless abyss. 
 
 However, there was one person at 
 Muiceron whose presence tormented 
 M. Isidore, and whom he had hated 
 from the first day. You can guess 
 it was Jean-Louis. Each time that 
 he entered the house and saw that 
 tall figure, the face pale and serious, 
 silently seated in a corner, the only 
 one who did not receive him with 
 joy, his eyes flashed with anger, and 
 he would turn his back on him in 
 the most contemptuous manner 
 something which the Ragauds would 
 certainly have resented in any one 
 else; but the poor people were so 
 bewitched they were unjust enough 
 to be angry with Jean-Louis, and 
 even to fancy that he was jealous, 
 whilst he was only very properly 
 grieved at what had happened. 
 
 His life had become very different. 
 No more friendly talks, no more 
 watching for him, no more tender 
 caresses; not that they had ceased to 
 love him, but there was no time for 
 these innocent family recreations, 
 
 and, besides, it would have embarrass- 
 ed them to make a display of affec- 
 tion before M. Isidore, who thought 
 all such country performances be- 
 neath him. Poor Jean-Louis, who 
 for so many years had always enter- 
 ed Muiceron with joyful heart at the 
 thought of embracing his dear moth- 
 er, now came in with sad and trou- 
 bled brow. Pierrette always appeared 
 busy and worried. She would rapidly 
 say " good-evening " in reply to Jean- 
 net's gentle salutation whispered in her 
 ear, and immediately go on with her 
 work ; for there were always sauce- 
 pans to overlook, or orders to give to 
 Marion, who was not the least be- 
 wildered of them all. As for Jean- 
 nette, the cold manner in which Jean- 
 Louis always treated her intended, 
 and, above all, the wicked insinuations 
 Isidore made against him, aroused 
 her displeasure ; and, if Pierrette was 
 always absorbed in her household 
 cares, Jeannette pained him still more 
 by her frigid manner, bordering on 
 sullenness. 
 
 Jean-Louis felt all this most keenly. 
 He was not a person who liked to 
 complain or ask explanations; be- 
 sides, what would he have gained by 
 it ? He knew too well the reason of 
 their conduct to be obliged to ask 
 why. In a moment he could have 
 changed all by appearing as delight- 
 ed as the rest ; but that was precisely 
 what he would not do. In truth, 
 when we see those we love at the 
 point of drowning, how can we ap- 
 plaud ? 
 
 Still worse was it when the family 
 circle of Muiceron was increased by 
 the presence of old Perdreau, who 
 nearly every evening showed his 
 weasel-face at the table, and drank 
 with great friendliness to the health 
 of the good people whose ruin he 
 was mercilessly plotting. Jean-Louis 
 two or three times bore it patiently ; 
 then he fe'lt he could take himself off,
 
 The Farm of Mincer on. 
 
 and be missed by no one; so one 
 fine evening he mustered up courage, 
 left the farm before supper, and went 
 off to the house of his friends, the 
 Luguets, 
 
 As usual, he found the little house 
 quiet, clean, and shining with neat- 
 ness. Pierre was reading aloud the 
 life of a saint, while Solange, always 
 employed, was sewing by the lamp. 
 Their old parents and Jacques Mi- 
 chou, seated around the fire, listened 
 in silence, and the dog lay snoring 
 on the warm hearth-stones. Jeannet 
 on entering motioned with his hand 
 for them not to stir, and seated him- 
 self by Solange, who nodded to him. 
 
 " My friends," said Jean-Louis 
 when the reading was over, " I have 
 come to ask for my supper this eve- 
 ning, and perhaps I may again to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " Whenever you please, my boy," 
 said Luguet. 
 
 " Things don't please you at Mui- 
 ceron, eh ?" asked Michou. 
 
 " Ah !" replied Jeannet sadly, 
 "perhaps I am unjust and wrong; 
 but I cannot bring myself to help in 
 that marriage." 
 
 " What difference does it make to 
 you ?" said Pierre ; " when people are 
 possessed, they will do as they please. 
 You are too sensitive, Jean ; after all, 
 you will not have to marry Per- 
 dreau." 
 
 " I am so sure," replied Jeannet, 
 " that poor child will be unhappy." 
 
 " No one forces her !" said Pierre. 
 " She wishes it, so do the Ragauds, 
 so do M. le Marquis and mademoi- 
 selle. All agree ; well, then, let them 
 run the risk !" 
 
 "Be still, Pierre," said Solange; 
 " you speak as though you had no 
 heart. Remember that Jeannette has 
 been from her infancy like a sister to 
 Jean-Louis; would you like to see 
 me marry Isidore ?" 
 
 '-Ah I" cried Pierre, "I would 
 
 sooner cut his throat; but you are 
 not like Jeannette." 
 
 " Don't say anything against her," 
 replied good Solange with warmth. 
 " She is the best girl in the world ; 
 and because her head is rather light 
 and giddy, that does not prevent her 
 having an excellent heart. I under- 
 stand Jean-Louis' feelings, for, cer- 
 tainly, Isidore Perdreau's reputation 
 is not very good. But who knows ? 
 Perhaps, when he is married and set- 
 tles down, he may make Jeannette a 
 good husband." 
 
 " Thank you, Solange," said Jean- 
 net, taking her hand, " it is so kind in 
 you to defend her; it makes me feel 
 happy. If I could only show a little 
 friendship for Isidore, I think I would 
 be less miserable; but I cannot con- 
 quer myself; I cannot change. . , " 
 
 " It is not worth while trying to do 
 it, boy," said Michou; " when we see 
 misfortune coming, and cannot pre- 
 vent it, the best we can do is to keep 
 at a distance, and not meddle." 
 
 " Then, M. Michou, you really 
 think trouble will come of it ?" asked 
 Jeannet. 
 
 " Yes, my son, such overwhelm- 
 ing trouble," answered the game- 
 keeper, " that until the day I see 
 them standing before the mayor 
 and the cur^ I shall hope the good 
 God will work a miracle to prevent 
 it. The Ragauds at present are like 
 men who have taken too much 
 brandy that is to say, they are as 
 tipsy as a beggar after the vintage. 
 They can neither hear nor under- 
 stand. But mind what I say ; you 
 others who are in your senses. I will 
 tell you what sort of men they are, 
 that infamous notary and his rascal 
 of a son, and then you will see 
 whether Jean-Louis is right or wrong." 
 
 Thereupon he recounted to his 
 astonished friends what we already 
 know, but went into greater details 
 than I have thought necessary.
 
 84 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 " We can only pray to God," said 
 Solange when he had ended. " Alas ! 
 poor Jeannette, what will become of 
 her ? M. Michou, you must warn the 
 Ragauds." 
 
 " You think that would be easy ?" 
 said Michou. " In the first place, 
 they would not believe me. Monsieur 
 and mademoiselle would be indig- 
 nant. The Perdreaux are too thorough 
 scoundrels not to have at hand a 
 crowd of proofs and protestations 
 which would make them appear as 
 white as snow. Every one is against 
 us, up to that obstinate Jeannette, 
 who is dead in love with Isidore, so 
 they say hare-brained little fool !" 
 
 " It is only too true," said Jeannet, 
 much overcome. 
 
 " As for you," resumed Michou, 
 " in consequence of your peculiar 
 position, you can say less than any 
 one else ; but if I were in your place, 
 I would not remain an indifferent 
 spectator of such a sad affair." 
 
 " What can I do ?" said Jeannet. 
 " How can I abandon them ?" 
 
 " Come and stay with me a while. 
 L am clearing a part of the wood; 
 you can overlook the workmen, and 
 we can manage to keep house with 
 Barbette, if you are not very difficult 
 to please about the cooking." 
 
 " Oh ! I would like it very much, M. 
 Michou, and you will do me a great 
 favor. But I must ask my father 
 about it; will you see him, and get 
 his consent ?" 
 
 " To-morrow we will have it all 
 arranged," replied Michou. 
 
 " Jeannet," said Solange, " the 
 wood of Val-Saint is not very far 
 from here ; when your day's work is 
 over, you must remember there is 
 always a place at our table for a 
 friend. Come, and we will console 
 you. Don't worry yourself too much 
 about all this affair ; often the storm 
 is so terrible we expect every mo- 
 ment to be struck with lightning, and 
 
 then the clouds break, the sky clears, 
 and, after all the fright, nobody is 
 killed." 
 
 Jean-Louis, notwithstanding his 
 sadness, could not help smiling at 
 these hopeful words, spoken by this 
 good and beautiful girl, so reason- 
 able in all things, and still always so 
 cheerful. He pressed her hand, and 
 helped her set the table for supper. 
 Michou, reflecting on these words of 
 Solange, wisely remarked that the 
 future being in the hands of God, 
 who always concealed it from us 
 through mercy or to grant us agree- 
 able surprises, it was unbecoming in 
 us to torment ourselves too much 
 about it. 
 
 At which speech good Pierre, who 
 never liked trouble, loudly applaud- 
 ed ; and then, the repast being served, 
 all sat down to table, and, while eating, 
 conversed on various topics not the 
 least connected with Muiceron. 
 
 xv. 
 
 According to his promise, Mi- 
 chou the next day paid an early 
 visit to the Ragauds, accompanied 
 by his old blackened pipe, which he 
 always kept firmly between his teeth 
 when he feared he might become 
 impatient or angry in conversation. 
 He said that, without it, the big 
 words would rush out of his mouth 
 before he had time to prevent them ; 
 but that, with it, while he smoked, 
 shook it, or relighted it, he regained 
 his composure, and gathered time to 
 arrange his ideas. And never was 
 puffer as he called his pipe more 
 necessary than on this visit to Mui- 
 ceron. Seeing his friends on the 
 point of throwing themselves into 
 the enemy's clutches, and knowing 
 that remonstrance would avail no- 
 thing, he felt that anger and sorrow 
 might carry him to any extremity 
 in words only, let it be well under- 
 stood.
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 5 
 
 He found Ragaud seated before 
 the door, shelling gray peas, while 
 Pierrette was washing dishes; for, 
 since she had commenced to feed 
 the Perdreaux, all the crockery was 
 in use, and they went to bed so late 
 half the work remained for next day. 
 
 " I wish you good-morning," said 
 Michou to his friends. " I see you 
 are very busy, but I have only come 
 to remain a few moments." 
 
 " Come in," said Pierrette. 
 
 " No, I prefer to remain outside," 
 replied Michou. " I like the fresh air. 
 Ragaud, do you feel inclined to do 
 me a favor ?" 
 
 " What a question !" said the good 
 man. " I am always ready for that, 
 my old friend." 
 
 " Thank you, it is not a very great 
 request. Can you spare me Jean- 
 Louis for a fortnight ? I have twenty 
 men at work in the wood of Mon- 
 treux, and no one to oversee them. 
 The young fellow can help me a 
 great deal." 
 
 " Very willingly," said Ragaud ; 
 " the hemp is nearly ready, and I do 
 not want Jeannet just now." 
 
 " He will take his meals with me," 
 replied Michou, " and sleep at my 
 house the nights. He will be oblig- 
 ed to work late; so you need not be 
 uneasy if he does not return home 
 sometimes." 
 
 " Agreed," said Ragaud. " Do 
 you employ the wood-cutters of the 
 neighborhood ?" 
 
 " Deuce take it, no !" replied 
 Michou. " I hire them right and 
 left, and truly they are the stupidest 
 asses. The way they talk makes 
 one's hair stand up under his cap." 
 
 " Bah ! what do they say ?" 
 
 " Devilish nonsense ! Why, they 
 talk of nothing but revolution, over- 
 throwing everything and everybody, 
 massacring the nobility, and theft. 
 1 remember how my father, long ago, 
 told me abouc the people before the 
 
 Reign of Terror, and I imagine these 
 men must be something of the same 
 stamp. Some of them disappear some- 
 times ; when they return, they speak 
 in whispers, and, when I order them to 
 go to work, you should see the way 
 they glare at me. It is very well I 
 don't know what fear means ; but, re- 
 inforced by Jeannet, all will go well." 
 
 " Take him right away," said Ra- 
 gaud ; " and if he is not enough, well, 
 send for me; I will give you a help- 
 ing hand." 
 
 " You ?" replied Michou, who 
 commenced to mumble over his pipe. 
 " You are too busy in this house with 
 the wedding." 
 
 " Oh ! it is not going to be to-mor- 
 row," said Ragaud ; " the day of be- 
 trothal is not yet fixed. I leave all 
 that to good M. Perdreau. He is tak- 
 ing a great deal of trouble ; and I am 
 glad he is, for I know precious little 
 about legal matters." 
 
 " So, then, you don't bother your- 
 self with anything ? very pretty con- 
 duct on your part." 
 
 " What should I do ?" asked Ra- 
 gaud innocently. " Each one has 
 his part to play. M. Perdreau was 
 brought up among books, and I at 
 the plough. When he has the pa- 
 pers ready, he will tell me where to 
 sign my name." 
 
 " And you will sign it ?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly, after he has read 
 them to me." 
 
 " All very nice," said Michou. " If 
 I were in your place, I would sign 
 without reading them ; it would be 
 more stupid. . . ." 
 
 " What do you say ?" asked Ra- 
 gaud. 
 
 " I say," replied Jacques, " if you 
 will allow me to offer a word of ad- 
 vice, you will not only make them 
 read your daughter's marriage con- 
 tract to you, but also have it read 
 to others to M. le Cure, for example ; 
 he is learned also that he is."
 
 86 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 " That would be insulting to M. 
 Perdreau." 
 
 " Not at all. Two such learned 
 men would soon understand each 
 other. After all, you know, you 
 must do as you think best. Good- 
 morning ! Thank you for Jean-Louis ; 
 send him to me quickly. I must hur- 
 ry off to my rascally wood-cutters in 
 the wood of Montreux." 
 
 And the game-keeper turned his 
 back without waiting for an answer, 
 purring away at his pipe so tremen- 
 dously his cap was in a cloud of 
 smoke. 
 
 Ragaud continued to shell his peas, 
 but it was easy to see he felt rather 
 anxious. Nevertheless, when he had 
 ended his work, he re-entered the 
 house without showing any discom- 
 posure. 
 
 Jean-Louis left home that morning 
 to spend a fortnight with Michou, 
 depressed in spirits, but still hoping 
 the best. On passing through Val- 
 Saint, he stopped at M. le Cure's, 
 who confirmed all that Michou had 
 said about the Perdreaux. That 
 dear, good man was much distressed, 
 but'could not think of any remedy for 
 the evil ; but he promised Jeannet to 
 say Mass for the family, and highly 
 approved of his leaving Muiceron for 
 a time. 
 
 Meanwhile, the Ragauds acted as 
 though they were bewitched. Dur- 
 ing the first week after the depar- 
 ture of Jeannet, his name was scarce- 
 ly mentioned, even by Pierrette. 
 They appeared to have lost all recol- 
 lection of the services the excellent- 
 hearted boy had rendered his adopt- 
 ed parents. No one thought of him 
 or noticed him when he returned 
 sometimes late at night from his hard 
 day's work; and, had it not been 
 for the good Luguets, poor Jean- 
 Louis would have been as isolated in 
 the world as if he had been brought 
 up in a foundling asylum his first 
 
 destination. But God did not aban- 
 don him, and, although always very 
 sad, he did not lose courage. Every 
 evening, whether he returned or not 
 to Muiceron, he visited his friends, 
 and there, with Pierre and Solange, he 
 recovered his good-humor, or at least 
 maintained his gentleness and resig- 
 nation. His friendship for Solange 
 increased day by day. He suspect- 
 ed nothing, nor she either; for al- 
 though very friendly and intimate, 
 they only felt toward each other like 
 brother and sister. However, all 
 was known in the village better, 
 perhaps, than elsewhere and the 
 gossips commenced to say that the 
 devout Solange jumped at marriage 
 as quickly as any other girl. Several 
 of the girls even commenced to tease 
 her about him ; all of which she re- 
 ceived gently, and smiled without 
 being displeased, contenting herself 
 with the remark that, after all, she 
 might choose worse; and her work 
 was continued more faithfully than 
 ever. 
 
 One evening, when Pierre and his 
 parents remained rather late at the 
 fair at Andrieux, which is three good 
 leagues from Ordonniers, and which 
 is only reached by roads very diffi- 
 cult to travel in the bad season, 
 Jeannet, as usual, went to the Lu- 
 guets, and was surprised to find So- 
 lange all alone. She blushed slightly 
 when she saw him, not from embar- 
 rassment, however, but only, I imag- 
 ine, because she remembered the re- 
 ports that were circulating in the vil- 
 lage. Jeannet took his usual seat, 
 which was always near hers. The 
 month of November was nearly 
 ended, and that morning Michou 
 had told Jean-Louis that Jeannette's 
 betrothal would take place a little 
 before Christmas, and the marriage 
 soon after. The poor fellow was 
 overwhelmed with sorrow ; he poured 
 all his grief into Solan ge's ear, and
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 so great was his confidence in her 
 that he allowed himself to weep in 
 her pre'sence. 
 
 " You have lost your courage and 
 become thoroughly hopeless," said 
 Solange gently. " I don't like that in 
 
 man, still less in a Christian." 
 
 " How can I help it ? Am I made 
 of stone ?" replied Jeannet, his head 
 buried in his hands. " Alas ! aias ! 
 Solange, I believed your words. I 
 thought that God would have mercy 
 on us, and that this unfortunate mar- 
 riage would not take place." 
 
 "I don't see that it has yet," re- 
 plied Solange. " In the first place, 
 they only speak of signing the con- 
 tract a month from now, and up to 
 then the mill will turn more than 
 once; and, after all, does not God 
 know better than we what is good 
 for us, poor blind things that we 
 are ?" 
 
 " That is true ; but to see Jean- 
 nette the wife of that man, without 
 faith or fear of God or law; to see 
 my old father and dear, good mother 
 reduced to want ; to be obliged to 
 leave the country, and never see 
 Muiceron again! For think, So- 
 lange, that Jeannette, when she signs 
 her marriage contract, will know that 
 I am not her brother ! I will not 
 wait to be told that my place is out- 
 side of the house. God knows I have 
 worked for my parents, and their 
 tenderness never humiliated me, but 
 to receive a benefit from Isidore 
 no, never !" cried Jean-Louis, raising 
 his eyes that flashed with honest pride. 
 
 " You are right in that," said So- 
 lange quietly ; " but listen a moment, 
 . . . and first sit down there," she 
 added, gently placing her hand on 
 his arm. " Come to your senses. 
 There, now, can you yet listen pa- 
 tiently to me ?" 
 
 " Go on," said Jean-Louis obedi- 
 ently ; " you need not talk long to 
 calm me." 
 
 " Weil," resumed Solange, resting 
 her elDow on the table in such a 
 manner that her sweet face nearly 
 touched Jeannet's shoulder, " I will 
 repeat again that the story is not yet 
 1 ended; but as this good reason is 
 not weighty enough for your excited 
 brain, I beg you will tell me why 
 you think Jeannette will despise you 
 when she will learn that you are not 
 her brother." 
 
 " But how can you expect it to be 
 otherwise, my dear friend ? Is it not 
 against me that I seem to be in- 
 stalled in her house for life? that I 
 have had half the hearts of her pa- 
 rents ? Do you think that Isidore, 
 who detests me, will not tell a thou- 
 sand falsehoods to prejudice hei 
 against me ? Ah ! Solange, I have 
 suffered terribly during the last 
 month; but to see Jeannette regard 
 me as an intruder ; to have her crush 
 me with her scorn, and make me feel 
 that I am a foundling, picked up 
 from the gutter it is beyond all hu- 
 man strength, and the good God 
 will not compel me to endure such 
 agony. I will not expose myself to 
 such a trial." 
 
 " But what can you do ? You 
 cannot get work in the country with- 
 out running the risk of meeting her 
 at every turn." 
 
 " I will manage it," said Jean- 
 Louis. " France is a kind mother, 
 Solange, and has never refused food 
 to one of her sons, even though he 
 had no name but the one given in 
 baptism. I know that my dear fa- 
 ther intended to procure a substitute 
 for me ; but, in the present situation, I 
 can no longer accept a cent of Jean- 
 nette's inheritance, which will one day 
 be Isidore's." 
 
 " Good," said Solange. " But wait 
 another moment. All this is still in the 
 future, since you can only be drawn 
 next year; so put that aside. I 
 will only say that you have spoken
 
 88 
 
 The Farm of M nicer on. 
 
 like a good-hearted fellow, for which 
 I don't compliment you, as I knew 
 you were that before. But, to return 
 to what we were speaking of, why do 
 you think you will be scorned by 
 Jeannette ? Come, now, tell me all. 
 You love the little thing ? and . . . 
 more than a brother loves a sister ?" 
 
 " Ah !" cried Jeannet, hiding his 
 face, which he felt crimsoning, like a 
 young girl surprised, " you drag the 
 last secret from my heart. Yes, I 
 love her, I love her to madness, and 
 that adds to the bitterness of my de- 
 spair. May God pardon me ! I have 
 already confessed it, but with my 
 great sorrow is mingled a wicked 
 sentiment. Solange! I am jealous; 
 I know it well. What can you ex- 
 pect ? I was so before I knew it, 
 and I cannot drive it from me. Did 
 I ever feel that she was not my sis- 
 ter ? No, not once until the day 
 that there was question of her mar- 
 riage ; and yet," added he clasping 
 his hands, " God, who hears me, 
 knows that if she had chosen one 
 worthy of her, I would have had the 
 strength to conquer it for the sake 
 of tier happiness. But so many mis- 
 fortunes have made me what I am, 
 and what I only avow to you in- 
 capable of surmounting my je'alousy 
 and dislike." 
 
 While he spoke thus, beautiful 
 Solange smiled, not like a scornful 
 woman, who has no pity for feelings 
 to which she is insensible, but like a 
 mother who is sure of consoling her 
 sick child. Her clear, tranquil eyes 
 rested upon Jean-Louis, who gradual- 
 ly raised his, that he might look at 
 her in his turn ; for everything about 
 this girl of twenty years was so gen- 
 tle and calm, and at the same time 
 eo good, one always expected to re- 
 ceive consolation from her. 
 
 " You wish to scold me ?" said 
 Jean-Louis. " If so, do it without 
 fear, if you think I am in fault." 
 
 " Not at all," she replied ; " there 
 is nothing wrong in what you have 
 confided to me, Jeannet. I pity you 
 with my whole heart, only I scarcely 
 understand you." 
 
 " Why so, Solange ? You are, 
 however, very kind, and certainly have 
 a heart." 
 
 "I hope so," said she; "but when a 
 creature is loved so dearly, she should 
 be esteemed in every respect." 
 
 "Don't I esteem Jeannette? O 
 Solange ! why do you say that ?" 
 
 " But I only repeat what you first 
 said, my child," she replied in her 
 maternal tone, which was very sweet 
 in that young mouth. " You think 
 her capable of despising you, and 
 imagine that she will disdain you 
 when she learns the misfortune of 
 your birth ; therefore, you do not 
 esteem her, and so, I repeat, I can't 
 understand such great affection." 
 
 " You can reason very coolly 
 about it," said Jeannet; "but if your 
 soul were troubled like mine, you 
 would not see so clearly to the bot- 
 tom of things." 
 
 " It is precisely because you are so 
 troubled that the good God permits 
 this conversation to-night," she re- 
 plied. " Let me tell you now why I 
 still hope. Jeannette at this moment 
 sins by the head, but her heart is un- 
 touched; and here is the proof : the 
 secret you so dread her knowing she 
 has known as well as either of us 
 for more than three months. Have 
 you seen any change in her man- 
 ner ?" 
 
 " Oh ! is it possible ?" cried Jean- 
 net. " And who told her ?" 
 
 " I myself," answered Solange. 
 " She had heard at the chateau on;e 
 words dropped by Dame Berthe, 
 which excited her curiosity. After 
 her sickness, when I went to stay 
 with her, she one day asked an ex- 
 planation of her doubts ; and as I 
 feareo, if she questioned others, she
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 89 
 
 would not be properly answered, I 
 told her all." 
 
 " You did right; and what was her 
 reply ?" 
 
 "She threw herself in my arms, 
 and thanked me," said Solange. " For 
 more than an hour she spoke of her 
 great affection for you, which time 
 had augmented instead of diminish- 
 ing. She wept for your misfortune, 
 and thanked God that her parents 
 had acted so well, as by that act 
 they had given her a brother; and 
 never did I see her so gentle, tender, 
 and kind. She made me promise I 
 would never tell you that she knew 
 your secret ; but the poor child did 
 not then foresee the necessity that 
 compels me to speak to-night on ac- 
 count of your wicked thoughts." 
 
 " Dear, dear Jeannette !" said 
 Jean-Louis, with tears in his eyes. 
 
 " I have heard lately," continued 
 Solange, " that she came near send- 
 ing off Isidore, because he presumed, 
 thinking she knew nothing, to make 
 some allusion to the subject. She 
 declared that she considered you 
 her brother, and those who wished 
 to be friends of hers must think the 
 same." 
 
 " Say no more," said Jeannet. 
 " I will love her more than ever." 
 
 " No," replied she, " it is useless. 
 Only don't despair. Take courage, 
 for there is always hope when the 
 heart is good ; and the moment this 
 poor child, who is now acting with- 
 out reflection, will know she should 
 despise Isidore, she will dismiss him 
 and drive him away as she would a 
 dangerous animal." 
 
 " But will she ever know it ?" said 
 Jean-Louis. 
 
 " Hope in God," replied the pious 
 girl. " Has he ever yet abandoned 
 you ?" 
 
 " Beg him to make me as confident 
 as you," said he, looking at her with 
 admiration. " What good you do 
 
 me ! How can I repay you, Solange, 
 for such kind words ?" 
 
 " Perhaps," said she seriously 
 " perhaps, one day, I may ask you to 
 do me a great service." 
 
 " Really ! Let me know it now. 
 I will be so happy to serve you." 
 
 "Yes? Well, then, I will," re- 
 plied Solange, after a moment's hesi- 
 tation. " You have laid bare your 
 heart to me ; I will return your confi- 
 dence. Jean-Louis, I also have a 
 secret love in my soul, and I will 
 die if I do not obtain what I de- 
 sire." 
 
 " You !" said Jeannet, astonished ; 
 " you, dear Solange ! I always 
 thought you so quiet and so happy 
 in your life." 
 
 " It is true," said she, sighing. " I 
 look so, because I cannot let people 
 see what they could not understand. 
 But with you, Jean-Louis, it is differ- 
 ent ; I can tell you everything." 
 
 " I hope, at least," said Jeannet, 
 smiling, " that he whom you love is 
 worthy of your esteem." 
 
 " Oh ! yes," she replied, crossing 
 her arms on her breast, while her 
 pale, beautiful face crimsoned with 
 fervor " oh ! yes, for he whom I love 
 is the Lord our God. I wish to be 
 a Sister of Charity, Jeannet, and un- 
 til then there will be no happiness 
 on earth for me." 
 
 Jean-Louis for a moment was 
 dumb with surprise at this avowal; 
 then he knelt before her, and kissed 
 her hands. 
 
 " I might have suspected it," said 
 he, much moved; "you were not 
 made to live the ordinary life of the 
 world. God bless you, dear Solange, 
 and may his holy angels accompany 
 you ! But what can I do to aid you 
 in your holy wishes ?" 
 
 " Much," she replied ; " you can 
 inform my parents, and afterwards 
 console them ; reason with Pierre, 
 who will be half crazy when he hears
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 of my departure ; and perhaps you 
 can even accompany me to Paris, 
 for I am afraid to go alone. I have 
 never been away from home, and I 
 would not dare venture on that long 
 journey." 
 
 " But, dear Solange, you will need 
 a great deal of money for that." 
 
 " Oh !" said she, laughing, " do 
 you think me a child ? For two years 
 I have deprived myself of everything, 
 and I have more than enough. 
 See," she added, opening a little box, 
 which she kept hidden under a plaster 
 statue of the Blessed Virgin, which 
 stood near her bed. " Count !" 
 
 " Three hundred francs !" said 
 Jeannet, after having counted ; " and 
 ten, and twenty, and thirty more 
 three hundred and sixty, besides the 
 change. There are nearly four hun- 
 dred francs." 
 
 " There will be when I am paid 
 for what I am now embroidering," 
 said she. " Is that enough ?" 
 
 " Ten times too much," replied 
 Jeannet. " Poor dear Solange ! what 
 happiness to think that I shall see 
 yqu until the last moment !" 
 
 " And afterwards again," said she 
 gaily ; " the white cornets are made 
 to go over the world. We will meet 
 again, don't fear !" 
 
 It is truly said that example is 
 better than precept. Jean-Louis be- 
 came a man again before that beau- 
 tiful and pious girl, so brave and so 
 good. His heart was comforted, his 
 soul strengthened. He would have 
 blushed now to weep about his sor- 
 rows, when Solange was about to 
 sacrifice her whole life to the sorrows 
 of others. She commenced to play 
 her part of Sister of Charity with him, 
 and God doubtless already blessed 
 her; for never did balm poured into 
 a wound produce a more instant 
 effect. 
 
 They finished their little arrange- 
 ments just as the Luguets returned 
 
 home. Pierre was rather gay, as he 
 could not go to the fair without 
 drinking with his friends ; and when a 
 man's ordinary drink is water colored 
 with the skins of grapes, half a pint 
 is enough to make him feel jolly. 
 
 Therefore, when he found Solange 
 and Jeannet in conversation, looking 
 rather more serious than usual, he 
 commenced to look very wise, whis- 
 tled, winking from one to the other, 
 to let them know he understood what 
 was going on. Jean-Louis was seat 
 ed near the fire, and pondered over 
 the mutual confidences made that 
 evening. He paid little attention to 
 Pierre's manoeuvres ; but Solange saw 
 them, and, while laying the cloth for 
 supper, begged her brother to explain 
 in good French what was on his 
 mind. 
 
 " Yes, yes, my pretty one !" said 
 he, trying to put his arm around 
 her waist, something which she did 
 not permit even in him ; " we know 
 something about you." 
 
 " Nothing very bad," she replied, 
 laughing ; " here I am before you in 
 flesh and blood, and you see I am 
 not at all sick." 
 
 " Don't be so sly," he answered ; 
 " this is not the time. We returned 
 from the fair with lots of acquaintan- 
 ces, and every one told us you were 
 going to be married, and that youi 
 bans would be published next Sun- 
 day." 
 
 " It is rather too soon," said Solange 
 quietly; "the consent of the parents 
 will be needed, and I don't know 
 yet whether it will be given. And 
 to whom shall I be married ? Those 
 people who are so well informed 
 should have told you that." 
 
 Thereupon Pierre, without answer- 
 ing, struck Jean-Louis on the shoul- 
 der. 
 
 " Look up, sleepy-head !" cried he 
 in his ear. " Can you tell me who is 
 going to marry my sister Solange ?"
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 "Who? What?" answered Jean- 
 net, like one coming out of a dream 
 " What are you talking about ?" 
 
 " I say that you and Solange can 
 keep a secret famously," said he, 
 rather spitefully. " It is well to keep 
 it secret, when you are only thinking 
 of marriage, and I don't object to 
 your first arranging it between your- 
 selves; but now that everybody 
 knows it except us, it is rather pro- 
 voking for the family." 
 
 " You are crazy," said Jean-Louis. 
 
 "A big baby, at least," said So- 
 lange, shrugging her shoulders. 
 
 " All very well," said Pierre ; " we 
 know what we know. We say no- 
 thing further. When you choose to 
 speak of your affairs, well, we will be 
 ready to listen to you." 
 
 Jeannet was about to reply, but 
 Luguet and his wife, who all this while 
 had been in the barn, giving a look 
 at the cattle, to see that all was safe 
 for the night, re-entered the room, 
 and Solange motioned to Jean-Louis 
 not to continue such a useless con- 
 versation before her parents. 
 
 But whether Pierre was more ob- 
 stinate than usual that night on ac- 
 count of the wine in his head, or 
 whether his great friendship for Jean- 
 net inflamed his desire for the al- 
 liance, certain it is he would not give 
 up his belief in the approaching mar- 
 riage, and continued throughout sup- 
 per to make jokes and clack his 
 wooden shoes underneath the table; 
 in fact, he acted like a boy who is 
 sure of his facts and loves to torment 
 people. Jean-Louis several times 
 was on the point of telling him to be 
 quiet, but Solange, with her gentle 
 smiles, always prevented him. 
 
 You can well perceive this confirm- 
 ed Pierre in his belief that they un- 
 derstood each other, as honest lovers 
 have the right to do ; so that, if he 
 was a little doubtful on his return 
 from the fair, he was no longer so at 
 the end of the supper, and went to 
 bed so firmly persuaded that he 
 would soon have Jeannet for brother- 
 in-law, they could easier have cut off 
 his right hand than make him believe 
 to the contrary.
 
 TJte Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 HOWEVER, our good friends at 
 Muiceron had not become, believe 
 me, so entirely perverted by vanity 
 as to lose all remembrance of the 
 past. They could not have lived 
 twenty years with a boy as perfect 
 in conduct and affection as Jean- 
 Louis without missing him as the 
 days rolled on. 
 
 I acknowledge, nevertheless, that 
 the first week passed so quickly in 
 the midst of the flurry and fuss of 
 the marriage contract and presents 
 bought on credit that the ab- 
 sence of the good child was scarcely 
 felt; but, towards the end of the 
 second week, one evening Pierrette 
 asked Ragaud if the time had not 
 nearly expired that Jean-Louis had 
 been lent to Michou for the clearing 
 of the forest of Montreux; "for," 
 said she, " I cannot live any longer 
 without him, he was of so much use 
 to me, and the house is so empty 
 without him." 
 
 " I gave him for a fortnight," re- 
 plied Ragaud, " and I would not 
 disoblige Michou by reclaiming him 
 before ; but I think we will see him 
 next week, and then I hope he will 
 be over his little miff." 
 
 " What miff?" asked Pierrette. 
 
 " Bless me ! wife, you are a little 
 too simple if you have not noticed 
 long before this how sullen the boy 
 has become." 
 
 . " He never says much," replied 
 Pierrette, " and we have all been so 
 very busy lately, it has made him 
 more silent even than usual." 
 
 " That is precisely it," said Ra- 
 gaud. " You have petted him so 
 much, he fancied everything was his; 
 and when he saw us so occupied 
 with Jeannette's marriage, he took it 
 in dudgeon, and became offended." 
 
 " That would be very wrong in 
 him," replied La Ragaude, "and I 
 don't believe Jeannet capable of 
 such wicked sentiments. Jealousy 
 is not one of his faults ; on the con- 
 trary, he always thinks of others 
 before himself." 
 
 " That may be, that may be, but 
 you cannot judge of wine, no mat- 
 ter how old you may know it to be, 
 before tasting; and, in the same 
 way, you cannot answer for any 
 quality of the heart until it has been 
 tried. So it was very easy for 
 Jeannet not to be jealous when 
 there was no subject for jealousy; 
 but, if you were not always blind 
 and deaf to his defects, you would 
 acknowledge that from the day that 
 Isidore put his foot in this house he 
 has changed as much as milk turned 
 into curds." 
 
 " That may all be," said Pierrette, 
 who could not answer her husband's 
 objections. 
 
 " That may all be so easily that it 
 is positively so," replied Ragaud, 
 " and Jeannet will not re-enter this 
 house until I have spoken verj 
 plainly to him, and made him pro- 
 mise to treat Isidore as a brother." 
 
 "That is just what I think," re- 
 plied good Pierrette, who loved 
 peace above all things, "and you 
 always speak wisely."
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 93 
 
 Jeannette, for her part, had a 
 little secret annoyance that she 
 carefully concealed, but which made 
 her more irritable and less docile 
 than usual, greatly to the astonish- 
 ment of Pierrette, who thought her 
 to be at the summit of happiness. 
 After being rather sullen with Jean- 
 net, because he did not appear de- 
 lighted with her marriage, and, 
 above all, with her intended, she 
 was now displeased to see Isidore 
 parading before every one and to 
 her the first his great satisfaction 
 at the departure of Jean-Louis. He 
 even seemed to seek every occasion 
 to speak injuriously of him before 
 her parents, and allowed no one to 
 praise him in his presence. The 
 child was not very patient, we al- 
 ready know, and, as Solange truly 
 said, her head alone was dazzled ; 
 her heart was not spoiled enough to 
 make her lose her good sense. Still 
 further, she began to feel very un- 
 easy on a subject which she wished 
 to understand clearly before finally 
 engaging herself it was that of re- 
 ligion. She had felt the ground 
 around Perdreau, and, although he 
 was as hypocritical as the devil, he 
 had attempted several very dis- 
 agreeable jokes about the church 
 and her ceremonies which, I must 
 say, provoked Jeannette to such 
 a degree, she openly showed her 
 displeasure. Thereupon Isidore, 
 seeing that he had gone too far, 
 and that he must be more careful 
 or he would lose her dowry, tried 
 to play the part of a saint in his 
 niche ; but it was a comedy in which 
 he was not well skilled from want 
 of practice, and Jeannette, more 
 and more worried and unhappy, 
 commenced to regret that the good 
 and wise Jeannet was no longer at 
 her side to aid her with his advice, 
 of which she had never before felt 
 such urgent need. 
 
 So she, in her turn, hazarded the 
 same request as Pierrette, and ask- 
 ed her father when they might ex- 
 pect the return of Jean-Louis. 
 
 Ragaud made her nearly the same 
 reply as he had done to his wife, 
 without mentioning his ideas in rela- 
 tion to Jeannet's supposed jealousy ; 
 and Jeannette patiently awaited 
 him. 
 
 But the fortnight went by with- 
 out any sign of the boy, and it 
 could be easily perceived that 
 Jeannette was becoming nervous a 
 kind of sickness little known in the 
 country even by name, but which 
 mademoiselle's example had taught 
 Jeannette to attempt whenever 
 things did not go on exactly as she 
 wished. However, affairs went on 
 precisely as those rascally Per- 
 dreaux desired. The marriage- 
 contract was prepared, and, after 
 an immense scrawl of big words, 
 which Ragaud did not understand, 
 it concluded by making the good 
 man abandon all his personal and 
 landed property to his daughter, 
 only reserving for himself a mod- 
 erate annuity. Ragaud was asham- 
 ed to avow that all this waste paper 
 was entirely above his comprehen- 
 sion. He tried to look very wise, but 
 proved by his questions that he 
 was caught in a trap ; for, after the 
 reading of the knavish document, 
 which stripped him of everything, 
 he innocently asked if he would re- 
 tain the right to manage Muiceron, 
 and live there as master during his 
 life. 
 
 " Undoubtedly," replied the no- 
 tary ; "your children would be un- 
 natural to let it be otherwise. I 
 have done all for the best, for I 
 suppose you do not wish to oblige 
 my son to marry under the dotal 
 law?" 
 
 "What is the dotal taw t" said 
 Ragaud.
 
 94 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 " It is the greatest disgrace that 
 can be imposed on a man," gravely 
 replied the notary. 
 
 "Oh! I beg pardon, M. Per- 
 dreau ; and so in your paper there 
 is no question of that ?" 
 
 " Certainly not," said the notary. 
 " I have drawn up the papers for 
 the good father and honorable man 
 that you are." 
 
 " Then it is all right, and I have 
 nothing more to do but to thank 
 you," said the honest farmer. 
 
 " We could both sign it this 
 evening," said the head rascal. 
 
 " There is no hurry," said Ra- 
 gaud ; " we will do that when all 
 the family are present, before my 
 wife and the children. I wish 
 Jeannet to sign it also." 
 
 " Sign ? Your Jean-Louis can't 
 sign it," said the notary, " as he has 
 no name ; the law, M. Ragaud, does 
 not recognize illegitimate children." 
 
 " Really ! That is cruel for the 
 boy, monsieur ; at least, I would 
 like him to hear the paper read." 
 
 " For what reason ?" 
 
 " To please him, that is all ; he 
 has been like a child to us for 
 twenty years, and has never deserv- 
 ed to be driven from the family." 
 
 " As you please ; I think it use- 
 less. In business, you see, there 
 is no such thing as sentiment ; how- 
 ever, if you prefer it ..." 
 
 " I certainly do prefer it," replied 
 Ragaud firmly. " I have been a just 
 man all my life, monsieur, and I do 
 not wish now to act unjustly to- 
 ward a child who has always served 
 me so faithfully." 
 
 The notary did not reply, but his 
 ugly weasel-face showed such bitter 
 displeasure that Ragaud, already 
 dissatisfied with the conversation, 
 suddenly remembered Jacques Mi- 
 chou's remarks, and promised him- 
 self to keep his eyes open. 
 
 Fortunately, the good God gives 
 
 to honest men a sense of distrust 
 which is easily sharpened. The 
 peasant, in particular, is never en- 
 tirely at ease when spoken to in 
 more difficult language than two 
 and two make four. Now, Ra- 
 gaud, on account of his vanity, did 
 not wish to acknowledge before 
 others that he understood nothing 
 of all the fine writing on the stamp- 
 ed paper, but he avowed it to him- 
 self, and, putting on a perfectly in- 
 nocent air, he said to Perdreau : 
 
 " Will you have the kindness to 
 let me have the papers for a few 
 days? I would like to read them 
 over again when I have time." 
 
 " Very willingly," replied the no- 
 tary, well convinced and there he 
 was right that good Ragaud could 
 not decipher the handwriting, and 
 that it would be all Greek to him. 
 " I was even going to propose it to 
 you. Take them, M. Ragaud, and 
 read them at your leisure ; but 
 I need not tell you that it must re- 
 main a secret between us until the 
 day the contract is signed." 
 
 " I understand," replied Ragaud. 
 " I know how to be discreet, mon- 
 sieur, and I am not more desirous 
 than you that my daughter's affairs 
 should be known all over the neigh- 
 borhood." 
 
 He did not speak falsely in pro- 
 mising it ; for to a Christian the 
 word of a priest is sacred, and he 
 only intended to let the curt read 
 the contract under the seal of con- 
 fession. 
 
 The next day it so happened 
 that M. Perdreau went to the city, 
 where he expected to pass two days, 
 to plan an affair still worse than the 
 rest, which you will know in due 
 time. Ragaud, thus having the 
 field clear, hurried off to Val-Saint, 
 with the papers carefully folded 
 under his blouse. 
 
 That morning Jeannette was not
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 95 
 
 in good humor. Three weeks had 
 gone by without any news of Jean- 
 net, who did not even return to 
 sleep at Muiceron. She received 
 her loving Isidore like a spoiled 
 child, shrugged her shoulders when 
 he told her she was charmingly 
 pretty, and ended by telling him 
 he must find out something about 
 Jean-Louis, and bring him back to 
 her as quickly as possible, or else 
 she would not believe he loved her. 
 
 Isidore, who had every defect 
 above all, the silly vanity to think 
 that he was fully capable of turning 
 the heads of all the girls, which is, 
 in itself, a proof of presumptuous 
 folly pretended at first to take it as 
 a joke, imagining that Jeannette 
 wished to provoke his jealousy. 
 But seeing her serious and resolute, 
 he replied in an angry tone that 
 such a commission was not to his 
 taste. 
 
 " In that case," she replied, " it 
 is not to mine to talk to you to- 
 day. " 
 
 " Then I will take my leave," 
 said he, touching his hat. 
 
 She did not detain him, and 
 contented herself with smiling, 
 which he thought another little 
 coquettish trick. 
 
 " You are like all women," said 
 he slowly, "who do not mind sacri- 
 ficing their hearts for a whim." 
 
 "What do you call a whim?" 
 replied Jeannette. " Is the desire 
 to see my brother again a whim ? 
 Very well, then, I declare to you 
 that I will regard nothing decided 
 as to our marriage until Jean-Louis 
 has returned home." 
 
 " Do you think, my little beauty," 
 said he, turning red with anger, 
 " that I will let you call that vaga- 
 bond of a foundling brother after 
 you become my wife ?" 
 
 " We will see, "replied she; "but, 
 meanwhile, I do not intend to 
 
 change, and neither will I allow 
 Jeannet to be insulted in my pre 
 sence ; it is not the first time I have 
 told you so, M. Isidore." 
 
 " And so you are capable of be- 
 coming seriously angry with me, 
 who adores you, on account of your 
 pretended brother ?" 
 
 " If you are unreasonable and 
 unjust," said she resolutely, " I 
 will no longer love you." 
 
 "You scarcely love me now," 
 said he sullenly. " I did not believe 
 that the day would ever come when 
 you could think so little of me." 
 
 " I have always thought," she 
 replied, " that husband and wife 
 should agree upon all points. Ever 
 since I can remember, I have al- 
 ways had a respect and friendship 
 for Jean-Louis, and never has he 
 behaved otherwise than well in 
 this house, where he is looked upon 
 as a son. I don't know why my 
 marriage should change my feelings 
 in regard to him ; and that is a ques- 
 tion I confess we had better settle 
 at once before going any further. 
 
 " Very well," said M. Isidore, 
 speaking like one who had sudden- 
 ly decided upon some plan. " I am 
 very sorry to be obliged to pain 
 you, but I will not bother myself 
 about this bast about this Jean- 
 Louis, and that because it is time 
 you should know the truth about 
 him ; he is far from being worthy 
 of your esteem, my dear Jeanne." 
 
 " Oh ! indeed !" said she. " Here 
 is something very new; and the 
 proof, if you please?" 
 
 "You insist upon knowing it?" 
 
 "Absolutely and quickly," re- 
 plied Jeannette, who began to gicw 
 impatient. 
 
 "You will certainly be grieved 
 and there is reason for it," said Is : - 
 dore in a sad tone. "Knjvr, then, 
 that this Jean-Louis, .whom you 
 fancy dying with grief because he
 
 9 6 
 
 The Farm of Miiiceron. 
 
 no longer sees you, is all the while 
 enjoying himself immensely." 
 
 "How can he amuse himself?" 
 asked Jeannette. " You are telling 
 stories. Jeannet is in the wood of 
 Montreux, where he has too much 
 to do, in clearing out the forest, to 
 think of anything else ; besides, 
 he is not naturally very gay, poor 
 boy!" 
 
 "Poor boy! Don't pity him so 
 much ; he would laugh if he heard 
 you. Clearing the wood of Mon- 
 treux he ? It is a mere pretence 
 to hide his game ; he wishes to be 
 more at ease to court Solange Lu- 
 guet. 
 
 " M. Isidore," cried Jeannette, 
 starting up, pale with anger, " keep 
 on speaking ill of Jean-Louis he is 
 a man, andean defend himself; but 
 to speak thus of my cousin Solange 
 is a cowardly falsehood !" 
 
 "How pretty you look!" said 
 Isidore insoUntly. " Anger is so be- 
 coming to you, I would always like 
 to see you so, if it were not so pain- 
 ful to me to excite you thus. No, 
 Jeanne, I do not lie. M. Jean- 
 Louis, who owes his life to your 
 parents, and whom you call brother, 
 at this very instant ridicules the 
 whole household. He is going to 
 marry Solange, and I don't believe 
 he will even inform you of it." 
 
 "Who told you so ?" asked Jean- 
 nette, amazed. " People will gossip 
 so." 
 
 " I had it from Pierre Luguet. 
 It is true it is common talk, but I 
 would not have believed it, if So- 
 lange's own brother had not said 
 it." 
 
 "Can you swear it to me?" said 
 she. 
 
 " I can swear to it positively. 
 Ask Pierre ; you see I am not afraid 
 of being proved a liar." 
 
 " I believe you," said Jeanne, 
 who sought in vain to keep back 
 
 the tears that rilled her eyes. 
 " Never, I confess, would I have be- 
 lieved that of Jean-Louis." 
 
 " You understand now why I 
 did not care to start in search of 
 that gentleman. I am indignant at 
 his conduct ; it is frightful ingrati- 
 tude. To think that he had here 
 a father, a mother, a sister, and 
 that he abandons all to go off and 
 be secretly married ! Is it not 
 proof in itself that he renounces 
 and despises you ?" 
 
 " Oh ! it is very wrong, very 
 wrong !" said Jeannette, much ex- 
 cited. " You were right I can 
 no longer call him brother." 
 
 " I hope not ; it would be affec- 
 tion very badly bestowed, and 
 which would make you the laugh- 
 ing-stock of the village. Are you 
 still angry with me, my dear Jean- 
 ne ?" 
 
 " Pardon me," said she, extend- 
 ing her hand ; " you see, I have 
 had good reason for sorrow." 
 
 And then she burst into tears, 
 no longer able to restrain them, but 
 without exactly knowing the cause 
 of so real a pain. 
 
 Isidore did not expect to suc- 
 ceed so well. This time he had 
 not lied ; he really believed Jeannet 
 would be married, as that giddy- 
 brained Pierre had announced the 
 fact to him. And yet he did not 
 like to see Jeanne weep for such a 
 little thing. It made him think 
 that the affection of these two chil- 
 dren, who had lived together as 
 brother and sister for so many 
 years, was much stronger than he 
 had believed, and he was more de- 
 termined than ever to put a stop to 
 it after he was married, and even 
 before, if he could. 
 
 He left Muiceron very much dis- 
 satisfied. Jeannette was sad ; she 
 let him go off without scarcely no- 
 ticing him. When she was aior.e
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 97 
 
 the wish to seek some consolation 
 led her to go after her mother, to 
 see if she had heard the news, and 
 to talk with her about it. 
 
 But, behold ! just as she left the 
 room she ran against some one, 
 and who should it be but Jean- 
 Louis, who had come after some 
 changes of clothes to carry off to 
 the wood, and who, knowing that 
 she was with her intended, did not 
 wish to disturb her. 
 
 At the sight of her brother all the 
 readiness of her character came back 
 and took the place of her vexation. 
 She assumed an air so haughty 
 that Jeannet, all ready to embrace 
 her, stepped back, dumb with as- 
 tonishment. 
 
 " You there ?" said Jeannette, 
 with a frown on her brow. 
 
 " You there ? Why do you speak 
 so to me ?" asked he, astonished. 
 
 " You must not forget," continu- 
 ed Jeanne, who proudly raised her 
 head as she spoke, " that I am en- 
 gaged to Isidore Perdreau." 
 
 " Yes, I know it," said Jean- 
 Louis. 
 
 " Consequently," she replied, " it 
 is no longer possible for me to 
 treat you as formerly. You know 
 why?" 
 
 " I know it," answered he, lower- 
 ing his head. 
 
 " It is no longer proper," said 
 she, " for us to behave as brother 
 and sister, since we are not so real- 
 
 iy." 
 
 " That is true," said Jeannet, his 
 heart aching with mortal agony. 
 
 " That is all I have to say," add- 
 ed Jeannette in a still haughtier 
 tone ; " and now, Jean-Louis, I wish 
 you much joy and happiness this 
 I say in remembrance of our friend- 
 ship !" 
 
 " Are you bidding me farewell ?" 
 asked he. 
 
 " I will see you later and and 
 
 your wife also ; but you under- 
 stand ?" 
 
 " My wife?" said Jeannet. , 
 
 " Enough," replied Jeanne ; " I 
 do not wish to know your secrets. 
 It is useless for you to seek my 
 father and my mother." 
 
 And with that she rapidly cross- 
 ed the room, and harried off; for, 
 between ourselves, this great anger 
 was not very real, and the longer 
 she looked at the pale, beautiful 
 face of her brother, whom she had 
 not seen for such a long time, the 
 more she felt like throwing her 
 arms around his neck, instead of 
 ill-treating him. But her words 
 had been too cruel ; they had en- 
 tered the soul of Jean-Louis like so 
 many sword-thrusts. It was all 
 ended for him. Proud as he was, 
 and always overwhelmed with the 
 secret grief of his birth, to have 
 it recalled to him by so dear a 
 mouth was deadly suffering. He 
 remained an instant as though his 
 senses had left him, not knowing 
 what to do or to think ; then all at 
 once his reason returned. He had 
 just been driven out, and, after all, 
 they had the right to do it. He 
 made the sign of the cross on his 
 heart, and left the house, with the 
 intention of never returning. 
 
 He went back to Michou, and; 
 passed the evening with him at the 
 Luguets'. He said nothing of what 
 had happened to any one. Dear,, 
 good Solange noticed that he was 
 sadder than usual, but that was not 
 astonishing ; she knew he had been 
 that day to Muiceron, and she very 
 truly thought he had possibly heard 
 things which could not contribute 
 to lighten his heart and make him 
 
 gay- 
 it is now time to tell you that 
 
 old Perdreau was one of the leaders 
 of a band of ruffians who assembled 
 in a lonely field every week in our
 
 98 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 city of Issoudun, where, after taking 
 the most frightful oaths, they plot- 
 ted, murder, arson, and the rob- 
 bery'of the chateaux and churches. 
 It was what is called a secret soci- 
 ety, and was known by the name of 
 la Martine ; and some weeks after- 
 Wctrds, when the Revolution of 1848 
 broke out, which caused such 
 havoc among us, there was a well- 
 known man, so I have been told, 
 who bore the same name, and who 
 placed himself at the head of the 
 insurgents, believing them, in good 
 faith, to be the most honest men in 
 the world. This man, who was as 
 good as any one you could find, 
 and even a passable Christian, my 
 father assured me, bit his thumbs 
 until the blood came when he saw 
 himself despised and his counsel 
 disregarded. But it was too late ; 
 the evil was done. Undoubtedly 
 you know much more about it than 
 I, and so I scarcely dare venture 
 to say any more on the subject. 
 You must only know that the curs- 
 ed notary had used all the money 
 of M. le Marquis to pay the rabble 
 of/a Martine, with the understand- 
 ing that, when they pillaged the 
 chateau, he should have half the 
 estate, including the dwelling-house. 
 
 As for Isidore, he was fully up to 
 the business, and worked at it as- 
 siduously, as much at Paris as else- 
 where. The men who worked in 
 the wood of Montreux belonged to 
 the gang ; he knew them all by 
 name, and kept them all near Val- 
 Saint, so as to be ready for the con- 
 templated insurrection. But in 
 case the thing should not succeed, 
 or would be delayed, he did not 
 think it beneath him to provide 
 himself with a pear to satisfy his 
 thirst, and that was his marriage. 
 
 Our good Ragaud returned from 
 his interview with M. le Cure* rather 
 depressed in spirits. The contract, 
 
 as read by the holy man, did not, 
 appear to him as captivating as 
 when explained by the notary. He 
 had learned still further, from a few 
 words discreetly uttered, that it 
 would be well not to place implicit 
 faith in Master Perdreau, and be- 
 lieve him the personification of 
 honor, as until then he had inno- 
 cently imagined. What now could 
 be done to arrange, or rather disar- 
 range, affairs so far advanced ? The 
 poor man was devoured with care 
 and anxiety. He dared not speak 
 to his daughter, whom he thought 
 to reduce to desperation at the 
 mere mention of the word rupture ; 
 and then to withdraw from the con- 
 tract now would lower him tremen- 
 dously in the eyes of the world 
 around. No longer able to see clear- 
 ly, Ragaud kept quiet, locked the 
 documents safely in his chest, and 
 waited which, in many circumstan- 
 ces, is the wisest policy. 
 
 A long week passed ; then came 
 the festivals of Christmas and New 
 Year. Old Perdreau was half dead 
 with impatience, but nevertheless 
 dared not say a word, or even ap- 
 pear too anxious. What bothered 
 him, besides, was that the rascally 
 gang in the wood of Montreux 
 were constantly receiving messages 
 from their infernal society to hurry 
 up affairs, and, therefore, they 
 threatened to commenee the dance 
 before the violins were ready, 
 which would have spoiled all the 
 plans. Pushed to extremity, he 
 determined, one fine day, to send 
 his son secretly to allay the storm 
 by speaking to his worthy compan- 
 ions in roguery. 
 
 Isidore, who feared nothing and 
 no one, ridiculed his father's anx- 
 iety. He promised to quiet them 
 that very night, and about eleven 
 o'clock, in spite of the bad weather 
 for it was snowing, and the wind
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 99 
 
 was very high he left for Val- 
 Saint. 
 
 The place they were clearing was 
 quite far from M. Michou's little 
 house, where Jean-Louis slept, to- 
 gether with the game-keeper. The 
 men, as is customary among wood- 
 cutters, had constructed a large re- 
 treat formed of the trunks of trees, 
 cemented with mud and moss. It 
 was towards this spot that young 
 Perdreau directed his steps ; and 
 never did a stormier night fall upon 
 an uglier traveller. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 It is not difficult to conjecture 
 that Jeannet, in spite of his heart- 
 troubles and sorrows, had not been 
 sharp as he was blind to the 
 character of the men who worked 
 under his orders in the wood of 
 Montreux. In the first place, Mi- 
 chou warned him from the begin- 
 ning to be watchful, and not to al- 
 low the slightest infringement of 
 discipline or drunkenness among 
 men, who were unknown and of de- 
 cidedly doubtful appearance. One 
 warning sufficed ; he observed for 
 himself, and caught at random more 
 than one stray expression which he 
 chanced to overhear. And then, 
 what could be expected from men 
 who seemed to be without family or 
 friends, who never frequented the 
 church, and shunned the places 
 where the honest people of the 
 commune were accustomed to as- 
 semble ? Certainly, our good Jean- 
 Louis was not wanting in penetra- 
 tion, and old Michou, who prided 
 himself upon seeing very far into 
 everything, was as distrustful as 
 he ; consequently, they agreed that 
 every night one or the other should 
 take a turn around the retreat of 
 the wood-cutters, and see what was 
 going on in this nest of mischiev- 
 ous rascals. To do this, Jeannet 
 
 had skilfully managed to make an 
 opening in the angle opposite to 
 that where the men had established 
 their fire-place, so that, the room 
 being well lighted inside, everything 
 could be clearly seen outside. 
 
 Usually, and for many nights, all 
 was quiet and orderly; the greater 
 part of the band of la Martine, 
 tired out with the day's labors, 
 slept soundly all the evening, 
 stretched pell-mell upon heaps of 
 dried leaves strewed over the floor 
 of their bivouac. Only a few re- 
 mained drinking by the hearth ; so 
 that the watchers, after a glance 
 around, went off to sleep in their 
 turn. 
 
 On the night of which I speak, 
 Michou should have made the 
 round, but Jean-Louis, who since 
 the scene at Muiceron had been 
 miserably unhappy, and could not 
 sleep, asked leave to fulfil the extra 
 duty. 
 
 " It is very stormy," said he to his 
 old comrade. " Remain at home, 
 M. Jacques ; I will go to Montreux 
 in your place." 
 
 " Be off, then," said the keeper, 
 without waiting to be asked twice, 
 " you are young and not rheumatic ; 
 and I will smoke my pipe while 
 waiting for you." 
 
 Jeannet threw over his shoulders 
 a heavy brown wrapper, and was 
 off in a flash. 
 
 When he reached the retreat, he 
 was surprised to see light shining 
 through the two or three little win- 
 dows under the roof, and a big 
 column of smoke coming out of the 
 chimney. Just at this moment Isi- 
 dore entered from his side ; he 
 made them open the door, by 
 means of a signal well known 
 among men of that stamp ; they re- 
 ceived him with much honor, and 
 rekindled the fire, which was burn- 
 ing rather low.
 
 100 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 Jeannet looked through the open- 
 ing; judge of his astonishment 
 when he recognized Jeannette's in- 
 tended, and saw the cordial wel- 
 come extended to him by the men, 
 who grasped him by the hand, and 
 made room for him among them. 
 He was dumfounded, almost fancied 
 himself in a dream, but, at the 
 same time, shook with anger, shame, 
 and sorrow. 
 
 But this was only the beginning 
 of his surprise. If the inside could 
 easily be seen, the conversation 
 was as plainly heard through the 
 wooden walls, lined with moss ; and 
 what he heard froze the blood in 
 his veins. Isidore first spoke, and 
 made an eloquent discourse, which 
 was several times interrupted by 
 the bravos of his audience ; in 
 which speech he showed precisely 
 what he was a pagan, an agrarian, 
 a complete villain, without either 
 faith or justice. He encouraged 
 his friends, the ruffianly crew before 
 him, to proceed to arson and pillage 
 to murder, if necessary for the 
 one purpose, said he, of gaining the 
 triumph of the holy cause. This 
 word holy, which he did not scruple 
 to repeat, sounded so horribly in 
 his blasphemous mouth that poor 
 Jean-Louis shuddered while listen- 
 ing to him ; not from fear, but from 
 the furious desire to avenge the 
 name of holy, which he had dared 
 to pollute with his tongue. 
 
 "O my God!" thought he; 
 " that the husband of Jeannette ! 
 And is it on account of such 
 a vagabond that I have been 
 treated so harshly ? Poor, poor 
 Jeanne !" 
 
 After Isidore had finished his 
 frightful speech, his companions 
 began to curse and swear all at 
 once. Glasses of brandy were 
 passed around, and their heads, al- 
 ready heated by wicked passions, 
 
 became still more excited; so 
 that they began to dispute among 
 themselves as to whom should be- 
 long this and that piece of the 
 estate of Val-Saint. This one 
 wanted the fields, another the wood, 
 a third such or such a farm, and so 
 on with the rest, until Isidore, com- 
 manding silence, reminded them, 
 with threats and oaths, that the 
 chateau should belong to his father, 
 and that whoever failed to comply 
 with his promise would be answer- 
 able to him personally. 
 
 " Come, come," said one of the 
 men, " we will see a little about 
 that ; he is going rather too far. Is 
 it because he is going to marry a 
 devotee eh, Isidore ?" 
 
 Perdreau turned livid with anger 
 at being thus addressed not that 
 he respected Jeannette or her prin- 
 ciples, but because he was as proud 
 as a peacock ; and as he held every 
 one around him in sovereign con- 
 tempt, he did not recognize their 
 right to meddle in his private af- 
 fairs. 
 
 "I will marry whom I please," 
 said he haughtily ; " and the first 
 one that finds fault has only to 
 speak." 
 
 "Bah! bah! Isidore, don't be 
 angry," said an old wood-cutter, 
 who went by the name of Blackbeard, 
 on account of his savage look. 
 " What they say is only for your 
 good; we have heard tell of your 
 marriage, and it alarms us. The 
 truth is that if the thing is true, 
 you will be tied for ever to that Ra- 
 gaud, who belongs to the sacristy 
 clique." 
 
 " Ha ! ha !" replied Isidore, some- 
 what pacified ; " the moment you 
 talk sense, I am willing to answer. 
 Tell me, then, what would you do 
 if a chestful of gold came under 
 your hand ?" 
 
 " What nonsense even to ask such
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 101 
 
 a question ! Why, I would pick it 
 up, of course." 
 
 " That is just what I am doing," 
 replied Isidore, laughing ; " and as 
 for the piety and all that stuff, I 
 don't bother myself. When I will 
 have the principal, I am capable of 
 regulating the rest." 
 
 " Do it, and joy be with you," 
 said Blackbeard ; " we understand 
 each other. So no one will be al- 
 lowed to interfere with Isidore ; he 
 is worthy of our esteem !" 
 
 The rascals applauded, and re- 
 commenced their shameful jokes 
 and infernal proposals. Isidore, 
 once more master of the assembly, 
 spoke at greater length, and ended 
 by exacting an oath that no one 
 should move in the cause until a 
 given signal from Paris. They all 
 swore as he wished, and, as the 
 night was far advanced, honest Per- 
 dreau took leave of his good friends, 
 fearing that daylight might sur- 
 prise him before he could regain 
 his house. 
 
 Jean-Louis needed all the 
 strength mercifully granted by the 
 good God in such a trying moment 
 to listen until the end to all these 
 horrors. The blood boiled in his 
 veins ; he felt neither the snow, 
 nor the biting north wind, and 
 more than once his indignation was 
 so great, he stepped forward and 
 clenched his fist, as though he would 
 throw himself in the midst of those 
 demons, without reflecting that a 
 solid wall separated them from him. 
 Happily, he restrained himself; for 
 courage is not imprudence, and, if 
 he had failed in coolness, he would 
 have lost all the results of the im- 
 portant discovery he had just made. 
 He went back to Michou's cabin, 
 whom he found awaiting his return, 
 according to his promise, and who 
 had commenced to feel very anx- 
 ious about his long absence. 
 
 " M. Jacques," said he, on enter- 
 ing, " I came very near not return- 
 ing. ..." 
 
 And in a few words he recounted 
 all he had heard and seen. 
 
 Michou said not a word. He re- 
 lighted his pipe, and, paced the floor, 
 plunged in thought. 
 
 " I knew the Perdreaux were fa- 
 mous scamps," said he at last, " but 
 not quite so bad as that !" 
 
 " Oh !" cried Jeannet, " if my 
 death could have saved Jeannette 
 from that rascal, I would have 
 broken in the door and fallen in 
 the midst of them without hesita- 
 tion." 
 
 " A very stupid thing you would 
 have done, then," replied Michou ; 
 " they would have killed you, and 
 to-morrow announced that you had 
 fallen from a tree. That would 
 have been a lucky thing for Per- 
 dreau." 
 
 "God watched over me," replied 
 Jean-Louis. " And now, what shall 
 we do ?" 
 
 " That little Ragaud," said Mi- 
 chou, " deserves it all for her fri- 
 volity and vanity ; and, as a pun- 
 ishment, we should let her go to 
 the end of the rope with her Isidore." 
 
 " Never, never !" cried Jean-Lou- 
 is. " You are not speaking serious- 
 ly ? The daughter of your old 
 brother-in-arms ?" 
 
 "Ha!" replied the old fellow, 
 "my old brother-in-arms! Ten 
 years ago I predicted what would 
 be the end of his nonsense." 
 
 " This is not the time to wish it 
 now," replied Jeannet. " Let us 
 save them, M. Michou ; I can do 
 noihing without you." 
 
 " Why not ? You have a tongue 
 like me ; more than that, you saw 
 and heard all; go to-morrow to 
 Muiceron." 
 
 " Impossible," said Jeannet, much 
 embarrassed.
 
 IO2 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 % "Impossible? There is some- 
 thing behind that!" 
 
 " But was it not you yourself 
 who made me promise not to re- 
 turn to my parents ?" 
 
 " Most certainly, my child ; but 
 the case is urgent, it seems to me, 
 and they should know in time, so 
 as to change their minds before it 
 is too late." 
 
 " I will lose my self-control if I 
 meet Isidore face to face." 
 
 " Jeannet," said Michou, " you 
 have a good heart. I know all, my 
 boy ; they drove you from Mui- 
 ceron. Marion heard that little 
 magpie of a Jeannette dismiss you, 
 and she related the story to me, 
 weeping all the while, good fat girl 
 that she is. I wished to see how 
 far your generosity would carry 
 you. Evil be to them who treated 
 you in that manner ; they deserve 
 what has happened." 
 
 " No," said Jean-Louis, " they 
 are blinded, that is all ; and now I 
 have forgotten those words, said 
 without reflection. M. Jacques, I 
 beg v of you help me to save Jean- 
 nette." 
 
 " You will have a fine reward, 
 eh?" 
 
 " Oh ! what is it to me ? After 
 all, can I, for a few cruel words, 
 lose the memory of twenty years of 
 tenderness and kindness ?" 
 
 " If you do not have your place 
 in heaven," said the keeper, raising 
 his shoulders and voice at the same 
 time, to conceal his emotion, which 
 was very visible, " I think our curt 
 himself cannot answer for his. 
 Come, let us see what we can do to 
 save this hare-brained Jeannette. 
 In the first place, to morrow, at the 
 latest, I intend that M. le Marquis' 
 place shall be cleared of those 
 rascals that encumber it. The 
 thing is easy; I will tell them that, 
 owing to the bad weather, we will 
 
 postpone the clearing of the forest 
 until spring, as the work advances 
 too slowly, and give them two 
 weeks' pay . . . no, I won't ; one 
 week is enough. And then you 
 you must write ; do you hear ? 
 Write. Writing remains, and scenes 
 and conflicts are avoided ; you will 
 therefore write six lines, carefully 
 worded, to Perdreau. You will tell 
 him you were at the meeting in the 
 wood that night. How ? That is 
 none of his business it is enough 
 that you were there ; then you will 
 add : ' I give you three days to 
 disappear, after which I will warn 
 the police.' And for the expla- 
 nation at Muiceron, I will see to 
 it." 
 
 Jean-Louis saw at once the good 
 sense of this arrangement, and 
 obeyed immediately. In reality, it 
 was the only means of bringing 
 things to the best possible conclu- 
 sion. 
 
 The next day Michou went to 
 the wood, as usual. He found the 
 men at their work, as though no- 
 thing had happened, and taking aside 
 old Blackbeard, who appeared to 
 have some control over his com- 
 panions, he told him very quietly of 
 his intention. Now, you will have 
 no difficulty in seeing that for men 
 who reckoned upon dividing a do- 
 main worth five hundred thousand 
 crowns in a few days, to be free 
 from work and receive a week's pay 
 was a clear and enticing advantage. 
 Michou was applauded ; and, but 
 that it went against the grain, he 
 would have had the happiness of 
 shaking hands with the whole crew. 
 But as he was not very desirous of 
 that pleasure with such a set, he 
 was entirely rewarded for his pains 
 by seeing them file past him arm- 
 in-arm, and watched them as they 
 went down the road, singing at the 
 top of their lungs.
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 103 
 
 That same morning Jean-Louis' 
 letter left for its destination, and 
 in the evening the letter-carrier de- 
 posited it at the notary's house. 
 
 It has been remarked that villains 
 are not brave. The good God, 
 who protects honest men because 
 they scarcely think of defending 
 themselves, has put cowardice in 
 the hearts of their enemies, and it 
 serves as a rampart always raised 
 before virtue, which prevents the 
 wicked blows of vice from piercing 
 it to death. Do not be astonished 
 at that beautiful phrase ; I acknow- 
 ledge I am not capable of invent- 
 ing it ; but, in order that I might 
 repeat it to you, I carefully copied 
 it from a big book, full of wise say- 
 ings, formerly lent to me by the 
 Dean of Aubiers. 
 
 If the lightning had fallen upon 
 the notary's house, it would not 
 have produced a greater shock 
 than Jeannet's simple letter. The 
 Perdreaux, as they were better 
 educated than the mass of the poor 
 people, whom the ringleaders of the 
 revolution use for their own pur- 
 pose, did not doubt but there would 
 be great trouble and an overthrow 
 of thrones, but were not the less sure 
 of the universal division of pro- 
 perty, which they looked forward to 
 with such eagerness. But the safest 
 and strongest plank of salvation for 
 them was the marriage of Isidore, 
 and it was most important that it 
 should take place now, or else the 
 prison-doors would soon be open- 
 ed. Old Perdreau was annihilated. 
 For thirty years he had had the 
 boldness to calumniate his neigh- 
 bors on every occasion ; he was on 
 the eve, if he could, of causing the 
 ruin, and perhaps the death, of our 
 good lord by delivering up his pro- 
 perty and betraying his secrets; 
 but before this paper, which con- 
 tained only a few lines without 
 
 threats or anger, written by a found- 
 ling, he turned livid and trembled 
 with fright, and his ugly face, ordi- 
 narily so bold, was covered with a 
 cold sweat. Isidore also was as 
 pale as he ; from time to time he 
 read Jean-Louis' letter, crushed it 
 in his hand, trampled it under foot, 
 swore by the holy name of the Lord, 
 and struck the tables and chairs 
 with his clenched fist. But that 
 did not help the matter. The fa- 
 ther and son dared not speak to 
 each other. At last Isidore took 
 the paper up again ; and as if that 
 scare-crow, by disappearing, could 
 mend affairs, he tore it into a thou- 
 sand pieces. 
 
 " We are lost, lost !" repeated old 
 Perdreau, clutching his gray hair 
 with both his hands. 
 
 " That remains to be seen !" cried 
 Isidore. " Father, instead of sink- 
 ing into such despair, you had bet- 
 ter think of some plan. It was by 
 your order I went to Montreux. I 
 knew there was no need of such 
 hurry." 
 
 "What could I do?" asked the 
 unhappy old man, ready to humili- 
 ate himself before his son. " We 
 were menaced on all sides." 
 
 " It was only you who saw all 
 that," replied Isidore harshly ; " I 
 always listened to you too much." 
 
 "We can deny it all," ventured 
 Perdreau. 
 
 " That is easy to say. But I am 
 not sure of our men, if they should 
 be questioned. That cursed found- 
 ling will be believed before all of 
 us." 
 
 " Lost ! lost !" repeated the nota- 
 ry, in the last state of despair. 
 
 " We won't give up," said Isidore. 
 " Go to bed, father ; you are in no 
 condition to talk. I will reflect for 
 both." 
 
 "Ah! think of something, no 
 matter what ; we must avert the
 
 104 
 
 Farm of M nicer on. 
 
 blow," said old Perdreau, as he 
 staggered to his room. 
 
 "Avert the blow !" repeated Isi- 
 dore ; " the devil himself would not 
 succeed unless unless . . ;" 
 
 He paused, as if some one would 
 listen to his thought. A frightful 
 idea entered his head, and all that 
 night the notary, who groaned and 
 shivered with fever in his bed, 
 heard him walking about, taking 
 great strides across the floor, whilst 
 he uttered disconnected words. 
 
 The next day the servant found 
 her masters in a sad state ; one 
 sick, almost delirious, the other 
 asleep, all dressed, in a chair, with a 
 face haggard from the effects of the 
 terrible night that had just passed. 
 
 But two hours afterwards, affairs 
 resumed their accustomed train. 
 Isidore bathed and changed his 
 clothes, drank a bowl of hot wine, 
 in which he poured a good pint of 
 brandy. He swallowed this com- 
 forter, eat a mouthful, and appeared 
 fresh and well. But an experienced 
 person would easily have seen that 
 his eyes looked like balls of fire 
 under the red lids, and that every 
 moment he made a singular move- 
 ment with his shoulders ; you would 
 have thought he shuddered, but 
 doubtless that was owing to the 
 heavy frost the night before. 
 
 He went to see Jeannette, as usu- 
 al, and was wonderfully polite ; the 
 little thing was sad, but gentle and 
 quiet. She willingly spoke of the 
 marriage, of the contemplated jour- 
 ney, and the presents she wished. 
 But yet it was easy to see that 
 each one of the betrothed was 
 playing a part in trying to appear 
 at ease, and scarcely succeeded. 
 Jeannette, in the midst of a fine 
 phrase, would stop and look out 
 of the window, and Isidore would 
 profit by the opportunity to fall 
 into a reverie, which certainly was 
 
 not suitable at such a time. The 
 reason was that the slight friend- 
 ship that was felt on one side 
 had taken wings and flown away ; 
 whilst on the other that which 
 perhaps might begin threatened 
 to be cut short by circumstances : 
 but whose fault was it ? 
 
 "As you make your bed, so you 
 must lie," said our cure, and Isi- 
 dore, who had stuffed his with 
 thorns, should not have been sur- 
 prised if he felt them. No one 
 can describe, because, very fortu- 
 nately, no one can understand, the 
 disordered state of this unhappy 
 young man's mind. He had form- 
 ed a resolution whose result you 
 will soon see ; and on whatever side 
 he looked, he saw a bottomless 
 abyss open before his eyes. He 
 was afraid this yet can be said in 
 his favor, for indifference to crime 
 is the state of finished scoundrels 
 and he would not now have gone 
 so far, if, as we hope, he had not 
 previously lost his senses. 
 
 He prolonged his visit to Mui- 
 ceron as long as he could. Little 
 Jeannette was tired out and did not 
 attempt to conceal it, which suffi- 
 ciently showed how much pleasure 
 she took in the presence of her 
 future husband. She even yawned 
 two or three times, which any other 
 day he would have resented; but 
 now it escaped his notice. 
 
 At nightfall he at last decided 
 to leave, and then it could be seen, 
 by his pallor and the manner that 
 he passed his hand across his brow, 
 that the great deep pit of which I 
 spoke caused him a greater vertigo 
 than ever. 
 
 Nevertheless, he started resolute- 
 ly on the road for the wood of 
 Montreux, and, when he was near 
 the wood-cutters' retreat, he looked 
 as if he wished to enter it ; but sud- 
 denly he retraced his steps, and
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 105 
 
 afterwards appeared so absent and 
 buried in his own reflections, he 
 did not notice that the cabin was 
 empty, and no work going on in- 
 side. 
 
 One man, however, was walking 
 among the huge piles of timber, 
 half ready for delivery; it was 
 Michou. He at once perceived 
 Isidore, and followed him with his 
 eyes a long distance ; but it was not 
 necessary to accost him, and he let 
 him pass on, with the idea that he 
 was seeking the high-road to Issou- 
 dun, in obedience to the letter of 
 Jean-Louis. 
 
 " The hawk is caught," said he 
 to himself. "Well, let him go in 
 peace, that he may receive his last 
 shot elsewhere." 
 
 During this time, Perdreau di- 
 rected his steps towards the game- 
 keeper's house. He easily entered, 
 as the door was only closed by a 
 latch ; Michou, in his isolated abode 
 counting more on his gun, which he 
 always kept loaded at his bedside, 
 than on the protection of bolts. 
 
 Isidore knew that each night 
 Jeannet came to eat and sleep in 
 the little house ; but he also knew 
 that he worked until late in the 
 night, and that there was no risk 
 of meeting him at this early hour. 
 
 As he expected, he found the 
 idiot Barbette alone in the house. 
 The poor girl was preparing the 
 soup Jean-Louis was accustomed 
 to eat on returhing home, and near 
 her was her dog, who never left 
 her, not even at night, when both 
 went out together to sleep with the 
 sheep. 
 
 She knew Isidore, as she had 
 seen him roaming around the coun- 
 try. Except to say good-morning 
 and good-evening, she scarcely 
 knew how to speak, and therefore 
 showed neither astonishment nor 
 fear, as is the case with children 
 
 deprived of reason, who are not 
 conscious either of good or evil. 
 
 Isidore sank into a chair without 
 speaking ; Barbette nodded to him, 
 and continued stirring her stew-pan. 
 
 " What are you making there ?" 
 asked Perdreau, after a few mo- 
 ments' silence. 
 
 The idiot burst out laughing, as 
 though the question was very fun- 
 ny. 
 
 " Soup," she replied, still laugh- 
 ing loudly. 
 
 " Is it for your uncle ?" 
 
 " No, my uncle has dined." 
 
 " Who is it for. then ?" 
 
 " For the other one." 
 
 " The other one ? Is it for Jean- 
 Louis ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 . " You are very sure ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes !" said she, laughing 
 louder than ever. 
 
 " Very good," muttered Isidore 
 between his teeth. He suddenly 
 arose, and gave the dog a furious 
 kick. 
 
 Barbette uttered a shrill scream. 
 Her dog was her only friend ; she 
 threw herself between Isidore and 
 the poor beast, which she clasped 
 in her arms. 
 
 During this movement, which 
 was very quick, the wretched Per- 
 dreau sprang towards the stove, 
 threw into the soup a paper of 
 white powder, which he had kept 
 hidden in his hand, and disappear- 
 ed in a second, like one who feels 
 his clothes catching fire. 
 
 Soon all was again quiet and si- 
 lent. Little Barbette understood 
 nothing, except that the wicked 
 man who had beaten her dog with- 
 out any cause had left, and that she 
 could return to her cooking. She 
 recommenced stirring her scup, 
 laughing softly to herself, but tak- 
 ing care, however, that her dog was 
 close to her side.
 
 io6 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 Michou entered about a quarter 
 of an hour later. He was fatigued 
 with his day's work, and thought 
 no more of Isidore, whom he be- 
 lieved far away. Besides, if he 
 had given him a thought, the idea 
 would never have entered his head 
 to question Barbette, who was not 
 in a condition to render an account 
 of anybody or anything. 
 
 The game-keeper had his bed 
 and Jeannet's also (straw mattresses, 
 laid on trestles) placed in a re- 
 cess at the end of the room, so 
 that, upon retiring, they could draw 
 the curtains, and be as private as 
 though in another room. He un- 
 dressed quietly, and stretched him- 
 self upon the bed to take his much- 
 needed rest, knowing well that 
 Jean-Louis often came in late, but 
 made so little noise he was never 
 disturbed. . 
 
 A long time passed. Michou was 
 sleeping soundly, when he heard 
 Barbette call him. 
 
 "What do you want?" he asked, 
 raising himself up in his bed. 
 
 v " Uncle," said the poor idiot, 
 "Jean-Louis has not returned." 
 
 " Well, what of that ?" 
 
 " I am hungry," she replied, for 
 she never ate supper until her work 
 was finished. 
 
 " Eat," said Michou. " What is 
 there to prevent you?" 
 
 " Can I eat Jean-Louis' soup ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " Faith," thought the game-keep- 
 er, " he must have supped with the 
 Luguets. Yes," said he aloud, 
 " eat, and be off to bed." 
 
 Barbette did not wait to be told 
 twice. She emptied the soup into 
 a bowl, swallowed half of it with a 
 good appetite, and gave the rest to 
 her dog. 
 
 Then she went out, fastening the 
 latch as well as she could, and Mi- 
 chou turned over in his bed, where 
 
 he was soon asleep again, and no- 
 thing else happened to disturb him, 
 as Jeannet that night did not re- 
 turn home. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The night was terribly cold, and 
 the following morning the sky was 
 dark and heavy from the snow that 
 fell unceasingly ; so that our superb 
 wood of Val-Saint, so delightful in 
 summer, looked horrible and deso- 
 late enough to make one think of 
 death and the grave, all around 
 was so still and quiet in its white 
 winding-sheet. Michou, who had 
 nothing to do after he sent off the 
 workmen, rose later than usual, and 
 was rather astonished to see Jean- 
 net's bed still vacant. It was the 
 first time the dear boy had slept 
 away from home without giving 
 warning. He knew him too well to 
 think that it was from want of at- 
 tention : what could have happen- 
 ed? 
 
 He thought again of Perdreau, 
 whom he had seen roving around 
 the premises the night before ; and 
 for the first time in his life the 
 game-keeper felt a thrill of terror. 
 
 " The good-for-nothing is capa- 
 ble of anything," thought he ; " he 
 may have watched for Jean-Louis 
 in some out-of-the-way place to 
 harm him." 
 
 But after this reflection, he reas- 
 sured himself by thinking of Jean- 
 Louis' extraordinary strength and 
 great height, which surpassed Isi- 
 dore's by at least a head. 
 
 " That puppy has no more nerve 
 than a chicken," said he. " Jean- 
 net could knock him down with 
 one blow ; and as for drawing a 
 pisto* he would be afraid of the 
 noise." 
 
 However, good Jacques hurried 
 with his dressing, so that he might 
 go to the Luguets', to inquire after
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 107 
 
 Jean-Louis. While doing so, he 
 looked at his big silver watch, 
 which hung on a nail by his bed- 
 side, and saw with astonishment 
 that it was nine o'clock. 
 
 "This is something strange!" 
 said he ; " it is the first time in ten 
 years I have slept so late." 
 
 He went to the door, but, as he 
 put out his head, he was driven 
 back by a whirlwind of snow which 
 struck him in the face, and at the 
 same time a man presented himself 
 upon the threshold. 
 
 " M. Michou," said the new- 
 comer, who was no other than the 
 letter-carrier of the commune, " it 
 is unfortunate you have some cor- 
 respondent in this awful weather." 
 
 " That is true ! You are not 
 very lucky," replied the game- 
 keeper ; " for this is the first letter 
 you have brought me in two years." 
 
 It was from Jean-Louis, and con- 
 tained but a few words : 
 
 "M. JACQUES: Do not be un- 
 easy about me. I am in good 
 health, but I will not return before 
 three days, as I am going to Paris 
 on important business. 
 " Your ever-faithful 
 
 " JEAN-LOUIS." 
 
 "What the devil can that child 
 have to do in Paris?" thought Mi- 
 chou. " N^ver mind, this letter is a 
 great relief ; I would rather know 
 he was off there than here." 
 
 He gave the carrier a warm 
 drink, and conversed with him 
 some time before the hearth, upon 
 which burned a good armful of vine- 
 branches. Then, when he had 
 taken his departure, the thought, 
 of Barbette suddenly entered his 
 head. 
 
 " What is she doing ?" said he. 
 " The poor child has forgotten my 
 breakfast ; I suppose she has also 
 slept late." 
 
 He opened the door ; the snow 
 
 was not falling quite so thick and 
 fast, and the sky appeared less 
 sombre. 
 
 He left the house, and went to 
 the sheepfold, to see what had be- 
 come of his idiotic niece. 
 
 Alas ! If you have listened to 
 me until now, you can well guess 
 what had taken place in that gloomy 
 night ! And yet, upon entering the 
 enclosure, nothing at first forebod- 
 ed the misfortune which was about 
 to startle the good game-keeper. 
 The sheep bleated and tumbled 
 pell-mell, climbing on one another's 
 backs, browsing contentedly upon 
 the hay scattered here and there ; 
 but down at the end of the sheep- 
 fold, in a little corner, poor Barbette 
 was extended, stark dead and al- 
 ready cold, the mouth half-opened 
 and the face rigid from its terrible 
 struggle. Close to her, with his 
 head laid across her feet, her dog 
 also slept, never more to be awak- 
 ened. 
 
 It was evident the innocent 
 child had suffered fearfully. Her 
 poor body seemed longer by three 
 inches than before, as though the 
 limbs had been stretched in her 
 dreadful death-struggle. Her lit- 
 tle, shrivelled hands still clutched 
 bunches of wool that she must 
 have torn from the sheep in her 
 agony. With all that, she looked 
 tranquil and at peace, as if an 
 angel of the good God had come at 
 the supreme moment to bear away 
 her soul, exempt from sin. 
 
 Michou fell on his knees beside 
 the little dead body. He tried to 
 raise her, but she was so stiff he 
 had to move her like a wooden 
 statue. Certainly, many hours must 
 have elapsed since her death; the 
 dog, also, was frozen to the touch, 
 and as hard as stone. There was 
 no doubt these two creatures, so 
 attached to each other during life
 
 io8 
 
 The Farm of M nicer on. 
 
 had met together a violent death 
 Nothing more remained to be done 
 but to make the necessary .declara- 
 tions and hold the inquest usual 
 in such cases. The good man 
 bent over the agonized face of the 
 child a few minutes ; one or two 
 tears fell upon his gray beard, and, 
 while wiping them off with his coat- 
 sleeve, he recited a Pater and a De 
 Profundis ; then he brought several 
 planks and bundles of straw, which 
 he placed around the poor corpse, 
 so that the sheep should not injure 
 it while playing around. lie left the 
 dog lying on the feet of his mistress, 
 Barbette ; and mere creature, with- 
 out soul, as the good God had made 
 him, he deserved this respect, hav- 
 ing died faithful as he had lived. 
 
 Jacques Michou left the sheep- 
 fold, his otter-skin cap in his hand, 
 and on the threshold turned again 
 and made another sign of the cross. 
 His old heart was heavy with pain 
 from the shock; but he did not 
 dream for an instant of what we 
 know, and at that you must not be 
 too much astonished. The good 
 man was perfectly honest, and 
 could not at first conjecture that a 
 great crime had caused this extra- 
 ordinary death. He rather imag- 
 ined that Barbette, who had been 
 given to wandering around like all 
 innocents, had gathered some poi- 
 sonous weed, or drank by mistake 
 from a vessel in which remedies 
 were prepared for the sheep when 
 afflicted with the mange, which are 
 always composed of a decoction of 
 tobacco or other noxious prepara- 
 tion ; which cures, if applied exter- 
 nally, but is certain death when 
 taken internally, if the directions are 
 not followed. Thus plunged in sad 
 and bitter meditation, he arrived, al- 
 most before he knew it, at the vil- 
 lage of Val-Saint, and thought to 
 continue still further, to warn Dr. 
 
 Aubry. " He will be able to tell 
 me," thought he ; " with his learn- 
 ing he can say what killed the poor 
 child." 
 
 Just then he raised his head, and 
 saw that he was before the notary's 
 house, and recognized the doctor's 
 horse and wagon before the door. 
 
 " This is lucky !" thought he. "I 
 will find out all the sooner." 
 
 He entered without having to 
 knock, probably because M. Aubry, 
 who was always absent-minded, had 
 neglected to close the door, ordi- 
 narily shut tight ; so that the game- 
 keeper found himself standing in 
 the middle of Perdreau's dining- 
 room before any one had given no- 
 tice of his entrance. 
 
 Isidore was there, so wan, and 
 haggard, and wild-looking, you 
 would have doubted, at the first 
 glance, whether it was himself or 
 his shadow. There was nothing 
 terrifying in Michou's aspect; he 
 appeared sad and quiet, and only 
 wished to meet the doctor, that he 
 might relate his lamentable story. 
 But criminals see in every one and 
 everywhere justice and vengeance 
 ready to fall upon them. Isidore 
 no sooner recognized the honest 
 game-keeper, than he uttered a cry 
 of terror, and endeavored to es- 
 cape. 
 
 That movement, the terrified 
 face, and, still further, we must be- 
 lieve, the inspiration of the good 
 God, made Michou divine, in the 
 twinkling of an eye, what he had 
 not even suspected the moment be- 
 fore. You will understand me if 
 you will only recall some remem- 
 brances of the past ; for surely you 
 must once or twice in your life have 
 experienced the same effect. An 
 event takes place no one knows 
 which way to turn ; all is dark ; 
 suddenly a light breaks forth, shed- 
 ding its 'brilliant rays on all around,
 
 The Farm of Muiceron, 
 
 109 
 
 and in an instant everything is clear 
 to the mind : is it not so ? To ex- 
 plain how this great secret fire is 
 lighted I cannot, but to affirm that 
 it happens daily you must acknow- 
 ledge with me, no matter how poor 
 your memory may be. 
 
 The presence of Perdreau the 
 evening before in the neighborhood 
 of the wood of Montreux, his som- 
 bre and agitated look at the time, 
 the preceding letter of Jean-Louis, 
 finally, that soup, destined for an-, 
 other than Barbette, and eaten by 
 her all this passed in a second be- 
 fore the eyes of the game-keeper, 
 like so many actors playing in the 
 same piece. As the truth, in all its 
 horror, flashed before him, his face 
 became terrible, and Isidore, whose 
 eyes, starting from his head with 
 terror, glared fixedly upon him, 
 saw this time, without mistake, his 
 judge and the avenger of his 
 crime. 
 
 The two men looked at each 
 other a moment. Isidore advanced 
 a step, in the vague hope of reach- 
 ing the door. Michou stepped back, 
 his arms crossed, and barred his 
 passage. 
 
 " Let me go out," at last gasped 
 Isidore between his closed teeth. 
 
 "Wretch !" said the game-keeper 
 in a deep voice, " whom did you 
 come to poison at my house last 
 night ?" 
 
 "Michou, you are crazy! "re- 
 plied Isidore ; " let me out, or I will 
 call." 
 
 " Call as loudly as you please," 
 answered Michou, standing straight 
 and firm with his back against the 
 door ; " call Dr. Aubry, who must 
 be somewhere about. You will 
 tell him that I have come in search 
 of him to prove the death of Bar- 
 bette, whom you killed, cowardly 
 villain that you are I" 
 
 " Barbette ! What do you mean ? 
 
 You are drunk, Michou," stammer- 
 ed Isidore, becoming each moment 
 more and more livid. 
 
 " Neither drunk nor crazy, you 
 know well, accursed wretch," repli- 
 ed Jacques. " Your insults do not 
 harm me. Ha ! you were not very 
 skilful in your crime, but you were 
 also mistaken. Jean-Louis is safe 
 and sound ; you only killed a child 
 deprived of reason, and you will 
 finish on a scaffold; for if I were 
 allowed to kill you with my own 
 hand, I would not, so as not to 
 stain the hand of an honest man." 
 
 " Michou," said Isidore, his teeth 
 chattering with fear, "have mercy 
 on me ; I will explain myself later. 
 I am sick. . . . My father is 
 dying. . . . You are not cruel. . . . 
 Let me go out." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! you are a coward. . . . 
 Faith, I am glad of it; it takes 
 from me the slightest compassion 
 for you. Traitor ! scoundrel ! you 
 were not so much afraid yesterday, 
 when you thought of killing a brave, 
 defenceless boy. To-day it is not 
 repentance that makes you tremble, 
 but the justice of men, who ivill not 
 spare you. You feel them on your 
 heels; you are not deceived. I 
 have you; try to stir." 
 
 And he seized him by the arm 
 with so vigorous a hand, the wretch 
 felt his bones crack. 
 
 " You hurt me ; let me go ! " 
 yelled Isidore, writhing under that 
 iron hand. 
 
 " Shut up ! Avow your crime ; did 
 you come, yes or no, to poison 
 Jean-Louis ?" 
 
 " He had provoked me. I was 
 wild, I was mad let me go. ..." 
 
 " You avow it, then ; what poison 
 was it ?" 
 
 " I don't know ; I know nothing 
 further. . . . Michou, in the name of 
 God, let me go. . . ." 
 
 " Do you dare pronounce the
 
 IIO 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 name of God ?" cried Michou, grasp- 
 ing him still more firmly. " Do you 
 believe, then, in him, whom you 
 have blasphemed since you were 
 able to speak? You don't know 
 what poison you used ? After all, 
 it matters little ; M. Aubry will 
 know yes, he and the judge also. 
 The case is clear, and, if I could 
 drag you myself before the police, 
 I would only leave hold of you 
 at the door of the prison." 
 
 Isidore, prostrated and speech- 
 less from pain for Michou, whose 
 strength was trebled, crushed his 
 arm with redoubled force fell to 
 the ground in the most miserable 
 state that can be imagined. 
 
 " There," said Michou, pushing 
 him aside with his foot, " if I did 
 not still respect the mark of your 
 baptism, I would wish to see you 
 die there like a dog. Ah ! you can 
 weep now ! See to what your life 
 of debauchery and idleness has, 
 brought you ; but you are not ca- 
 pable of understanding my words. 
 Listen ; it is not you that I pity, but 
 the remembrance of an honest girl, 
 who, to the eyes of the neighbor- 
 hood, was your betrothed, the un- 
 fortunate creature ! In the name 
 of Jeanne Ragaud, I will save you 
 from the scaffold that you deserve ; 
 but on one condition. . . ." 
 
 " Speak, speak ! I will do what- 
 ever you wish," cried the wretch, 
 raising himself upon his knees. 
 " I promise you, Michou ; but save 
 me!" 
 
 "Miserable coward!" said the 
 game-keeper with disgust, " your 
 prayers and your tears cause me as 
 much horror as your crimes. You 
 have not even the courage to play the 
 part of a murderer ! But what I 
 have said I will do. Get up, if 
 you have still strength to stand on 
 your legs. Mark what I say. You 
 must disappear. I give you, not 
 
 three days, like Jean-Louis, but 
 two hours, in which I will go and 
 remove the body of your victim, 
 and warn the police. In two hours 
 I will have declared on oath that 
 Barbette was poisoned by you, and 
 the proofs will not be wanting. 
 Do what you please hide yourself 
 in a hole or fly. In two hours, I 
 repeat, the police will be on your 
 track, and, if the devil wishes to 
 save you, that is his affair." 
 
 " Thanks," said Isidore, rising. 
 
 " Your thanks is another insult," 
 said Michou. He opened the door 
 himself, and pushed the wretch out- 
 side with such a tremendous blow 
 of his fist that he stumbled and fell 
 across the threshold. 
 
 Owing to the bad weather, the 
 village street was deserted. Michou 
 saw Isidore disappear with the 
 quickness of a deer. He closed 
 the door again, and sat down, rest- 
 ing his head upon his hands, to 
 gather together his ideas. 
 
 " My God," said the excellent 
 man, raising his eyes to heaven 
 with the honest look of a Christian, 
 " perhaps I have done wrong, But 
 thou art powerful enough to repair 
 the effect of my too great mercy, 
 and I have saved from a disgrace 
 that could not be remedied thy 
 servants, the poor Ragauds." 
 
 All this had not taken much 
 time, and Michou was meditating 
 upon the events of that terrible 
 night, when he felt some one strike 
 him on the shoulder ; it was M. 
 Aubry. 
 
 " It is you, M. Jacques ?" said the 
 doctor. " What are you doing here, 
 old fellow?" 
 
 "I was waiting for you, mon- 
 sieur," replied he quietly, for he 
 had entirely recovered his self- 
 possession. " Is any one sick here ?' 
 
 " Eh ?" said the doctor. " It is the 
 old man, who was seized with a
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 in 
 
 fever yesterday, and is now deliri- 
 ous. His brain is affected. It is an 
 attack which I anticipated ; I don't 
 think he will recover." 
 
 " So much the better !" said 
 Michou. 
 
 " What do you say ? So much 
 he better ? It can be easily seen 
 he is not in your good graces. 
 Faith ! I must say, if I were not 
 his physician, I would think the 
 same. I don't generally believe all 
 the gossip floating around ; we can 
 take a little on credit, and leave 
 the rest ; but, in my opinion, M. le 
 Marquis did not place his confi- 
 dence within the pale of the church 
 when he gave it to that old ape ; he 
 may yet have to repent of it. Well, 
 i*nd you what can I do for you ?" 
 
 " Come with me to the wood of 
 Montreux," said the game-keeper, 
 " and I will tell you on the way." 
 
 " Is the case urgent ? Between 
 ourselves, Michou, if your patient 
 is not in danger I would like to 
 put it off until to-morrow. My 
 carriage is open, and Cocotte is not 
 rough-shod. It is beastly weather 
 to go through the forest." 
 
 " Alas ! monsieur," replied Jac- 
 ques, " the patient who requires 
 you can wait until the last judg- 
 ment, for she is dead. But I must 
 carry you off all the same, as this 
 death does not seem natural to me, 
 and I wish your opinion." 
 
 " Let us be off," said M. Aubry, 
 without hesitating; "you can tell 
 me the whole story as we go along." 
 
 Which Jacques Michou did, 
 whilst Cocotte, with her head down, 
 trotted along, not very well pleased 
 to receive the snow full in her face. 
 
 The poor beast excepted, neither 
 of the travellers in the wagon felt 
 the horrible weather. The doctor, 
 while listening to the game-keeper, 
 looked serious and severe, which 
 was not at all his usual custom. 
 
 Michou had nothing to hide. He 
 related every detail of the mourn- 
 ful story, without omitting any fact 
 or thought necessary to enlighten 
 M. Aubry. When he came to 
 speak of his terrible explanation 
 with Isidore and the wretch's crime, 
 the doctor swore a round oath, 
 which marked his disapproval, and 
 Cocotte received such a famous 
 cut with the whip, she started off 
 on a furious gallop. 
 
 " I did not think you were, at 
 your age, such a snivelling, senti- 
 mental baby as that," said he in a 
 rage. " What were you dreaming 
 about ? To have had your hand 
 on the villain, and then to let him 
 go ! You deserve to be locked up 
 in his place !" 
 
 " Monsieur," replied Michou, 
 "what I did I would do again. 
 Have you thought that it would 
 also have been a frightful trial' for 
 the Ragauds ? Would they not all 
 have been called upon to testify ? 
 And think for a moment what a 
 disgrace it would have been foi 
 that unfortunate young girl, who 
 was on the eve of marrying the 
 scoundrel. No, no, M. Aubry, in 
 the bottom of your soul you cannot 
 blame me. Believe that the good 
 God will bring it all right ; but such 
 a scandal in our province, an exe- 
 cution, perhaps, in the square of 
 Val-Saint what shame, what mis- 
 ery !" 
 
 " Jeanne Ragaud and her family 
 owe you a fine taper," replied the 
 doctor, a little softened. " There is 
 some truth in what you say ; but, for 
 all that, I would have been better 
 pleased to have seen that danger- 
 ous animal caged !" 
 
 " Be easy," replied Michou ; " he 
 will never hurt any one else unless 
 himself. Without wishing to ex- 
 cuse him, I am inclined to believe 
 he was out of his mind pushed
 
 112 
 
 The Farm of M nicer on. 
 
 to extremity by the great danger 
 in which Jeannet's discovery had 
 placed him. When a man is ac- 
 customed to crime, monsieur, he 
 bears the consequences more bold- 
 ly. I saw Isidore Perdreau so com- 
 pletely demoralized, his crime was 
 written on his brow, where I read 
 it at the first glance, and which 
 any one else could have done as 
 easily in my place. So be convinced, 
 neither God nor man can blame me 
 for letting him go, and I certainly 
 do not regret it." 
 
 " All very well," said the doctor ; 
 " but that would not prevent me 
 from acting very differently if I 
 should catch him this evening." 
 
 "Nor I either," replied Michou; 
 "for if he should fall under my 
 hand this evening, I would see 
 clearly that the good God did not 
 wish him to be saved, at least in 
 this world." 
 
 As he finished speaking, they 
 stopped before the sheepfold, and 
 the doctor, together with Michou, 
 entered, their heads uncovered. 
 All was as Michou had left it, only 
 that the cold and the hours which 
 had elapsed had rendered the little 
 body still stiffer than at the moment 
 of discovery. The effects of the 
 poison began to appear, as great 
 black spots were visible on the 
 face of the dead girl, which gave 
 her such a suffering and pitiful 
 look, the tears fell from their eyes. 
 
 M. Aubry had not to examine 
 very much to be convinced that 
 the poor idiot had been poisoned 
 by taking a dose of arsenic capable 
 of killing three men. As this poison 
 is infallible against rats, nearly all the 
 country people obtain permission 
 to keep a small quantity on hand ; 
 and nothing had been easier than 
 for Isidore to take a little from his 
 father's own kitchen, where the 
 servant complained of the ravages 
 
 of the mice among the cheeses and 
 other provisions. Thus, step by 
 step, everything was terribly brought 
 to light, and yet with much simpli- 
 city, as is always the case with 
 events incontestably true ; there- 
 fore, it was easy for M. Aubry to 
 prepare his statements, affirmations, 
 and declarations according to his 
 conscience, in the report which he 
 read before the official authori- 
 ties. 
 
 One very sad thing, but which 
 they scarcely thought of at the mo- 
 ment, was to give a rather more 
 decent bed than the straw of the 
 sheepfold to the poor innocent vic- 
 tim. But this they could not do, as 
 they were obliged to let her lie as 
 she was until the arrival of the dis- 
 trict attorney, the sheriff, and the 
 chief of police. 
 
 Michou would willingly have 
 watched by her side, but this was 
 not possible either. M. Aubry aid- 
 ed him to construct a solid bar- 
 rier of planks ; then they covered 
 the body with a blanket ; and on the 
 breast the game-keeper placed, with 
 profound respect, a cross made of 
 branches. This devout duty accom- 
 plished, Jacques Michou locked the 
 sheepfold, put the key in his pocket, 
 and left with the doctor to warn the 
 authorities. 
 
 You can imagine that in all this 
 coming and going much more time 
 had elapsed than the two hours 
 accorded to the fugitive. Michou, 
 who desired it from the bottom of 
 his heart, for the good reasons we 
 already know, and which he did not 
 regret, was not sorry at the delay. 
 M. Aubry, on the contrary, growled 
 and stormed, whipped Cocotte with 
 the full strength of his arm, and tried 
 to hurry up affairs with the greatest 
 diligence. But impossibilities can- 
 not be performed, and, with all his 
 efforts, the usual formalities in these
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 sad circumstances were not fulfilled 
 until late in the afternoon. 
 
 Then the news spread from 
 mouth to mouth as rapidly as the 
 waves of our river during an inun- 
 dation. The curious assembled in 
 the public square, where the servants 
 of M. le Marquis, who never were 
 bothered with too much work, 
 were the first to appear. They 
 talked, they gesticulated, said heaps 
 of foolish things, mixed with some 
 words -of common sense. Our mas- 
 ter learned from public rumor that 
 young Perdreau was suspected, and 
 that he had disappeared. It can 
 be easily understood that he was 
 indignant at such a calumny, and 
 generously offered to guarantee his 
 innocence. Mademoiselle wept, 
 Dame Berthe imitated her, and 
 these two excellent ladies wished 
 immediately to rush off to Jean- 
 nette, to console her in this great 
 trial. But poor mademoiselle had 
 to be content with her benevolent 
 wishes, for neither coachman nor 
 footman, nor even a simple groom, 
 could be found ; all had run off to 
 the wood of Montreux in search of 
 news. 
 
 - As they were obliged to pass Mui- 
 ceron to reach the wood, you may 
 well imagine that more than one of 
 the hurried crowd lagged behind to 
 , talk to the Ragauds, and thus they, 
 in their turn, heard of the terrible 
 affair. The consternation was un- 
 paralleled, for there, as at the cha- 
 teau, no one would believe the wick- 
 ed rumors afloat concerning Isidore. 
 Jeannette, who cared but little for 
 her intended husband, and had de- 
 sired to be freed from her engage- 
 ment, was indignant as soon as she 
 thought he was in trouble, and de- 
 fended him warmly, which made 
 
 people believe she loved him de- 
 votedly. The truth was, this little 
 creature's soul was generous and 
 high-strung, and, like all such na- 
 tures, she defended him, whom she 
 willingly would have sent off the 
 night before, only because she 
 thought he was unfortunate. 
 
 But days passed, and each one 
 brought new and overwhelming 
 proofs of the truth. The police 
 searched the neighborhood in vain, 
 and soon all hope of seeing Isidore 
 reappear (which would have pleaded 
 in his justification) faded from the 
 eyes of those who wished to defend 
 him. M. le Marquis, after having 
 conversed with M. Aubry, Michou, 
 and the judicial authorities, was 
 overcome with grief, and acknow- 
 ledged that he could not conscien- 
 tiously mix himself up with the af- 
 fair. As for old Perdreau, he never 
 recovered his consciousness, and 
 died shortly after. They placed' 
 the seals on his house, where, later, 
 they discovered the documents and 
 correspondence which revealed his 
 wicked life ; and now you can judge 
 if there was anything to gossip about 
 in a commune as peaceable and 
 tranquil as ours. In the memory 
 of man there had never been such 
 a terrible event, and nothing will 
 ever happen again approaching to 
 it, I devoutly wish. 
 
 Mademoiselle, who was not very 
 well, was seriously injured by all 
 this trouble ; and as M. le Marquis 
 loved her dearly, and, besides, 
 heard the rumbling of the revolu- 
 tion in the capital which he had so 
 long ardently desired, packed up,, 
 and was soon off, bag and baggage,, 
 for Paris, where he hoped to dis- 
 tract poor mademoiselle, and drive 
 off mournful recollections.
 
 The Farm of M nicer on. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Now, to quiet youi mind for you 
 must be as shocked as I am at all 
 these horrors we will speak, if you 
 please, of our friend Jean-Louis. 
 On the afternoon of the day which 
 proved the last for the innocent 
 Barbette, Jeannet, knowing that the 
 wood-cutters would be dismissed, 
 and that consequently he would 
 have some leisure time, went off to 
 the Luguets' to have a little con- 
 soling conversation with good 
 Solange. He kept no secrets from 
 her, and expected great relief in 
 recounting faithfully all that had 
 happened ; but, on entering, he in- 
 stantly perceived something new 
 had occurred in the house. The 
 men were out at work ; Mme. Lu- 
 guet was seated by the fire, weeping 
 bitterly ; and Solange, sitting on a 
 stool at her feet, was speaking to 
 her in an angelic voice of her de- 
 sire to enter a convent. Jeannet 
 discreetly wished to withdraw. 
 
 " Don't go," said Solange to him ; 
 " isn't it so, mother ? Jeannet will 
 not disturb us ?" 
 
 " No, dear ; on the contrary, my 
 child, I am happy to see you, Jean- 
 Louis. Is it true that you will be free 
 to accompany Solange to Paris ?" 
 
 " Alas ! Mme. Luguet," replied 
 Jeannet, " why should I not be free, 
 having neither family nor friends, 
 save only you and yours ? The 
 only roof that sheltered me from 
 infancy is henceforward forbidden 
 to me, without counting that, be- 
 fore many hours, the only thing 
 that I can call my own on condi- 
 
 tion that God leaves it to me and 
 that is my life, may be taken also." 
 
 "What has happened?" asked 
 Solange. " You speak in a quiet, 
 serious tone that frightens me." 
 
 " I have done my duty, dear So- 
 lange, and often in this world, after 
 performing an act of conscience 
 and justice, any consequence may 
 be expected." 
 
 And he related that, having dis- 
 covered the criminal dealings of 
 Isidore with the brigands of La 
 Martine, he had been obliged to 
 threaten the future husband of 
 Jeannette, and give him warning 
 that he must leave the country. 
 
 "But," cried Solange, "that is 
 just what I hoped; this fortunate 
 event divine Providence has allow- 
 ed, that Jeannette might be saved. 
 Rejoice, then, Jeannet, instead of 
 indulging in such gloomy ideas." 
 
 " You are very kind to think 
 so," replied Jean-Louis sadly ; " but 
 I, Solange, see things differently. 
 Jeannette, already so irritated, will 
 not pardon me for saving her at 
 the expense of Isidore, who is not 
 the man to let himself be crushed 
 like a wolf caught in a snare. 
 Much will be said against me; I 
 will be rashly judged, and less than 
 ever will I have the right to present 
 myself at Muiceron. No, no ; from 
 that dear spot I am for ever sepa- 
 rated. I have been already accus- 
 ed of jealousy ; shall I expose my- 
 self to Jeannette's reproaches that 
 I have denounced Isidore to pre- 
 vent her marriage ?" 
 
 "I acknowledge," said Solange,
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 '* that your reflections are just. 
 The truth will one day be known, 
 but it will take time ; I see it as 
 well as you." 
 
 " I must expect the vengeance of 
 the Perdreaux," continued Jean- 
 Louis, " as well as of their friends, 
 whose violent passions I know, and 
 who will not leave me in peaceable 
 possession of their secrets. Michou 
 has discharged the workmen ; ap- 
 parently, they went off contented. 
 But Isidore, meanwhile, received my 
 letter; no doubt before this he 
 has communicated it to his cut- 
 throat companions, and the easiest 
 thing for all of them will be to get 
 rid of me at the shortest notice." 
 
 " My God !" said Solange, " why 
 didn't you think of all that before 
 writing the letter ? At least, you 
 need not have signed it." 
 
 " I thought of all that," replied 
 Jeannet, smiling ; " but even if I 
 had been sure of risking my life in 
 saving Jeannette, I would not have 
 stopped. Her father and mother 
 preserved my existence, Solange, 
 and theiefore it belongs to them. 
 And as for not signing such a letter, 
 thank God ! you think so because 
 you are a woman, that you love 
 me, and that you feel I am in dan- 
 ger ; but if you were in my place, 
 you would think as I do." 
 
 " My children," said Mme. Lu- 
 guet, " you are both right. But my 
 advice is that just now you had 
 better plan for the future than dis- 
 cuss the past." 
 
 " Tell us what shall be done, 
 mother," said Solange. " In the 
 first place, Jean-Louis must not re- 
 turn to the wood to-night; isn't 
 that so ?" 
 
 " Don't think of such a thing," 
 cried Jeannet, as he rose hastily 
 from his chair. " Did I come here 
 to hide?" 
 
 " Be still," said Solange with 
 
 authority; "don't be so proud. We 
 all know you are brave , who, then, 
 can accuse you of flying from dan- 
 ger? But courage does not consist 
 in throwing yourself headlong in 
 the midst of it, but in providing 
 , against it." 
 
 " I will return," said Jeannet, 
 " Michou expects me." 
 
 " You will not return, my child," 
 said Mme. Luguet. " I will direct 
 you for one day ; my age and friend- 
 ship permit me. I order you to 
 remain with us to-night." 
 
 "But," said Jean-Louis, "to- 
 morrow the danger will be still 
 greater ; and, my good mother, you 
 surely cannot count on keeping me 
 a prisoner ?" 
 
 " When you came in," said the 
 good woman, " Solange was asking 
 my permission to leave home. It 
 was very painful for me to decide, 
 and I sought to gain time from the 
 good God a little time only, to be- 
 come more courageous; for never 
 will I be so bold as to refuse to 
 give my child to the Lord. Well, 
 what you have just related makes 
 me think the good God has direct- 
 ed all with his own voice. My 
 dear children, you will leave to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Solange threw herself on her 
 knees, and laid her head on her 
 mother's hands, which she kissed, 
 weeping. Jean-Louis turned pale. 
 His courage, which prompted him 
 to face the danger, and his desire 
 to oblige his friends, struggled 
 violently in his heart. 
 
 " Listen to me," said he. " I gave 
 my word to Solange that I would 
 accompany her ; but circumstances 
 have changed since then. Cannot 
 Pierre take my place ? They have 
 gossiped about Solange and me, 
 dear Mme. Luguet ; what will they 
 say when they hear we have gone 
 off together?"
 
 n6 
 
 The Farm of Mincer on. 
 
 "Pierre!" cried Solange ; "but 
 he knows nothing, nor my father 
 either. My mother alone has my 
 secret ; otherwise, it would be im- 
 possible for me to leave." 
 
 " It is true," said Mme. Luguet ; 
 " my men are good Christians, but 
 not pious enough to understand 
 Solange's wishes. However, with 
 the blessing of God, I will manage 
 them. It is decided that I will tell 
 the father she has only gone for a 
 fortnight, to see how she likes it ; 
 there will be a fuss at first, and 
 then we will go to see her ; and if, 
 as I believe, the good God will 
 take her entirely to himself, then 
 the sight of her happiness will 
 satisfy all our hearts." 
 
 Thus spoke that good Christian 
 woman ; and to the shame of many 
 great ladies of the city, who show 
 themselves so unreasonable under 
 similar circumstances, I must say, 
 with truth, she was not the only one 
 in our village you might have heard 
 ,peak in the same manner. 
 
 Jean-Louis could urge no further 
 objection. The public stage, which 
 would carry them to the nearest 
 railway station, passed the Luguets' 
 house every morning at six o'clock. 
 At that time of year, it was still 
 dark, and the men, who rose at four, 
 that they might go to the barn and 
 comb the hemp, went to bed very 
 early in the evening. Pierre and 
 his father entered and supped, with- 
 out anything being said before 
 the'm, and Solange and her mother 
 found themselves again alone with 
 Jeannet as the village clock struck 
 eight. 
 
 It was then that Jeannet wrote 
 the short note to Jacques Michou 
 which" we have already read; he 
 ran and placed it in the box in the 
 suburbs of the village, and quickly 
 returned, as Solange had told him 
 she would be half dead with fear 
 
 during his absence, and that she 
 would pass the time on her knees, 
 saying her rosary. 
 
 You see it was very evident the 
 Lord and his angels watched over 
 these good people. At this very 
 hour, when it would have been so 
 easy to have attacked Jean-Louis, 
 he came and went through the 
 wood, without incurring any risk, 
 while the unfortunate Isidore use- 
 lessly committed a great crime. 
 
 Good Mme. Luguet and her 
 daughter remained up until late in 
 the night, busy making up Solange's 
 little bundle, in praying, and often 
 embracing each other, mingling 
 their tender and holy kisses and 
 tears. Jeannet aided them to the 
 best of his ability, admiring the 
 courage of heart, which was worth 
 more than that of the head and 
 arms. Then the two women retired 
 for a little rest, and he, in his turn, 
 ended by falling asleep in his chair. 
 
 At five o'clock, Solange came 
 herself to awaken him, and told 
 him, in a low voice, that she had 
 made her poor mother promise the 
 night before not to get up, and so 
 she had just kissed her softly for 
 the last time without disturbing 
 her sleep. At that instant could 
 be seen the heroism of that holy 
 soul in thus wishing to bear alone 
 the weight of the sacrifice. Her 
 face, without ceasing to be calm, 
 was bathed in tears, and from time 
 to time she kissed a little crucifix 
 suspended from her neck, in order 
 to sustain her brave heart. 
 
 " Come," said she at last, " it is 
 time, Jeannet; let us say the Our 
 Father together, and then we will 
 leave." 
 
 "Courage, Solange," said Jean- 
 Louis, much moved ; " the good 
 God will bless you." 
 
 They repeated the prayer, and 
 went out noiselessly, and just then
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 117 
 
 was heard the jingling of the bells 
 on the horses of the country stage. 
 
 Solange was well wrapped up in 
 her black cloth cloak, with the hood 
 drawn down over her face. Jean- 
 Louis carried her little bundle, in 
 which she had slipped two of 
 Pierre's shirts ; for the good Jeannet 
 carried all his baggage on his back 
 to wit, a woollen vest, a blouse, and 
 his plaid scarf. But, as we have al- 
 ready seen, it was not his habit to 
 think of himself. 
 
 They arrived safely at Paris 
 that very day, rather late in the 
 evening, to be sure ; and little did 
 they dream of the great rumpus 
 going on at that very time in our 
 poor neighborhood. All along the 
 route the strong family resemblance 
 between Solange and Jeannet made 
 every one think them brother and 
 sister ; and by good luck, owing to 
 the severity of the weather, none 
 of the travellers in the coach be- 
 longed to the village or its environs, 
 so that they reached the station 
 without the risk of being recog- 
 nized. 
 
 The Sister-Superior of the Sisters 
 of Charity had been notified several 
 days before of the coming of So- 
 lange by our curt, who was the 
 good child's confessor ; but they 
 had left home so suddenly, Jeannet 
 was obliged to find a refuge for his 
 companion the first night. Happi- 
 ly, in Paris all is at your service 
 people and things where there is 
 money, and our children were rich 
 with Solange's savings ; therefore, 
 there was no difficulty in finding 
 respectable lodgings, where they 
 passed the night in two beautiful 
 rooms, well furnished, the like of 
 which they had never thought ex- 
 isted, at least for their use. 
 
 The next day their first action 
 was to go and hear Mass, after 
 which, having inquired the way to 
 
 the Convent of S. Vincent de Paul, 
 which is situated in a very pious 
 quarter of the city, they went there 
 with hearts rather saddened ; and 
 one hour later Jeannet found him- 
 self alone in the vast city. 
 
 But no one is alone in this world 
 when he carries in his heart faith 
 in the Lord. All the children of 
 God belong to one family, and feel 
 in their souls a fraternal tender- 
 ness for each other. Jeannet, on tak- 
 ing Solange to the convent, found 
 a mother in the good superioress, 
 who received them both. She 
 made him relate his story to her in 
 a few words, and, learning that he 
 was alone in the world and desi- 
 rous of some engagement, she gave 
 him the address of a good priest 
 who passed his life in aiding young 
 working-men who, owing to unfor- 
 tunate circumstances or lack of 
 employment, ran the risk of becom- 
 ing dissipated from the want of a 
 helping hand. 
 
 He was called Abbe Lucas ; and 
 as he is now dead, and enjoying, I 
 trust, the celestial happiness well 
 merited by his great devotion, I do 
 not think it indelicate to tell his 
 name. 
 
 He received Jeannet with great 
 kindness, and the good boy soon 
 won his heart with his frankness 
 and amiability. The abbe tried 
 his hand, and seeing that he wrote 
 well, and turned off a very good 
 letter under dictation, advised him 
 not to think of joining a regiment, 
 as the conscription would be after 
 him soon enough without his run- 
 ning to seek it. Therefore, he took 
 him in his own house, and employ- 
 ed him with his correspondence, of 
 which there was never any deficien- 
 cy, owing to the great number of 
 men who daily claimed his charita- 
 ble assistance. 
 
 The arrangement was perfectly
 
 n8 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 to Jeannet's taste, who applied him- 
 self to his new occupation with 
 joy and confidence; and you can 
 well imagine that Solange was very 
 happy, and redoubled her prayers 
 that her dear school-fellow might 
 come as triumphantly out of his 
 heart-troubles as he had been 
 preserved from the dangers that 
 threatened his life. 
 
 She immediately wrote home, in- 
 forming M. le Cure of all these 
 little events, but left it to his great 
 wisdom to decide whether he 
 should tell more or less of every- 
 thing to the Ragaud family, Michou, 
 and M. le Marquis. This should 
 make us thoroughly understand the 
 true virtue of this good child ; for 
 she had not been ignorant of the 
 base insinuations made in relation 
 to her and Jean-Louis, and what 
 ugly conjectures would be based 
 upon their departure, Pierre joining 
 with the rest, at least at the first 
 news. These things go straight to 
 the heart of a good, honest girl, and 
 Solange, being of a quick, nervous 
 ttmperament, had suffered martyr- 
 dom from all this gossip without 
 speaking of it, except to God. It 
 was to him, then, that she remitted 
 the care of her full justification, as 
 she knew many persons would not 
 have believed anything she might 
 have said. This beautiful tranquil- 
 lity of soul is not an ordinary thing, 
 and our cure judged rightly that it 
 proceeded from great holiness, as 
 in the end he did not fail to speak 
 of it, with profit to his hearers, in 
 his Sunday sermons. 
 
 This excellent pastor, who had 
 been careful to keep clear of the 
 whole affair before the downfall of 
 the Perdreaux, contenting himself 
 with praying and awaiting the 
 good pleasure of the Lord, reap- 
 peared like an angel of consolation 
 when nothing was left but tears to 
 
 wipe away, hatreds to calm, sim- 
 pletons to make hold their tongues, 
 and truths to make known. It 
 was wonderful to see how he for- 
 got his great age and infirmities to 
 fulfil his task, which was not the 
 easiest in the world. 
 
 With the chateau it was quickly 
 done. In a conversation of two 
 hours with M. le Marquis, who 
 was a man of great good sense 
 except in what touched his political 
 hopes he made the scales fall from 
 his eyes, and decided his departure; 
 and as, after all the villany of the 
 Perdreaux, our master's fortune had 
 not suffered as much as might have 
 been expected as it was very great, 
 and could have stood a much 
 larger* rent our good pastor reserv- 
 ed his pity and real work for a 
 corner of the country where it was 
 infinitely more needed. 
 
 You can guess that I wish to 
 speak of Muiceron. There truly 
 sorrow, shame, and unhappiness 
 were at their height. 
 
 So many blows at once had 
 crushed the Ragauds, who no 
 longer dared go out, and remained 
 at home, devoured with grief. The 
 old farmer, struck on the tender 
 side of his pet sin, which was vanity, 
 thought really that heaven and 
 earth had fallen upon his shoulders, 
 and that he should only leave his 
 home for the cemetery. Pierrette, 
 long accustomed to receive implicit- 
 ly her husband's opinions, thought 
 also nothing wiser could be done ; 
 and as for Jeannette, overwhelmed 
 with grief to see herself abandoned 
 by all her friends at the same time, 
 although apparently the strongest, 
 it looked as though she would go 
 the first to the grave, so plainly did 
 her pallor and hollow eyes show 
 the ravages of internal grief. 
 
 All the joy and life of rural labor 
 had disappeared from around this
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 119 
 
 house, formerly so happy. The 
 door was closed, the shutters also, 
 save one or two in the back rooms, 
 where these poor people kept them- 
 selves hidden, afraid to speak, as 
 they knew one subject of conversa- 
 tion was alone possible, and just 
 then no one would approach it. 
 The passers-by, seeing the house 
 shut up, and not supposing all the 
 inhabitants were dead, ended by 
 feeling uneasy as they passed the 
 buildings, but not one ventured to 
 inquire about them, not even Ra- 
 gaud's most intimate acquaintances. 
 It is only truth to add that these, 
 understanding well the sorrow that 
 reigned within those silent walls, 
 acted thus from respect, and not 
 from indifference. 
 
 Big Marion went twice a week 
 to the market in Val-Saint, to buy 
 provisions needed for immediate 
 use, and returned at a gallop, to 
 shut herself up with her master's 
 family. 
 
 Sinc"e Muiceron had belonged to 
 the Ragauds, it was certainly the 
 first time any food had been cook- 
 ed but the beef and poultry raised 
 and killed on the place. Poor 
 Pierrette, like all good housekeep- 
 ers, had always prided herself 
 upon supplying the table with the 
 fruit of her labors ; for with us, a 
 farmer's wife who buys even a 
 pound of butter or loaf of bread 
 passes, with good reason, for a 
 spendthrift ; but, alas ! self-love was 
 no longer thought of, and La Ra- 
 gaude cared little what was said of 
 her management, after she knew 
 tongues could wag about affairs of 
 much greater importance. Poor 
 woman ! she must have been fear- 
 fully depressed. Judge how the 
 chickens ran wild, scratching up 
 the gravel during the day, and 
 perching on the trees, stiff with 
 snow, during the night, at the risk 
 
 of freezing. The pig, so fat it 
 could no longer stand on its legs 
 as for a fortnight its true place 
 would have been in the salt-tub 
 continued uselessly to eat his al- 
 lowance. The hens that recom- 
 menced to lay .deposited their eggs 
 at random, without any one taking 
 the trouble to go after them, not- 
 withstanding the little coricoco of 
 warning, which showed that they 
 never failed to cluck at the right 
 time most faithfully. But Marion 
 could not see after everything ; and 
 besides, as she had always been 
 very stupid during the time that 
 all were well and happy at Mui- 
 ceron, she became more and more 
 stupid and bewildered after affairs 
 went so badly. 
 
 Such was the miserable condi- 
 tion in which our cure found his 
 old friends on the first visit which 
 he made them, about two weeks 
 after Barbette's funeral, with the 
 sole object of raising them from 
 the deep despondency into which 
 they had fallen since the terrible 
 shock. 
 
 Pierrette received him in the big 
 parlor, which was very dark, as the 
 shutters were closed, and for a 
 quarter of an hour he could get 
 nothing out of her but sobs ; then 
 Ragaud came in, looking thin 
 and miserable, as much from want 
 of air and exercise as from shame ; 
 and finally Jeannette, who, with a 
 remnant of her old pride, tried to 
 keep from weeping, but was nearly 
 suffocated in the effort. 
 
 " My children," said the dear, 
 good man, " God tries those whom 
 he loves, and I certainly do not ap- 
 prove of your shutting yourselves 
 up in this manner, so as to avoid 
 the society of your neighbors and 
 friends, on account of a sentiment 
 which doubtless you think good, 
 but which I call honor ill placed
 
 120 
 
 The Farm of Mniceron. 
 
 that is to say, wicked pride, to 
 speak frankly." 
 
 "Alas!" said Pierrette, "who 
 wishes to speak to us now ?" 
 
 "Whom have you offended?" re- 
 plied the curt. " And why has the 
 esteem in which you have long 
 been held diminished ?" 
 
 " Monsieur," said Ragaud, " my 
 daughter was on the point of marry- 
 ing a revolutionist and an assassin. 
 That is enough to kill a family like 
 ours." 
 
 " I acknowledge," said the curt 
 quietly, " you could have made a 
 better choice ; but, in reality, since 
 all has ended without your playing 
 any other part in this unfortunate 
 affair than that of victims, I do 
 not see why you should hide your- 
 selves from the eyes of the world 
 as though you were criminals." 
 
 " As for me," said Ragaud, " I 
 can never reappear again in public, 
 and support the looks and words 
 of the people around, who certain- 
 ly despise us." . 
 
 " Ragaud," replied the curJ," when 
 a" man's shoe hurts him, he usually 
 sits down by the roadside, and 
 looks to see whether it is a thorn 
 or a flint that causes the pain ; then 
 he takes it out, and all is over. 
 But if, instead of that, he continues 
 walking, his foot would swell, the 
 wound would inflame, and the cure 
 would no longer be easy. Do you 
 understand me ?" 
 
 " Not at all," said Ragaud. 
 
 " Nor I either," added Pierrette, 
 still continuing to weep. 
 
 "Well," said M. le Cure, "it 
 means that a wise man like you 
 who fears anything of that kind 
 should seek after the cause, to see if 
 by 9hance it would not be as easy 
 to drive such an idea out of his 
 head as to take a thorn out of a 
 shoe. And, between ourselves, it 
 is precisely your case. Far from 
 
 despising you, each and every one 
 in the neighborhood only feels for 
 you compassion, sympathy, and 
 kindness, which they would willing- 
 ly show in words and actions. I 
 am constantly asked about you, 
 and all desire you to return to the 
 common life. They do not come 
 to disturb you, through pure dis- 
 cretion ; but for which, your house 
 would be well filled. But as long 
 as you live like wolves in their den, 
 the pain increases in your heart, 
 and soon it will be with you as 
 with the man, wounded in the foot, 
 who will continue to walk you 
 cannot be cured." 
 
 " M. le Cure is right," said 
 Jeanne; "we must reappear, dear 
 father." 
 
 " Without counting," resumed 
 the pastor, " that you are not act- 
 ing as Christians when you show 
 so much pride. A Sunday has 
 passed, and you were not seen at 
 Mass, and nevertheless it is an ob- 
 ligation. Do you, then, intend to 
 neglect your religious duties ?" 
 
 " I would go to church if no one 
 were there," said Ragaud. 
 
 " Is it you, my friend, whom I 
 hear speak thus?" replied the curt 
 sadly. " So you prefer the esteem 
 of men to the blessing of God ? 
 And you, Pierrette, whom I have 
 always known as such a good par- 
 ishioner, have you the same miser- 
 able ideas ?" 
 
 The Ragauds lowered their 
 heads without replying. They 
 felt they were wrong, especially for 
 the bad example given their daugh- 
 ter. Little Jeanne, on her side. 
 came to a resolute decision. 
 
 " Father and mother," said she. 
 " M. le Cure makes me understand 
 all my sins ; for it is on my account 
 you are thus borne down with grief. 
 I, then, must be the first to trample 
 pride under foot. Well, then, \
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 121 
 
 will go to Val-Saint on Sunday, 
 and assist at Mass and Vespers in 
 our usual place." 
 
 " You shall not go alone, my 
 poor child," said Pierrette. 
 
 " That is right," said the curd ; 
 "I expected as much. As for you, 
 my dear Ragaud, as I know you to 
 be truly honorable, you will not, I 
 suppose, allow these two women to 
 bravely fulfil their duty, and leave 
 you behind?" 
 
 " I will see ; I can't promise any 
 thing," answered Ragaud. 
 
 " I count upon you," said the 
 curt, pretending to take these 
 words as an engagement, " and I 
 beg that you will come after Mass 
 and dine with me; Germaine will 
 have a nice dish of larks, which 
 will not be much expense, as in this 
 snowy weather they only cost five 
 cents a dozen." 
 
 " Monsieur," said Ragaud, who 
 felt greatly relieved by this plea- 
 sant conversation, which he very 
 much needed, " commence by tak- 
 ing supper with me this evening ; 
 it will be a charitable deed to stay 
 with people who are so unhappy." 
 
 " Willingly," replied the cure ; 
 "but with these closed shutters 
 and cold rooms, that make me 
 think of a tomb, I will not have 
 any appetite. You must change 
 all that, and let in some light. 
 Come, madame, show us if you 
 still can turn a spoon in the sauce- 
 pan." 
 
 Pierrette could not repress a 
 pleased smile at this apostrophe, 
 and all her old occupations and fa- 
 vorite habits came back to her at 
 the remembrancer, which tickled 
 her heart. Just as in nursery-tales 
 a wicked fairy enchants a house for 
 a time, and suddenly a good one 
 comes, and with a wave of her wand 
 changes affairs ; at Muiceron, which 
 appeared desolate and dead, the 
 
 words of the cure restored the old 
 life and animation which were so 
 pleasant to behold in the former 
 prosperous days. Ragaud made a 
 great fire to drive out the close, 
 damp smell ; Pierrette threw open 
 the shutters with a quick hand, and, 
 seeing her garden ruined by the 
 poultry, she blushed from shame, 
 and grumbled aloud at her neglect. 
 That was a true sign that her cour- 
 age had returned. During this 
 time, Jeannette and Marion got 
 out the linen for the table, wiped 
 the dishes, gray with dust, and pre- 
 pared the fricassee, which consist- 
 ed, for this meal, of a ragout of wild 
 rabbits that M. le Cure looked at 
 with a mischievous twinkle in his 
 eye, as he knew well this game 
 could only be the result of poach- 
 ing. 
 
 " There," said he, trying to the 
 best of his ability to cheer up his 
 poor friends, " is a dish which does 
 you honor, Mme. Ragaud, and 
 that will be perfectly delicious if 
 you will put a glass of white wine 
 in the sauce. But if you will let 
 me give you a word of advice, don't 
 feed those little animals with cab- 
 bage." 
 
 "Why not?" said Pierrette, as- 
 tonished, thinking that M. le Cure 
 mistook the game for a tame rab- 
 bit. 
 
 " Oh ! yes," said he, " that ani- 
 mal smells of cabbage, unless I 
 have lost the sense of smelling ; 
 and it spoils the taste very much." 
 
 " But, monsieur," answered Pier- 
 rette, half offended, " this is a wild 
 rabbit, caught in the wood of La 
 Sange." 
 
 " Not possible !" cried M. le Cure, 
 feigning great astonishment. " /- nd 
 since when has the farm of Mui- 
 ceron, which I have always seen 
 the best supplied in the country 
 with poultry, sheep, pigeons, and
 
 122 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 all other productions, been reduced 
 to buy game stolen from its master 
 for food ?" 
 
 " Marion bought it," said Pier- 
 rette ; " the poor girl goes after pro- 
 visions, and don't look far; she 
 brings back what she finds, without 
 thinking of evil." 
 
 " So Marion is mistress of the 
 house now ?" said the cure. " My 
 dear friends," he added, " this is a 
 little incident which carries a great 
 moral with it. I wish no further 
 evidence to prove to you how 
 much your grief, just at the bot- 
 tom, is hurtful and wrong in real- 
 ity. When I came in, Pierrette, I 
 was pained at the disordered appear- 
 ance of everything around. In a 
 little while Muiceron will resem- 
 ble the estate of an idle, lazy man 
 who lets the ground lie fallow. 
 What an example for the neighbor- 
 hood, who looked upon you as 
 models ! Come, come, you must 
 change all this, my good children. 
 Commence your work; there is 
 enough to do. I bet, Ragaud, your 
 horses have not been curried for 
 two weeks ?" 
 
 " Alas ! monsieur, you are half 
 right not curried as they should 
 be," answered Ragaud in a peni- 
 tent tone. 
 
 " I must have lost more than six 
 dozen eggs," said Pierrette, looking 
 down. 
 
 " I know nothing about the eggs," 
 resumed M. le Cure; "but as for 
 your chickens, who have not had a 
 grain of food but the gravel they 
 have scratched, they are so lean I 
 wouldn't eat one of them if you 
 gave it to me." 
 
 These reproaches piqued the self- 
 respect of our good people more 
 than any number of long and learned 
 speeches uttered in a severe tone. 
 Pierrette was deeply contrite for 
 ?ier faults. On setting the table, 
 
 she could not keep from the eyes 
 of M. le Cure, who spied everything 
 designedly, the six-pound loaf of 
 white bread which Marion had 
 that very morning brought home 
 from the baker's. This loaf, that 
 was long and split in the middle, 
 was not the least in the world like 
 the bread made in the house, and 
 proved that Pierrette had not 
 kneaded the dough for a long time. 
 Our curt would not let the bread 
 pass unnoticed any more than the 
 rabbit-stew, said it was dry and 
 tasteless which was true and 
 seized this opportunity also to 
 make his friends promise to resume 
 their ordinary train of life. 
 
 The supper was not very gay, it 
 must be acknowledged, but passed 
 off quietly, and thus this visit of the 
 cure, which was followed by many 
 others, began to bring back peace 
 in those hearts so crushed with sor- 
 row. 
 
 The following Sunday, Jeannette, 
 according to her promise, went to 
 Val-Saint, accompanied by her pa- 
 rents. She appeared neither too 
 proud nor too subdued, but just 
 between the two that is to say, 
 she moved along with a look of 
 perfect modesty, which won every 
 one's respect, and made all the hats 
 come off as she approached the 
 church. Unfortunately, it is too 
 true that human nature is apt to 
 rejoice over the misfortunes of 
 others. It is as though each one 
 said, at the sight of a thwack receiv- 
 ed by his neighbor, " So much the 
 more on his back, so much the less 
 on mine." And I do not conceal 
 from you that the people of Val- 
 Saint were not exempt from this 
 culpable weakness. On this very 
 occasion even they were disposed to 
 be severe ; for, in fact, the Ragauds* 
 misfortune? were a little their own 
 fault ; and each one observed that if
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 123 
 
 the parents had not been too proud 
 and ambitious of making their 
 daughter a young lady, she would 
 not have been exposed to choose 
 for husband a scoundrel whom 
 they thought a gentleman. How- 
 ever, sincere pity replaced every 
 other sentiment when they saw 
 this afflicted family reappear in 
 broad daylight in such an humble 
 attitude ; and poor Ragaud, who 
 had made a violent effort to come, 
 gradually recovered his ease at the 
 sight of the kind faces that sur- 
 rounded him. During the Mass, 
 his old heart recovered its balance 
 while praying to God. He felt 
 that affliction is a good means of 
 becoming better, because it draws 
 the soul to its Creator, whom we 
 are too often tempted to forget in 
 the days of uninterrupted happi- 
 ness ; and when the divine office 
 was ended, he could without diffi- 
 culty stop in the village square, and 
 shake hands with several of his 
 friends. 
 
 Then they went to the pastoral 
 residence, where the curt received 
 them joyfully, and they ate with 
 relish the dish of larks, which was 
 done to a turn. At the dessert, the 
 Ragauds looked like people restor- 
 ed to life, so much balm had that 
 genial morning infused into their 
 blood. Jeannette alone did not 
 share the general happiness, and 
 her bitter sadness, which could not 
 be disguised, in spite of the care she 
 took to smile and speak at the right 
 time, was visible to all. It must be 
 said to her praise that her vanity, 
 which had been so crushed, was 
 the least wound of her heart ; she 
 felt there another so much deeper, 
 so much more painful, nothing, she 
 thought, could ever cure it. 
 
 Where was Jean-Louis ? What 
 had become of that brother she 
 had driven out so roughly and un- 
 
 justly ? Her great seclusion since 
 the terrible event had prevented 
 her hearing a single word about 
 him, and she dared not question 
 any one. 
 
 As for the Ragauds, father and 
 mother, they never mentioned him 
 either, but for another reason. Ig- 
 norant that Jeannette had turned 
 the poor boy out of the house, they 
 were still firmly convinced of his 
 jealousy ; and as they believed him 
 to be employed on some farm in the 
 neighborhood, they were very much 
 incensed at his prolonged absence, 
 which, in view of the present cir- 
 cumstances, appeared the act of an 
 ungrateful and hard heart. 
 
 M. le Cure, who knew all, and 
 had Solange's letter in his pocket, 
 designedly prolonged the grief of 
 Jeannette and the mistake of the 
 Ragauds, in order that the lesson 
 might be duly profitable to all. 
 
 " You see," said he, " everything 
 has happened as I foresaw. Fear- 
 ing to displease you, I did not in- 
 vite any one to our little entertain- 
 ment ; but understand well, my chil- 
 dren, if I had had fifty vacant 
 places at my table, I would have 
 had great difficulty in choosing my 
 guests ; so many would have desired 
 the pleasure of dining with you, I 
 would have been afraid of exciting 
 jealousy." 
 
 " M. le Cure," said Ragaud, " I 
 thank you, and hope that your 
 kindness was not mistaken. I 
 speak the truth when I say that, 
 but for you, I would have died 
 rather than ever again have shown 
 my face in public." 
 
 " Well, now that it is all over, let 
 us talk of our friends," replied the 
 curt. " Are you not curious to 
 hear some news ?" 
 
 No one replied ; the tender chord 
 was again touched. 
 
 " I do not conceal the fact," said
 
 124 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 Ragaud, " that more than one of 
 those so-called friends have pained 
 us by their neglect." 
 
 " Let us be just," said the curd ; 
 u do you forget that your house 
 was so tightly closed no one dared 
 knock at the door? I even hesi- 
 tated to visit you, and yet you can- 
 not doubt my affection for you. 
 Why, then, should others have been 
 bolder?" 
 
 " Oh !" said Ragaud, " any one 
 that wished could easily have found 
 his way in. You had no difficulty, 
 dear monsieur." 
 
 " That I grant, but I was in the 
 country. Do you know how many 
 of your best friends are here yet ? 
 In the first place, the whole of the 
 chateau are in Paris." 
 
 " Yes, I know it," said Jeanne. 
 " My godmother did not bid me 
 good-by." 
 
 " She was very sick, my daugh- 
 ter; you must not ill-judge her." 
 
 " And Michou ?" asked Ragaud. 
 
 " Michou was at Mass, directly 
 behind you," said the cure j "and 
 if he did not show himself, it was 
 from delicacy ; but he is not far off, 
 and will come at the first signal." 
 
 "And Solango?" asked Jeanne, 
 in such a low tone she scarcely 
 could be heard. That was the 
 name the <:;/ was waiting for. He 
 looked at Jeanne in a serious manner. 
 
 " Solange," said he, " left also on 
 that unfortunate day, and knew 
 nothing of it. She, Jeanne Ragaud, 
 was your most faithful friend, and 
 is so still. You have calumniated 
 her, my daughter. I know it ; but 
 I hope you have sincerely repented ; 
 above all, when you hear that she 
 is now at the novitiate of the Sis- 
 ters of Charity." 
 
 "Ah ! is it possible ?" cried she, 
 clasping her hands. " Dear So- 
 lange ! how unjust I have been to 
 her'" 
 
 " Have you not been unjust to 
 others also, my child?" asked the 
 cure with gentleness. " Confess it, 
 Jeannette ; you should do so from a 
 sense of justice." 
 
 Jeannette hid her face in her 
 hands, and burst into tears. The 
 question had pierced her soul. 
 
 " M. le Cure," said Pierrette, 
 " I know of whom you wish to 
 speak ; but he, I believe, has not 
 left the country, and his conduct, 
 therefore, is scarcely excusable." 
 
 "Ask your daughter," replied the 
 curt j " she, undoubtedly, can answer 
 that question." 
 
 And as Jeannette could not 
 speak on account of her tears, he 
 continued : 
 
 " What could he do, poor boy ! 
 but disappear when the only roof 
 that could shelter him refused to 
 receive him. He is no longer here, 
 Mme. Ragaud, that child who loved 
 you so dearly, and who had proved 
 it so well. An inconsiderate word 
 has driven him from your arms 
 and, having no other resource in 
 this world, he is going to become a 
 soldier, doubtless in the hope of 
 dying honorably in fighting for his 
 country." 
 
 " Never did I drive off Jean- 
 Louis, monsieur," said good Pier- 
 rette ; " no, never, I can truly 
 swear." 
 
 " Nor I," said Ragaud ; " and at 
 this very moment I am ready to 
 redeem him from the conscrip- 
 tion." 
 
 " However, he is gone," replied 
 the cure ; " and he, like Solange, 
 did not know you were in trou- 
 ble." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Jeanne, falling on 
 her knees, " I did it all. Hea- 
 ven has justly punished me. Tell 
 me where he is, M. le Cure ; he will 
 not refuse to pardon me, I am so 
 unhappy."
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 12$ 
 
 " What did you do ?" asked Pier- 
 rette. " Alas ! all this worry has 
 turned the poor child's head. Of 
 what do you wish to accuse your- 
 self, my daughter?" 
 
 Old Ragaud, who was not easily 
 moved, approached the little thing 
 and placed his hand on her head. 
 He was very much affected to see 
 her thus, kneeling and weeping, in 
 the posture of a guilty person. He 
 looked at M. le Cure, who looked 
 at Jeannette, and Pierrette looked 
 at all three. 
 
 Then that young girl did some- 
 thing very touching and unusual. 
 She wiped her eyes, and, without 
 rising, commenced in a sweet, low 
 voice the true confession of all her 
 past conduct, not sparing herself, 
 as was right and just, and yet 
 neither showing excitement nor 
 too great bitterness against herself, 
 which was the mark of sincere re- 
 pentance. As she spoke, her face 
 regained its color, and her eyes 
 shone with holy joy ; for the Lord, 
 who saw her laudable intention, re- 
 warded her with great interior re- 
 lief for doing what for many others 
 would have been the greatest mor- 
 tification. When she had finished, 
 she remained with her hands clasp- 
 ed, and her head bent low, before 
 her parents and M. le Cure ; but no 
 person broke the silence. Of the 
 three witnesses of this affecting 
 scene, two wept behind their hand- 
 kerchiefs, and the third, wishing 
 to preserve his gravity as pastor, 
 was too much moved to articulate 
 a word. 
 
 " Father," continued Jeannette 
 in the same humble and firm tone, 
 " judge me, now that you know how 
 guilty I am. It is to you I speak, 
 in presence of my mother and M. 
 le Cure", and I am ready to submit 
 to whatever punishment you may 
 inflict upon me, I have deurived 
 
 you of a son who made you happy, 
 that you might keep a daughter 
 who has only drawn misery and 
 sorrow on your house. But that 
 daughter is still capable of loving 
 you ; let her remain with you, that 
 she may make reparation for her 
 sins. I know I do not deserve it," 
 added she after a moment's silence. 
 
 " My daughter," said M. le Cure, 
 "you have done well. Rise; the 
 good God pardons you, and your 
 parents also, very certainly." 
 
 " O my poor darling ! most 
 surely," said Pierrette, pressing her 
 child to her breast. 
 
 " And you, Ragaud, will you not 
 embrace your daughter ?" asked M. 
 le Cure. 
 
 The good farmer, you may well 
 think, had no desire to be severe. 
 He kissed Jeannette with great 
 tenderness, and made her sit down 
 by him. But his heart was much 
 troubled; now that he understood 
 his injustice towards Jean-Louis, 
 and his rash judgment, and re- 
 membering how easy it would have 
 been for him to have prevented his 
 departure by speaking a friendly 
 word at the right time, he reproach- 
 ed himself as bitterly as Jeannette 
 had done ; and if his paternal dig- 
 nity had not prevented him from 
 humiliating himself before his child, 
 he would have been tempted to 
 confess in his turn. 
 
 " M. le CureY' said he, " if God 
 one day will let us know where 
 Jean-Louis is, do you think he 
 would consent to return ?" 
 
 "Hem!" said the cure, "he is 
 proud; that remains to be seen. . ." 
 
 " Oh ! I would beg him so hard," 
 replied Jeanne. 
 
 " In the first place, my child, we 
 must put our hands on him ; and 
 there is the difficulty. Jeannet is 
 not a boy to change his resolution 
 like a weathercock that turns to
 
 126 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 every wind. And if he has enlist- 
 ed, you will have to run after his 
 regiment." 
 
 " Poor child !" said Ragaud, " he 
 don't know that he has a little for- 
 tune stowed away in a safe place, 
 and that it increases every year. 
 If it should cost three thousand 
 francs, I will redeem him, no matter 
 where, no matter when." 
 
 " Father," said Jeanne, " before 
 leaving M. le Cure, let me .ask you 
 one favor in his presence." 
 
 " Speak, my child, I promise it 
 to you in advance," answered the 
 good man. 
 
 " That you will never speak to me 
 of marriage," replied the little thing 
 in a firm voice, " and that you will 
 let me assist my mother in all her 
 labors in the fields." 
 
 " And when mademoiselle comes 
 back ?" asked the curt, with a spice 
 of mischief. 
 
 " Oh ! I understand too well that 
 my place is no longer at the cha- 
 teau ; all our troubles have come 
 from my having lived there too 
 long," said she. 
 
 "Jeanne Ragaud," said M. le 
 Cure", "always think so, and con- 
 form your conduct to your words ; 
 and if you will persevere in your 
 resolution, in the name of the 
 Lord I promise you that these 
 trials will pass, and that you will 
 yet have many happy days." 
 
 M. le Cur pronounced these 
 words in such a serious tone they 
 all three felt wonderfully com- 
 forted. We can truly say that this 
 Sunday was one of the happiest 
 days in the life of the Ragauds. 
 They went back to Muiceron with 
 courage and peace in their souls, 
 and on the next day each one set 
 to work to repair the damage that 
 two weeks of discouragement and 
 gloom had introduced into that 
 poor forlorn house. 
 
 The days passed rapidly be- 
 tween work and household duties 
 faithfully accomplished. Gradual- 
 ly the remembrance of the recent 
 misfortunes lost its bitterness, and 
 they were even able to speak of 
 them sometimes to Jacques Mi- 
 chou, who came frequently to visit 
 his friends. As the police sought 
 in vain for Isidore, people ended 
 by letting him drop ; and, as always 
 happens, each one having resumed 
 his usual course of affairs, they came 
 to the conclusion that perhaps he 
 was not so guilty as had seemed at 
 first sight; so that, but for their 
 ignorance as to the fate of Jean- 
 Louis, one month after the catas- 
 trophe the Ragauds appeared as 
 happy and tranquil as before. 
 
 M. le Cure was not so ignorant, 
 being kept fully informed by Jean- 
 Louis, who wrote to him regu- 
 larly, but left to his wisdom to 
 confide what he chose to the family 
 at Muiceron. He preferred to 
 keep a strict silence, for the very 
 good reason that he wished to 
 prove, by a long trial, the sincerity 
 of Jeannette's conversion. Thank 
 God! on that side there was no- 
 thing to apprehend. Solange, with 
 her great charity of soul, had not 
 been mistaken in thinking Jean- 
 nette's head weaker than her heart. 
 
 Misfortune had so purified and 
 strengthened the little creature, 
 Jean-Louis would have loved her 
 more than ever, could he have seen 
 her thus changed ; for although 
 nothing is perfect in this world, I 
 can truly say, without exaggeration, 
 she was now as near perfection as 
 coirfd be expected of anything 
 human. 
 
 Pierrette, who at first wished to 
 spare her little hands, so unaccus- 
 tomed to work, did not wish her to 
 undertake any of the heavier labor ; 
 but Jeannette was so quick and
 
 The Farm of M nicer on. 
 
 127 
 
 ready, the hardest and most diffi- 
 cult tasks were always accom- 
 plished by the time her mother 
 came to give directions. She was 
 the first at the stables in the morn- 
 ing, which she never left until all 
 was in order, the fresh milk placed 
 aside, and the cream taken off that 
 of the evening before ; on churning 
 days she prepared the wheels of 
 the machine, which would after- 
 wards be turned by Marion. It 
 was she also who measured the 
 ashes for the lye used in the big 
 wash the fifteenth of every month ; 
 and every week gave out the flour, 
 half wheat, half rye, for the family 
 bread. So great was her zeal she 
 even wished to knead the dough, 
 and put the loaves in the oven, 
 which is terribly hard work ; but 
 this time Pierrette showed her au- 
 thority, and declared she would 
 sooner give up baking at home 
 than see her daughter wear herself 
 out at the kneading-trough like a 
 baker's son-in-law. 
 
 From time to time, M. le Cure" 
 visited Muiceron at unusual hours, 
 so that his appearance would be 
 entirely unexpected, and always 
 found Jeannette busy with her 
 household labors, or, if it was late 
 in the day, seated by the window, 
 mending the clothes and linen of 
 the family. 
 
 Her dress was always very sim- 
 ple, even on Sunday, and you may 
 well think that mademoiselle's, 
 beautiful dresses were left hanging 
 in the closet without being even 
 looked at occasionally. For an- 
 other girl it would have been ad- 
 visable economy to make some use 
 of them by altering the style, so as 
 to fit them for the farm ; but Jean- 
 nette was too rich for any one to 
 accuse her of extravagance for not 
 using them, and it was every way 
 better she should not reappear in 
 
 costumes that would recall a time 
 which, although passed, still left a 
 painful memory. 
 
 She generally wore a serge skirt 
 striped in black and white, with a 
 woollen basque which correspond- 
 ed ; and her Indian neckerchief from 
 Rouen, covered with little bou- 
 quets of bright flowers, crossed in 
 front, under her apron, was in no 
 way more pretentious or coquet- 
 tish than that of her mother Pier- 
 rette. 
 
 She even wore the cap of our 
 country-girls, which consists of a 
 head-piece of linen, with long ends 
 of lawn, which they cross above the 
 head on the days they wish to ap- 
 pear very fine. Coquettes know 
 how to make themselves very ele- 
 gant by adding embroidery and 
 lace; but Jeanne Ragaud, who 
 could have bought out a mercer's 
 shop, thought no longer of beauti- 
 fying herself, much less her cap. 
 Thus dressed, she looked more like 
 a quiet little outdoor sister of 
 some convent than the sole heiress 
 of a large estate. She was told so 
 sometimes, which highly delighted 
 her, as she wished to appear in 
 everything totally different from 
 what she had been. 
 
 It needed a little courage to act 
 thus before the eyes of the whole 
 commune. Jeannette knew that 
 after being called for ten years the 
 vainest, silliest little peacock in the 
 country, she was now looked upon 
 as an exaggerated devotee ; and, 
 what was worse, some said she had 
 thrown herself into the arms of the 
 good God because her marriage 
 had been broken off. 
 
 " Wait and see," said the busy 
 tongues ; " only let her dear Per- 
 dreau come back, and all the fine 
 dresses will be taken from the 
 hooks, as before his departure." 
 
 For they were persuaded she
 
 128 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 adored him, and that she still pre- 
 served, in the bottom of her heart, 
 a tender remembrance, mingled 
 with regret, which only waited an 
 opportunity to show itself. Now, 
 one's nature is not changed, no 
 matter how gr.eat is the desire to 
 correct it, and you know that Jean- 
 nette was passionate and excitable. 
 She therefore had much to suffer, 
 and did suffer in silence, thinking 
 that all these mortifications would 
 aid her to expiate her sins, and to 
 merit from the good God the favor 
 of Jean-Louis' return, which now 
 was the sole object of all her 
 thoughts, desires, and prayers. 
 
 To see again the friend of her 
 childhood; to soothe together the 
 declining years of her old parents 
 to converse with him as in old 
 times ; to resume the gentle friend- 
 ship, which now was so ardently 
 desired by her poor little heart ; to 
 ask his pardon ; and to make him so 
 happy that he would forget the past 
 this was what this repentant, lov- 
 jng child thought of by day, and 
 dreamt of all night, waking or sleep- 
 ing. As her conversion had not 
 deprived her of penetration, she 
 quickly guessed that the good curd 
 knew every movement of Jean- 
 Louis from A to Z ; and it was 
 amusing to see the way in which 
 he would turn and turn again her 
 
 questions, in the most innocent 
 manner, so as to obtain some en- 
 lightenment on the subject. But 
 our curd read this young soul like 
 an open book, and, although he ad- 
 mired all that the Lord was work- 
 ing in it for her good, pursued the 
 trial, and, under the manner of an 
 old grandfather, kind-hearted and 
 tender, did not allow her to gain 
 from him one foot of ground. 
 However, occasionally he pretend- 
 ed to be surprised, taken by storm. 
 It was when he would see the little 
 thing sadder than usual, and ready 
 to be discouraged. Then he would 
 loose the string two or three inches 
 that is to say, he would say a word 
 here and there, to make it appear 
 he would speak openly at his next 
 visit ; and when that day came, he 
 played the part of a person very 
 much astonished that anything was 
 expected from him. 
 
 However, like everything else, this 
 had to come to an end. Half 
 through pity, half through wisdom, 
 the dear curd thought as he said 
 himself that if the bow was too 
 much bent, it would break ; so one 
 morning, having finished his Mass 
 and eaten his frugal breakfast, he 
 went to Muiceron, with the inten- 
 tion of conversing seriously with 
 the Ragauds, and telling them all 
 that he knew of good Jean-Louis.
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 129 
 
 xx. 
 
 THAT day was February 25, 
 ' 1848. If you remember, there 
 had never been seen, at that season, 
 such mild weather and such bril- 
 liant sunshine. But that the trees 
 were without leaves, it seemed like 
 May ; and in the orchards exposed 
 to the south, the almond-trees were 
 even covered with big buds ready 
 to flower. 
 
 This beautiful, early spring re- 
 joiced all on the earth, both men 
 and beasts ; the peasants were 
 heard singing in the fields, the 
 horses neighing at the plough, the 
 liens clucking, the sparrows chirp- 
 ing, the lambs bleating ; and down 
 to the babbling brooks, that flowed 
 and leaped over the stones with 
 more than ordinary rapidity, each 
 creature, in its own way, appeared 
 happy and glad. 
 
 The cur/ walked along slowly, a 
 little fatigued by the heat, to which 
 he was not yet accustomed. He 
 closed his Breviary, and thought 
 of the dear family he was about to 
 rejoice with his good news, and 
 doubtless, also, of the exile, who 
 only waited for one word to return 
 to his beloved home. 
 
 When he reached the right of the 
 barns at Muiceron, he paused a 
 moment behind the cottage to take 
 breath and wipe his forehead. 
 From that spot he could see into 
 the courtyard without being seen ; 
 and what he saw, although very 
 simple, moved him to the bottom 
 of his soul. 
 
 Jeanne Ragaud was drawing wa- 
 ter from the well; but, instead of 
 carrying off the buckets already 
 filled, she deposited them on the 
 ground, and, resting her elbows on 
 the curbstone of the well, covered 
 her face with her hands in the 
 attitude of a person completely 
 overcome. 
 
 He knew she was weeping, and 
 certainly her poor heart must have 
 been full of sorrow that she should 
 give way to such silent grief. The 
 good cur/ could no longer restrain 
 himself; he advanced gently behind 
 her, and, when quite near, touched 
 her on the shoulder, just as he had 
 done in former days, when he wish- 
 ed to surprise her in some school- 
 girl's trick. 
 
 Jeanne turned around, and he saw 
 her pretty face bathed in tears. 
 
 " Oh ! oh !" said the kind pastor,, 
 smiling, " what are you doing, my 
 daughter? I wager you are the 
 only one who is not rejoicing to- 
 day in the bright sunshine that 
 the good God gives us." 
 
 " Father," said the little thing, 
 who always thus addressed our cur/ 
 when they were alone, " it is perhaps 
 very wrong, but it is precisely all 
 this joy I see around me that breaks- 
 my heart. When I reached the well, 
 I thought how often Jean-Louis had 
 come to this very place to draw- 
 water for us, and how displeased! 
 he was when my mother wished to 
 do it herself. Poor Jeannet ! he 
 was so gentle and kind ! Oh ! I am 
 sure he is unhappy away from home."
 
 The Farm of Muicercn. 
 
 "That is not doubtful," replied 
 the curd j " but perhaps one day we 
 will see him again." 
 
 " I begin to despair of it," said 
 she. " He left heart-broken, and 
 perhaps now he detests me." 
 
 " Perhaps ? Perhaps, my daugh- 
 ter, can mean yes as well as no ; 
 why should it not be no ?" 
 
 " Ah ! if I only knew !" said she. 
 
 " Well, what would you do ?" 
 
 " I would write to him that I 
 love him," she cried, clasping her 
 hands ; " and I would beg him to 
 come and tell me that he pardons 
 me, and take his place again at 
 home ; for the house will always be 
 his, whether I live or die ; and al- 
 though I have done very wrong, 
 he would listen to me, don't you 
 think so, father?" 
 
 " Yes," said the curt, much touch- 
 ed ; " he is a person who never 
 cherished rancor against any one. 
 Write to him, my child, and tell 
 him all you wish ; your letter will 
 reach him." 
 
 > " Ah ! you know where he is ? I 
 thought so," said she joyfully. 
 
 " Yes, indeed ! I know where he 
 is, and I will now tell you, my dear 
 daughter. He is in Paris, where 
 he wants for nothing; and if you 
 are good, if you will stop crying, I 
 will read you some of his letters, 
 which will make you happy." 
 
 " Oh ! I promise you that I will 
 be good. I will not cry any more 
 never again," cried the poor little 
 creature, who instantly began to 
 sob, by way of keeping her pro- 
 mise. 
 
 But they were tears of joy this 
 time, and the curd let them flow 
 without reproof. They entered 
 Muiceron together, and Jeannette, 
 without any preambulation, threw 
 herself on her mother's breast, cry- 
 ing out that Jeannet was coming 
 back. Pierrette, who desired it as 
 
 ardently as she, asked to be excus- 
 ed for one moment, that she might 
 run off and tell Ragaud, who was 
 sowing clover near the house. It 
 was right that they should be all 
 together to hear such welcome 
 news; but scarcely had the good 
 woman reached the door, than she 
 knocked against Jacques Michou, 
 who had just crossed the threshold. 
 
 " Jean-Louis ! Jean- Louis is com- 
 ing back!" said Pierrette, as she* 
 passed him. " Come in, Jacques 
 Michou ; I will be back in a 
 second." 
 
 Michou entered in his usual tran- 
 quil manner. He saluted the cure 
 and Jeanne without showing the 
 least excitement. 
 
 " Who says that Jeannet is coming 
 back ?" he asked. 
 
 " We don't say he is coming 
 back,"- replied the curt, " but that 
 he will return home." 
 
 " All very well," answered Mi- 
 chou ; " but, for the present, that is 
 not to be thought of." 
 
 " My God !" cried Jeanne, " what 
 has happened ?" 
 
 " The revolution in Paris," said 
 Michou ; " and this time it is real. 
 Here is a letter from M. le Marquis, 
 who tells me that in three days from 
 now all will be fire and blood. He 
 orders me to join him Jeannet is 
 with him and I will take guns for 
 everybody." 
 
 Jeannette fell fainting in a chair. 
 M. le Cure" conversed with Michou ; 
 and, meanwhile, Ragaud and Pier- 
 rette entered, and learned, in their 
 turn, the event, which was very true, 
 as we all know. I leave you to 
 think if there were ahs ! and ohs ! 
 and exclamations of all kinds. For 
 a full hour there were so many con- 
 tradictory statements you would 
 have thought the revolution at 
 Paris transported to Muiceron. Se- 
 veral peasants, returning from the
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 city, stopped at the farm, and re- 
 ported there was agitation every- 
 where ; that a great number of 
 workmen in the factories had de- 
 camped ; and, as under similar cir- 
 cumstances all sorts of stories are 
 told and believed, it was added that 
 half the capital was already burnt, 
 and that smoke was seen in all the 
 other parts of the city. At that, 
 Michou shrugged his shoulders ; but 
 he was anxious about his master, 
 whom he knew to be the man to do 
 a thousand imprudent things, so he 
 took a hasty farewell of his friends, 
 and that very evening passed Mui- 
 ceron in full rig, armed and equip- 
 ped, ready for his post. 
 
 So once again everybody at Mui- 
 ceron became gloomy and miserable, 
 as each day brought its fresh con- 
 tingent of sad news. For if, in the 
 city and among learned men, where 
 there is every chance of correct in- 
 formation, every one appears half 
 crazy in time of public calamity, 
 and in a fever to talk all kinds of 
 nonsense, you can imagine what it 
 is in a village, where one is obliged 
 to listen to the neighbors and gos- 
 sips, who always improve on the 
 most absurd reports. It is true, 
 also, that they never see a paper, 
 and it is lucky if they preserve a 
 few gleams of good sense ; but what 
 each one draws from his own pri- 
 vate source amply suffices to bewil- 
 der everybody. 
 
 I, who speak to you, and who was 
 very young at the time of this revo- 
 lution, remember well to have heard 
 it positively affirmed that the king, 
 Louis Philippe, and his family had 
 been crucified in front of their cha- 
 teau, then cut in little pieces, boil- 
 ed, and eaten by the people ! And 
 when, in addition, it was said that 
 the waters of the Seine had formed a 
 magnificent cascade from the heap- 
 ed-up corpses, and were red with 
 
 blood as far as the bridge at Rouen, 
 I did not think the thing incredible, 
 and, with great simplicity, 1 always 
 awaited still more extraordinary 
 news. 
 
 I remember, also, that a band of 
 our most respectable young men 
 took turns every night in mounting 
 guard around the chateau of Val- 
 Saint, because it was known, from 
 a trustworthy source, that the cel- 
 lars contained more than a hundred 
 barrels of powder, ready to blow up 
 at the shortest notice. Now, to ask 
 how so many barrels, the least of 
 which weighed as much as a tun of 
 wine, could have been placed there 
 without being seen, is what no per- 
 son thought of; and the reflection, 
 what man, sufficiently desirous of 
 putting an end to his days by bring- 
 ing that enormous building down 
 upon him (a thing which could 
 profit no one), would be capable of 
 setting fire to the powder, still less 
 entered their heads ; and yet terror 
 was at its height at the mere thought 
 of an explosion so tremendous that 
 it would have broken all windows 
 for two leagues round. And thus 
 it is that good people, without wish- 
 ing it, lend their hands to the revo- 
 lution. 
 
 It was not that all this was be- 
 lieved at Muiceron as readily as I 
 swallowed it, but, in reality, they 
 were very anxious, and ardently de- 
 sirous of hearing news. A long week 
 passed. M. Michou wrote a short 
 letter, in which he said everybody 
 was well, that M. le Marquis and 
 Jean-Louis were always together, 
 and cried out, " Long live the king !" 
 in the streets while carrying a white 
 flag, which made the boys of the 
 street laugh, but at which no one 
 took any exception. He added that 
 King Louis Philippe was driven out, 
 and that for the present the republic 
 was much spoken of. Thereupon
 
 132 
 
 The Farm of Mniceron. 
 
 Ragaud declared that all was lost ; 
 for he, like all those of his age, 
 only understood the republic as ac- 
 companied by scaffolds, drownings, 
 and robberies, as in that of 1793, 
 which he well remembered. 
 
 Jeannette, then, with the consent 
 of M. le Cure, wrote a long and 
 touching letter, which she addressed 
 to Solange, in which she poured 
 forth all the warmth and fire of her 
 little heart. The poor child dared 
 not write directly to Jeannet, in 
 the fear that new events might pre- 
 vent his receiving the missive ; but 
 she did not doubt that Solange 
 would find means to read it to him 
 who would receive so much conso- 
 lation from its contents. The mis- 
 fortune was that, in the midst of 
 the fray, that good girl could hear 
 nothing about her old friend ; and, 
 between ourselves, it was, I believe, 
 because she had no permission to 
 mix herself up in the affair, as she 
 lived retired and absorbed in prayer 
 with the other young sisters of the 
 ndvitiate. It therefore followed 
 that when Jeannet, in his turn, 
 wrote to M. le Cure", it seemed, from 
 the quiet, sad, and cold tone of 
 his letter, that he knew nothing of 
 this step of Jeannette's, or, if he 
 knew it, he attached no importance 
 to it, and wished them to under- 
 stand it was too late to repair mat- 
 ters. 
 
 It was this last idea which fastened 
 itself in the child's head as firmly 
 as a nail in the wood. She became 
 profoundly sad, which, according 
 to her habit, she concealed as much 
 as possible ; and tfyus passed weeks 
 and months without anything fur- 
 ther being said of the return of the 
 dear boy, so fondly desired by all at 
 Muiceron. 
 
 So far affairs in Paris went on 
 quietly, and the people who believ- 
 ed in scaffolds began to think 
 
 they might sign the lease between 
 their shoulders and heads. For 
 now that all this fine story is over, 
 it must be avowed the first part of 
 the revolution was more laugh- 
 able than terrible. I had it from 
 Michou, who was present and wit- 
 nessed many things in detail, which 
 were served up for our amusement 
 during many of the following win- 
 ters. The good man never wearied 
 of relating how the great city of Pa- 
 ris, that had driven off a king from a 
 desire of giving herself a hundred 
 thousand in his place, played at 
 comedy for three months, for the 
 sole purpose, I suppose, of afford- 
 ing other countries a perpetual di- 
 version. Once, for example, in re- 
 membrance of spring-time, a crowd 
 of little trees were planted at all 
 the corners, as signs of liberty; and 
 as, for this amusement, each man 
 became a gardener on his own hook, 
 without ever having learned the 
 trade, you can imagine what chance 
 these precious emblems of freedom 
 had of flourishing. It is not neces- 
 sary to say that they fell down 
 and were trodden under foot in a 
 very short time, so that the beauti- 
 ful green ornaments were renounc- 
 ed at the end of a few days ! 
 
 Another time, the street-boys 
 assembled and formed the brilliant 
 resolution that they would have a 
 general illumination. And then 
 I really would not have believed it, 
 if Jacques Michou had not vouche*d 
 for the truth these ragamuffins 
 ran in troops through the streets, 
 hand-in-hand, shouting out a song 
 which had but two words, always 
 sung to the same tune. 
 
 "Light up! light up!" they 
 cried at the top of their voices ; 
 upon which, all classes, rich and 
 poor, high and low, obediently 
 placed candles in the windows, 
 without daring to utter a word
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 133 
 
 against the decree ; and this lasted 
 more than a fortnight. 
 
 I will only ask, if the king or 
 our holy father, the Pope, had ex- 
 acted such a thing even once, what 
 would have been said? There 
 was also the farce of the laborers, 
 who were out of work, taking the 
 air, and marching by thousands 
 along the quays to the great 
 chateau, where five or six fine men 
 who were called the government re- 
 sided, and "who were very brave in 
 words, but became half crazy when 
 it was time to act ; which must not 
 be wondered at, as their task was 
 none of the easiest. The men ar- 
 rived, they would send one of 
 their number to ask some little 
 favor, which was sure to be promis- 
 ed for next day. Then they re- 
 turned the same as they came, 
 and so much the worse for those 
 who were found in their way that 
 day ; for not a cat could have come 
 out alive among so many legs. 
 This amusement was called "a 
 manifestation." But to say what 
 was ever manifested except want 
 and misery in every house for 
 when such promenades are made, 
 no work is done is what you may 
 learn, perhaps, sooner than I, if the 
 day of discovery will ever come. 
 
 During this time, they pretend- 
 ed to make laws for the country, 
 in a large building where a great 
 number of men from the provinces 
 talked themselves hoarse every 
 day, insulting each other, and even, 
 I have been told, flung whatever 
 they happened to have near at 
 hand at one another's heads ; so 
 that he who appeared the master 
 of all, and was called president, 
 was forced to speak with a great 
 bell, as he could no longer make 
 his voice heard. For those who 
 liked noise all this row was very 
 amusing ; but quiet people were 
 
 obliged to shut their eyes and stop 
 up their ears. In my opinion, in- 
 stead of being contented with iriat, 
 they should have descended into 
 the streets, and enforced order 
 with heavy blows of the cudgel; 
 but, if they thought of that later, 
 for the time being good people 
 seemed asleep, which emboldened 
 the rabble to such a degree they 
 thought themselves masters of the 
 situation. 
 
 You doubtless think our dear 
 good master, M. le Marquis, was 
 discouraged at seeing the republic 
 established in place of his cherish- 
 ed hopes. Not at all. On the con- 
 trary, he was as ardent and fiery as 
 ever, assured that it was " a ne- 
 cessary transition " a phrase which 
 I repeat as I heard it, without pre- 
 tending to explain it, and which, 
 probably, was profoundly wise. 
 He was very busy coming and go- 
 ing with his friends, and arranging 
 all, in words, for the approaching 
 arrival of the young legitimate 
 prince, who remained near the 
 frontier with a large army, invis- 
 ible for the time, but ready to 
 march at a moment's notice. 
 
 Jean-Louis and Michou allowed 
 themselves in secret to be rather 
 doubtful of these fine assertions, 
 but, respectful and devoted as they 
 were to that excellent gentleman, 
 they made the agreement to follow 
 him about like his shadow, and to 
 shield him whenever he might 
 incur any risk. Thus, whenever 
 M. le Marquis was seen, near him 
 was always the handsome, brave 
 Jeannet, with his pale, serious face, 
 or the old game-keeper, looking 
 very jaunty, but with such fierce 
 eyes and strong arms a man would 
 think twice before "attacking him. 
 Dear mademoiselle, who was half 
 dead with fear for her father's life, 
 confided him entirely to his vU-
 
 J34 
 
 The Farm of M nicer on. 
 
 lage friends, and begged them every 
 morning to be faithful to their 
 trust. Besides, this good soul, 
 formerly so desirous of seeing and 
 living in Paris, yawned there almost 
 as much as at Val-Saint. 
 
 There was not much amusement 
 going on in society. Rich people 
 stayed at home, and guarded their 
 money, which was carefully con- 
 cealed in some secure place, ready 
 to fly in case of necessity; as for 
 out-door amusements, none were 
 thought of. M. le Marquis had 
 something else to do than drive 
 out with his daughter ; and to cir- 
 culate around among the manifes- 
 tations was not the most pleasant 
 performance far from it. Poor 
 mademoiselle seemed doomed to 
 the miserable fate of always run- 
 ning after some distraction, fetes, 
 and other disturbances of that 
 kind, without ever finding them. 
 Add to all this, she was in a con- 
 stant state of fear, as she was little 
 accustomed to the cries, songs, 
 patrols, and threats which filled the 
 capital. Her only consolation was 
 to hope that there would soon be 
 an end of all this ; and Dame Ber- 
 the encouraged her to be patient, 
 showing herself all the while full 
 of the idea of the near triumph of 
 the cause, as she said. And mean- 
 time, while waiting for it, she em- 
 broidered little strips of white 
 satin by the dozen, to decorate the 
 belts of the king's officers when 
 the triumphal entry would be made 
 into Paris. 
 
 Their happiest moment was in 
 the evening, when these five per- 
 sons, drawn together through 
 friendship and devotion, were re- 
 united to talk over the events of 
 the day, and to plan for the next. 
 M. le Marquis ordered the servants 
 off to bed for they were not sure 
 but there might be spies among 
 
 them and, keeping Jeannet and 
 Michou, he joyfully laid before 
 them all his plans and hopes. 
 Jean-Louis listened with one ear; 
 and fortunate was it that respect 
 prevented him from joining in the 
 conversation, as his remarks might 
 have been very malapropos. Can 
 you guess why? He thought of 
 other things ; and while his master 
 soared away in imagination to the 
 frontier, where the invisible army 
 of the king manoeuvred, in heart 
 and soul he was in the beloved spot, 
 where he lived over again the happy 
 days of his childhood. 
 
 And thus they advanced, without 
 knowing it, to the terrible days 
 which gave the death-blow to the 
 republic, in the midst of the blood 
 of so many honest men, which flow- 
 ed and mingled with that of the 
 rabble, for love of good order, 
 which could easily have been estab- 
 lished without so much suffering. 
 Alas ! it was not the first time in our 
 gay, beautiful France that things 
 have begun with songs and pleasant 
 jokes, and ended amid the noise of 
 cannon and the cries and lamenta- 
 tions of the wounded. 
 
 Before relating this last part of 
 my story, I must tell you that oui 
 cure, always in correspondence 
 with Jean-Louis, was much aston- 
 ished at the uniform coolness of his 
 letters. At last he thought best 
 to ask an explanation during the 
 month of May, advising him to go 
 and see Solange, who for a long 
 time had had good news for him. 
 Do you think it was long before 
 Jeannet ran quickly to the convent ? 
 When he read that Jeannette loved 
 him and desired his return, he 
 nearly became wild with joy. So- 
 lange let him have the precious 
 letter, which he read and re-read 
 all one night, so as to be better 
 able to reply to it. It was time for
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 135 
 
 things to change, as Jeannette de- 
 clined visibly from the pain she 
 suffered in believing herself dis- 
 dained. 
 
 It is always so with women (I 
 must make the remark) ; they tor- 
 ure without mercy, or at least with 
 Aery little thought, the poor hearts 
 which become attached to them ; 
 and then the day they feel pain in 
 their turn all must end in the 
 quickest manner, otherwise they 
 will die ; and then, again, they will 
 have all the pity and sympathy on 
 their side. So our two dear chil- 
 dren made up and became friends 
 with a few words written on paper ; 
 and enchanted were they both, I 
 can assure you. Now it was easy 
 to wait. Jean- Louis, in his answer, 
 showed the same heart, the same 
 tenderness, as formerly. He wished 
 no excuses from his sister, saying 
 that all the fault was on his side 
 which was a big story, as every one 
 could see but himself, and made 
 them both laugh and weep at Mui- 
 ceron. As for his return, it was 
 not necessary to promise anything. 
 They knew well that the day duty 
 would no longer detain him he 
 vould take the first train and our 
 good friends, the Ragauds, while 
 not wishing him to leave M. le Mar- 
 quis, commenced to prepare for the 
 happy moment, so ardently desired 
 by all. 
 
 Ragaud told the women it was 
 not the time for economy, and the 
 following week he called in the 
 painters and the masons to replas- 
 ter all the house, and to give it an air 
 of freshness inside, which, I must 
 acknowledge, was very much need- 
 ed. Jeannette directed the changes 
 in Jean-Louis' room, and I can as- 
 sure you she spared nothing, and 
 spent at least fifty francs of her fa- 
 ther's crowns in a splendid paper 
 for the walls, which was yellow, 
 
 covered with large bouquets of 
 bright flowers that had the most 
 beautiful effect. The month of 
 June found them busily occupied ; 
 and then they began to count, not 
 the days, but the hours, that would 
 separate Jean-Louis from the dear 
 home that had adopted him. 
 
 His last letter announced his 
 speedy departure. The joy at 
 Muiceron, and its holiday look, was 
 touching to see. Jeannette, pink 
 and white, like an eglantine rose, 
 had never looked prettier. 
 
 Suddenly, one morning, M. le 
 Cure entered the farm, and, in the 
 midst of all this happiness, pro- 
 nounced these terrible words : 
 
 " My children, they are fighting 
 in Paris, and we must pray to God, 
 for the danger has never been 
 greater ; happy those who will 
 come safe out of it!" 
 
 XXI. 
 
 I shudder when I speak of that 
 horrible time. Alas ! we all know 
 about the fearful struggle of blood 
 and tears called "The days of 
 June, 1 8 48." 
 
 Never did the lowering storm- 
 clouds more quickly burst, and 
 never did a great city, in all the pride 
 of her beauty and wealth, come 
 nearer complete ruin. Each quar- 
 ter, each place, each cross-way, 
 were battle-fields. Houses were 
 demolished, that barricades might 
 be erected across the streets ; and 
 this time, if extravagant accounts 
 went abroad, not one appeared 
 exaggerated in face of the real 
 truth. 
 
 For three long, weary days why, 
 no one ever knew the army kept 
 hidden ; then the sovereign people 
 were masters of the situation, and 
 acted as best pleased their capri- 
 cious will ; and I rather think no 
 body but a fool could have helped
 
 136 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 being disgusted with serving such 
 kings. 
 
 At the end of these three days, at 
 last the cry was heard from all the 
 barracks, "Forward!" And as in 
 the time of the great Napoleon, 
 generals in fine uniforms and wav- 
 ing plumes dashed about on horse- 
 back, and there was a terrific noise 
 of cannon and musketry. How 
 terrible was the anger of the Lord ! 
 For these enemies, who grappled in 
 the fierce death-struggle, were chil- 
 dren of the same mother, and yet 
 forgot it in the midst of their sense- 
 less fury and thirst for vengeance, 
 when, in truth, they had nothing 
 to avenge. 
 
 What more shall I tell you? 
 You know it all better than I ; per- 
 haps you were there ; and, besides, 
 it is not so long ago that you can- 
 not remember it ; and when you re- 
 call it, pray fervently to the good 
 God such a time may never again 
 be ours. 
 
 When the battalions moved, 
 every honest citizen left his bed, 
 and armed, to be ready to assist the 
 army. M. le Marquis was one of 
 the first on the scene, accompanied 
 by his two body-guards. Made- 
 moiselle, when she saw them leave, 
 wept, and threw herself on her knees 
 in her room, unwilling to listen to 
 Dame Berthe, who still could have 
 the heart to speak of " the triumph 
 of the right," so rooted in her head 
 was this fixed idea. Leave these 
 poor women, more to be pitied than 
 blamed, lamenting and praying to 
 God, while listening, with hearts 
 half dead with agony, to the noise 
 of the battle, and we will see what 
 became of the combatants. 
 
 When they left the house, there 
 was no appearance of extraordinary 
 excitement, and even the quarter 
 where M. le Marquis lived, very 
 quiet at all times, seemed calmer 
 
 even than usual, for the very good 
 reason that, of all who occupied it, 
 those that were brave ran elsewhere, 
 and the cowards buried themselves, 
 like moles, in the cellars. Our 
 friends first went down one long 
 street, crossed a second, a third, 
 and only then, when coming up to 
 a great bridge with a Prussian 
 name very difficult to spell and 
 therefore I cannot write it began 
 to see and hear the horrors of the 
 deadly combat. 
 
 M. le Marquis stopped. 
 
 " Friends," said he, " let us make 
 the sign of the cross ; perhaps one 
 of us will not return to sleep in his 
 bed, but may be killed, wounded, or 
 made prisoner. It is well to pro- 
 vide ourselves with a passport for 
 the other world, and one more bless- 
 ing for this one." 
 
 And this excellent gentleman 
 instantly put in practice what he 
 preached, pronouncing aloud the 
 name of the Father, a*nd of the Son, 
 and of the Holy Ghost. 
 
 " Come," said he joyously, " I 
 feel younger by ten years. Ah ! 
 while I think of it, have you white 
 cockades in your pockets?" 
 
 " Faith ! no," said Michou ; " I 
 confess to M. le Marquis I did not 
 dream of taking that precaution. 
 But we need not worry about that ; 
 if we want them, I will tear off an 
 end of my shirt." 
 
 Jean-Louis had been equally 
 forgetful of the white cockades ; 
 M. le Marquis told them their heads 
 were turned, but forgot to add he 
 was in the same fix ; for they had 
 rushed to arms in such a hurry, 
 each one had only taken time to 
 dress quickly and seize his gun, so 
 ardently desirous were they to see 
 the end of the masters of Paris. 
 
 Soon they were in the midst of 
 the troops and a crowd of volun- 
 teers like themselves.
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 137 
 
 The fight was hot. The height 
 and solidity of the barricades, for 
 the most part cemented with stone 
 and mortar like ramparts, forced 
 them to establish a siege; and the 
 thick walls that sheltered the rioters 
 were only destroyed with the aid of 
 cannon, and after many deaths. I 
 must be frank, and say it was not a 
 war very much to the taste of our 
 soldiers, who like to see the faces 
 of the enemies at whom they aim ; 
 neither, as a first effort, was it very 
 amusing for our friend Jeannet, who 
 had never before seen any fire 
 but that in the chimney at Muice- 
 ron. So when he found himself in 
 the midst of the scuffle, surrounded 
 with dead and wounded, smoke in 
 his eyes, loud oaths and curses in 
 his ears, without counting the 
 whistling of the balls, which I have 
 been told produces a very droll 
 effect when not accustomed to it, 
 he stopped short, and looked so 
 stupefied Michou laughed at him. 
 That old soldier had been present 
 at the battle of Wagram, and, being 
 very young at the time, was at first 
 half crazy with fear, which did not 
 prevent him from showing great 
 bravery when he recovered his 
 senses. He therefore understood 
 from experience precisely how 
 Jeannet felt, and, giving him a hard 
 blow on his shoulder, shook the 
 young fellow's gun, which he was 
 carelessly pointing at random. 
 
 " Are you going to let yourself 
 be killed like a chicken ?" he cried 
 to him, swearing tremendously; 
 " be quick, my boy ; you can sleep 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Jean-Louis jumped ; he drew 
 himself up to his full height, and 
 his handsome face reddened with 
 shame, although he had done no- 
 thing dishonorable. 
 
 " Jacques," said he, "I ar.i afraid 
 I am a coward." 
 
 "Big mule!" gaily cried the 
 game-keeper; " on the contrary, by- 
 and-by you are going to see how 
 we will amuse ourselves." 
 
 They were at the time before a 
 barricade, which was most obsti- 
 nately defended. The conversation 
 could not last long, but Jacques 
 Michou did not lose sight of the 
 boy. He saw that he soon recover- 
 ed himself, and kept out of the way 
 of the balls as well as he could 
 something which required as much 
 skill as coolness and handled his 
 gun with as firm a hand as though 
 he were hunting. 
 
 Fighting went on there for a 
 good hour. The soldiers began 
 to be furious, and, notwithstand- 
 ing the number of killed on both 
 sides, no advantage was gained. 
 Cannon were brought up ; at the 
 first fire, a large breach was effected, 
 and it was seen that the insurgents 
 were reduced to a small number, 
 who attempted to escape. 
 
 At that sight, the soldiers and 
 volunteers could not be restrained. 
 
 "No prisoners!" cried a hun- 
 dred voices, hoarse with rage. 
 
 That meant death to every one. 
 Our officers were no longer masters ; 
 the tide, once let loose, soon over- 
 flowed, and a horrible mixture of 
 shots, cries, and oaths, frightful to 
 hear, pierced the air. 
 
 Jeannet became as crazy as the 
 rest. He fired so often, his gun was 
 burning in his hands ; his dishevel- 
 led hair, and his face, blackened 
 with powder, changed his appear- 
 ance so completely no one would 
 have recognized him. He loaded 
 and reloaded, fired at hazard, and 
 no longer heard Michou, who, 
 always at his side, cried, " Look 
 out!" every moment. Suddenly 
 the game-keeper gave a yell that 
 resembled the howl of a wolf. A 
 man, covered with blood, had just
 
 138 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 leaped upon the ruins of the barri- 
 cade, and aimed at Jean-Louis, who 
 was not three steps from his gun. 
 
 It is not easy to make you under- 
 stand the rapidity with which old 
 Michou threw himself before Jean- 
 net to preserve his life. It was 
 like a flash of lightning, but that 
 flash sufficed ; he had time to fire 
 before the rioter, who rolled lifeless 
 on the heaped-up pavement. 
 
 All was ended. Five minutes 
 afterwards, at least in that corner, 
 it only remained to remove the 
 dead, and carry the wounded into 
 the neighboring houses, where the 
 women were ready to dress the 
 wounds. There was time to 
 breathe. 
 
 Alas ! the poor, blinded people 
 paid dearly in that quarter for their 
 folly and madness. All the unfor- 
 tunate wretches who had raised 
 that barricade were dead or dying. 
 
 Jacques looked around for his 
 master and his friend. M. le Mar- 
 quis, with his arm all bleeding, was 
 seated leaning against a post, very 
 weak and faint from his wound ; but 
 his eyes sparkled, and a smile was 
 upon his lips. The game-keeper 
 rushed to him. 
 
 " It is nothing, old fellow," said 
 our master, " only a scratch on the 
 wrist; lend me your handkerchief." 
 
 By the mercy of God, it was 
 really not much ; and our dear lord 
 quietly wrapped up his hand, while 
 he asked about Jeannet. 
 
 " Heaven has worked miracles 
 for that child," said Michou proud- 
 ly. " Ah ! he is a brave boy, I tell 
 you. He fought both like a fox 
 and a lion!" 
 
 "I wish to see him," said M. le 
 Marquis. " Go bring him to me." 
 
 Jacques willingly obeyed. It 
 was some time before he found his 
 pupil for such he could be called. 
 He was in the midst of a crowd 
 
 that surrounded him and loaded 
 him with congratulations and com- 
 pliments on his bravery. His con- 
 duct had been noted, and the com- 
 manding officer was then asking 
 him his name and residence, that 
 he might inscribe them in his re- 
 port. Jeannet, who shrank from 
 observation, looked like a criminal 
 before his judges. Michou, seeing 
 him so timid and confused, told 
 him he was a fool, and came very 
 near being angry himself. 
 
 " Just see how frightened you are 
 now !" said he to him, in such a 
 cross tone the officer smiled. " Ex- 
 cuse him, colonel, he always looks 
 sheepish when before people he 
 don't know. His name is Jean- 
 Louis Ragaud, and he comes from 
 the commune of Val-Saint-sur- 
 Range, near Issoudun." 
 
 "All right," said the officer; 
 " that is enough, my brave fellow. 
 Jean Ragaud, Gen. Cavaignac will 
 hear of you, . . . and, if it depends 
 on me, you will hear from him." 
 
 Jeannet bowed as awkwardly as 
 possible, which made the game- 
 keeper grumble again. 
 
 " Again I beg of you," said he, " to 
 keep that bewildered stare. You 
 look like the head of S. John the 
 Baptist, cut off and laid on a dish, 
 that is painted in our church. I 
 suppose it is because you are so un- 
 happy ! The general will no doubt 
 send after you to have you hanged 
 unless he sends you the Cross of 
 the Legion of Honor. ..." 
 
 "The cross!" cried Jeannet, 
 seizing the game-keeper by the 
 arm. 
 
 " Yes indeed, idiot ! I know how 
 soldiers talk ; would the colonel 
 have said as much unless he was 
 sure of the fact ?" 
 
 "The cross!" repeated Jean- 
 Louis, with tears in his eyes. " O 
 Jacques Michou! if it were true!"
 
 The Farm of Mmceron. 
 
 '39 
 
 " That would make you bold, eh ? 
 And it would be a fine present to 
 take back to Muiceron." 
 
 " Hush !" said Jeannet : " the bare 
 thought makes me crazy." 
 
 " I hope not," replied Michou ; 
 " but I would be half wild myself 
 Come, now, let us be off; we have 
 earned our dinner. M. le Marquis 
 is asking for you." 
 
 " Wait a moment, good, kind 
 Jacques," said Jean-Louis. " I have 
 not yet thanked you ; and yet I 
 know you saved my life." 
 
 " What nonsense !" said Michou, 
 who in his turn looked embarrass- 
 ed. " In such a battle, do you think 
 a fellow looks after any one's skin 
 but his own ?" 
 
 " Oh ! I saw you," replied Jean- 
 net. " You sprang before me, or I 
 would have been killed." 
 
 " Listen," said Michou in a sol- 
 emn tone, " before God, who hears 
 me, and conducts all by his divine 
 hand, it was not so much your life 
 that I wished to save, ... it was 
 another's that I wished to take." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " We should not love revenge," 
 replied the game-keeper; "but the 
 temptation was too strong ; faith ! 
 I am ready to confess it, if it was a 
 sin of which I am not sure. Jean- 
 net, he who aimed at you from the 
 barricade didn't you recognize 
 him ?" 
 
 " No," said Jeannet, " I saw no 
 one." 
 
 "It was Isidore Perdreau. God 
 have mercy on his soul!" said 
 the game-keeper, blessing himself. 
 " My poor Barbette in heaven will 
 ask for my pardon. ..."
 
 1 4 Q 
 
 The Farm of M nicer on. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 DURING these terrible events, I 
 dare say the combatants were not 
 the most to be pitied. They, at 
 least, were in action, in the midst 
 of powder and noise ; and if they 
 fell, wounded or dead, they scarce- 
 ly had time to know it. But think 
 of the poor friends and relatives 
 who remained without news, and 
 almost without strength to seek 
 any information ! They were to be 
 pitied. 
 
 Perhaps you may live in a city, 
 which does not prevent you from 
 sometimes going to the country ; 
 and so you can understand how 
 certain villages are isolated from 
 all daily communication. Our ham- 
 let of Ordonniers, although near 
 the large city of Issoudun, was, in 
 this respect, worse off than many 
 other places ; for when M. le Mar- 
 quis was absent from the chateau, 
 there was no daily paper, none of 
 the villagers being liberal enough 
 to -indulge in that luxury. The 
 Perdreaux, in their time, subscrib- 
 ed for a paper, which came every 
 other day, and gave the market 
 prices and a jumble of news of 
 people and things here and there 
 about a month old. Even this re- 
 source no longer existed. M. le 
 Cure* was the only one who cared 
 for what was going on ; but as his 
 means were very limited, he con- 
 tented himself with a little paper 
 which only came every Sunday. 
 
 Judge, then, of the terrible an- 
 
 guish at Muiceron ; above all, when 
 they saw all the able-bodied men 
 of the commune leave ; for you re- 
 member that then, for the first 
 time, the provinces showed their 
 teeth at the news of the horrors 
 in Paris, and rose en masse to go 
 and punish the rebellious children 
 of a city that, in her selfishness, 
 disturbed the whole of France 
 without any just right. 
 
 The women displayed great bra- 
 very. They fitted out their sons, 
 husbands, brothers, and betrothed, 
 and let them leave for the dreadful 
 struggle without wincing. But the 
 next day but the following days! 
 What anxiety and what tears ! 
 
 It was touching to see them each 
 morning run before the country 
 stage or speak to the letter-carrier, 
 in hopes of hearing some words 
 to reassure them. Generally, the 
 stage drove rapidly on at a gallop ; 
 for stage-drivers are not patient, 
 and the poor creatures' only in- 
 formation was an oath or rough 
 word. As for the letter-carrier, he 
 knew nothing positive, and was 
 content to give the flying reports, 
 which were not enough to quiet 
 those troubled souls. 
 
 Jeanne and her mother kept at 
 home. They prayed to God and 
 wept, poor things ! It was the 
 best way to learn patience ; but 
 their hearts sank within them. It 
 was a hard blow to have been so 
 near happiness, and then suddenly 
 to see it fly, perhaps for ever.
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 141 
 
 Old Ragaud was miserable that 
 he could not go off with the other 
 men of the neighborhood. He was 
 too old, and this only increased his 
 vexation, as he was but three or 
 four years older than Michou, and 
 he was in the battle ! The sadness 
 and ill-humor of the poor old fellow 
 rendered Muiceron still gloomier, 
 and the women neither dared stir 
 nor sigh before him. 
 
 The little they knew was very 
 terrible; and when the private 
 letters began to arrive, all the 
 families were plunged in despair 
 and sorrow. Our commune alone 
 lost three men ; among them Coten- 
 tin, the miller, an honest peasant, 
 and father of four children. He 
 was shot dead, almost at the 
 moment of his arrival ; and the next 
 day came the news of the death of 
 Sylvain Astiaud, son of the head- 
 forester, one of our bravest boys. 
 Each one trembled for his own at 
 the announcement of these mis- 
 fortunes, and at last silence was 
 considered a sure sign that mourn- 
 ing should be prepared. 
 
 Jeanne felt all her courage fail. 
 She could no longer either eat or 
 sleep, and even feared to question 
 the passers-by. Certainly the good 
 God, who wished to sanctify the 
 poor child, and make her a perfect 
 woman, did not spare her any suf- 
 fering. He acted with her like 
 a father who is tender and se- 
 vere at the same time; who cor- 
 rects the faults of his child, know- 
 ing well that they are more hurtful 
 than death, and then recompenses 
 her when petting can no longer 
 spoil her. 
 
 Therefore this little Jeannette 
 had to go to the end of her trial 
 before relief came and her tears 
 were dried. And this happened 
 through that giddy, wild Pierre 
 Luguet, who had left, like the 
 
 others, singing and blustering, 
 assuring the people around that he 
 did not believe a word of the cur- 
 rent rumors, and that, in one hour 
 after his arrival in Paris, he would 
 find out the whole truth, and send 
 them all the news. But, behold ! as 
 soon as he was in the midst of 
 smoking and bleeding Paris, he 
 lost his senses, imagined himself 
 killed before he had fired a shot, 
 and wrote in pencil, on a scrap of 
 blood-stained paper, a letter to his 
 parents, all sighs and tears. He 
 bade them farewell, and begged them 
 to pray for his soul, as he would be 
 dead before night ; for no one could 
 live in such a terrible conflict. If 
 he had only spoken for himself, it 
 might have passed ; but he added 
 that M. le Marquis, Jean-Louis, and 
 Michou were certainly dead. He 
 had sought for them everywhere, 
 asked everybody, and no one 
 could give him good news. To 
 crown his stupidity, he added that, 
 among the great heaps of corpses 
 that lay yet unburied, he had 
 recognized Jean-Louis' blouse of 
 gray linen bound with black ; and 
 therefore they must weep for the 
 death of that good, brave boy. 
 
 Poor Mme. Luguet ran straight 
 to Muiceron to show that foolish 
 letter. If there had been the least 
 degree of cool good sense among 
 them, it would easily have been 
 seen they were the words of a 
 brain addled from fear ; but in the 
 mortal anxiety of the poor Ragauds, 
 they took it all for good coin. 
 Jeanne fell on her knees, sobbing 
 aloud, and, losing the little courage 
 she still possessed, wrung her hands 
 in despair. Pierrette threw herself 
 beside her daughter, trying to 
 comfort her; and Ragaud wept 
 bitterly, although he had said a 
 thousand times a man in tears 
 is not worthy to wear breeches. In
 
 I 4 2 
 
 The Farm of Mule er on. 
 
 the evening, the true religion which 
 filled those poor hearts came to sup- 
 port them and give them some 
 strength. They lighted tapers be- 
 fore the crucifix and around the 
 Blessed Virgin, and all night this 
 afflicted family prayed ardently for 
 the repose of the souls of the sup- 
 posed dead who were never bet- 
 ter. 
 
 The next day you would have 
 been shocked to have seen the 
 ravages grief had made on their 
 honest faces. Jeannette, wearied 
 out with weeping and fatigue, slept 
 in the arms of her mother, paler 
 than a camomile-flower. Pierrette 
 restrained her tears, from fear of 
 awake-ning the child ; but her hol- 
 low eyes and cheeks were pitiful to 
 see ; and the sun shone brightly in 
 the room, without any one taking 
 the trouble to close the shutters. 
 
 It was in this state that M. le 
 Cure" found the Ragaud family. 
 His entrance at Muiceron renewed 
 the lamentations ; but Jeannette 
 was calm, which greatly pleased the 
 good pastor, as he saw that his 
 lessons, joined to those of divine 
 Providence, had borne their fruit. 
 
 He took the little thing aside, 
 and, much affected by her deathlike 
 appearance, spoke gently to her, 
 and asked her to walk with him on 
 the bank of La Range. 
 
 " My daughter," said he, " it is 
 not right to sink into such utter 
 despair about news which is yet 
 uncertain. Show a little more cour- 
 age, for a while at least, until we 
 hear something positive." 
 
 " He is dead," said Jeannette. 
 " May the will of God be done ! 
 Alas ! I should have been too 
 happy, if I had seen him again." 
 
 " Why are you so certain ? As 
 for me, I confess Pierre's letter 
 would not make me lose all hope." 
 
 " They were three together," said 
 
 she. " Pierre has written ; could 
 they not have written also ?" 
 
 This argument was not bad. The 
 curd could not reply ; for, without 
 acknowledging it, he did think the 
 silence very strange. He made the 
 poor child sit down by the side of 
 the swift-running stream that glit- 
 tered in the bright sunshine, and 
 spoke to her for a long time in 
 such soothing, touching words, 
 Jeanne listened with profound re- 
 spect and piety. He spoke of the 
 happiness of this world, which is 
 but for a short time ; of the neces- 
 sity of living and regaining her 
 strength, tl\at she might console 
 her parents ; of the beautiful day of 
 eternity ; of the heavenly home, 
 where we will meet again the loved 
 ones gone before us, never again to 
 be separated. 
 
 At another time, Jeannette would 
 not have understood these words, 
 and perhaps might have even found 
 them out of place ; but now they 
 fell upon her heart like soft ca- 
 resses. 
 
 "Oh !" said she, " it is only now 
 I understand how dearly I loved 
 him. Father, tell me, can he see 
 us from above?" 
 
 " You will have it, then, that he 
 is absolutely dead," said the curt, 
 smiling. 
 
 Jeannette, in spite of her grief, 
 smiled in her tears. 
 
 " That is true," she said ; " per- 
 haps he is not dead." 
 
 Hope had re-entered her soul 
 with the consolations of the holy 
 priest. They walked down the 
 road to the farm, and Jeannette 
 thanked him with much tenderness, 
 and remarked, as it was near sunset, 
 he must return home. 
 
 " One moment," said the good 
 curl ; "you are a little egotist. I 
 can't go without saying a word to 
 father and mother,"
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 " Oh ! yes," said she, " of course 
 you must ; but, dear father, I will 
 remain here, and say my rosary in 
 the shade under the trees ; the air 
 will completely restore me." 
 
 "Very well, dear child," replied 
 the cure j " and may the Blessed 
 Virgin console you, my daughter!" 
 
 Jeanne retired under the heavy 
 foliage, and really took her little 
 rosary out of her pocket. But this 
 wood recalled many sweet reminis- 
 cences. It was there Jean-Louis 
 had found her and saved her life 
 on that stormy night the year be- 
 fore. She looked for the spot, near 
 the woodman's cabin, where he 
 had taken her in his arms with a 
 father's care; and as the remem- 
 brance of all this past happiness, 
 which she had then slighted, came 
 back to her heart, she leant against 
 a tree, and hid her face in her 
 hands. 
 
 Whether they were tears of re- 
 pentance, of regret, of love, or of 
 prayer that fell from her eyes God 
 only knows ; and surely, in his infi- 
 nite goodness, he waited for this 
 moment of supreme anguish, which 
 could not have endured much lon- 
 ger, to say to that heart-broken 
 child, " You have suffered enough ; 
 now be happy !" 
 
 For in that same hour Jean- 
 Louis, wild with joy, leaped from 
 the imperial of the country stage 
 on the highroad, and ran, without 
 stopping to take breath, toward his 
 beloved Muiceron. 
 
 He also remembered the stormy 
 night, and, from a sentiment you 
 can well understand, wished to see 
 again the little hut, if only to throw 
 a passing glance. 
 
 He reached the spot, and was 
 soon near the tree where Jeannette 
 leant motionless. He recognized 
 her. The beating of his heart almost 
 suffocated him; for, with a lover's 
 
 instinct, he immediately knew, if 
 she had come to weep in that spot, 
 it could only be on his account. 
 
 He advanced until he stood close 
 behind her. 
 
 "Jeanne!" said he, so softly he 
 scarcely heard his own voice. 
 
 Jeannette turned, and gave one 
 scream. Her eyes wandered a 
 moment, as if she had seen a phan- 
 tom, and she fell half-dead into his 
 arms. 
 
 " Jeanne ! dear, dear Jeanne ! 
 don't you know me ?" said he, press- 
 ing her to his breast. " I have 
 caused you much sorrow, but it is 
 all over oh ! it is all over ; tell 
 me, is it not?" 
 
 The poor child could not speak ; 
 her emotion and joy were too great. 
 But such happiness don't kill ; and 
 gradually she revived, although she 
 still trembled like a leaf. 
 
 " O Jeannet !" she said at 
 last, " they wrote word you were 
 dead." 
 
 "And was that the reason you 
 were weeping here all alone in this 
 wood, my poor, dear darling?" he 
 tenderly asked. 
 
 " Yes," said she, looking down ; 
 " I could not be consoled. Why 
 did you not send us some news?" 
 
 " I wished to surprise you," said 
 he, with simplicity ; " and now I 
 see I did wrong." 
 
 " One day more, and I would 
 have been dead also," said she, 
 leaning on his arm. " Cruel boy, 
 go!" 
 
 She looked so lovely, still pale 
 with grief, and yet as lively and 
 coquettish as before, Jeannet was 
 obliged to clasp her once again in 
 his arms, and even kissed her, for 
 which I hope you will pardon him, 
 as I do. 
 
 " How good God is," said he, " to 
 permit us to meet again in this very 
 place ! This is the second time,
 
 144 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 dear Jeannette, that I have saved 
 you when in great trouble ; and I 
 hope it is a sure sign that poor 
 Jean-Louis will be able to comfort 
 and assist you all the rest of his life." 
 
 " You will never leave us again ; 
 you will promise that ?" she replied. 
 "When you are away, all sorts 
 of misfortunes happen. Oh ! how 
 much we have suffered." 
 
 And as these words suddenly re- 
 called the sad events of the last six 
 months, her flirtation, her thought- 
 less conduct, and the lamentable 
 scenes that followed, she blushed, 
 sighed, and leant her face, down 
 which the tears were streaming, 
 against Jean-Louis' shoulder. 
 
 " My own Jeannette," said he, 
 " you must no longer think of all 
 that sorrow, now that God has 
 made us so happy again. There is 
 no misfortune which does not carry 
 with it a profitable lesson when we 
 recognize in it the hand of the 
 Lord; and, for my part, although 
 I have been nearly dead with grief, 
 I say that my present happiness 
 has not been too dearly bought, 
 and I would consent to pass again 
 through the same trials, on condi- 
 tion of possessing a second day 
 like this." 
 
 " Oh ! no," said Jeanne, " I have 
 had enough. I have not your cour- 
 age, and I will pray to God that I 
 may be spared from such great 
 trials. Come," added she, taking 
 Jeannet's arm, "we must go and 
 surprise our parents. And the dear 
 curt is just now with them ! He 
 told me so the good, holy man 
 told me you were not dead." 
 
 "But who set such a report 
 afloat ?" asked Jeannet. " For really 
 I was not even in danger." 
 
 "Oh ! what a story," cried Jeanne. 
 "You were in the fight; it could 
 not be otherwise." 
 
 "Certainly," said Jeannet, "I 
 
 fought, and did my best; but I 
 never for an instant imagined the 
 good God would let me die without 
 seeing you agai." 
 
 " It is very well to have such 
 happy thoughts," said Jeanne joy- 
 fully ; " if I could have had them, I 
 would not have been nearly dead 
 with anxiety, and hopeless from 
 such great fear. Now I regret my 
 tears, and would like to take them 
 back." 
 
 " You would not be the richer for 
 it," said he, laughing; "but, Jean- 
 nette, don't laugh at me. It was 
 neither presumption nor careless- 
 ness made me think so. The good 
 God put the faith in my heart ; and 
 then, didn't I have round my neck 
 the silver medal you gave me the day 
 of your first communion ? Wasn't 
 the image of the Blessed Virgin 
 powerful enough to turn aside the 
 balls ?" 
 
 "What!" said Jeannette with 
 emotion, "have you still my medal ? 
 Is it the very same one ? Have 
 you always worn it, in spite ... in 
 spite of all ... Jeannet, show it to 
 me; let me kiss it!" 
 
 " No," said Jean-Louis, blushing, 
 "not now. I will show it to you 
 later." 
 
 " Right away ; I won't wait," said 
 she in the peremptory manner 
 which so well became her. " I like 
 to be obeyed." 
 
 "But," said Jeannet, much em- 
 barrassed, "I can't, because . . ." 
 
 " Because what ? " she replied. 
 " Don't think you are going to be 
 master here ! No, no, not more 
 now than before, when, you remem- 
 ber, my mother said, 'Jeannette 
 is the boy. . . .'" 
 
 " Really," answered Jean-Louis, 
 " you have a good memory. Well, 
 then, since Jeannette is the boy, 
 and I am the girl, I must submit to 
 her wishes."
 
 Farm of Muiceron* 
 
 And as, in spite of all this talk, 
 he made no attempt to show her 
 the medal, another idea entered 
 her head. 
 
 "You are wounded," said she, 
 "and you don't wish me to see it." 
 
 " That is not the reason," he re- 
 plied, unbuttoning his vest. " I 
 don't wish you to believe any such 
 thing." 
 
 On opening his shirt, he showed 
 the medal on his breast, and then 
 the curious Jeannette understood 
 his resistance ; for, near the blessed 
 image of our dear Mother, she re- 
 cognized the long tress of blonde 
 hair which had been cut off during 
 her illness. 
 
 " It has never left me," said he ; 
 "but I dared not let you see it. 
 Do you forgive me? Your poor 
 hair ! I said to myself, While it rests 
 upon my heart, it is as though my 
 little sister were watching over me. 
 And in the fight, I thought that, as 
 the medal of the Blessed Virgin 
 and your precious souvenir were 
 also exposed to the fire, I could 
 not be killed; and you see I was 
 not mistaken." 
 
 " Oh !" cried Jeannette, with tears 
 in her eyes, "cny dear Jeannet, I 
 do not deserve such love." 
 
 They reached Muiceron, arm-in- 
 arm. Oh ! how refreshing was the 
 shaded court-yard and the fra- 
 grant hedges ! And then, the dear 
 house looked so gay in its new 
 white coat, its green shutters, the 
 fresh young vines that hung from 
 the trellis, and its slate roof newly 
 repaired, all shining in the soft 
 rays of the sinking sun. The songs 
 of the bulfinch and robin were 
 more joyous than the trumpets and 
 horns on a patronal feast; and it 
 seemed as though the good God in 
 heaven were well pleased, so beau- 
 tiful was the blue sky, flecked with 
 golden-edged clouds ! Was it real- 
 
 ly the house we saw six months ago ? 
 Jeannet, who had long loved it, 
 scarcely recognized it; he was 
 mute with admiration, and, although 
 he had left it in despair, he ac- 
 cused himself of having neglected 
 to look at it until now ; for surely 
 his memory did not recall anything 
 as joyous and beautiful as he now 
 beheld in his beloved Muiceron. 
 
 Shall we ask the reason ? There 
 is a great artist who can paint, with 
 colors of unparalleled brilliancy, 
 whatever he chooses to place before 
 our eyes. He is called happiness ; 
 and God wishes him to walk beside 
 us, both in this world and the 
 other. 
 
 The two dear children began to 
 run as soon as they entered the 
 court-yard of Muiceron. Jean- 
 nette was the first to spring across 
 the threshold, and fell speechless 
 into her mother's arms. Jean- 
 Louis quickly followed her, and 
 stood in the door-way, holding out 
 his hands to his parents. Then 
 there were cries, and tears, and 
 confusion of kisses, and questions 
 without end and without reason. 
 Their hearts overflowed. The little 
 one, as they always called the tall, 
 handsome boy, was covered with 
 caresses, stifled with embraces 
 quite overpowering; for country- 
 people drink in joy by the bucket- 
 ful and don't put on gloves when 
 they wish to show their love. But 
 you can imagine Jean-Louis did 
 not complain. M. le Cur alone 
 kept aside, with clasped hands, 
 from time to time putting his 
 handkerchief to his eyes, and 
 thanking God, while he waited his 
 turn. 
 
 Gradually their happiness toned 
 down a little ; but the excitement 
 was so great, each one showed his joy 
 in some particular manner. Old 
 Ragaud whirled around the room,
 
 146 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 took off his cap to smooth his hair, 
 and replaced it, all the while laugh- 
 ing as though he did not know pre- 
 cisely what he was about ; and 
 Pierrette forgot to ask the children 
 what they wished to eat, which was 
 a sure sign her head was completely 
 turned. As for Jeannette, I must 
 tell you that, like all innocent, 
 warm-hearted young girls, she 
 dared act, in presence of her pa- 
 rents and M. le Cur, as she would 
 not have done alone with her 
 brother; she threw her arms around 
 his neck every half-second, and 
 clung to him so closely he could 
 not stir an inch. Jeannet did not 
 show greater timidity; seeing her 
 act with such nawet^ he neither 
 frowned nor looked sour, but ac- 
 cepted willingly what was so sweet- 
 ly offered him. 
 
 Fortunately, Marion, whom no 
 one thought of, and who bellowed 
 with joy in chorus with the others, 
 came to her senses sooner than any 
 of them, and thought of the supper. 
 Jeannet smelt the butter frying on 
 the stove, and acknowledged he 
 was very hungry. This covered Pier- 
 rette with confusion. She felt very 
 guilty that she had so neglected 
 her duties, and asked a thousand 
 pardons; but Jeannet laughed, as 
 he kissed her, and told her not to 
 be excited, as he could easily wait 
 until the next day, being only really 
 hungry to see and kiss her. 
 
 Ragaud would not let the dear 
 curt go home. It was right that 
 he should wait until the end of the 
 feast ; and as the good pastor, who 
 always thought of everything, ex- 
 pressed a fear that old Germain e 
 might be anxious about him, they 
 despatched a stable-boy, with the 
 wagon and quickest mare at Muice- 
 ron, to fetch her. 
 
 What a fine supper that was ! 
 All these good people recovered 
 
 their appetites, and ate and drank 
 as they had not done for a long 
 while. I leave you to imagine the 
 stories that were told of the revolu- 
 tion. But Jeannet, not wishing to 
 cloud their present joy, was careful 
 to relate events as though all had 
 been a kind of child's play. Jean- 
 nette, however, paused more than 
 once as she was about to take a 
 mouthful. She felt that Jean-Louis 
 stretched a point now and then for 
 love of her, and she showed her 
 gratitude by looking tenderly at 
 him, while she pressed his hand un- 
 der the table. 
 
 At the dessert, they formed plans. 
 They talked of re-establishing the 
 old order of things, of living to- 
 gether again in peace and harmony, 
 and that there should be no more 
 separations. Ragaud, especially, 
 dwelt at length, and very particu- 
 larly, upon the happy future in 
 store for all of them ; threw mean- 
 ing glances right and left, in which 
 could be remarked much hidden 
 meaning and not a little white 
 wine. Jeannette smiled, blushed, 
 looked down ; and, I fancy, Jean- 
 Louis' heart beat high with hope 
 and expectation of what was to fol- 
 low. 
 
 The good man ended by being 
 much affected, though he endea- 
 vored to' pass it all off as a joke ; for 
 it was his wish always to appear 
 deaf to any kind of sentiment. 
 
 "After all," said he, tapping 
 Jean-Louis on the shoulder, "here 
 is a boy upon whom we cannot 
 depend. He is here now at this 
 very moment; but who knows if 
 to-morrow he will not be out of 
 sight as quickly as the stars fall 
 from the sky on an August night ? 
 Isn't it so, M. le Cure"?" 
 
 " It is just as you say, Ragaud," 
 replied Jhe curt. " ' He who has 
 drunk will drink again,' says the
 
 The Farm cf Miiiceron. 
 
 147 
 
 proverb ; and as this little one went 
 off once without giving warning, 
 how can we know but he will do it 
 again?" 
 
 " Oh ! what nonsense," said Jean- 
 net. " My dear parents, I will never 
 leave you again 1" 
 
 " Hum!" replied Ragaud, " you 
 said that a hundred times before, 
 and then what did we see? One 
 fine morning, no Jeannet !" 
 
 " We must tie him," said old 
 Germaine, laughing ; " when Jean- 
 nette misbehaved in school, I used 
 to tie her by the arm to an end of 
 the bench." 
 
 " I remember it well," said Jean- 
 nette ; " and more than once I broke 
 the string." 
 
 " Then we must find some other 
 means, if that will not do; think 
 of something, Germaine," replied 
 Ragaud, winking Over at the chil- 
 dren. 
 
 "Think yourself, M. Ragaud," 
 said she. "Are you not master 
 here ?" 
 
 " That depends," replied Ragaud. 
 " If I were master, I would say to 
 Jean-Louis, Marry, my boy ; when 
 you will have a wife and children, 
 they will keep you in the country 
 more than all the ropes, even that 
 of our well. But Jeannet has de- 
 clared he will not hear of marriage ; 
 and here is Jeanne, who can't be 
 relied upon for advice, as she said 
 the same thing not more than a 
 month ago, in presence of M. le 
 Cure"; so we can't sing that tune 
 any longer." 
 
 " But how do you know ? Per- 
 haps by this time they have both 
 changed their minds," said the curt> 
 smiling. 
 
 " Let them say so, then," replied 
 Ragaud, his eyes beaming with pa- 
 ternal tenderness that was delight- 
 ful to see. 
 
 "O father!" said Jean-Louis, 
 
 rising, "if I dared to understand 
 you, I would be wild with joy !" 
 
 "If you can't understand me, 
 little one, Jeannette perhaps ,can 
 be a little quicker. Speak, Jean- 
 neton !" 
 
 The child instantly understood 
 his meaning. In a second she 
 was beside Jeannet, took his hand, 
 and both knelt down before their 
 father. 
 
 " My children, ask M. le Cure's 
 blessing before mine," said Ragaud 
 solemnly. " He is the representa- 
 tive of the good God, and it is God 
 who has conducted all." 
 
 It was a touching scene. The 
 good curt extended his trembling 
 hands over Jean-Louis and Jean- 
 nette, who bent low before him, 
 weeping ; then Ragaud did the 
 same with great simplicity, which is 
 the sign of true piety, and then 
 Pierrette took each of their dear 
 heads in her arms, kissed them, and 
 said : 
 
 " My poor darlings ! May God 
 protect you all the days of your life ! 
 You have wept so much, you de- 
 serve to be happy together." 
 
 The poor children were over- 
 whelmed with joy so deep and 
 tranquil they could neither move 
 nor speak. They kept close to- 
 gether, and looked tenderly at each 
 other with eyes that said much. 
 M. le Cure* left them for awhile to 
 themselves and their new-found 
 happiness. He knew enough of the 
 human heart to understand that 
 great display of affection, loud 
 weeping, and noisy parade of words 
 and actions are often marks of a 
 very little fire in the soul ; while 
 love which has been proved by 
 deeds, and which is scarcely seen, 
 is always very ardent. As he had 
 never doubted that Jeannet, hither- 
 to so perfect, would show and feel 
 sincere affection as a lover, he wad
 
 I 4 S 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 glad to see he was not mistaken, 
 and regarded with much pleasure 
 this young couple, who were so well 
 matched. 
 
 However, it was very easy to see 
 our curt had something to say. 
 Jean-Louis and Jeannette had soft- 
 ly retreated to the corner near the 
 sideboard, a little out of sight of 
 the parents ; and we must imagine 
 that, feeling themselves a little 
 more at ease thus sheltered from 
 observation, the faculty of speech 
 returned to them, as they could be 
 heard whispering and laughing like 
 children at recreation. It was so 
 charming to see them thus relieved 
 from all their difficulties, and swim- 
 ming in the full tide of happiness, 
 like fish in the river, no one had the 
 courage to disturb them. 
 
 But our curt had his own idea, 
 and would not leave until he had 
 made it known ; so, as he saw Jean- 
 Louis and Jeannette might chatter 
 away a long while, he rose, as if to 
 say good-night, which made all the 
 rest rise; for, although intensely 
 happy, they did not forget to be 
 civil. 
 
 " My children," said the pastor, 
 addressing the old as well as the 
 young, " I will go to sleep to-night 
 very happy. For forty years, come 
 next All-Saints, that I have been 
 your curt, never have I assisted at 
 a betrothal as consoling as yours, 
 for which I will return thanks to 
 God all my life. You are going to 
 marry as is seldom done in the 
 world nowadays; that is to say, 
 with hearts even more full of esteem 
 than of love, which enables me, in 
 the name of the Lord, to promise 
 you as much happiness as can fall 
 to the lot of mortals here below. 
 You know already that a house 
 built without foundation cannot 
 stand, and that the grain sown in 
 bad soil bears no fruit. It is the 
 
 same with the sacrament of mar- 
 riage, when it is received by a soul 
 that is frivolous and vain, and feels 
 neither regret for the past nor 
 makes good resolutions for the fu- 
 ture. Oh ! how happy I am I can- 
 not say this about you; and how 
 my old heart, which has pitied all 
 your sufferings, now is gladdened 
 at your happiness, well deserved by 
 the piety and resignation of the one 
 and the sincere repentance of the 
 other this is for our betrothed. 
 Great disinterestedness, and all the 
 domestic virtues of a Christian 
 life is the praise I unhesitatingly 
 bestow upon you, the good parents ! 
 But if this reward is beautiful, if 
 nothing can 'exceed it, since it is the 
 pledge of a whole life of peace and 
 happiness, know that the Lord will 
 not be surpassed in generosity, and 
 that he has prepared a delightful 
 surprise by my mouth, which will 
 be like the crowning bouquet on 
 the summit of an edifice just com- 
 pleted. 
 
 " My dear Ragaud, I speak now to 
 you. Twenty years ago, when your 
 generous heart received, without the 
 slightest hesitation, a poor, abandon- 
 ed child, it was an honorable and 
 religious act, which deserved the 
 warmest praise ; but to-day, when 
 you give your only daughter to this 
 same child, from pure esteem of his 
 noble qualities, without regard to 
 the gossip of the people around, 
 this second action surpasses the 
 first in excellence, and deserves a 
 special recompense from our good 
 God. 
 
 " Well ! you will soon have it. 
 Jean-Louis, my child, as it is general- 
 ly said, there is no sky without 
 clouds. Perhaps even at this mo- 
 ment your heart may have a little 
 secret grief; for it is not forbidden 
 to feel an honest wish to give the 
 woman you love all possible honor ;
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 149 
 
 and that cannot be done when one 
 comes into the world without fami- 
 ly or name. 
 
 " Alas ! for the name. I cannot re- 
 pair that misfortune; but for the 
 family, know, my friends, that the 
 blood of him whom you call son 
 and brother is equal to yours. In 
 the name of my conscience, I here 
 declare that Jeannet is the son of 
 Catharine Luguet, who died in my 
 arms sincerely repentant, and most 
 piously giving me perfect license to 
 reveal this secret, confided in con- 
 fession, when I should judge it 
 necessary. I have waited a long 
 time, and I do not regret it. At 
 no other time, I think, could you 
 have been happier to hear me tell 
 such good news. So, Ragaud, em- 
 brace your nephew ; and you, my 
 daughter Jeannette, in taking a 
 perfect husband, you gain, at the 
 same time, a good cousin. Too 
 much happiness never hurts any 
 one!" 
 
 "Ah!" said Germaine, wiping 
 her eyes, " it was worth while stay- 
 ing so late to-night. I have been 
 tempted half a dozen times to tell 
 what M. le Cure 1 has just made 
 known; for I also received the 
 secret from poor dear Catharine, 
 and even before my master, al- 
 though I do not pretend to inter- 
 fere with his rights." 
 
 "M. le Cure"," said Ragaud, "if 
 I am very happy to learn that our 
 dear child belongs to us by nature 
 as much as by friendship, believe me 
 when I say that I am most grateful 
 to God that, without my knowing 
 it, he allowed me to repair the too 
 great severity with which I formerly 
 treated my niece. Alas ! I well re- 
 member it, and most sincerely do I 
 regret it; and if she gave us this 
 handsome boy a little too soon, ac- 
 cording to the laws of God and 
 man, I have no right to blame her, 
 
 as I was the cause, from want of 
 gentleness and kindness! Come, 
 my son," added the good Christian, 
 extending his arms to Jeannet 
 " come, that I may ask your pardon 
 in memory of your poor mother." 
 
 Jean-Louis threw himself on his 
 father's breast, whom he could not 
 yet call dear uncle, while Jeannette 
 added her embrace, giving herself 
 up to the full joy of eousining her 
 future husband. Pierrette had her 
 full share of kisses, you can well 
 fancy. It was so delightful to feel 
 that he really had a family, and was 
 bound to the country by ties of 
 flesh and blood, and also to know 
 that he belonged to the best people 
 in the neighborhood, the Luguets 
 and Ragauds, that Jeannet, who in 
 his whole life never had a spark of 
 vanity, felt a little glow of excite- 
 ment and satisfaction, perfectly na- 
 tural, flame up in his heart. But 
 his beautiful soul quickly drove out 
 such a feeling, to which he al- 
 ready reproached himself for hav- 
 ing listened, even for a moment, al- 
 though it could be easily under- 
 stood, and was honorable in itself. 
 The remembrance of his unknown 
 mother, dying in sorrow and want, 
 and who would have been so happy 
 could she have witnessed his pre- 
 sent joy, surmounted any personal 
 satisfaction. He questioned M. le 
 Cure, and spoke in the most tender 
 and respectful manner in memory 
 of his poor mother, and wished to 
 know every detail of her death, 
 which was sad, but very consoling 
 at the same time. 
 
 Every one listened with much 
 emotion to poor Catharine's story. 
 I doubt not that God then permit- 
 ted her to know something of the 
 loving sympathy and compassion 
 that filled those kind, good hearts, 
 which most certainly must have 
 added to her happiness ; for, since
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 the church commands us to believe 
 that souls cannot die, can it be 
 wrong to think that they see and 
 hear us, when the Lord allows 
 them ? 
 
 Jeannette, while the cur/ spoke, 
 was often much confused when she 
 thought of the dangerous result of 
 coquetry, wilfulness, and too great 
 love of one's own pretty face and 
 fine dresses. She felt how kind 
 God had been to her, that she had 
 not gone the same way as Catha- 
 rine Luguet; for she had walked 
 down the same path, and had nearly 
 fallen as low as she. 
 
 By way of recovering her spirits, 
 she embraced Jeannet, and pro- 
 mised she would be a good house- 
 keeper, and nothing else. 
 
 " And also a pretty little wife, 
 that will make me very happy," re- 
 plied Jeannet, pressing her to his 
 heart. 
 
 "Now," said Pierrette, who for 
 several moments had been very si- 
 lent and thoughtful, " I have just 
 found out something that makes 
 me feel how stupid I am. I never 
 before noticed that Jeannet is the 
 living image of his dear departed 
 mother." 
 
 " It is fortunate, Mme. Ragaud," 
 said Germaine, " that you have just 
 perceived it, after seeing him twen- 
 ty years; for, in truth, the likeness 
 is so striking it has caused M. le 
 Cur6 and me much embarrassment. 
 It was so easily seen that I prayed 
 God would protect him in case of 
 discovery ; and if there is one mira- 
 cle in the whole story, it is that 
 such a strong resemblance did not 
 sooner strike you." 
 
 As it had just been mentioned, in 
 the course of the story, that Catha- 
 rine Luguet, in her day, was the 
 most beautiful girl in the coun- 
 try, this declaration made Jeannet 
 blush, and I dare not affirm it was 
 
 not from pleasure. They discov- 
 ered, also, that Solange had a strong 
 family likeness, and Pierrette, more 
 and more astonished, acknowledged 
 it was true, and that she was as 
 stupid as an owl. 
 
 They had to separate at last, al- 
 though no one felt the least fa- 
 tigued ; but they had had enough 
 for one day, and a little sleep after 
 these heavy showers of happiness 
 would injure none of them. 
 
 As the surprises were not yet 
 over, Jeannet had another charm- 
 ing one when he saw his room 
 newly painted and papered, and his 
 bed, with white curtains, perfumed 
 with the iris-root that our house- 
 keepers love to use in the wash. 
 They installed him like a prefect 
 on a tour of inspection, with a 
 procession of lights, and wishes of 
 good-night, and what do you want, 
 and there it was, and here it is ; and 
 if he slept quietly is something I 
 cannot say positively; but, at any 
 rate, you needn't worry about his 
 eyes, whether they were open or 
 shut. What I can swear to is 
 that his good angel watched joyful- 
 ly by his bedside, and took care to 
 drive off all bad dreams. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Now, I might make my bow, and 
 wish you good-night in my turn ; 
 for I think you are satisfied with 
 the fate of the little ones, and need 
 have no further anxiety on their 
 account. But just as two beautiful 
 roses in a bouquet appear still 
 more beautiful when they are 
 surrounded by other flowers and 
 green leaves that rejoice the eye, 
 so our friends will lose nothing if 
 I represent them to you for the last 
 time among the companions of 
 their adventures who have served 
 as an escort during the whole re- 
 cital. Consequently, if you will be
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 patient a moment and listen to me, 
 I will tell you what became of the 
 people and things that have re- 
 mained in the background for 
 some time. 
 
 In the first place, according to 
 the proverb, "Give every man his 
 due." 
 
 So we will commence with our 
 good master, M. le Marquis, whom 
 we left, if you remember, wounded 
 in the arm and seated on a log 
 near the barricade in the bloody 
 days of June. 
 
 This wound, which was believed 
 to be nothing, became inflamed 
 and very dangerous, owing to the 
 great excitement of the patient 
 and the extreme heat of the sum- 
 mer. The poor marquis was oblig- 
 ed to keep his bed for a long time, 
 and they even feared they would 
 be obliged to amputate the arm. 
 When the physicians made the 
 proposition, he sprang up with a 
 start on his couch, and, weak and 
 feverish as he was, did not hesitate 
 to tell them, in the most emphatic 
 manner, that the first one who 
 mentioned it again would go out 
 of the window with one turn of the 
 hand that was still sound. They 
 advised him to be quiet and calm 
 himself, all the while giving him to 
 understand there was no hope for 
 him which, in my opinion, was not 
 the best means of soothing him ; 
 but doctors never wish to be 
 thought in the wrong, and, without 
 meaning to offend any one, I may 
 say very many of us are doctors on 
 that point. 
 
 Our master was brave. He con- 
 tented himself with saying : 
 
 " I prefer to be buried with two 
 arms, rather than to live with one." 
 
 " That depends on taste," replied 
 Michou, who nursed his master 
 with loving fidelity ; " but he must 
 not be contradicted." 
 
 When the doctors left, M. le 
 Marquis said to Michou : 
 
 " Come here, old fellow ; these 
 idiots of Parisians know as much 
 about revolutions and medicine as 
 planting cabbages. Send for Dr. 
 Aubry. I can get along with him." 
 
 M. Aubry was summoned by 
 telegraph, and God so willed it 
 that scarcely had he seen the 
 wound of M. le Marquis than he 
 shrugged his shoulders, and said 
 he would answer for him ; and 
 added, with much satisfaction, that 
 one had to come to Paris to find 
 doctors that talked like asses and 
 acted like butchers. 
 
 He made them bring him a 
 quantity of pounded ice, which he 
 applied to the wounded arm, <* 
 took care that our master always 
 kept a piece in his mouth. In that 
 way his blood was refreshed, and 
 there was no longer danger of the 
 flesh mortifying. He added to 
 this remedy another potion not 
 less wonderful, which was to dis- 
 tract the mind of the marquis by 
 telling him night and day for he 
 never slept all kinds of stories, 
 sometimes lively, sometimes serious, 
 but always suitable to his state ; and 
 so kept him constantly amused and 
 interested, which prevented him 
 from thinking of his poor arm. At 
 the end of a week, he was out of 
 danger, and he could get up, eat 
 the breast of a chicken, and think 
 of going out in a few days. If I 
 would be a little malicious, I could 
 tell you that the Parisian doctors 
 were not very well pleased at the 
 triumph of their country colleague, 
 and perhaps would have been more 
 content to see our master dead than 
 their prophecies frustrated ; but 
 I had better be silent than wanting 
 in charity, and therefore I prefer 
 to let you think what you please 
 about them.
 
 152 
 
 The Farm of M nicer on. 
 
 Poor mademoiselle and Dame 
 Berthe, during this painful time 
 of anxiety, acted admirably and 
 showed great devotion and love. 
 It was then seen that, although 
 they had their little defects on the 
 surface, their souls were generous 
 and good. The old governess for- 
 got her scarfs and embroideries, 
 and devoted herself to making lint, 
 and no longer indulged in dreams 
 of the king's entrance into Pa- 
 ris, but constantly recited fervent 
 prayers, which had not, I assure 
 you, " the cause" in view. Mademoi- 
 selle received a salutary blow. 
 She became, through this trouble, 
 serious and recollected ; began to 
 see that in Paris nothing is 
 thought of but pleasure and fine 
 toilets, and that, after all, at Val- 
 Saint there were a thousand ways 
 of passing her life in a pleasant way 
 worthy of a Christian whom God 
 had so liberally endowed with 
 riches. 
 
 One day, when she had gone out 
 to pray and weep in a neighboring 
 church, she returned with her eyes 
 radiant with joy, and said to Dame 
 Berthe : 
 
 " All will be right. My father will 
 be cured. I cannot explain to you 
 why I am so confident, but I am 
 sure of it. When I was in the 
 church before the altar of the 
 Blessed Virgin, the idea entered 
 into my head to make a vow ; and I 
 have promised to return to the 
 country, and remain there the rest 
 of my life, to work for the poor, 
 and to occupy myself with all other 
 kinds of good works, as my mother 
 used to. I have too long neglect- 
 ed to follow her example, and 
 henceforth I will act differently. I 
 depend upon your assistance." 
 
 Dame Berthe nearly fainted with 
 admiration of her pupil's saintli- 
 ness. As she was naturally very 
 
 good, she was impressed with the 
 beauty of the project, and promised 
 to do all in her power to aid her. 
 
 After that, mademoiselle looked 
 liked another person. She visited 
 churches and chapels, conferred 
 with pious priests ; and as mon- 
 sieur improved every day, he could 
 accompany her in the carriage; 
 and she took great pleasure in 
 confiding to him her new plans, 
 proving to him that he could be 
 much more useful to " the cause " 
 by instructing the peasants in poli- 
 tics than by fighting the rabble in 
 Paris ; that, by his great wealth and 
 the high esteem in which he was 
 held, he could make himself still 
 more beloved ; and that, when they 
 loved him, they would love the no- 
 bility which he represented ; so that 
 when the time came and it would 
 not be far off for the triumph of 
 his hopes, he could offer to the 
 king a faithful population devoted to 
 good principles, which was scarcely 
 possible in the present state of 
 affairs. 
 
 As she was in this happy frame 
 of mind, you can imagine with 
 what joy mademoiselle received the 
 news of the engagement of Jean- 
 Louis and Jeanne. She immedi- 
 ately wrote a letter on the subject 
 which deserved to be put under 
 glass and framed in gold ; for not 
 only did she congratulate the Ra- 
 gauds with the greatest affection, 
 but she humbly accused herself of 
 having nearly ruined the happiness 
 of her god-daughter, and thanked 
 God he had directed all in a man- 
 ner so contrary to her wishes. 
 When you think that this high-born 
 young lady spoke thus to the little 
 daughter of a farmer on her estate, 
 we must admire the miracles of the 
 religion which teaches us that those 
 who humble themselves shall be ex- 
 alted ; and I add, for the benefit of
 
 The Farm of Muiceron. 
 
 153 
 
 those who fancy themselves lovers 
 of equality, and talk all kind of 
 nonsense about it, that there never 
 would have been the slightest 
 chance of planting a seed of it in the 
 hearts of men, even though it were 
 no bigger than a grain of millet, if 
 they had not beforehand received 
 instructions on that virtue from our 
 dear mother, the church. 
 
 About a month afterwards, M. le 
 Marquis being perfectly cured, they 
 all returned to Val-Saint ; and it is 
 unnecessary to say how universal 
 was the joy. It is equally useless 
 to tell you that their first occupa- 
 tion was the marriage of our chil- 
 dren, which was so beautiful, so 
 joyous, so enlivened with the 
 music of violins and songs, it re- 
 sembled that of a prince and prin- 
 cess in Mother Goose. During a 
 whole week, the boys of the neigh- 
 borhood beat tin pans and fired off 
 guns under the windows of Mui- 
 ceron, as signs of honor and re- 
 joicing. With us peasants, joy is 
 always rather noisy, but, at least, it 
 can be heard very far ; and, besides, 
 as we don't often have a chance of 
 amusing ourselves, it is best to let 
 us have our own way. 
 
 There remains very little more 
 for me to say, except that made- 
 moiselle persevered in her laudable 
 resolutions, and became the angel 
 of Val-Saint. One of her first good 
 acts was to buy the house of the 
 unfortunate Perdreaux, which, since 
 the sad end of its masters, had re- 
 mained deserted and shut up, no 
 one daring to put it up at auction. 
 Mademoiselle sent for workmen, 
 who soon transformed it into a 
 fine school-house, divided into two 
 parts by a garden, where nothing 
 was spared in fruit-trees, flowers, 
 and vegetables. The following 
 year the school was ready for occu- 
 pation, and the Sisters were placed 
 
 in charge of the girls, and a good 
 teacher over the boys. By good 
 luck, they were able to obtain So- 
 lange, who came among the first. 
 Thus all our friends met again, and 
 formed one family, of which the 
 good God was the true father. 
 
 M. le Cure was very old when he 
 died, and Germaine soon followed 
 him. This good pastor left many 
 regrets which are not yet assuaged ; 
 but he departed from this world 
 happy that he saw all his children 
 around him leading good, holy 
 lives ; and at the moment he expir- 
 ed, they heard him Se.'tly repeat 
 the Nunc dimittis servitm tuum y 
 D online, secundum verbum tuum in 
 pace which is a prayer of compline, 
 printed in all the Breviaries. 
 
 Muiceron continued to prosper 
 under the management of good 
 Jeannet and his dear wife. The 
 Ragauds passed their old age in 
 a dream of happiness, free from 
 clouds, amidst the love and respect 
 of the community. Pierrette, who 
 had never sinned but from weak- 
 ness 'of heart, was never cured of 
 this defect. On the contrary, it in- 
 creased ; and she devoted herself so 
 completely to spoiling the beautiful 
 children that Jeanne gave her, that 
 more than once the parents had to 
 cry, Stop ! But aside from these lit- 
 tle troubles, which did not cause 
 much difficulty, peace and concord 
 never ceased to reign in this house 
 of benediction. 
 
 As the last flower in the crown, 
 I will tell you that M. Aubry, who 
 was not remarkable for devotion, 
 was taken in hand by Sister Solange, 
 and quietly converted. He swore 
 a little at first, as might have been 
 expected, and said it was a shame, 
 at his age, to fall into the net of a 
 doctor in cornette and petticoats, 
 at whose birth he had been present, 
 and whom he had vaccinated ; but
 
 154 
 
 The Farm of Muiceron? 
 
 the end of all was, the eornette led 
 him by the nose to Mass and con- 
 fession, where he was seen to weep, 
 although he tried to be very firm. 
 As he was a good man, frank and 
 open in all he did, once the step 
 was taken, he did not go back ; and 
 I knew him a long while, and never 
 
 saw him act but like a perfect 
 Christian. 
 
 And now, at this late hour, I 
 pray that God may send down 
 upon you, as well as myself, his 
 choicest blessings, without which, 
 you may truly believe, there is no- 
 thing worth living for here below.
 
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