UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 MAY TREAT MORRISON 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 ALEXANDER F MORRISON
 
 7- 3 V ^' ^
 
 TrT 
 
 'Yè 
 
 ^1 ;^,..*} ■ 
 
 
 ; ^^f^*.
 
 THE 
 
 ABBE DANIEL 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH 
 
 ANDRE THEURIET 
 
 BY 
 
 HELEN r>. DOLE 
 
 ^ 
 
 NEW YORK: 46 East 14T11 Stkeei- 
 
 THOALAS V. CROWELL & COMPANY 
 
 BOSTON': khi in kciiask Street
 
 Copyright, 
 
 1894, 
 
 Bv T. Y. CROWELL & CO. 
 
 ' ''' '.* Vc «'c c
 
 
 INTRODUCnON. 
 
 •*The Abbé Daniel" is one of those liter- 
 ary gems which the French excel in produc- 
 ing. Simple in plot, chaste in style, dainty in 
 humor, its beauty consists chiefly in its artis- 
 tic counterpoise of the characters : the abbé 
 himself, with his affectionate, unselfish nature, 
 unworldly, sweet-tempered, easily crushed; 
 his namesake growing up from an impetuous 
 youtli into a gallant soldier, hearty, frank, 
 likeable ; the rtowerlike Denise fading away 
 and leaving a still brighter flower as a con- 
 solation for her husband and the abbj who 
 had loved her; Beauvais, the rough, hearty 
 proprietor, so genial under the outside bark, 
 so wise and generous ! These are the four 
 chief actors, and how perfectly they balance 
 and contrast with one another ! 
 
 Tiie story is a sort of pastoral, though free 
 from all insipidity, seasoned as it is with 
 wholesome French spico. it is sentimental, 
 
 429066
 
 iv Introduction. 
 
 but free from mawkishiiess. It is pure as 
 crystal, and yet it does not flaunt this purity 
 with a hypocritical grimace. 
 
 It is often said that France has no word 
 for /io7}ie because the French do not know 
 what home means. " The Abbe' Daniel " 
 shows how false such a charge is. It takes 
 us into that beautiful home life which the 
 French themselves perhaps avoid displaying 
 to inquisitive eyes, but which is really the 
 secret of the true stability of France. We 
 here see a French home, and we finish the 
 perusal of the book with a new respect for the 
 French farmer and the French girl, the French 
 soldier and the French priest. 
 
 N. H. Dc
 
 THE ABBÉ DANIEL 
 
 CHAlMia< I. 
 
 Ski'Ti:mi!p:r io, 1S3-. 
 
 Dav before yesterday I was twent}' 
 
 \'ears old, and I left the seminary, never 
 
 to return. My heart is full of jo\', and 
 
 a sweet fever of excitement has taken 
 
 r 1
 
 The 4bbe Daniel. 
 
 po^se^sian - of <n\ft -Since my return to 
 iViy-'oWii" dear- cou'ntry home. 
 
 I have renewed the acquaintance of 
 my h'ttle domain of Les Bruasseries. I 
 have visited Les Temph'ers, where my 
 uncle hves, and where I found Denise 
 once more, taller and more beautiful 
 than she was a year ago. She is now 
 seventeen. 
 
 This morning" I crossed the meadow 
 separating Les Bruasseries from Les 
 Templiers ; I made my way up to the 
 foot of the pointed turret which over- 
 looks Ëtableaux. From there the whole 
 valley can be seen. On the right, Eta- 
 bleaux rises in terraces on its rocky 
 slope. Below, beyond the gentle out- 
 lines of the chestnut-trees, the Egronne 
 makes its slow, winding way through 
 the meadows, now hidden under the 
 alders, now reappearing with dazzling
 
 The Abbe D.iin'c/. ^ 
 
 brillianc)'. On the left, in the far dis- 
 tance, the town of Pressi\^"n\' spreads 
 out Hke a fan, aiul tlie river bathes the 
 hist of its houses. The sun was rising 
 in a sk\' of spotless blue and filling the 
 whole valley with light. What a feast 
 for the eyes ! What beautifid weather, 
 and what a jo)' to be alive ! 
 
 The other evening, when I went to 
 say good-by to the Abbé Bonneau, our 
 superior, I found him, as usual, shut 
 up in the librar\'. 
 
 " Well, my son," he said, lifting his 
 already sno\\\' head, " }'ou are going 
 to leave us? " 
 
 I thanked him for his kindness to 
 me, then explained to him that T did 
 not feel a sufficiently decided calling 
 for the ecclesiastical state, and that I 
 should try to seek m\' salvation while 
 remaining in the world.
 
 The Abbe DauieL 
 
 ** My son," he replied, in his slow 
 v^oice, *' you are talking of what you 
 know nothing about ; the world sub- 
 mits hearts to cruel tests, and you are 
 one of those to whom it loves, above 
 all, to cause suffering. However," he 
 added, holding out his hand to me, 
 ** God knows how to reclaim his sheep. 
 I will not say adieu to you, but an 
 revoir ; for if I read my heart aright, 
 you will come back to us again." 
 
 Poor abbé ! Scarcely two days later 
 the heavy door closed behind me, and 
 to-day the seminary already seems like 
 a strange, far-away country ! 
 
 The Evening of September i8. 
 
 The clock at Pressigny has just 
 
 struck ten; the night is calm, the 
 
 house is at rest, and I alone cannot 
 sleep. . . .
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 
 
 To-day was Siin- 
 ila)'. We did not 
 i^o to vespers, and 
 I spent the after- 
 noon at Les Temp- 
 liers. The weather 
 was briglit and 
 warm, the servants 
 had gone out for 
 the rest of the 
 day ; m\' uncle 
 was hunting, and 
 m\' aunt had fallen 
 asleep while read- 
 ing her prayer- 
 book. The bells 
 of Pressigny had 
 been ringing a long 
 time, and had just 
 ceased. The hum 
 of insects, accent-
 
 The Abbé DaiiieL 
 
 uated by the sharp file of the locust, 
 pervaded the fields. Denise and I 
 were sitting at the foot of the tower, 
 near some raspberry-bushes. We were 
 silent. I felt happy and yet troubled ; 
 I should have been glad to walk about 
 to relieve my embarrassment, and yet 
 I remained still. She too seemed 
 disturbed. 
 
 " Denise," I said at last, " I want 
 to ask something of }'ou, which would 
 make me very happy. . . . Pick that 
 rose over there, and give it to me." 
 
 She did not move; and I, blushing 
 for shame, dared not look at her. Sud- 
 denly, without breaking the silence, she 
 got up and \vent slowly toward the 
 rose bush. Her hand slipped through 
 the branches ; but while breaking off 
 the flower, she uttered a cry. I ran to 
 her; the thorns had wounded her arm.
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 
 
 "It is nothing," she said, and started 
 to move awa}'. I took her liand ; I 
 placed 111)' trembling finger on the cut, 
 from which a single drop of blood was 
 oozing. She trembled, and our eyes 
 met. She let the rose fall, and we fled 
 from each other, frightened at our 
 temerity. 
 
 I spent the rest of the day wandering 
 through the woods. Every time I 
 slackened my pace, I seemed to feel 
 once more in my finger's ends the 
 gentle impression of her delicate flesh, 
 torn by the thorns. 
 
 At nightfall, as I was roaming about 
 Les Templiers, my uncle saw me, and 
 called to me. I went into the large hall 
 with downcast e)^es, and trembling from 
 head to foot. Denise was bending over 
 the fire, and I could not see her face. 
 A tall, light-complexioned )'oung man,
 
 8 Tlje Abbé Daniel. 
 
 with broad shoulders and a bold, for- 
 ward manner, was standing near the 
 dining-table. 
 
 " You must take supper with us," 
 said m\- uncle, " and with this young 
 fellow here. Do )-ou remember him? " 
 
 I had hardly \entured to raise my 
 eyes toward the new-comer, when, with 
 a burst of laughter, he exclaimed: — 
 
 "What! little Dani, don't you re- 
 member Simon Beauvais, of Pressigny, 
 who fished you out one day, when you 
 had fallen into the Egronne? So you 
 have thrown oft" the cowl?" And his 
 noisy laughter began again. 
 
 I did not know how to repl\', and, 
 confused at this unfortunate recollection 
 brought up in the presence of Denise, 
 I shook hands with the giant, who then 
 seated himself at table, next my cousin, 
 I kept silent throughout supper, while
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 Ik^auvais, made more jcn-ial b}' my 
 uncle's wine, was full of jests and merr\' 
 tales, Denise seemed preoccupied, and 
 her words were few. As I was takin^; 
 lea\x^ our e)'cs met, but she quickly 
 turnetl awa\' her face, and I went back- 
 to Les l^ruasseries, with my head full 
 of plans, and m\' heart filled with wague 
 forebodings. 
 
 Septemiîer 28. 
 Simon Beauvais remains at Les Tem- 
 pliers. The house resounds all da}' 
 long with his coarse laughter. My 
 uncle shows him partialit)'; the serwants 
 cannot say enough about his strength, 
 his spirits, and his abilit\'; even Denise 
 is under the charm ; while L unaccus- 
 tomed to any kind of bodily exercise, 
 feel more awkward and timid than ever 
 in his presence. He has come to spoil
 
 lo The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 the peaceful happiness that I was 
 silently enjoying. 
 
 To-day the vintage began in the val- 
 ley. A glorious sun bathed the vines, 
 with their foliage already turning red. 
 The vintagers, working along the 
 slopes on the side of Les Murets, 
 called joyfully to one another. Wag- 
 ons loaded with grapes were rolling 
 along the roads, and an intoxicating 
 odor of sweet new wine was exhaled 
 from the presses. 
 
 Denise, wearing a wide-brimmed 
 straw hat, stepped quietly among the 
 \'ines ; I followed her, happy to move 
 about with her in the same warm air, 
 and to tread the sand which her feet 
 had touched. She stopped for a mo- 
 ment under a walnut-tree; the warm 
 weather had made her checks glow, 
 and her \Molct-colored e}'es sparkled
 
 r"
 
 TJ?e Abbè Damel. 
 
 in tlic shadow made by the projcctin^^ 
 rim of her straw hat. Suddenl)-, a 
 few steps from us, appeared Beauvais, 
 dri\-ing the cart. His face took on 
 that expression of raiUery which ahva)'s 
 disconcerts me. While the \'intagers 
 were emptyini^ their baskets into the 
 casks on the wagon, the horse, made 
 restless b\' the flies, started to run. 
 Beauvais rushed ahead, seized him by 
 the bit with one arm, compelled the 
 kicking beast to stand still, and then 
 looked round with a haught\- smile. 
 I stole a glance at Denise ; her eyes 
 were fixed on Beauvais, and her face 
 wore an expression of unconscious 
 admiration. T felt humiliated ; for the 
 first time jealousy ate into my heart, 
 and I left the vine}'ard abruptly.
 
 14 The Abbe Dcniiel. 
 
 At the Seminary, October 20. 
 
 No, I was not made for life in the 
 world, and the Abbé Bonneau was right. 
 The trial, O my God, was not long. 
 I could not remain at Les Templiers; 
 and to stay even at Les Bruasseries 
 was unbearable. Denise is to marry 
 Beauvais in three days. They were 
 talking about the marriage when I 
 returned to Les Bruasseries, and I was 
 the only one who knew nothing about 
 it. A gossiping servant-girl took it 
 upon herself to open my eyes. I felt 
 my heart sink within me ; it seemed as 
 if a thick fog suddenly obscured my 
 bright valley of the Ëgronne. I spent 
 a night in tears, and in the morning 
 I fled away without even seeing Denise 
 for the last time. 
 
 I reached the town on a hot evening. 
 All the inhabitants were out of doors.
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 15 
 
 I passed throuL;h the streets bordered 
 with brilliant])' lii^htcd shops and filled 
 with a gay, lively, animated throng ; then 
 I plunged into the dark, solitary quarter 
 surrounding the cathedral. The old 
 church spread its great shadow over 
 the cloisters and the walls of the sem- 
 inar}'. Carr\-ing m\' light bag in one 
 hand, I knocked at the great door so 
 familiar to me, and asked for the supe- 
 rior. I was shown into the librarx'. 
 At the farther side, at the end of two 
 sombre walls of books, I discovered 
 him, reading by his little lamp. At 
 the sound of m\' footsteps he raised 
 his head, and reaching out his hand, 
 said in his calm voice, — 
 
 " Well, I was right in predicting that 
 you would come back to us." 
 
 Then I felt that all was at an c\\i\, 
 and could onl}' answer him with a sob.
 
 i6 
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 Fourteen years later, March, 184-. 
 While arranging my books I came 
 across the small prayer-book which I 
 used at Les Templiers. How little it 
 
 'K- 
 
 takes to make my mind wander and 
 incline to forbidden emotions ! At 
 the sight of the brown binding I was 
 touched. My poor heart reopened like
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 17 
 
 a half-closed wound. Les Templiers! 
 in spite of m}'self, my heart is al\va}'s 
 at Les Templiers. I ha\'e perused my 
 books in \'ain. Saint Augustine now 
 seems artful, and Bossuet merciless. 
 May God come to my aid, for left to 
 myself I fear I shall be overcome. 
 
 At the seminary I was sustained by 
 the enthusiasm of faith, by the attractive 
 example of the apostles' self-sacrificing 
 labors, and by the discipline of the 
 house. . . . With ecstasy I made the 
 sacrifice of m\' will. I was named 
 \'icar of one of the churches in the 
 town. The pulpit was open to me, 
 and I saw an attentive congregation 
 below me. I prepared and studied 
 my sermons with care, — all my }'outh 
 rose to my lips ; but it pleased God 
 to give me, together with ordinar\' 
 genius, a soul less ambitious than sen-
 
 I s The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 sitive. My zeal flagged ; moreover, the 
 city with its passions and noisy dis- 
 tractions disturbed and shocked me. I 
 believed that an unknown village, hid- 
 den in the \voods, would be better 
 suited to the needs of my heart. I 
 
 secured a parish at D , off in 
 
 Touraine, twenty leagues from Les 
 Templiers. I welcomed this promise 
 of a peaceful life; I took delight in 
 the idea of burying myself at thirty- 
 three, hoping that in the village it 
 would at least be granted that my 
 soul should bring forth fruits profitable 
 
 to the parish. I have been in D 
 
 for a year. I have four hundred parish- 
 ioners scattered about in their little 
 homes. The church is almost alone, 
 in the centre, with the town-hall and 
 the priest's house. My dwelling is 
 humble and old, but peaceful and in
 
 The Abbe Darnel . 19 
 
 accordance with my tastes. lichiiul 
 it there is quite a lar^^e, sliadx' \'arcl. 
 What more do I need? . . . 
 
 My friends no longer write to me. 
 All that are left of m\' famil\^ li\e at 
 Les Templiers, where I can ne\'er 
 return Now and then the mail brings 
 me a commission or a circular bearing 
 the sui)erscription : "To the curate of 
 
 1) ." No more letters from friends; 
 
 \\K^ more letters to Daniel ! . . . 
 
 Outside m\' parish I am dead ; my 
 parishioners are plain people, almost 
 all uneducated. I see little of them 
 except on Sunday; during the week 
 I live in isolation. ?^Iarie-Lène, who 
 ser\ed m\' predecessor and ser\'es me, 
 never speaks two words in a da\'. She 
 perpetually wears, as it were, a leaden 
 bandage on her forehead, and is spend- 
 in-'" the rest of her da\-s in tirinsj" herself
 
 20 The Abbé DiViicl. 
 
 out for the love of God. I have no 
 dog; Marie-Lène has a horror of ani- 
 mals. Even my garden, which gave me 
 so much pleasure last year, has grown 
 gloomy like my life. My brother 
 priests of the neighboring parishes are 
 all advanced in years, and have seden- 
 tary habits; moreover, their white hair 
 wins my respect without winning my 
 heart. 
 
 And here I am, seized with home- 
 sickness for the city. The annoyances 
 of the town have given place to other 
 torments. I am tired of solitude. My 
 parish is like a great orchard, where 
 Nature alone reigns peaceful and fruit- 
 ful. The city is more or less in sym- 
 pathy with every vocation ; my village 
 knows but two things, — manual labor 
 and marriage. I have no bachelors 
 over tliirty. Wherever you see a chim-
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 21 
 
 ncy smokinc^ among the walnut-trees, 
 there you fnul a faniil\', there }'ou fmtl 
 children. The church, the town-hall. 
 and the priest's house are the onl\' 
 solitar}' dwellinL^s ; but the church has 
 God, and e\'ery Sunda)- a crowd of 
 tailhful worshippers; the town-hall has 
 the school, swarniini;" with children; 
 ni}' abode alone is forsaken. . , . 
 
 Ah ! p(X)r pastor so out of place ! — 
 When I walk on the lieii^hts and in the 
 hidtlen roads I ani a pre\' t(^ the most 
 contrar}' thoui^hts. If ambition comes 
 to smile at me in m}' dreams, a \oice 
 from m\' book replies, " Ilumilit}' ! " 
 To the recollections of a too worldl\- 
 lo\-c, the same voice replies, " Chas- 
 tit\' ! " To the weed o{ friendship, " Iso- 
 lation and separation ! " .\nd }'et the 
 corn tremblini^ in the breeze and scatter- 
 ing^ pollen, the birds fl}-ini:^ to their nests
 
 2 2 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 hidden among the branches, the women 
 carrying luncheon to their husbands or 
 their sons in the vineyards, the peasants 
 sino^incr in the distance at ev^eninss; when 
 all other sounds are hushed, — what 
 do they all say to me? — "Marriage! 
 family ! " . . . 
 
 If only I had a child to bring up, to 
 teach, to love, — a child sleeping under 
 m.y roof, playing about my door, filling 
 my house with its joyous life ! 
 
 April, 184-. 
 This morning, just as I was entering 
 the house after mass, I was accosted 
 by an aged woman, whom I did not 
 recognize at first. It was La Bruère, 
 an old servant living with Denise. I 
 had not seen her since I was at the 
 seminary. My heart beat fast, and I 
 was conscious of growing red in the
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 23 
 
 face. Somewhat intimidated by my 
 cassock, she approached me and bowed, 
 not knowing whether to call me Daniel 
 or Monsieur le curé. 
 
 " Surely, you never thoui;ht of see- 
 ing mc, Monsieur le curé?" she said 
 at last. " I came here on account of 
 my sister, who is a member of your 
 parish. I ha\'e just come from Les 
 Templiers, where ever}' one wished to 
 be remembered to }'ou. Our mistress 
 bade me ' go without fail to my cousin's, 
 and inquire for his health.' Poor, dear 
 lady ! She has alwa}'s been rather 
 frail since her little Denise was born, 
 three }-ears ago come Palm Sunday. 
 Oh, }'ou are not forgotten at Les Tem- 
 pliers, and even Monsieur Beauvais 
 said to me : * Here is a book for )'ou 
 to carr}' to our cousin.' . . . And the 
 little girl ! Here is a bunch of xiolets 
 that she picked herself."
 
 24 The Abbe Daniel. 
 
 La Bruère was always very talkative. 
 Her gossip gave me time to compose 
 myself. I was able to question her 
 further without seeming too much agi- 
 tated, and to console my feeble heart 
 so suddenly awakened from a sleep of 
 fourteen years. . . . 
 
 They are happy at Les Templiers ! 
 I thought so. Why should they not 
 be happy? Beau vais is all attention to 
 my cousin. They have a little daugh- 
 ter, whom they adore, and she is the 
 living picture of her mother, whose 
 sweet name she bears. La Bruère did 
 not forget the least detail, she told me 
 everything, — the child's pretty ways, 
 the mother's occupations, Beauvais's 
 feats in hunting. I seemed to see 
 him again, my fortunate rival, towering 
 above me; and I saw Denise too, so 
 pale, so sweet and lovely, and I went 
 over all the days gone by. . . .
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 25 
 
 Here a tear rolled down 011 the white 
 embroidery of my neck-band, and spar- 
 kled as it hung there. O memories, 
 why have I called you forth? O my 
 heart, you believed yourself indifferent 
 to the world, and }'ou are moved at the 
 recollection of a woman ! . . . 
 
 They have a little daughter, who 
 looks like her mother. . . . 
 
 April, 1S4-. 
 
 A frightful accident! Poor man. 
 where arc you now? ... I constantly 
 see your look, so passing strange. 
 What did he wish to say to me? . . . 
 May God have mercy upon you ! Poor 
 woman, about to become a mother! 
 Poor little child ! 
 
 It was three o'clock in the afternoon. 
 I was in church, and they were sing- 
 ing the Tejii'bne. To-day is Alaundy-
 
 2 6 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 Thursday. The door was open wide, 
 and let in the gentle spring air. The 
 weather was as mild as the sweet peace 
 of a conscience freshly reconciled with 
 its God. Flowers which pious young 
 girls had heaped upon the tomb of our 
 Saviour filled the air with their fra- 
 grance. I was sitting in my • accus- 
 tomed place among the children. The 
 women were ranged in front of the 
 choir. The children had each brought 
 a mallet to indicate realistically the con- 
 sternation of Jerusalem. This circum- 
 stance, together with the coming of 
 spring, made them more restless than 
 usual. Little Daniel especially was 
 more uneasy than ever. He is a child 
 of eight years. For a long time I have 
 singled him out among his companions 
 for his good behavior, wide-awake man- 
 ner, and also because his name was
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 27 
 
 Daniel, like my own. He disputed with 
 his nearest neighbor, and tried to make 
 his way to my side. Children are so 
 quick to guess when they are loved ! 
 According to the custom on Maundy- 
 Thursda}', the first candles of yellow 
 wax had been extinguished, and I was 
 carried in spirit to Jerusalem. Little 
 Daniel had succeeded in slipping to 
 my side ; the mildness of the air, the 
 perfume of the flowers, and the singing 
 of psalms soon closed his eyes, and he 
 laid his sleepy head upon my arm. 
 Next to the last candle had been put 
 out. The impatient mallets were be- 
 ginning to be heard, when all of a 
 sudden a disturbance spread through 
 the church. I turned my head, and 
 saw a woman running. All the others 
 rose, crowded together, and then rushed 
 out. Some one came to me.
 
 28 
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 " Monsieur le curé, the carpenter 
 Peyré (little Daniel's father), while 
 working on the roof of the new house, 
 has fallen into the street, and is dying." 
 
 I went out in my surplice, and ran 
 towards the new house. They all made 
 room for me as I came near, and I saw 
 
 stretched out — in, oh, my God, what 
 a condition ! — a man, who opened his 
 great eyes toward me, looked strangely 
 into my face, moved his lips, and was 
 dead ! 
 
 His wife was there, by his side, 
 motionless as a statue. The people 
 shrieked; she alone was dumb. She
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 29 
 
 is soon to be a mother. They bore 
 away the corpse, and took the widow 
 home ; but before leaving, she raised 
 her eyes to the top of the house, where 
 the bouquet, placed there by her hus- 
 band, fluttered its gay ribbons. 
 
 Peyré has no relatives here ; he did 
 not belong to this part of the country. 
 The widow has only a brother, who 
 has children himself. All are pitifully 
 poor. Peyré did not even own his 
 dwelling. Fortunatcl}% I still have the 
 larger part of the rent from Les Bruas- 
 series ; but what can money do? Oh, 
 what are my troubles beside this 
 great sorrow? Wretch that I am to 
 complain ! 
 
 When I was taking leave of the 
 widow my attention was drawn to the 
 heart-rending cries of little Daniel, who 
 had just been sleeping so happily on
 
 30 The Abbé Djiiiel. 
 
 my arm. I took him by the hand, and 
 led him home with me. I put him to 
 bed in my guest-room. He is sleeping 
 there now. His tears have dried, and 
 left his cheeks covered with stains. 
 
 O God ! Does thy providence sec 
 fit to bring me consolation through 
 this terrible misfortune? Is Daniel to 
 be my Easter gift from thee? . . . 
 
 Ten days later. 
 
 May the peace of the Lord rest 
 upon her throughout all ages ! . . . 
 
 Peyré's wife followed her husband 
 after ten days. I buried her by his 
 side with her unborn child. She took 
 to her bed the day after the accident. 
 She would neither eat nor speak. The 
 doctor despaired of her from the first. 
 She seemed quite indifferent to her son. 
 However, at the very last, as she held
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 
 
 Daniel's hand, she looked at him with 
 inexpressible tenderness, then placed 
 liis hand in mine, without sa)'ini^ a 
 word. I accepted the legacy. 
 
 May, 1S4-. 
 
 I am now occup\'ing a new room ; 
 I g"a\'e mine, which was more air\' and 
 pleasant, to Daniel. It seems as if I 
 had changed my home, and as if I 
 were in a different parish. Peace has 
 come back to me since I took this 
 child to li\e under m\' roof. I still 
 think often of Les Templiers; but now 
 without bitterness and without risk. 
 If Denise has a little girl, I ha\'e a 
 boy; our destinies are not so different, 
 l^lessed be the Lord, who has sent me 
 this child ! 
 
 M\" little Daniel is still rather slu' ; 
 he is not \et tamed. He is like a
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 bird all plumed for flight, which knows 
 very well that this is not his nest. He 
 is like the flowers we gather while in 
 bud, which do not revive for some 
 time ; but shy as he is, he fills my 
 house with merriment. 
 
 And while I am thus satisfying the 
 desires of my heart and relishing this 
 unhoped-for paternity, I am praised. 
 I am extolled and blessed throughout 
 my parish. *' Ah, Monsieur le curé, 
 how good you are to do this ! The 
 good Lord will repay you ! " I hum- 
 ble myself before God every evening. 
 They let me take this child ; they have 
 given him to me ; he is mine, — a beau- 
 tiful, living child ! I can feed him, give 
 him a home, keep him in my house, 
 and they ask nothing in return for such 
 a treasure, and I am not their debtor; 
 on the contrary, they thank me and 
 Draisc me !
 
 The Abbe Daiiid. 
 
 ZZ 
 
 Ah, no one knows tlie peace, the 
 happiness, that this young guest brings 
 me in his open, outstretched hands. . . , 
 I have a child !
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Here the journal of the Abbé Daniel 
 comes to an end. 
 
 The new duties that came with the 
 orphan into the priest's house silenced 
 his troubled thoughts and melancholy 
 recollections. He was obliged to tliink 
 how to clothe the child, how to get 
 him accustomed to his new surround-
 
 The Abbe Dan id. 35 
 
 ings, — above all, how to ci\'ilizc him. 
 And the abbe, timid, awkward, and 
 inexperienced as he was, found it no 
 easy task to concern himself with the 
 details of practical life; but he set 
 about it with all his heart. All his 
 whole store of affection, so long pent 
 up in him, without an}' means of ex- 
 pression, he now^ lavished on the 
 adopted boy. He planned his clothing 
 and his food with the jo\'ous ardor 
 which a young mother feels for her 
 first-born, whom love tells what expe- 
 rience can ne\'er teach. E\ery day 
 he s}:)ent hours watching him play, and 
 ever}' night looking at him while he 
 slept. 
 
 He often thought of Denise still; 
 but the thought of her carried with it 
 now neither regret nor disappointment. 
 I lenceforth Denise seemed to the abbé
 
 7,6 The Abbe Daniel. 
 
 only as the happy mother of a child 
 in whom \vould reappear later on all 
 those graces and that bloom of youth 
 which he had formerly loved so well. 
 He went in fancy to Les Templiers ; 
 he saw the child growing up; he heard 
 her fresh laughter in the midst of the 
 orchard ; and in his imagination he 
 associated her destiny with that of his 
 own child. 
 
 Seven years passed quickly in the 
 midst of these occupations and pleasant 
 fancies, and then La Bruère came again 
 
 to D , and this time she brought 
 
 sad news indeed. Denise had never 
 wholly recovered from the illness fol- 
 lowing her confinement; on the con- 
 trary, she seemed to grow weaker every 
 day. This visit left the abbé anxious 
 and melancholy. After La Bruère had 
 gone, he walked up and down in the
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 37 
 
 c^arden for a long time. His heart was 
 full of sadness, both sweet and bitter. 
 Daniel, now quite tall, joined him, and 
 after he had taken a few turns with 
 him in silence, he suddenly asked: — 
 
 "What is the matter, cousin?" (The 
 abbé had taught him to address him 
 in this familiar \\a}M The abbé lifted 
 his arm, and, placing his hand on his 
 head, replied, " I ha\-e you ! " and he 
 turned his thoughts in another direc- 
 tion, though he still felt that his heart 
 was too full for utterance. 
 
 The bo\' was surel\' growing up; he 
 was nearly sixteen, and would soon 
 have to be separated from him. lie 
 had gradually completed the rather cir- 
 cumscribed course of studies familiar 
 to the abbé. He had taken his first 
 communion ; he had learned French, 
 ancient histor)', and that of his own 
 
 4ii9066
 
 38 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 country. The abbé had noticed that 
 he was apt to grow excited as he 
 Hstened to tales of war, but that he 
 seemed bored, and often suppressed 
 a yawn over philosophical dissertations ; 
 and he foresaw that a contemplative, 
 studious life would not be suited to 
 him, but that the demon of adventure 
 would rouse him to action. When this 
 desire for active life should awaken, 
 what would become of the poor " cou- 
 sin"? Daniel was as necessary to him 
 as his daily bread. He noticed the 
 growing beauty of his age, and he saw 
 with terror that the gentle curves of 
 childhood were disappearing in his face, 
 and giving place to the angles of ado- 
 lescence. He felt that in two years 
 more, perhaps even sooner, it would be 
 necessary for him to choose a career. 
 W'ould he be farmer, merchant, clerk.
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 
 
 39 
 
 or what? And the abbe anxiously 
 strove to disco\'er the first signs of 
 what Daniel's preference would be; 
 
 and yet there was nothing that he 
 dreaded so much as the very thing 
 that he was on the lookout for. Be- 
 sides these anxieties, he was every day
 
 40 The Abbe Daniel. 
 
 made miserable by the lad's daring and 
 adventurous spirit. Daniel played with 
 danger as with a flower; nothing sur- 
 prised him, and nothing would stop 
 him. Quick, strong, and always good- 
 natured, he was the life and light of the 
 village ; he was seen at all the fêtes 
 and all the assemblies ; he possessed 
 something of the nimbleness, the grace, 
 and also the w^ildness of the squirrel. 
 Once he had been brought home to 
 the priest's house all bruised by falling 
 from a horse, — a young horse, that he 
 had mounted bareback, and ridden on 
 the gallop through the fields. Another 
 time he narrowly escaped drow^ning 
 in the mill-pond, into which he had 
 plunged to rescue a small child. 
 
 The unhappy, timid '' cousin " sighed, 
 and every day as he w^atched him go 
 out he felt all the anxiety of a mother
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 41 
 
 for an only son. Every time Daniel 
 left the house the abbé felt inclined to 
 give him absolution in articulo viortis ; 
 but how delightful were the hours 
 which followed, when his fears had been 
 put to flight! Then his heart felt re- 
 freshed as by a gentle spring rain ! 
 
 One evening the\^ were walking to- 
 gether along the high road. The last 
 sunset tints were fading, the valley was 
 beginning to grow dark; but along the 
 horizon some clearly marked lines were 
 still \isible against the orange-colored 
 sk}'. A dark form, vigorously out- 
 lined, appeared on the road toward 
 the West, and a sound of footsteps was 
 heard. The young man looked at this 
 sudden apparition for a moment, then 
 exclaimed : — 
 
 ** Cousin, a soldier ! " 
 
 To be sure, it was a foot-soldier; with
 
 42 The Abbé Daniel, 
 
 knapsack on his back, his arms lightly 
 swinging to a rhythmic step, he was 
 coming toward the pedestrians. lîe 
 soon met them and quickly passed by. 
 Some mysterious force seemed to impel 
 him onward. Everything about his per- 
 son was expressive, and appeared to say : 
 *' Faster ! I am going to surprise some 
 one yonder; yonder a joy awaits me ! " 
 
 The abbé continued to walk on, but 
 Daniel stopped and was following the 
 soldier with eager eyes. When he was 
 lost in the darkness, he exclaimed 
 all of a sudden : — 
 
 " Oh, cousin, do you know? I should 
 like to be a soldier ! " 
 
 The abbé made no reply. 
 
 " Cousin," continued the boy, " have 
 I pained you?" 
 
 The abbé, still silent, went on his way 
 with rapid steps, thinking of the inex-
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 pressiblc anguish of the coming sepa- 
 ration, and mentally repeating these 
 words from the Gospel of Saint Mat- 
 thew : " Pater mi, . . . no/i sicut ego 
 volo, sed sieiit tii!' . . . " Not my will, 
 but thine." 
 
 The next day at noon, the postman 
 brought a letter from Simon Beauvais. 
 Denise was seriously ill, and begged to 
 be remembered in her cousin's prayers. 
 At first the abbé seemed crushed by 
 the blow, then he went straight to the 
 church and remained on his knees 
 there for an hour; he came out some- 
 what strengthened, but not composed, 
 and wandered through the fields till 
 night, lie refused to take any supper 
 when he returned, went into the garden, 
 and spent most of the night walking 
 in order to soothe his mental agitation 
 b\' bodily fatigue.
 
 44 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 About two o'clock in the morning 
 the coohiess of the atmosphere over- 
 came him, and he was able to take some 
 rest. He was awakened at four by a 
 strange rumbling, which proceeded from 
 a neighboring barn. It was the noise 
 of a threshing-machine, brought to the 
 village the day before, the mechanism 
 of which, new in that part of the 
 country, had excited Daniel's admira- 
 tion. This dull rumbling was an added 
 irritation to the abbe's very sensitive 
 nervous system. He went back into 
 the garden and began to think of 
 Denise again. The postman went by 
 every day at noon ; he would without 
 doubt bring another letter, and the 
 abbé decided to act according to the 
 news it would contain, and if necessary, 
 to set out for Les Templiers. He 
 walked to and fro in the garden to
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 45 
 
 weary himself and to pass away the 
 time. The rumbling of the threshing- 
 machine pursued him. He went back- 
 to his room and packed his valise with 
 feverish activity in order to be ready 
 when noon should come. 
 
 Daniel, however, did not know what 
 to think. Ever since the day before 
 his cousin had been unapproachable. 
 Several times already he had tried to 
 ask him questions, and been repulsed 
 with impatient gestures. Once again 
 he \'entured to ask, — 
 
 " For heaven's sake, cousin, what is 
 the matter with }'ou ? " 
 
 " Leave me alone," replied the abbé, 
 shortl}'. 
 
 Daniel was abashed, and went to the 
 village, where he alwa\'s found some 
 new amusement ; and as the threshing- 
 machine fascinated him, he entered the
 
 46 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 barn, and was soon busy feeding it with 
 wheat. 
 
 He had scarcely left the priest's 
 house when his cousin began to look 
 for him everywhere. 
 
 '* Where is Daniel? " he asked Marie- 
 Lène. 
 
 Marie-Lène shrugged her shoulders. 
 " Who knows? " 
 
 "Where is Daniel?" he asked again, 
 of a child playing near. 
 
 " Gone to see the threshing-machine; 
 he is pushing in the straw." 
 
 "The rascal!" exclaimed the abbé, 
 and he ran excitedly toward the barn. 
 
 The neighbors imagined that some 
 misfortune had happened to Daniel; 
 and before the abbé reached the barn, 
 they had rushed on ahead, and all sorts 
 of rumors were circulating through the 
 village. Everybody hurried to the
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 47 
 
 threshing-machine and began to lament. 
 Meanwhile the abbé arrived, and see- 
 ing the frightened looks of the crowd, 
 felt sure that some accident had hap- 
 pened to his charge. Beside himself, 
 he rushed into the barn, ran to the 
 machine, and was stupefied to ^nd 
 Daniel, unmindful of the commotion, 
 feeding the threshing-machine, and 
 pushing in the grain with his usual 
 liveliness. 
 
 It was but the work of a moment 
 for the abbé to run to him., seize him 
 round the waist, and throw him aside, 
 h^very one was amazed at his violence. 
 
 Then, like one brought back to life 
 from the dead, he began to look 
 anxiously about him. The threshing- 
 machine went on runibling. Impelled 
 b\' some strange agitation, some ncces- 
 sit)' of explaining his ridiculous im-
 
 48 The Abbé Daniel, 
 
 petuosity, the abbé suddenly seized a 
 sheaf of grain, and with a trembHng 
 hand pushed it into the mouth of the 
 machine. 
 
 " Look, look ! " he exclaimed ; " this 
 is what Daniel was doing ! Tell me if 
 he was not in danger of having his 
 hand cut off! " 
 
 And in his impatience to push in 
 the feed he thrust in his own hand, 
 felt it caught by the machinery, uttered 
 a cry, and drew out his arm all bleeding 
 and mangled. 
 
 The abbé was carried home ; a trail 
 of blood marked his path. One of the 
 villagers mounted his horse and ran to 
 the city for a physician, while a midwife 
 made the first dressing. The abbé 
 remained unconscious for a long time, 
 and then gradually came to himself. 
 The first thincf that he noticed was
 
 The Abbe DauieL 49 
 
 Daniel's troubled face, and he tried 
 to smile at him ; but weakened by the 
 loss of blood, he was obliged to close 
 his eyes, and again became uncon- 
 scious. The doctor arrived at last, 
 and announced that it would be neces- 
 sary to amputate the mutilated arm 
 immediately. 
 
 When the operation was over, the 
 abbé asked what time it was. It was 
 two o'clock. Daniel showed him a 
 letter from Beauvais. The poor abbé 
 soon read it ; it contained only this 
 one line: " Denise is dead." The abbé 
 said that he wanted to sleep, sent every 
 one out of the room, and remained 
 alone on his bed, still soaked though 
 it was in blood. 
 
 When evening came, Daniel came 
 back into the room, lighted a night- 
 lamp, and sat down by the patient's 
 4
 
 50 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 bedside. The abbé was asleep. From 
 time to time the young man wet his 
 forehead witli a compress of cool water. 
 About eleven o'clock he seemed deliri- 
 ous and began to talk aloud. The 
 names of Denise and Daniel often 
 escaped his pale lips. Suddenly he 
 woke up and saw his charge in tears. 
 
 "Why are you weeping?" 
 
 " Cousin, will you take this medicine?" 
 
 "■ No, thank you ; I am calm, per- 
 fectly calm. . . . He pondered for a 
 time; then, as though he had taken a 
 decided resolution, he said to Daniel: 
 
 ** Go, bring some paper, and write 
 for me." 
 
 He dictated a letter informing Eeau- 
 vais of his accident. He added that, 
 as henceforth it would be unbecoming 
 for him to say mass, he purposed, as 
 soon as he recovered, to go to Les
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 5 
 
 Templiers, and if Beauvais would allow 
 him, to devote himself to the education 
 of the dear little orphan girl. 
 
 When the letter was addressed and 
 sealed the abbé said : — 
 
 " Vou must carr\' this yourself to 
 town to-morrow morning. . . . And 
 now, Daniel, what do you think of 
 this?" 
 
 " I think, my dear cousin, that it 
 would have been better if my arm 
 had been left in the threshing-machine 
 instead of your hand." 
 
 ** Let us not speak of the accident. 
 What do you think of this letter?" 
 
 Daniel bent his head, then replied 
 in a half-choked voice : — 
 
 " I believe that you will have to leave 
 me here." 
 
 " And what would you do if that 
 should be the case?"
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 " I should kill myself, cousin." 
 
 The abbé looked at him seriously, 
 and said : — 
 
 "In a month 1 shall be well; we 
 have no time to lose. When you have 
 dropped this letter in the box to- 
 morrow, go to the gendarmery and 
 inquire what formalities are required 
 for entering the army. In a month 
 you will enlist ... in the infantry, 
 not the cavalry ! . . . Now go to bed 
 and — Wait, listen to one thing more: 
 Deny the sun at high noon, if you will, 
 but never doubt me. . . . Go to bed ! " 
 
 As Daniel was leaving the room the 
 good abbé fell back on his pillow, 
 murmuring to himself: — 
 
 " Epaulets and a uniform ! That will 
 be fine ! fine ! " 
 
 A month later, the abbé had nearly 
 recovered. The day fixed for his de-
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 53 
 
 parti! re had come. He spoke his fare- 
 well from the pulpit to his parishioners, 
 who were in tears ; then his luggage 
 was placed on a wagon drawn by a 
 mule, he said good-by to the impassive 
 Marie-Lène, and they took the road for 
 Tours. 
 
 It was a silent journey. Daniel 
 looked mournfully after the last groups 
 of trees in the village as they disap- 
 peared from sight ; the abbé considered 
 what good advice to give his ward, — 
 that courage is nothing without reflec- 
 tion, that discipline is a support rather 
 than a humiliation, that the best gifts 
 of the mind are worthless unless culti- 
 vated by a strong will, and finally, coun- 
 sels appropriate to Daniel's character. 
 
 The next day, at Tours, the young 
 man enlisted in the forty-ninth regiment, 
 stationed at Bordeaux. The recruiting'
 
 54 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 officer asked if the engagement would 
 be for two years. 
 
 *' For seven," answered the abbé, 
 abruptly. 
 
 Toward evening they took the train 
 together, as the railway for Bordeaux 
 went in the direction of Les Templiers. 
 The abbé was to get out at the fourth 
 station. They sat f^icing each other 
 without saying a word, and even 
 avoided looking at cacli other. At 
 the third station the abbé tried to 
 speak, but he felt that tears would 
 stifle his voice, and he kept silent. 
 " ?ort-de-Pilcs ! " called the conductor, 
 and the train stopped. The abbé and 
 Daniel kissed each other many times, 
 and then the elder got out alone. 
 Daniel handed his valise to him, their 
 hands were clasped once more, and the 
 train nioved on.
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 55 
 
 It was just at twilight. The abbé 
 kvatched the train speeding awa}- under 
 its long pkime of smoke, till it was out 
 of sight. He thought he could dis- 
 tinguish a white handkerchief fluttering 
 at one of the doors, and he waved his 
 left arm. . . . Then the train was lost 
 to view on the darkening horizon; and 
 the abbé, leaving the station, hastened 
 along a cross-road, which disappeared 
 between two thick hedges.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The abbé had still five leagues to 
 go OR foot before he would reach Les 
 Templiers ; but the night was fine, and 
 the way was familiar to him. One 
 never forgets the old home roads. Be- 
 sides, he loved the walk. Just at this 
 particular time, when his heart was 
 so full, he would not have shortened 
 the distance if he could. He was glad 
 to be alone. After young bees have
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 57 
 
 emigrated in long swarms, there is a 
 sudden silence around the hive. A 
 similar silence now enveloped the abbé. 
 No longer had he anj'where a home. 
 It mattered little to him. He did not 
 wish to be happy. He felt at this 
 moment strong enough to endure his 
 sadness for seven years. And then 
 was he not going to care for his other 
 child, the daughter of Denise? How 
 well he would love her, bx)th for 
 Daniel's sake, and for her mother's. 
 
 *' She will take the place of Daniel 
 in my life," he thought. " I shall have 
 brought up these two children. And 
 who can say then that m}' life has been 
 useless? I will make of Denise a 
 charming young girl, good and wise, 
 like her mother. I shall hold in my 
 hands the destinies of two young souls, 
 — and who knows? Perhaps, some
 
 58 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 day, I may join together these two 
 destinies, so that they will be but one. 
 Oh! if that day comes, then 1 shall 
 be ready to die ! But Beauvais, whom 
 I always forget, — the rich, ironical 
 Beauvais ! — Beauvais, who once had 
 only to show his face, to drive me off 
 to the seminary. . . . Fortunately, I 
 have seven years before me. And to 
 think that I am going to see her now, — 
 the daughter of Denise ! . . . " 
 
 The abbé went on talking to himself 
 in this melancholy strain, as he has- 
 tened along. In the moonlight his 
 thin shadow was cast before him on the 
 white road, and seemed to be running 
 ahead. It was midnight when he 
 reached the borough of Pressigny. 
 Les Templiers Vv'as only a short half- 
 hour's walk from there, and he did not 
 wish to stop in the borough. How-
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 59 
 
 ever, he had not informed Beauvais 
 that he should come that night, and 
 he shuddered at the very thought of 
 the first interview; but a mysterious 
 force impelled him on toward the 
 farm. 
 
 When he reached the top of the hill 
 of Les Murets, he saw the steep roof 
 of the tower softly lighted by the moon. 
 Then he thought no more of Daniel ; 
 he did not even think of the reception 
 he should meet with. 
 
 There it was before him, — the tower 
 of his dreams ! He entered the court- 
 yard, went up to the main door, on 
 which is still carved the cross of the 
 Knights Templars. All was silent. He 
 went straight to the window on the 
 ground-floor, where his uncle formerly 
 slept, and rapped on the shutters. A 
 man's voice called out, sleepily: —
 
 6o The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 "■ Who is there ? " and ahnost imme- 
 diately the shutters were thrown open. 
 
 " It is I," murmured the abbé, in a 
 timid voice. 
 
 "Who, you?" 
 
 "Yes, Daniel." 
 
 "I will open the door for you." 
 
 A large, bearded face appeared for 
 an instant in the moonlight. A thread 
 of light soon came through the shut- 
 ters, which Beauvais had mechanically 
 closed ; then heavy steps resounded in 
 the hall. 
 
 "After all," thought the abbé, "my 
 Bruasseries are near at hand." 
 
 For a moment he even had an idea 
 of taking refuge there. The ray of 
 light vanished, the steps died away. 
 He went trembling toward the door, 
 which finally opened. Beauvais stood 
 aside to let his guest enter.
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 6i 
 
 ** So you have come ! " he said, 
 simply. 
 
 " I am rather late," the abbé mur- 
 mured, faintly. 
 
 Without replying, Beauvais carefully 
 barred the door, and showed him into 
 the hall. There they could examine 
 each other. They were equal 1}^ sur- 
 prised ; both were speechless. Beau- 
 vais was nearly twice the height of his- 
 cousin, and as large in proportion. 
 The night-dress he wore disclosed bare 
 legs of herculean proportions. His 
 bush}' hair and thick, ill-kempt beard 
 formed a disorderly setting to his high- 
 colored face. In spite of his agitation, 
 the abbé compared him mentally to 
 Nimrod, the wild hunter of Scripture. 
 Beauvais, on the other hand, seemed 
 to be looking around the room for 
 his cousin, whom he had just let in,
 
 62 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 the cousin rendered thinner and more 
 insignificant than ever by his embar- 
 rassment and his scanty cassock, while 
 the shadow of his three-cornered hat 
 made his face seem smaller and more 
 pale. 
 
 '* Pie is a mere child," said Beauvais 
 to himself. 
 
 " I will go to Les Bruasseries," 
 thought the abbé. 
 
 This examination lasted but a second. 
 Beauvais set the lamp on the table and 
 said in a low voice : — 
 
 "So here you are ! " Then he pressed 
 the abbé 's slender hand in his great 
 palms. *' You are at home here. 
 Thank you for coming, but do not 
 make a noise. The little girl is asleep 
 close by; I want to give her a surprise 
 to-morrow when she wakes. . . . You 
 have hardly changed at all, my cousin ! "
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 65 
 
 The abbé, both surprised and touched, 
 replied : — 
 
 " Nor have you, cousin." 
 
 "Don't make any noise," repeated 
 Beauvais in an undertone. He made 
 his cousin sit down as though he were 
 a child, and seated himself in front of 
 him. When they had talked for some 
 minutes, all the while examining each 
 other, Beauvais rose, and w^alking on 
 tip-toe, went into the kitchen to get 
 some cold meat, while the abbé, left in 
 the dark, said to himself: — 
 
 " How different he is from what I 
 thought just now ! " 
 
 Beauvais came back with a table- 
 cloth, and was preparing to spread it 
 on the table. 
 
 " No, no," said his cousin. 
 
 "No! why not?" replied Beauvais. 
 " The table-cloth, you see, was meant 
 S
 
 66 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 for the curé, but for tlie cousin it 
 shall be the oil-cloth, such as I have 
 for myself." 
 
 He placed a game pie on the table, 
 then brought out a bottle of wine. 
 
 "The bottle," he continued, "was 
 there in a corner waiting for you ; 
 the wine will refresh you after your 
 fatigue; it is Bordeaux." 
 
 " Bordeaux ! " exclaimed the cousin, 
 thinking of Daniel. 
 
 " Hush ! remember the little one ! . . . 
 How happy she will be to-morrow ! " 
 
 Beauvais took two glasses, filled them 
 half-full, and wished to drink a health. 
 The abbé looked at him kindly. The 
 rough huntsman had tears in his eyes. 
 As he drank, all his grief suddenly 
 came back to him. 
 
 "Never will I go to Les Bruasseries ! " 
 said the abbé, rashl\% and then tried te
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 67 
 
 eat. Both were silent now ; the soul oi 
 the deceased had descended between 
 them, and both struggled not to speak 
 of her wliom they wanted so much to 
 talk about. 
 
 Their silence, broken only by occa- 
 sional commonplace remarks, became 
 painful. After ten minutes the abbé 
 pleaded weariness as an excuse for 
 retiring. 
 
 " I will accompany you to your 
 room," said Beauvais, and together 
 they climbed the spiral staircase lead- 
 ing to the tower. " Your room will be 
 rather far from the ground, but then 
 you asked to live in the tower." 
 
 The room was all ready. Beauvais 
 lighted a little lamp and pressed his 
 cousin's hand once more. " Good 
 night," he said ; " to-morrow you will 
 see Denise ! "
 
 68 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 He went away, and the abbé, after 
 saying a short prayer, blew out his 
 lamp and went to bed. 
 
 The room was full of sunlight when 
 the sound of swallows awoke him 
 about eight o'clock the next morn- 
 ing. He rubbed his eyes, and for a 
 moment did not know where he was. 
 He ran to the window and opened it. 
 To the right the ruins of the old castle 
 rose perpendicularly on the hill of 
 Etableaux ; below, the Ëgronne wound 
 through the meadows, between two 
 rows of alders ; and on the left, in the 
 distance, the chimneys on the blue 
 roofs of Pressigny were smoking; the 
 dam at Etableaux roared, and the 
 swallows uttered a sharp cry as their 
 wings grazed the window-sill ; then they 
 mounted into the air and were lost in 
 the blue ether.
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 69 
 
 The abbé took in all the sights and 
 sounds, inhaled the morning breeze, and 
 thought that he was dreaming. . . . 
 
 Suddenly a silvery voice reached his 
 ear, the vibrating tones of his dearly 
 loved Denise. " Petit-Pinson," sang 
 the little voice, " when I tell you there 
 are nests in the service-trees, it is be- 
 cause I know there are ! . . ." 
 
 No, no, Denise was not dead, for 
 she had just spoken. He leaned out 
 of the window to try to catch sight of 
 her, but his eyes met only the green 
 tops of the trees. He listened for a 
 long time, but the voice was silent. 
 Had he really heard it? Was it not 
 a dream? He was moving away, when 
 he noticed a pot of verbenas in bloom 
 on the window-sill. 
 
 Who had placed it there? 
 
 He hastened to dress, in order to see
 
 70 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 the little girl, and while he was dressing 
 it occurred to him that Daniel had now 
 reached Bordeaux. Just as he was 
 going out, Beauvais, who had been 
 watching for him, came to him in haste 
 and pushed him back into the tower, 
 saying: "Go back; I am going to 
 find my little daughter ! " 
 
 The abbé went back into his room, 
 and soon heard the sound of Beauvais's 
 heavy shoes on the stairs; then he 
 noticed a prattling and rustling. He 
 listened. 
 
 " A beautiful swallow is up there with 
 her little ones; you will see," said Beau- 
 vais's deep voice ; and a pretty voice, 
 the voice he had just heard, replied : — 
 
 ** Walk very softly so as not to 
 frighten them." 
 
 The abbé felt his knees tremble, and 
 sat down.
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 71 
 
 " Papa, go in first, but very softly, 
 very softly," said the silvery voice 
 again. 
 
 The door opened a little, then wider, 
 and Beauvais pushed the little girl into 
 the abbe's arms, 
 
 Denise stopped in amazement, the 
 cousin did not move from his chair. 
 Beauvais looked at them. Finally the 
 cousin passed his hand across his fore- 
 head, then he smiled in a bewildered 
 way. The Denise of long ago was 
 before his eyes. 
 
 She was dainty, rather slight, with 
 chestnut hair, a rosy complexion, 
 slightly sun-burned, with large, solemn, 
 blue eyes, the pupils of which were 
 both brilliant and velvety. Her broad, 
 prominent forehead, the honest, reso- 
 lute, frank eyes, her little rosy nose 
 with mobile nostrils, gave to her facç
 
 72 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 a wonderful expression of vivacity, en- 
 ergy, and resolution, softened by a 
 pleasant, childlike smile. She was not 
 exactly pretty, but she was fascinating. 
 
 The abbé held out his hand to her, 
 but she did not dare to go to him. 
 
 ** Are you afraid of me, my child? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 Daniel rose, bent dow^i, and kissed her 
 forehead ; then he said to Beauvais : — 
 
 *' She is our child, isn't she?" 
 
 Beauvais was radiant with joy and 
 paternal pride. When they had be- 
 come somewhat acquainted, all three 
 went down into the garden, where they 
 found La Bruère the very first thing. 
 They had to stop and listen to her 
 exclamations : — 
 
 " Oh, Monsieur le curé, the dear man 
 of God, here you are as though you 
 had just come back from the war, with
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 73 
 
 one arm less ! Ah, what a misfortune, 
 good friends ! And on just the very 
 day when our mistress was buried. 
 Oh, my good friends, who would have 
 thought it? " 
 
 After listening to La Bruère's words 
 of sympathy, he had to visit every 
 nook and corner of Les Templiers. 
 Denise had skipped away. They went 
 from barn to barn, from granary to 
 granary, while Beauvais made explana- 
 tions and the abbé recalled old memo- 
 ries. After a complete survey, Beauvais 
 exclaimed : — 
 
 " My cousin, here is the best thing 
 of all ; I have kept this for the last." 
 
 He took him into a new stable, and 
 with his head thrown back and folded 
 arms he fixed his eyes on his cousin 
 as though he expected him to utter 
 some exclamation. The abbé looked
 
 74 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 with all his eyes. The stable contained 
 one horse and one cow. Was it the 
 horse or the cow which he ought to 
 admire? Great was the abbe's embar- 
 rassment. After some moments of 
 silence, Beauvais said, with an air of 
 disappointment: — 
 
 " Come, it is too bad ! You don't 
 understand anything about it. Let us 
 take it that you have n't seen anything." 
 
 Just at this moment the abbé saw 
 once more in his former rival's face a 
 gleam of the old irony. 
 
 " This horse," continued Beauvais, 
 " has not its equal for twenty leagues 
 around. Now let us go to Les 
 Bruasseries." 
 
 They did not return to Les Templiers 
 till nearly noon, in time for dinner. The 
 cousin was naturally seated between the 
 father and daughter ; but long before
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 75 
 
 dessert Denise had disappeared, and the 
 abbé heard her in the garden carrying 
 on a lively dispute with Petit-Pinson. 
 
 Petit-Pinson was a 
 boy of fifteen, more 
 than a head taller 
 than Denise ; but in 
 spite of his size, ob- 
 stinately called Petit- 
 Pinson by the child. 
 Petit-Pinson was La 
 Bruère's factotum and 
 Beauvais's shepherd- 
 bo}'. Among his 
 flock there was an ass 
 which was, it seemed, 
 Denise's particular 
 property, and was called Benoît, At this 
 time the shepherd-boy wanted to take 
 his cattle to Les Ëpinaies, and the choice 
 of pasturage did not please Denise.
 
 76 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 " I tell you," she cried, in her pretty, 
 decided voice, — "I tell you, Petit- 
 Pinson, that Benoît shall not go to 
 Les Epinaies ! " 
 
 Petit-Pinson held Benoît by the ear, 
 Denise was pulling him by the halter. 
 
 " Who will win the victory? " thought 
 the abbé, who vv^as watching the scene. 
 
 It was Denise. She led Benoît quietly 
 to the stable, then came back and took 
 her seat at the table. 
 
 " She has a will of her own ! " said 
 the abbé, in amazement. 
 
 Dinner over, Beauvais declared that 
 business called him to the fair at 
 Lésigny. 
 
 " I would take you along," he 
 added, addressing Daniel; "but what 
 would you do in the midst of a mule- 
 market? " 
 
 He started off, and the abbé went to
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 77 
 
 walk with Denise. At night they took 
 supper alone together, for Beauvais 
 did not return till late. Thus passed 
 the first day. 
 
 Days, weeks, months succeeded each 
 other. When he left Daniel the abbé 
 believed that he was condemned to 
 seven years of sorrow ; he was quite 
 surprised to find himself sweetly happy. 
 He was like a man sitting by a window, 
 before which the picture of happiness 
 passes slowly back and forth. He was 
 happy and felt calmed. Life on the 
 farm suited his nature, prone to timid- 
 ity and listless dreaming. Everything 
 which interested the household de- 
 lighted him. The neglected garden, 
 full of grass, with its paths overgrown 
 with fennel and anise, with its arbor 
 broken down with the weight of honey- 
 suckle and clematis ; the hen-house,
 
 78 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 once the chapel of Les TempHers, where 
 the hens laid their eggs in the niches 
 of mutilated saints ; the fig-tree shad- 
 ing the corner of the green court-yard 
 with its thick branches ; the pigeons, 
 with melodious wings, which came to 
 quench their thirst in the water run- 
 ning in the gutters ; the great heaps 
 of straw in the sunshine ; the cows 
 exhaling an odor of milk as they went 
 along solemnly to pasture; the gun- 
 shots resounding in the woods of Les 
 Courtils and the baying of the hounds; 
 the bleating of the sheep mingled with 
 the melancholy calls of the shepherd- 
 boys at evening; and in the morning 
 the clear tones of the bells of Pressigny, 
 chiming together, — the abbé delighted 
 in all this. Like a bee gathering honey 
 from every flower, he found his pleas- 
 ures in the smallest details of rustic life.
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 
 
 79 
 
 Winter came, less rich in gifts than 
 autumn, but abounding in quiet social 
 pleasures. There were more frequent 
 
 reunions and assembhcs, especially in 
 the evening, in the great hall, now 
 changed to a kitchen. Hie granite 
 fireplace offered hospitality to ev^ery-
 
 8o The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 body. The latest news from Pressigny 
 and the neighboring villages was told 
 here ; long stories also of the time of the 
 Knights Templars, or else the legend 
 of the washerwoman, whose bats could 
 be heard at midnight near the fountain 
 of Font-Gaudron. 
 
 Petit-Pinson, with wide-open eyes, 
 looked frightened to death as he lis- 
 tened to everything, and curled himself 
 up in his corner. La Bruère spun, 
 Beauvais cleaned his gun, the abbé 
 and Denise sometimes looked at a 
 picture-book ; and when Denise had 
 explained the picture to her cousin, 
 the cousin would explain the text to 
 Denise. 
 
 Beauvais too was happy. The com- 
 ing of the abbé allowed him to keep 
 his daughter at Les Templiers. Dur- 
 ing his frequent absences he was
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 8i 
 
 content to know that his people were 
 united there and awaiting his return. 
 
 This thought kept him warm in 
 Winter and cool in Summer, and he 
 came back to his home as gladly as he 
 left it. He was master of the house, 
 and sometimes chose to make the 
 kitchen resound with the roar of his 
 commanding voice. But this tremen- 
 dous voice was rarely terrible. More- 
 over, Denise knew how to change his 
 anger to caresses, when necessary, and 
 her cousin was her ally. 
 
 At first the abbé had tried to win 
 Beauvais's good-will by compelling him- 
 self to admire his host's horses and 
 dogs; but in this little game the 
 countryman quickly detected his con- 
 straint, and a sort of condescension 
 which still further showed his cousin's 
 incompetency. He did not make sport 
 6
 
 82 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 of him, but it was plain to see from 
 his bantering manner that he did not 
 consider him a practical person, or 
 one to get anything out of Beauvais 
 was something of a jockey, and the 
 qualities inherent to this profession 
 were most repugnant to the abbé. 
 These two men held each other in 
 esteem, they lov^ed each other at heart, 
 but did not always understand each 
 other. A bargain of a hundred francs 
 or of a thousand francs was all the same 
 to the abbé ; to Beauvais nothing was 
 so serious as business. One kept his 
 eyes on the stars, the other on the 
 earth, and the star-gazer was often 
 tripped up by contact with terrestrial 
 realities, like the astrologer in the fable. 
 Beauvais took it upon him to over- 
 whelm his cousin with his hca\y artil- 
 lery of ironical jests; but when Denise
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 83 
 
 showed her father her copy-books in 
 the evening and explained her progress 
 to him, Beauvais felt proud, and then 
 be would suddenly break out into 
 exclamations of gratitude to the abbé, 
 which would mend e\'er}'thing and 
 fill La Bruère with admiration. 
 
 La Bruère was the oldest person in 
 the house. She was twenty years older 
 than her master, who found her well 
 established at Les Templiers when he 
 came there to be married. She was an 
 old maid, thin, alert, and a gossip, not 
 cross, but domineering, giving Petit- 
 Pi nson three apples for a box on the 
 ear, bustling about all day, and relating 
 her dreams. 
 
 She showed great deference toward 
 the abbé, for he had but one arm ; 
 he was a priest, and she had known him 
 as a child. It pleased her, besides, in
 
 84 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 her old age, to have a cure permanently 
 at the farm. She called him ^//r cousin, 
 and regarded him as a good man, 
 something of a dreamer, and harmless. 
 Her sympathies, however, were more 
 with Beauvais. The strong woman 
 admired the strength of the man, and 
 she took his part. However, she often 
 snubbed him, for La Bruere was an 
 independent ally. 
 
 Petit-Pinson was a submissive ally, 
 or rather he was La Bruère's private 
 possession. He was awkward, lazy, 
 and a good deal of a glutton, but he 
 had great respect for the old servant, 
 and feared but two things, — La Bruere 
 and the were-wolf 
 
 And Denise.? Denise was like a wild 
 flower, and had the freshness, the 
 capricious grace, and the vigor of all 
 wild things. She loved her cousin
 
 The Abbe DjuieL S5 
 
 from the very first, because he had pre- 
 vented her from being sent to boarding- 
 school. The city was to her a terrible 
 place; her father had taken her there 
 twice to the fair, and the swarming, 
 screaming, hustling crowd of people 
 had given her a horror of ci^/ilization. 
 She did not even like Pressigny, where 
 people stared at her so ; and when 
 strangers came to Les Templiers she 
 fled to the orchard. 
 
 The solitude of the fields, the various 
 sounds on the farm, the deep shade of 
 the woods, — these were the society she 
 lo\'ed. She was not gay, nor }'et mel- 
 ancholy; she had moods of agitation 
 and of inactivity, of excitement and 
 indifference, which came and went no 
 one could tell win'. She had not cared 
 for dolls since her first communion, 
 and did not yet care for books; needles
 
 S6 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 broke like glass between her fingers, 
 and sedentary tasks could not keep her 
 long. In spite of this mobile nature and 
 capricious disposition, she had a will of 
 iron and an energ}' which Petit-Pinson 
 was not always the only one to per- 
 ceive. She w^as affected as little by 
 Beauvais's and La Bruère's fits of anger 
 as a swallow by a rain storm. This 
 mixture of shyness and restless mo- 
 bility at first dismayed her cousin, and 
 he asked himself, in alarm, how he 
 should succeed in directing aright a 
 soul of such extremes, an intelligence 
 of such marv^cllous contradictions. 
 
 In place of energy the abbé pos- 
 sessed an inexhaustible affection, such 
 as finally triumphs over the most stub- 
 born obstinacy. Then, in the most 
 hidden recess of his heart, was he not 
 cherishing a plan which he had only to
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 think of to acquire new strength and 
 courage? . . . 
 
 From the very day of his arrival at 
 Les Temphers, the abbé wished to have 
 his position there regulated. His whole 
 income was six hundred francs, — the 
 rent of Les Bruasseries. Li spite of 
 Beauvais's protestations, he had stipu- 
 lated that he should pay him three hun- 
 dred francs a year. With the surplus, 
 he was able to send ten francs a month 
 to Daniel, to clothe himself, and make 
 presents to Denise, La Bruère, and 
 even Petit-Pinson. Once free from 
 these material details, he arranged his 
 days. The whole week, with the ex- 
 ception of Sunday, was devoted to 
 Denise. 
 
 During the week the abbé dressed 
 like a countr}' layman ; but on Sunday 
 it was quite another thing. On that
 
 88 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 day a veritable priest came down out 
 of the tower: shovel-hat, band, black 
 stockings, shoes with silver buckles, 
 cassock of fine cloth, — ~ nothing was 
 wanting. At nine o'clock he started 
 for the church at Pressigny, in com- 
 pany with La Bruère, Petit-Pinson, and 
 Denise. During mass he took his 
 place with the surpliced choir, and 
 from his stall, through the smoke of 
 the incense, often watched Denise 
 praying, with her head bent over her 
 little prayer-book, in the shadow of a 
 pillar. 
 
 Denise! — she was his joy and his 
 blessing; she was his work, also. He 
 watched the blossoming of her intelli- 
 gence with the tender solicitude which 
 a horticulturist gives a favorite rose 
 just opening from a bud. Denise was 
 now a young girl; the petulance of
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 89 
 
 childhood was already disappearing, 
 to give place to bashful awkwardness 
 and nervous excitement. In a short 
 time she would be a young woman, and 
 all her fine, energetic, feminine nature 
 would attain its full development. 
 
 " Make haste," said the abbé to him- 
 self; " make haste to sow the seed, 
 that it may bring forth good fruit in 
 season." 
 
 And he poured out over her all his 
 treasures of knowledge, wisdom, and 
 observation. He wished to inspire in 
 her especially, not a love for books, 
 but a taste for serious occupations, 
 and to cultivate her love for rural 
 nature. Whenever the weather was 
 suitable they took long walks together. 
 Sometimes they would go on ahead, 
 and Beauvais would follow to bring 
 them back in the carriage ; sometimes
 
 90 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 they would wander through the fields, 
 or follow the course of the Egronne. 
 They always brought back a quantity 
 of flowers ; and when the peasants 
 saw them pass, the gray-haired priest 
 with one hand, and the girl wearing a 
 red cap on her head, both with their 
 hands full of flowers, they always gave 
 them a hearty greeting, a pleasant 
 word, and a cheerful smile. 
 
 So Denise was growing up in the 
 bosom of this rustic, fruitful nature, 
 with her father and the abbé, in an 
 atmosphere impregnated with love. 
 
 One June evening, there was a won- 
 derful occurrence in the large hall at 
 Les Templiers. Beauvais would not 
 return till very late. Denise and her 
 cousin were alone, or very nearly so, 
 for La Bruere was scalding the linen, 
 and Petit-Pinson was asleep in his chair.
 
 (.■ ' 
 
 % 
 
 1 \ ''^*^.--- 

 
 The Abhc Daniel. 93 
 
 A bouquet gathered in the morning 
 was on the table, and the lamp, covered 
 with a shade, gave a soft light. When 
 the evening reading was over, the abbé 
 pushed the vase near Denise and the 
 lamp, and turned it slowly, that his 
 pupil might admire the bouquet on all 
 sides. 
 
 In the centre there was a splendid 
 white water-lily, half-closed, and full of 
 mystery ; around it slender grasses trem- 
 bled, forming a changing lace-work, in 
 which all sorts of field, water, and wood 
 plants were carelessly mingled, and 
 opened their blossoms in the lamp- 
 light. There were bells and cups, 
 thyrses and variegated flowers, places 
 full of light and shadowy depths. A 
 dear little pale-green spider was sus- 
 pended from a white lily-of-the-valley, 
 and a golden-eyed fly, with yellow,
 
 94 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 gauzy wings, fluttered about, half im- 
 prisoned in the network of intertwining 
 grasses. As the abbé turned the vase, 
 a fine, silvery powder fell from all the 
 stamens, and hovered like smoke above 
 the bouquet, giving forth an exquisite, 
 penetrating perfume. 
 
 Denise suddenly uttered a cry of 
 admiration, and buried her face in her 
 hands. When she raised her head, her 
 eyes were full of tears, but tears of joy ; 
 her eyes were so brilliant that the abbé 
 was amazed ; her animated features and 
 rosy cheeks gave her face a new ex- 
 pression, and she was transformed. 
 Her cousin, dazzled by her sudden 
 beauty, was thrilled as he looked at 
 her. The child of yesterday had be- 
 come a young woman.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 When the Crimean War broke out, 
 Denise was just sixteen. Daniel, who 
 had been appointed corporal the first 
 v'ear of his engagement, wrote the abbé 
 that he was c^oincf to the East. The
 
 go The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 abbé hastened at once to Pressigny, and 
 sent an extra money-order by mail to 
 his ward. From this day forth, Daniel 
 began to be the subject of conversation 
 at the farm. Too poor to take a daily 
 newspaper himself, the abbé persuaded 
 Beauvais to subscribe for one. . . . 
 " Is your protégé in the cavalry? " 
 He also brought home a map of the 
 war, " to give pleasure to his curate, 
 who was following it with interest." 
 The abbé took possession of it, carried 
 it to his room, and every day traced 
 on the Eastern territory the march of 
 the army to which the Forty-ninth 
 belonged. 
 
 The East lay far beyond the ruins of 
 Etableaux. Sometimes, at evening, 
 after the sun had set in the opposite 
 quarter of the heavens, the abbé, as 
 he stood in front of the window in the
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 97 
 
 tower, would gaze anxiously into the 
 deeper blue of the eastern sky, and 
 u'hen he closed the window would say: 
 " May God protect him ! " 
 
 About the middle of the year 1855 
 Daniel was made sergeant, and on this 
 occasion the abbé received a letter, 
 which he read to Beauvais at dessert, 
 while Denise had gone to spread the 
 linen in the orchard. This letter was 
 full of the war. In it he described his 
 military life, and ga\e an account of a 
 day in battle, when at da}'break they 
 were awakened by the beating of the 
 drum and the heavy roaring of the 
 cannon. 
 
 " Each one takes his gun and his 
 knapsack," he said, " and is on the 
 march ! We advance in the dawn ; 
 we hear the short, decided commands, 
 which are repeated and run along the 
 7
 
 98 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 ranks ; the aides-de-camp fly from one 
 regiment to another ; the troops take 
 directions; our leaders address us with 
 a few energetic words. Soon the noise 
 of the cannon grows louder, and then 
 the bugles sound, the band plays old 
 national airs, no longer heard except 
 in time of battle, and which make the 
 blood of even the most timid boil, and 
 then, at the rolling of drums, in the 
 midst of the smoke, intoxicated with 
 the smell of gunpowder, the whole 
 regiment is thrilled all together with 
 excitement.- — Forward, march ! . . .We 
 are no longer Pierre, Jacques, and Dan- 
 iel, — we are La France, each one but 
 an atom in the great w^hole. We watch 
 the arm of our captain, whom we no 
 longer hear; we say good-morning with 
 our eyes to our comrades; and we are 
 off. This often lasts all day. Men fall,
 
 TJ?e Abbé Daniel. 99 
 
 but still wc march on. Sometimes 
 our hearts grow cold, but only for an 
 instant. And so on till night, when, 
 after the battle is o\'er, we learn tb.at 
 the victor)' is ours, and that a sergeant 
 has been appointed ; for yesterday, my 
 dear cousin, I was made sergeant. The 
 sad part of it is to return to our tents, 
 and find that the number of our com- 
 rades is less than the day before ; that 
 makes my heart heavy ; but others are 
 there, and we talk and talk till we fall 
 asleep from exhaustion. Now, my dear 
 cousin, my candle is going out. Yours, 
 my dear cousin, with all m\' heart! " 
 
 As the abbé was reading the last of 
 this, Denise came in. 
 
 " There 's a gallant soldier, who 
 knows what 's what ! " exclaimed Beau- 
 vais ; "Denise, read this letter, — read 
 it aloud ; I should like to hear it again."
 
 :oo T'oe Abbe Daniel. 
 
 And Denise read it slowly, in her clear, 
 well-modulated voice. 
 
 The abbé carelessly brushed the dust 
 from his right sleeve, and looked down. 
 When Denise had finished reading, she 
 gave the letter back to her cousin, 
 without sa}'ing a word. 
 
 *' When he comes back to France," 
 said Beauvais, *' you must write him to 
 come and hunt with me, for such a 
 fellow ought to enjoy hunting. There 
 is some one who will know how to 
 appreciate a horse ! " 
 
 Denise, still silent, was folding the 
 linen on the table. Beauvais went out, 
 and the abbé went to read his breviary ; 
 but he was absorbed in thought, for 
 Denise had said nothing to the letter. 
 
 She, too, went out, absorbed in 
 thought, and retreated to the garden 
 to dream her dreams. She had said
 
 The Abbé Daniel. loi 
 
 nothing, but she -had thouc^dit a great 
 deal about the 'letlêr,' resounduig with 
 the noise of the \var.' ' fyhç' \vtn trover 
 in her mind the proud, joyful language 
 of the abbe's charge, and she tried to 
 imagine liow lie looked sitting in his 
 tent, polishing up his arms, or all 
 equipped, with knapsack on his back, 
 and fixed bayonet, rushing on the en- 
 emy. She thought of him again at 
 evening, after supper, when she was 
 leaning her elbow on the low wall in 
 the orchard, from which the green 
 valley of the Egronne could be seen 
 as far as Pressi gny. 
 
 The sun was going down behind Les 
 Templiers, into the pine woods of Les 
 Courtils, and Pressigny, half hidden by 
 the poplars, and crowned b}^ its slender 
 tower, seemed transfigured by the last 
 rays of the setting sun; the battlements
 
 I02 The Ahhé Daniel. 
 
 of the tower were rose-colored ; the 
 slated' Voofs Were 'of a bright, clear 
 vio'le' ; &lVihe w'indows we'-e a brilliant 
 re'd ;' and" Denise was dreaming of the 
 Orient. 
 
 Then, looking toward Etableaux, 
 with her eyes blinded by the sunlight 
 and bright colors, she felt quite melan- 
 choly to see the valley already narrow 
 and dark between its two slopes, cov- 
 ered with walnut trees and oaks. The 
 faint, crystalline voice of the Egronne 
 rose above the stillness of the evening, 
 like a plaintive melody, accompanied 
 at intervals by the peculiar bass of the 
 tree-frogs. A shepherdess, wearing a 
 black hood, was coming down the side 
 of Etableaux, driving a herd of cows 
 before her; the heifers lowed quietly, 
 and the swift dog kept running from the 
 shepherdess to the cattle, and at the
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 103 
 
 same time barking loudly, to which the 
 dogs in the farm-houses made reply. 
 
 In a moment of silence the shep- 
 herdess began to sing, and her drawling 
 voice, her rustic melody, came dis- 
 tinctly to the ears of Denise. The 
 shepherdess was singing a local ballad, 
 very popular in Touraine, the first stan- 
 zas of which \\ere : — 
 
 " Here are three gallant lads * 
 Who for the war are starting, 
 Who for the war are starting, 
 To fight for hearth and home, 
 Each longing for his mistress, 
 Who is his heart's delight. 
 
 " The youngest of the three 
 Is filled with deepest sorrow, 
 Is filled with deepest sorrow. 
 And well he may despair ! 
 His mistress is the fairest 
 Of all the Lyons' fair." 
 
 * N. H. D.
 
 I04 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 Why did tears come to the eyes of 
 Denise after this last verse? Why did 
 she associate in her mind the melan- 
 choly story of " the youngest of the 
 three " with the proud soldier, fighting 
 far off in the Crimea? . . . Ah, if her 
 cousin could have seen those precious 
 tears fall ! 
 
 When the Malakof Tower Avas taken, 
 Daniel was made sergeant-major, and 
 soon after returned to France. The 
 abbé did not think it w^as yet time for 
 him to come to him ; but he wrote him 
 to send his photograph, and doubled 
 his monthly allowance for this purpose. 
 Some weeks later, the picture came to 
 Les Templiers. Daniel was represented 
 bare-headed, with his right hand rest- 
 ing on the bayonet of his gun. The 
 abbe's hand trembled so as he took 
 the picture that it w^as ten minutes
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 105 
 
 before lie was able to realize his ward's 
 new appearance. 
 
 At last he recognized him, and was 
 proud of him. He then went down 
 and showed the picture to Beauvais and 
 Denise. 
 
 **\Vhat a jolly fellow!" exclaimed 
 Beauvais. 
 
 Denise examined silently the strong, 
 young face, w^hose features stood out 
 in brown against the milky back- 
 ground of the photograph. The in- 
 nocent abbé was again troubled by 
 her silence, and went back to console 
 himself in his tower, where he hung 
 the picture opposite his black cross. 
 Yet, if the verbenas, with wdiich the 
 abbe's window was always carefully 
 adorned in summer, — if the pink and 
 purple verbenas could have spoken, 
 they would have said that now they
 
 io6 The Abbe Daniel. 
 
 were watered too much. When the 
 abbé was gone for his daily walk, 
 Denise dehiged them with fresh water, 
 without being aware of it, for her eyes 
 were on the brown photograph hanging 
 on the wall. 
 
 This is how matters stood. Beauvais 
 was getting stouter every day. La 
 Bruère was growing old and beginning 
 to have times when she did not talk. 
 Petit-Pi nson was growing up, wearing 
 his hat on one side, and showing him- 
 self off on Sundays in the square at 
 Pressigny. The abbe's thoughts turned 
 to Daniel as he was finishing Denise's 
 education, and Denise, still very shy, 
 was often found dreaming alone in the 
 orchard. She was nearly eighteen. 
 
 One evening in July, 1857, after sup- 
 per, Beauvais said seriously and tenderly, 
 as he was kissing his daughter: —
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 109 
 
 " You are quite grown up now, my 
 darling, — quite grown up, and I am 
 getting old ; I do not w^ant you to be an 
 old maid, and I am going to find a 
 husband for you." 
 
 Denise, confused for a moment, 
 finally burst out laughing, and Beau- 
 vais went on in his deep voice : — 
 
 " What I am saying to you is very 
 serious, and I want you to accustom 
 yourself to the idea from this time 
 forth. I have some one in view, and in 
 a few days we will talk about it. . . . " 
 
 Deep silence ensued. Beauvais, im- 
 agining himself already separated 
 from his daughter, rose to conceal his 
 emotion, and went to visit his stable. 
 Denise was crimson. The abbé, pale 
 and embarrassed, muttered a few words, 
 made a pretext of reading his breviary, 
 and disappeared.
 
 no The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 When he reached the tower the un- 
 liappy cousin shut himself in and locked 
 the door. He was pale and wan, and 
 the perspiration ran do\\n\ his thin 
 cheeks. He looked at Daniel's picture, 
 and said aloud: — 
 
 '' It is all over with our plans, my 
 poor friend ! " 
 
 Then he began to w^alk up and dow^n, 
 absorbed in thought. After some mo- 
 ments of silence he continued: — 
 
 " So the first comer will take Denise 
 away from me ; Beauvais will give her 
 to him, and that will be the end of it! 
 I fled to the seminary for fear of l^cau- 
 vais, the threshing-machine took off 
 my arm, I have brought up this child 
 like my own daughter, and as compen- 
 sation for it all, Ik^auvais will thank 
 me heartily and throw her away to a 
 stranger ! . . . And he will have a
 
 The Abbé Daniel. m 
 
 right to do so ! After all, what au- 
 thority have I ; and are these plans that 
 I have for lier such as a priest ought 
 to have? . . . Yes, but it breaks my 
 heart to think of this marriage. They 
 are going to snatch away my second 
 Denise from me ; I shall never see her 
 again, except ceremoniously; she will 
 go among strangers, and when my poor 
 Daniel comes back, I shall not be able 
 to give him the wife I had chosen for 
 him; I shall not unite these two chil- 
 dren, these two hearts that I had long 
 ago designed for each other. I am 
 stupid to be so timid. Why can I not 
 speak to Beauvais, and tell him frankly 
 about my plans ? . . . Ah ! Beau- 
 vais ! . . . I hear this moment that iron- 
 ical laugh of his which would greet my 
 proposition. ... If only Daniel had 
 received his epaulets, — but an under-
 
 112 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 officer. . . . Beauvais would never ap- 
 prove of that ! . . . No, that cannot be ; 
 we are poor, and she is rich. I can say 
 nothing; they are rich I . . ." 
 
 The abbé did not go to bed, and at 
 dawn went out to breathe the fresh air. 
 About eight o'clock, when Denise went 
 up into the tower to water the ver- 
 benas, she noticed that the bed had 
 not been disturbed, and wondered. . . . 
 
 Two days after, Beauvais came up 
 into his cousin's room in the morning, 
 and waking him suddenly said : — 
 
 " Tell me, cousin, don't }^ou know 
 about it?" 
 
 " No," said the abbé, somewhat fright- 
 ened. 
 
 " Well, I will tell you," continued 
 Beauvais in a confidential manner, " I 
 have found a husband for Denise. . - . 
 Can you guess who?"
 
 The Abbé DaiiieL 113 
 
 The abbé opened his eyes so wide at 
 tliis that he was frightful to look at. 
 
 '■ I know what I am talking about," 
 Beau vais went on ; " your nose and }'our 
 mind are always in your books; you 
 do not know the country. . . . Did 
 you not notice at the fair in Pressigny 
 a young man that I talked with a long 
 time near the bridge?" 
 
 " Monsieur Delétang? " 
 
 " Yes, the son of a merchant at 
 Angles. They have spoken to me on 
 the subject. He is rich, he is a farmer, 
 and will be willing to live at Les Tem- 
 pliers. We shall keep our Denise with 
 us. . . . Just now the young man is at 
 Angers, and will not return for a month ; 
 we will talk about it again, but mum is 
 the word ! " 
 
 He went out. 
 
 The abbe rose in haste, and with new
 
 114 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 excitement. *' No, no, no Delétang," 
 he said to himself; " I must assert 
 myself this time ! " 
 
 And he hastened to write the fol- 
 lowing lines to Daniel : — 
 
 '•'Ask immediately for a three months' 
 leave of absence; you are expected 
 here to go hunting. Come as soon as 
 possible ! " 
 
 He took a hundred-franc note which 
 he had in reserve, enclosed it in the 
 letter, and hurried to the post-office at 
 Pressigny. 
 
 When he returned his heart beat 
 fast. He said abruptly to Beauvais in 
 the presence of Denise : — 
 
 " I wrote my ward this morning to 
 come and go hunting at Les Templiers, 
 and I expect him before the end of 
 the month."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Three weeks had scarce- 
 ly gone when one morninf^, 
 while the abbé was still in bed, he 
 heard Beauvais's deep voice calling to 
 him from the garden: — 
 
 " Hey ! Cousin ! " 
 
 He ran to the window. Daniel in 
 undress uniform, with his cap on one
 
 ii6 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 side, a medal hanging from his button- 
 hole, holding out his arms toward 
 the tower, stood beside Beauvais. The 
 abbé waved his mutilated arm with all 
 his might, went back and dressed as 
 fast as he could. He was just going 
 downstairs when the door opened and 
 Daniel and Beauvais rushed into the 
 room. Oh, the return well repays the 
 separation ; they stood held fast in 
 each other's arms for some time. 
 
 " Good heavens ! " said Beauvais, 
 quite touched, " are you going to eat 
 each other? Come, Monsieur Daniel, 
 let the cousin dress himself." 
 
 The abbé made a hasty toilet, inter- 
 spersed with exclamations of joy, and 
 then went downstairs. He found no 
 one but Beauvais in the court-yard. 
 
 " Go and find him," said the latter 
 gayly; "there he is, off over there.
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 117 
 
 And you did n't put him in the 
 cavalry? " 
 
 "Why should I?" asked the cousin 
 in amazement. 
 
 *' Just imagine ; I showed him my 
 new horse, an animal that nobody has 
 dared to mount." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Well, he jumped on his back, and 
 there he is, way over there." 
 
 The abbé and Beauvais started away 
 from the farm. Daniel was coming 
 toward them at full speed ; his cane 
 was still in his hand, but his cap had 
 been left on the road. The horse was 
 taken back to the stable, and then they 
 went to look for the cap, then to Les 
 Bruasseries, following the course of the 
 Egronne as they talked, till they 
 reached Pressigny. They had forgot- 
 ten the time and the distance, while
 
 ii8 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 asking questions, and answering them, 
 in their surprises and exclamations. 
 There were old memories to be re- 
 called, jokes, bursts of laughter and 
 delicious moments of silence. Beau- 
 vais would not have left the major, as 
 he called Daniel, now for all the world. 
 When they reached Pressigny, they felt 
 that they were dying of thirst, and the 
 abbé, with the others (^honiii soit qui 
 Dial y pense ! ), went into the first wine- 
 shop. They touched glasses. 
 
 "To the Crimean war!" said Beau- 
 vais. 
 
 " To the day of my return ! " ex- 
 claimed Daniel. 
 
 He was never weary of looking at 
 the abbé, and the abbé could not 
 take his eyes off from Daniel. How 
 changed they found each other ! The 
 one with his long, pale, wrinkled face,
 
 The Abbe DaiiicL 119 
 
 liullow checks, his identic smile, and 
 gray hair; the other strong, straight, 
 cletcrmined, everything about him 
 seeming to say, Forivard, mardi ! with 
 a frank, decided face, sparkUng brown 
 e}'es, a youthful moustache, white 
 teeth speaking of health, and black, 
 curly hair. . . . The abbé was amazed, 
 and said to Beauvais : — 
 
 "Do >'ou see this boy? Well, I 
 brought him up; I have carried him 
 in my arms. . , . Do you remember 
 about it? " 
 
 They came back slowly to Les Tem- 
 pliers by the way of Les Murets, and 
 Beauvais made the remark that Denise 
 would not know what had become of 
 them. 
 
 "Who is she?" Daniel asked the 
 abbé in a low voice. 
 
 " That is my daughter, my daughter
 
 I20 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 Denise ! " exclaimed Beauvais, with 
 pride. 
 
 " Oh," said Daniel, *' so you have a 
 daughter? My cousin has not told me 
 that." 
 
 " What did he write you about, then } 
 I wager that he has not spoken only 
 of m}' horses ! " 
 
 "Do you think I could write very 
 long letters with my left hand?" inter- 
 rupted the abbé. 
 
 When they reached home, and Daniel 
 wished to make his toilet, Beauvais 
 pushed him into the hall. The table 
 was laid, but Denise was not there. 
 The abbé felt that he was getting red 
 in the face. Daniel brushed himself 
 as well as he could in front of the open 
 window; Beauvais had sat down to the 
 table. However, Denise soon made 
 her appearance. She came in just as
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 121 
 
 Daniel had turned his back to tlic 
 door. 
 
 " Have )'0u prepared a good break 
 fast for us ? " said Beauvais. 
 
 Daniel turned quickly round, and 
 saw Denise. Both started slightly, be- 
 traying their mutual embarrassment. 
 Daniel bowed respectfully, not timidly, 
 nor yet with too much assurance ; then 
 they sat down at the table. He found 
 his seat next Denise: but either he 
 was embarrassed at seeing this young 
 hostess, whom he had not counted on, 
 or overcome by Denise's somewhat 
 proud manner, so that he did not enter 
 into conversation. If he remained 
 silent and constrained, it was not be- 
 cause he reall}^ felt calm, for during 
 the first course he showed his agitation 
 by breaking a dish which was offered 
 him, before he had hardly touched it.
 
 122 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 The color mounted to his forehead, 
 "Pshaw! Pshaw!" said Beauvais ; 
 " never mind that ! " 
 
 Denise took this opportunity to break 
 the silence. 
 
 " That plate has been cracked for a 
 long time," she said. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," . . . began Daniel, 
 trying to make some excuse. They 
 looked at each other, blushed more 
 than ever, and again became silent. 
 Fortunately, the abbé came to their 
 aid, and changed the conversation. 
 
 "You have no relatives?" said the 
 forgetful Beauvais to Daniel, although 
 his cousin had told him twenty times 
 his ward 's history. 
 
 "No, sir," replied Daniel; "my 
 father, who was a carpenter, was killed 
 by falling from a roof, and my mother 
 died a week later. . . ."
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 123 
 
 And he added, looking at the abbé : 
 " It was our cousin who took me in." 
 
 He said this with pride, and a sim- 
 plicity quite touching to Beauvais. 
 
 '' Pardon me ! " said he, with emo- 
 tion. 
 
 The abbé was both glad and sorry 
 at this explanation, and took advantage 
 of it to press Daniel's hand once more. 
 When dessert was brought on, the 
 young girl left the dining-room. Then 
 Beauvais lighted his pipe, Daniel rolled 
 a cigarette, and they began to talk 
 about the East and the war. 
 
 What was Denise doing in the mean 
 time? Sitting under a wide-spreading 
 fig-tree, at the end of the orchard, she 
 seemed absorbed in watching the ara- 
 besques of light which the sun, coming 
 through the trees, made on the sand; 
 but if her eyes were attentively follow-
 
 124 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 ing the mobile shadow-figures, her mind 
 was elsewhere. The thoughts which 
 absorbed her seemed to be of a very 
 complex nature ; for sometimes a sud- 
 den smile would pass over her lips, 
 and then a deep flush would tinge her 
 cheeks and forehead. Her pretty face 
 expressed a strange mixture of joy and 
 anxiety. 
 
 Denise was on the point of breaking 
 with an ideal to which for some years 
 she had been, as it were, betrothed. 
 She had imagined Daniel quite different 
 from what he was, and the transition 
 from fancy to reality was at once sweet 
 and hard to bear. In spite of the pho- 
 tograph sent to her cousin, the dark- 
 complexioned young girl had pictured 
 Daniel to herself as fair, with blue eyes, 
 and a rather thoughtful face; the real 
 Daniel had quite a different appearance.
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 127 
 
 He was small, slight, dark, and not at 
 all melancholy. So the vague features 
 of the old picture had to be effaced, 
 and replaced by the living image of 
 the original. 
 
 Although admitting that the Daniel 
 in flesh and blood was quite equal to 
 the imaginary Daniel, still Denise could 
 not help a feeling of disappointment 
 that her dream was not true. Then, 
 ashamed of this persistent prejudice, 
 she shook her head, passed her little 
 hands over her blushing cheeks, and 
 tried to give her thoughts another turn. 
 
 She looked over the wall at the fields 
 of mown wheat. The note of a quail 
 in the stubble-field reminded her that 
 the season for hunting had just begun, 
 and that Daniel had come to Les Tem- 
 pliers to hunt. She listened to the 
 calls of the shepherdesses, and their
 
 2 8 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 voices reminded her of the song of the 
 " three gallant lads who for the war are 
 starting," and the song made her think 
 again of Daniel. 
 
 *' Daniel ! Daniel ! " said the clear 
 voice of the mill-dam ; " Daniel ! " cried 
 the martins flying through the blue 
 air like arrows. And so it went on till 
 evening. 
 
 When night came Beau vais showed 
 the sergeant to his room, and, pressing 
 his hand, said, " Make yourself at home. 
 Sleep well. To-morrow we will go to- 
 gether to visit my woods, and I will 
 show you some game. Good night!" 
 
 While going to bed, after saying his 
 prayers, the abbé felt quite reassured. 
 " Monsieur Delétang is far away from 
 here," he thought. " Daniel is estab- 
 lished at Les Templiers. Now let us 
 leave the rest to God."
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 129 
 
 The next day, when he came down- 
 stairs, the hunters had already gone. 
 Denise complained of a headache, and 
 seemed tired. The innocent abbé fool- 
 ishly believed that she would talk to 
 him about the visitor; but she said 
 never a word, and he went away, quite 
 disheartened, to read his breviary in the 
 garden. 
 
 At noon Beauvais and Daniel re- 
 turned, famished. Daniel distinguished 
 himself by bringing back two par- 
 tridges, of which the abbé seemed very 
 proud. They sat down at table, and 
 as they were now quite well acquainted 
 with their guest, the conversation was 
 brisk. Denise was affable and lively, 
 and as she offered Daniel a dish, even 
 ventured to say, with a smile, " This 
 one is stronger ! " and as it was neces- 
 sary to look at her neighbor while 
 9
 
 30 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 speaking, she was compelled to admit 
 that brown eyes were more expressive 
 than blue. She also noticed that Dan- 
 iel was neither a fine talker nor as 
 awkward as the usual visitors at Les 
 Templiers, but that he had a grave, full 
 voice, a frank, energetic manner of 
 speech, and an inexhaustible fund of 
 good-humor. But he always appeared 
 to be aware of her presence, without 
 seeming otherwise affected ; and De- 
 nise, somewhat piqued, said to herself 
 that the imaginary Daniel would cer- 
 tainly have been more friendly, and less 
 interested in hares and partridges. 
 
 The day passed happily for all four, 
 and still more happily passed the weeks 
 which followed, each day bringing a 
 successful hunt or some new pursuit. 
 
 The autumn was glorious. After 
 their return in the evening, they re-
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 131 
 
 lated to Denise and the abbé the expe- 
 riences of the day, and made plans 
 for the next day's pleasure. If Denise 
 asked for a hare, Daniel would not come 
 home till he had a hare in his game- 
 bag. Once he did not return till night- 
 fall. He had hunted all day long, and 
 had gone without his breakfast. But 
 he had brought back a pheasant, a rare 
 bird which Denise the day before had 
 placed in the list of fabulous game. 
 
 Forgetting more and more her for- 
 mer ideal, Denise wondered how she 
 ever could hav^e had the poor taste to 
 slander dark hair and brown eyes, and 
 began to smile at her romantic dreams. 
 She was awake in the morning, and 
 secretly watched the hunters start off, 
 and at evening, guessing the way they 
 would return to Les Templiers, she 
 went to meet them, accompanied by
 
 132 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 her cousin. When still in the distance 
 Daniel would draw his finest piece of 
 game from his bag, and show it to her 
 with a triumphant air. 
 
 A charming friendship soon sprang 
 up between them. Denise had only to 
 say a word to have her wishes divined 
 and obeyed. She knew all Daniel's 
 favorite songs, and sang them in the 
 evening, in the orchard, without dream- 
 ing that she could be heard, as though 
 she were singing for herself alone. At 
 the slightest sign of approbation, she 
 would stop short, like a frightened 
 nightingale, and flee to the thickest 
 clump of trees. 
 
 One evening, when Daniel was alone 
 with the abbé, he asked, suddenly: ''Is 
 Monsieur Beauvais rich?" 
 
 '* Yes," replied the abbé, in surprise ; 
 "but why do you ask?'*
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 133 
 
 " He is rich ! So much the worse,- 
 then," said Daniel, and added: *^ If 
 Mademoiselle Denise were poor, like 
 myself, I should try to win her, and if 
 she loved me, I should ask her father 
 for her. I might settle down as a 
 farmer at }'Our Bruasseries, and it would 
 be fine for us three to live together! . . . 
 But she is rich ; so I must knock down 
 my card-house, and think of something 
 else." 
 
 "Think of what?" asked the abbé, 
 anxiously. 
 
 " Of leaving Les Templiers, and the 
 sooner the better." 
 
 "Baffled again!" thought the poor 
 abbé, seeing for a second time that his 
 sweet dreams threatened to vanish in 
 smoke. His conscience forbade him 
 from interfering with Daniel's plan of 
 departure, and his heart bled as he
 
 134 ^^^^ ^bbé Daniel. 
 
 thought of this new obstacle, which he 
 ought to have foreseen. He passed a 
 miserable, sleepless night. 
 
 The next day was destined to be 
 worse still. Beauvais and Daniel had 
 gone hunting, and the abbé was reading 
 Saint Augustine on the front porch. 
 About the middle of the afternoon a 
 carriage, driven by a young man, cau- 
 tiously entered the court-yard, and 
 stopped a few steps away from him. 
 The young man asked for M. Beauvais, 
 and gave his name: it was M. Dele- 
 tang. When he discovered that Beau- 
 vais was not at home, he breathed a 
 sigh of relief, and was going away ; but 
 the abbé thought it proper to insist on 
 his getting out of his carriage. He 
 made him go into the house, and pre- 
 sented him to Denise. 
 
 He was rather a countrified-looking
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 135 
 
 fellow, in spite of his city dress. He 
 was neither dark nor light, quite good- 
 looking, but timid as a young girl just 
 
 out of a convent, and pitifull}- awkward. 
 The abbé, proud to find a timidit}' 
 greater than his own, took pity on his 
 embarrassment, and tried to put him at 
 his ease. Denise, suspecting nothing,
 
 136 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 tried to be less shy than usual. The 
 suitor sat on the edge of a chair, talking 
 in monosyllables, for nearly an hour, 
 twisting his moustache, and looking all 
 the time at the abbé, to whom, in his 
 heart, he vowed eternal gratitude. At 
 last he rose to go, and not till then did 
 he make the object of his visit known. 
 He had come, at his father's request, to 
 invite the whole family to a fair at 
 Angles, which was to take place the 
 following week. Having delivered his 
 message, he bowed, tried the wrong 
 door twice, and finally got into his 
 carriage, which was soon heard rolling 
 past the windows. 
 
 When Beauvais returned, the abbé 
 gave him an account of M. Delétang's 
 visit, and conveyed the invitation to 
 him. 
 
 " Ah ! ah ! " said Beauvais, with an
 
 The Abbé Daniel . 137 
 
 air of mingled playfulness and mystery. 
 Then he looked knowingly at the un- 
 happy abbé. 
 
 " Ah ! ah !.. . Well, we will go to 
 Angles, all four of us. I will have the 
 char-à-hajics cleaned, and write a word 
 to father Delétang. Denise, darling, 
 put on \'our prettiest dress; major, 
 exercise )^our legs, for there will be 
 dancing, — yes, abbé, there will be 
 dancing."
 
 t \ 
 
 
 
 ^. I 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Thursday of the following week, in 
 the early morning, fin matin as they 
 say in Touraine, the char-à-ba/ics, drawn 
 by the best horse Les Templiers af- 
 forded, started away in the direction of 
 Angles. Beau vais and Daniel, on the 
 front seat, took turns in driving, and 
 exchanged remarks on the gait and 
 appearance of the horse. The abbé 
 and Denise, under the hood, looked at
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 139 
 
 the landscape in silence. They passed 
 throLi^^h the woods of Les Courtils. It 
 was a mild morning. The country was 
 partial 1\' x'ciled in smoke, but the rising 
 sun penetrated through the thin vapor. 
 Above the travellers' heads, the sky was 
 already growing blue, a cool wind was 
 soughing through the pine branches, 
 and the first yellow leaves were falling 
 under the carriage wheels. 
 
 Denise, wrapped in a brown shawl, 
 sat back in one corner and listened to 
 the merry conversation of Beauvais and 
 Daniel. The abbé, full of sadness, 
 watched the dry leaves flying about. 
 Me saw^ them come down from the 
 branches, whirl for a moment in the 
 air, and fall silently on the road. 
 
 "Autumn has come," he thought, 
 " the end of the festival of the }'ear, 
 and also the end of my joys and illu-
 
 I40 The Abhé Daniel. 
 
 sions ! " He was seized with alarm at 
 every turn of the wheel which brought 
 them nearer to Angles, and just as the 
 distance diminished, his agony of mind 
 increased. Urged on by the voices of 
 Beauvais and Daniel, the horse went 
 like the wind. They were already 
 passing along the banks of the pop- 
 lar-bordered Creuse. With an escort 
 of barking dogs the carriage entered 
 the streets of the village on the full 
 trot. The abbé trembled and looked 
 anxiously from Daniel to Denise, so 
 near to each other, so beautiful, so 
 young, so content with life. Perhaps 
 it was the last day that he should see 
 these two children of his heart to- 
 gether. . . . 
 
 Since Monsieur Delétang had not 
 appeared in person, the abbé believed 
 that this matrimonial phantom would
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 141 
 
 vanish in smoke; but now that they 
 were really going to Angles, and in 
 an hour's time would be in the suitor's 
 own house, the matter was s:rowinfr 
 serious ; and knowing how little he 
 could count on Daniel's initiative, and 
 mistrusting his own courage, the abbé 
 was disconsolate and in despair. De- 
 nise smiled as she looked at the heath 
 bathed in sunlight, the robins crossing 
 the road, and Daniel in uniform. The 
 carriage sped along like an arrow. 
 
 Now the steep roofs of the town 
 came in sight through the trees ; now 
 the\- could hear the indistinct noise of 
 the fair. Soon they were in full sight 
 of Angles. 
 
 The houses came down in gay 
 terraces to the road, which wound 
 between two walls of green and 
 crossed the river b}' a wooden bridge.
 
 142 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 On the other side of the way, on a 
 steep, rocky hill, rose the fine gray 
 ruins of a castle of the time of Richard 
 Cœur de Lion, and the ruins were 
 dominated by a platform, in the centre 
 of which rose a cross. The carriage, 
 still going at full speed, entered the 
 principal street, followed by a crowd 
 of people in their Sunday attire. At 
 the large gate of Delétang's place 
 stood the master of the house and 
 a large number of invited guests, and 
 at each new arrival this vanguard gave 
 a vigorous hurrah as a sort of welcome. 
 The yard was already full of country 
 equipages arranged in two rows. 
 
 In a moment Beauvais's carriage was 
 surrounded, unharnessed, and placed 
 among this curious museum of vehi- 
 cles. Monsieur Delétang senior, a 
 jolly little bustling man, who was as
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 
 
 M3 
 
 talkative as his son was reticent, took 
 possession of Beauvais. Delétang jun- 
 ior, trembling, of- 
 ered his arm to 
 Denise, and the 
 abbé and Daniel 
 remained behind, 
 somewhat forgot- 
 ten, and feeling 
 out of place. 
 
 The breakfast 
 was ready. Th ex- 
 went to the ha 
 filled with guests 
 There was a col 
 lection of coun- 
 tr\'men from the 
 different districts 
 of Berri and Poitou, raisers of cattle 
 and horses, most of them in frock coats, 
 some in new blouses and broad-brimmed
 
 144 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 straw hats, all people with good teeth, 
 thick-set, with ruddy complexions, quick 
 at repartee, and laughing so loud as to 
 make the windows rattle and the glasses 
 jingle. 
 
 Denise was seated between the two 
 Delétangs in front of the abbé, whose 
 sombre cassock and pale countenance 
 contrasted strangely with the motley 
 costumes and blooming faces. Attention 
 was soon drawn to the end of the long 
 table, where Daniel, who had quickly 
 broken the ice, was putting everybody 
 in good spirits by his sallies and anima- 
 tion. Beauvais's heartv% orolono-ed lauerh 
 was heard above the chorus of merry 
 voices. This merriment frightened the 
 abbé. As for Denise, she laughed 
 without knowing why, and made a 
 mental comparison between the silence 
 of her young neighbor and the live-
 
 The Abbe Djtiiel. 145 
 
 liness of the sergeant, not altogether 
 to the advantage of the former. 
 
 When dessert was brought on the 
 }'oung people left the table, and went 
 to the place where the fair was held. 
 The square was situated near the 
 church, and overlooked the deep, narrow 
 valley where the Englin flows. It was 
 planted with large acacia-trees, set out 
 in groups of five. Oxen, heifers, and 
 horses, collected around the first group 
 of trees and watched by small children, 
 announced the festival by their lowing 
 and loud bellowing. Then two rows 
 of tents were seen, under the shade 
 of which people were drinking at 
 tables. They were sucking their wine 
 and talking at the top of their voices. 
 Occasionall)' a voice would come forth 
 from one of the tents and strike up an 
 interminable wail in a drawling tone.
 
 146 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 The least ray of sunlight penetrating 
 these places of shelter made the faces 
 within look crimson and the eyes as if 
 on fire, while those in shadow took on 
 a soft, mysterious coloring. 
 
 Here and there kitchens in full blast 
 sent up clouds of smoke. The venders 
 of fouaces and toiLvtisseaiix * were sur- 
 rounded by children, rogues with wide- 
 open eyes, and jealous lovers trying to 
 offer their sweethearts the largest 
 possible piece of pastry. In Poitou 
 a tourtisseau costing two sous given 
 by a lad to a girl is equivalent to a 
 declaration of love. 
 
 While Monsieur Delétang and Denise 
 were together breaking a fouace — a 
 bold venture, which made the young 
 man blush to the whites of his eyes — 
 
 * Different kinds of sweetcakes popular in 
 Poitou.
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 Ti \ ¥l
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 149 
 
 a long, hilarious shout arose from the 
 crowd gathered around a tall pole, to 
 the top of which were fastened several 
 struggling, fluttering pigeons. 
 
 "Well done!" they cried, crowding 
 around Daniel, who ga}'ly held up a 
 pigeon the cord of which he had just 
 broken with a gun-shot. 
 
 " Now for another ! " said Daniel, 
 and seizing the loaded gun he shoul- 
 dered it, leaned his dark cheek against 
 the butt-end, pulled the trigger, and 
 this time two pigeons fell panting to 
 the ground. 
 
 " A double shot ! " he exclaimed with 
 delight. The amazed crowd of people 
 applauded all the more vehemently 
 when the \'oung man presented his 
 pigeons to three worthy old women 
 who were looking at them with longing 
 eyes.
 
 150 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 Denise was very proud of this 
 achievement, and the poor M. Dele- 
 tang felt more insignificant and awk- 
 ward than ever. He would not have 
 touched the gun for all the world. 
 
 Farther along, in a square formed 
 by four acacia-trees, the ball was in 
 progress. A hurdy-gurd\^ pla}^er and 
 a bagpiper, stationed on two casks in 
 the shade of the largest tree, conducted 
 the dancing. The hurd\'-gurdy player, 
 seated astride a stool, had thrown open 
 his waistcoat; he was absorbed in his 
 music. He turned his handle energet- 
 ically, and marked the cadences with 
 a slight swaying of his head. After 
 each repetition he manifested his de- 
 light by a grimace \)hich made his 
 spectacles fall off his nose; at the same 
 time he held carefully between his legs 
 a half-filled bottle.
 
 The Abbe Ddiiiel. i:;i 
 
 The bagpiper, tall and thin, with a 
 
 long face shaded b\' a witle-brininied 
 
 iraw hat, stood up and blew with all 
 
 seriousness into his strange, curious 
 
 instrument. 
 
 At their feet boys and girls were 
 lluttering about in fine confusion ; the 
 girls were holding up their printed 
 calico skirts with the tips of their fin- 
 gers, while each of the bo\'s, with his 
 free hand, clung fast to his red um- 
 brella, an object of luxury, a highly 
 prized and inseparable companion. 
 
 They scorned the local bourrée and 
 were tr\-ing the figures of the quadrille, 
 but the old habit kept asserting itself, 
 and the step of the bourrée was con- 
 stantly reappearing. 
 
 When Daniel, Uenise, and M. Dele- 
 tang drew near to the scene of the 
 ball Daniel exclaimed: —
 
 152 The Abbé Dajiiel. 
 
 ** Let us dance ! " 
 
 "But," replied Denise, ** I do not 
 know the contra-dance; I only know 
 the bourrée that La Bruère has taught 
 me." 
 
 " Well, we will dance the bourrée, 
 then. M. Delétang shall be your part- 
 ner, and I will very quickly find one 
 for myself." 
 
 He noticed a woman, still fresh and 
 nimble, who was watching the dance 
 with interest, and seemed all ready to 
 take part in it. Her eyes sparkled, her 
 head swayed to and fro, her whole body 
 kept time to the music, and her feet 
 could not be still. 
 
 " Do you know the bourrée, ma 
 mère?" said Daniel to her. 
 
 " Ah ! my dear fellow, do I know 
 it? I used to be the finest dancer in 
 all the country,"
 
 The Abbé D.iinel. 
 
 DO 
 
 " Well, will you dance with me? " 
 
 As the contra-dance had come to 
 an eiul, he hastened to ask tlie two 
 pla\-ers for a bourrée, and whether she 
 would or not, he letl the ^ood woman 
 next to Denise and her companion. 
 
 At the first sii^nal from the hurdy- 
 £^urd\' pla\-er the\' all four started in, 
 and the other dancers followed their 
 example. The old woman skipped 
 about as thouij^h she were only twenty. 
 Denise was as light as a bird ; her tiny 
 feet scarcely touched the ground as 
 the}' glided over it. Her cheeks, ani- 
 mated with pleasure, were crimson ; her 
 blue e}'es were full of light, ami her 
 lips wore a smile. 
 
 i\s she moved a little more quickl\' 
 to clap her hands before offering them 
 to her opposite neighbor, her thick 
 brown hair became parti}' unfastened,
 
 154 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 and fell from under her wide straw hat 
 over her shoulders. 
 
 " How beautiful she is ! " thought 
 Daniel, with enthusiasm. And Denise 
 noticed with admiration how quick the 
 young soldier was to catch the rhythm 
 and step of the bourrée, and how gayly 
 he stamped his heel on the ground, 
 turning with such ease and agility, to 
 clap his hands in response. She quite 
 pitied the timid Monsieur Delétang, 
 who became confused, and got out of 
 step every few moments. 
 
 While Daniel and Denise were danc- 
 ing under the acacias, the abbe's 
 sadness had redoubled, and as his 
 wounded heart could not adjust itself 
 to the gay commotion of the fair, 
 he had gone toward the old castle. 
 Following the rocky footpath, he had 
 climbed above the ruins and was sitting
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 155 
 
 at the foot of the large wooden cross 
 overlooking the now ruinous towers, 
 the x'illage, and the entire valley. 
 
 The wind still brought to him, in 
 puffs, the noise oï the festival, and 
 the sound of the orchestra, and at each 
 burst of music and clamor of voices 
 his heart swelled and his eyes filled 
 with tears. Was not his last hope 
 taken away from him? . . . 
 
 " It is all over," he thought, *' and 
 Deletang will take her awa)'. It will 
 be of no use now for me to open my 
 heart to Beauvais and beg him to give 
 Denise to Daniel, for he would only 
 laugh me in the face. What could my 
 poor sergeant avail, placed in the 
 balance with the son of the rich Dele- 
 tang? And then, besides, Denise 
 has not yet shown any preference for 
 Daniel, and Daniel himself is too
 
 156 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 proud to risk making the least ad- 
 vance." 
 
 And folding his arms across his nar- 
 row breast, he lifted his eyes toward 
 the pure, deep heavens. 
 
 " Oh, Denise," he said, " is your 
 daughter to belong to a stranger? Is 
 this last bond which unites us to be 
 broken? ... I have done what I 
 could." 
 
 He turned toward the great, out- 
 stretched arms of the black cross, and 
 added in thought : — 
 
 "God, who placed Daniel in my 
 path, and brought me near to Denise's 
 daughter, can still unite these two chil- 
 dren, in spite of everything, if he will. 
 I put my last hope in him. . . ." 
 
 The sun gradually sank behind the 
 wooded hill ; the river now reflected 
 the rosy tints of sunset. The abbé
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 157 
 
 still remained wrapt in thought at the 
 foot of the cross. Suddenly he heard 
 
 ^ïi* 
 
 some one call him, and saw Daniel 
 running, all out of breath. 
 
 "The horse is harnessed," he ex- 
 claimed. " They are waiting for you, 
 cousin ! "
 
 158 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 They went down the hill together. 
 Denise was already in the carriage. 
 Beauvais, looking excited and gay, 
 gave a hearty grasp of the hand to 
 both Monsieur Delétang and his son. 
 
 *' I shall expect you next Sunday ! " 
 he said, getting into his seat beside 
 Daniel, and when the abbé had taken 
 his place, Beauvais cracked the whip 
 over the horse's back, and they started 
 off at full speed. 
 
 The sky was thick with stars. De- 
 nise, still full of excitement over the 
 dancing, but silent, leaned back in 
 her corner. The abbé closed his eyes, 
 and turned his thoughts to prayer, 
 Daniel, too, seemed to be dreaming. 
 As for Beauvais, the white wine and 
 generous hospitality of the Delétangs 
 had put him in good humor. His 
 voice was loud and his laugh bolster-
 
 The Abbe Ddiiicl. 159 
 
 uLis. Fiom time to time he stopped 
 talkiiv^ to crack liis whip, and the 
 horse, liaxiiiij shickened liis pace for 
 a nionieiit, started on all the more 
 swifti}'. His freshly shod feet clattered 
 over the noisy road and struck fire 
 in the darkness of the nii;ht. 
 
 This horse — "a priceless animal," 
 as ]k\aii\ais said — had but one small 
 fault: he was timid as a hare, and when 
 frightened, would run straii^ht ahead. 
 
 They had '^nwc two-thirds of the 
 distance, when the horse took fright 
 at tlie reflection of the moonlis^ht in 
 a puddle of water, just as thc\' were 
 comin^i^ int(^ the \illage of Barrou. lie 
 pricked up his ears, shied, ga\-e a hnul 
 snort, and then starteel to run, and 
 rushed thruui^h the \-illaL;e like a 
 hurricane. 
 
 Beauvais, knowin<j" that the road as
 
 6o The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 it led out of Barrou, bordering the 
 Creuse, makes a sudden turn, strug- 
 gled to hold him in, and pulled the 
 reins with all his might. At an unex- 
 pected jolt they broke, and the horse, 
 feeling his liberty, increased his infernal 
 gallop, threatening each moment to 
 throw the carriage over the bank into 
 the Creuse. 
 
 Pale and with compressed lips, De- 
 nise clung to the back of the seat 
 against which Daniel was leaning ; he 
 turned around, and saw her white face 
 in the moonlight. Suddenly rising, he 
 leaped like a cat on the horse's back, 
 seized the ends of the broken lines, 
 and at the risk of being killed twenty 
 times, glided forward, and hung from 
 the animal's head. For some moments 
 he was dragged along by the horse; 
 but as he had muscles of steel, he
 
 The Abbe Daniel. i6i 
 
 braced himself more and more, till he 
 compelled the creatine to slacken its 
 -^pced. h'inally it stopped, concjiiered 
 and all of a tremble. 
 
 The travellers got out of the car- 
 riai^e ; the abbé hurried to Daniel, and 
 seein;j^ that he was safe and sound and 
 ^miliuL^, he went back to Denise, who 
 --at shivering and speechless by the 
 side of the road. Heau\'ais, quite crcst- 
 fcdlen at the unparalleled beha\ior of 
 his horse, walked around the carriage, 
 decided that it was injured, and an- 
 nounced that he must go back to Bar- 
 rou to Iku'c it repaired. 
 
 Denise got up and declared that 
 nothing in the world would induce her 
 to get into the carriage again. 
 
 " Don't be troubled, darling," replietl 
 Ik'auvais, very sweetl}' ; "it is onl\' 
 two short leagues from here to Les 
 II
 
 1 62 The Abbè Daniel. 
 
 Templiers, and by going across Les 
 Courtils, you can make the distance 
 still shorter. You are all good walkers, 
 and it is a fine night. I will go alone 
 to Barrou, and lead the horse by the 
 bridle, and in two hours at the longest 
 we shall be at home again." 
 
 " Well, then," said the abbé, some- 
 what embarrassed, " Daniel may go 
 with you, while Denise and I go 
 across." 
 
 '* Certainly not," replied Beauvais, in 
 his sarcastic tone ; " you are too absent- 
 minded, cousin, and the major already 
 knows the roads better than you do. 
 He will escort you. Well, good luck 
 to you. I will see you later." 
 
 He turned his horse around, and dis- 
 appeared in the direction of Barrou. 
 
 All three stood motionless for a 
 moment on the road; then the abbé,
 
 The Abbe Daniel, 163 
 
 who saw in all this the hngcr of God, 
 said to Daniel : — 
 
 ** Well, offer }'our arm to Denise. I 
 have a bad habit of liking to walk 
 by myself, and I will serve as rear 
 guard." 
 
 They went slowly up the rocky path 
 leading past Les Courtils. At first they 
 all walked together, talking of the acci- 
 
 'Ï3 
 
 dent and describing their sensations. 
 Denise was never weary of admiring 
 Daniel's presence of mind and energy, 
 and she expressed her admiration most 
 sincerely and naively. 
 
 *' lie was always a daring fellow," 
 said the abbé, and he related \\o\\, as 
 quite a child, Daniel had mounted a 
 very fiery horse, and had been brought 
 home to his house half-dead. 
 
 At the top of the hill the abbé 
 stopped, out of breath, and sat down
 
 164 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 at the foot of a tree. Busy with their 
 talk, the young people merely walked 
 a little more slowly, and went along 
 into the woods. The abbé watched 
 them as they passed on under the 
 branches. The moonlight bathed their 
 young heads. He sighed deeply, and 
 thought of what had just taken place. 
 Surely God had had the goodness to 
 listen to him, and the accident was the 
 result of Providential intention. Dan- 
 iel and Denise were made for each 
 other, and it was God's will to unite 
 them. All this was plain. 
 
 Trusting in his charge's uprightness, 
 and feeling as sure of Daniel and Denise 
 as of himself, the abbé remained sitting 
 under the tree, and watched the couple 
 disappear in the oak woods. Ten min- 
 utes after, a merry whoop, the call of 
 two fresh young voices, rung out in
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 165 
 
 the quiet night. The abbë replied 
 feebly, but did not move. 
 
 Meanwhile the two young people 
 were penetrating a covered path where 
 the interlacing branches formed a lat- 
 tice-work of light and shade, and talk- 
 ing they walked on under this bower, 
 partly in darkness and partly in light. 
 They smiled, and spoke of indifferent 
 matters, but in the depth of their hearts 
 they felt a strange, sweet uneasiness. 
 
 Their light feet scarcely grazed the 
 smooth, fine turf, tinted a bluish hue 
 by the moonlight. Each felt the gentle 
 pressure of the other's arm; their 
 voices rang out alternately in the night 
 like the song of two nightingales rising 
 in harmonx', or mounted together toward 
 heaven like two wood-pigeons taking 
 flight. Sometimes they were both silent 
 at the same time, and in the stillness
 
 66 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 which followed, they heard in the dis- 
 tance, borne on the evening air, the 
 melancholy murmuring of the waters of 
 the Creuse. 
 
 Daniel's heart was bursting with emo- 
 tion, and he could contain himself no 
 longer. 
 
 "What a wonderful night!" he ex- 
 claimed. These four words, and the 
 manner in which they were spoken, 
 expressed so much tenderness and 
 depth of feeling that the young girl 
 bent her head, and felt embarrassed. 
 However, she had to make some reply. 
 
 " Don't you think," she said, in a trem- 
 bling voice, " that this noise of the water 
 is like dance music in the distance?" 
 
 "Do you like dancing?" asked 
 Daniel. 
 
 " I don't know. It was the first time I 
 ever went to a dance, but I enjoyed it."
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 167 
 
 '♦Better than M. Delétang, for he 
 hopped about as though he were out 
 of phice." 
 
 " And out of time, too," she added, 
 witli a laugh. ** Poor fellow ! he looked 
 forlorn in his new frock coat." 
 
 ** Now don't make fun of him," said 
 Daniel. *' You must n't laugh at your 
 betrothed." 
 
 " My betrothed ! What an idea!" 
 
 Daniel looked at her as if to ask, 
 "Do you mean what you say?" . . . 
 " But,' he replied, " I believe that is 
 Monsieur Beauvais's idea." 
 
 Denise shook her head. Daniel 
 smiled sadly. 
 
 ** When I come again to Les Tem- 
 pliers, I shall probably find a great 
 change." 
 
 "Dear me!" murmured Denise; 
 " you speak of coming again as if
 
 68 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 you were just on the point of going 
 away. Your three months are not over 
 yet. Are you very fond of the mihtary 
 hfe?" 
 
 '' I have been very fond of it," repHed 
 the young man, ** and now it seems 
 both attractive and distasteful to me. 
 There are times when I am sorry that 
 I did not become a farmer in good 
 earnest, and Hve on some borderie* 
 hidden among the trees. . . . Les Bru- 
 asseries, for instance, would be a good 
 place to live in ! ... I should n't want 
 more than four acres of land and a 
 vineyard sloping down toward the 
 valley." 
 
 ** With a meadow at the foot, and an 
 osier-plot on the edge of the water,'' 
 added Denise. 
 
 " And in the meadow," he continued, 
 * A small farm.
 
 The Abbé DJiiiel. 169 
 
 "a good stout liorse to travel across the 
 fields with ; around the house, an or- 
 chard and pastures. . . ." 
 
 " And," she said, " in the pastures 
 great chestnut-trees, under the shade 
 of which to work. . . ." 
 
 "While the cows chewed their cud 
 as they lay on the grass. . . ." 
 
 " Yes," she went on, innocently car- 
 rying out the dream he had begun, 
 " two cows, with great, brown eyes, and 
 a white heifer, because we should need 
 milk. . . ." 
 
 She stopped, confused at her mistake, 
 and stammered. Daniel felt his. heart 
 beat as though it would burst. We ! . . . 
 She had said it I The sound of the 
 word still caressed his ear. He sud- 
 denly seized both the young girl's hands 
 in his own, and opened his lips to 
 speak ; then as suddenl}' relaxed his
 
 lyo The Abbé Daniel, 
 
 grasp, and repressed the words he was 
 ready to utter. 
 
 ** Ah ! why are you rich?" he ex- 
 claimed with bitterness. " Why are 
 you rich? That puts a distance be- 
 tween us greater than tlie thousand 
 leagues that separated us when I was 
 in the Crimea. . . . Still, I love you ! 
 I ought to have gone away without 
 telling you so ; but for two weeks the 
 words have been on my lips, and I 
 could keep them back no longer." 
 
 They went on walking slowly, and 
 Denise listened to him as he talked, 
 and her beautiful eyes sparkled through 
 her tears. When Daniel's last words 
 had penetrated the young girl's heart as 
 a dew-drop rolls between the petals of 
 a flower, she remained silent for a mo- 
 ment, then said, in a steady voice, though 
 vibrating with restrained emotion : —
 
 The Ahhé Djiiid. 
 
 ** Am I rich? I rcall}' did not know 
 it. The llionc;ht lias never come into 
 my mind. I ha\-e grown up at I.es 
 Temph'ers without knowiuL; the mean- 
 ini^ of mone\', and without thinking; of 
 askini^ about it. I onl)^ know one 
 thinc^, that m\' heart is above all ques- 
 tion of monc}'. I understand you, be- 
 cause I am as proud as }'ou are, and 
 granting that my father is rich, if }-ou 
 would lo\'e me better as a poor girl, I 
 will become poor for }-our sake. . . . 
 I ought not to tell }'ou all this; but 
 }'ou know it. I am unsophisticated, 
 and cannot conceal my thoughts." 
 
 These simple, frank Avords were spo- 
 ken in a tone denoting a will-power 
 which Daniel had never suspected. He 
 seized Denise's hands again, and look- 
 ing her in the face, said : — 
 
 "I thank }'ou, and I admire }'ou ;
 
 172 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 but I feel the color rising to my cheeks 
 as I think what your father would say 
 if I should ask him for your hand." 
 
 "My father," — and she smiled as she 
 looked down, — " my father is not so 
 terrible as his abrupt manner would 
 lead one to suppose. Besides, he has 
 a high opinion of you, and he loves 
 me. . . . He will give his consent." 
 
 ** But in his eyes," Daniel continued, 
 *' I should seem as though I were seek- 
 ing a dowry ! " 
 
 *' Ah," she added, reproachfully, 
 " }'ou are too proud, and I shall believe 
 that you love yourself better than you 
 love me. Can you not bend your pride 
 a little for love of me? Besides, there 
 is our cousin, who will be our ally and 
 plead our cause." 
 
 " Yes, yes," exclaimed Daniel, " the 
 cousin is good and wise, and I will tell
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 
 
 173 
 
 him c\'cr\-thinc; to-niorruw. . . . What! " 
 he cxchiinicd, with cHsappointniciit in 
 his voice, " licrc wc arc, ah-cady at the 
 end of the woods ! " 
 
 'T was true, the underbrush was grow- 
 ing thinner, and here and there appeared 
 great carpets of 
 purple heath sliin- 
 ing in the moon- 
 light. Denise had 
 taken Daniel's arm 
 again, and a de- 
 lightful talk fol- 
 lowed the feverish ^ ' 
 excitement of their first confession of 
 love. They exchanged confidences, and 
 opened their hearts to each other, over 
 and over again. The abbé would have 
 been i)aid a hundred-fold for having been 
 so deceived, and for his agony of mind, 
 if he could have seen them, this bril-
 
 174 T^-^ Abbé Demie! . 
 
 liant night, walking slowly through the 
 grassy pasture, while the calves and 
 cows, crouched down in their dornwirs, 
 half rose as they passed by, and lowing 
 softly looked at them. 
 
 The dew of the night and the moon- 
 light enveloped them like a misty halo. 
 Drops of dew fell from the branches, 
 and rolled into their hair, sparkling 
 there like glow-worms. Both were 
 young, both were deep in love, both 
 full of life and hope, and in the stillness 
 of the night all nature seemed to trem- 
 ble with gladness to see them advance. 
 
 So they came unconsciously to the 
 dark bank of the Egronne, and saw 
 the roof of Les Templiers shining in 
 the moonlight. A cock crowed in the 
 farm-yard. They both were filled with 
 regret to reach the end of their walk, 
 and they moved more and more slowly.
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 175 
 
 Suddenly the voice of some youiv^ 
 peasant, returning from the fair, reached 
 their ears, from the depths of the val- 
 ley below. He was singing an ancient 
 ballad, very popular and always new, 
 the song of Juliet to Romeo, the song 
 that is always found where there are 
 lo\'ers, — that is, e\'er\'where, in the de- 
 files of Sicily* and on the heaths of 
 Poitou. The voice sang: — 
 
 '• They had not been 
 Together fifteen minutes — 
 When hark ! the lark was singing high ! 
 Dear lark, thou art not truthful ; 
 Thy song doth lie ! 
 'T is only midnight now, I say, 
 And not the day ! " 
 
 * "Ah! rondinella bella 
 
 Tu fai da gran bugiarda : 
 Hai conimenciato a can tar 
 E non si vede I'alba." 
 
 Sicilian folk song. 
 Pretty, pretty swallow ! 
 Thou art a lying fellow: 
 Thy morning song one I. ears 
 Before the rosy dawn appears. 
 
 N. II. D.
 
 lyô The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 They looked at each other and 
 smiled, and then, after pressing each 
 other's hands for a last time, hastened 
 on. The abbé and Beauvais were 
 walking in the court-yard. The light 
 of a blazing fire gleamed ruddy through 
 the kitchen windows. 
 
 " Well," exclaimed Beauvais in his 
 deep, jovial voice, " did n't I tell you 
 that your cousin would let you get 
 lost? What a man he is! If I had 
 not met him and picked him up, he 
 would be in the woods still, late as 
 it is."
 
 t 
 
 ^* 
 
 CHAPTER Vil. 
 
 That night it was Daniel's turn not 
 to sleep. He was up before daylight. 
 He had agreed with Denise to speak 
 on this very day to the abbé, and to 
 ask him then to approach Reauvais ; 
 but as the time for explanation drew 
 near, the young man felt a new senti- 
 ment, till then unknown, spring up 
 within him. He was afraid of the abbé. 
 As soon as he heard him moving about 
 in his room, he took his gun and went 
 
 12
 
 178 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 off hunting, all the time reproaching 
 himself for his cowardice. 
 
 At noon he had not returned, and 
 they sat down at table without him. 
 The meal was a silent one. Denise, 
 anxious and troubled, kept looking 
 toward the court-yard and spoke only 
 in monosyllables. Bcauvais looked as 
 embarrassed and comically serious as 
 though he were carrying a state secret 
 and were not accustomed to it. The 
 abbé, weary in body and mind, ate little 
 and did not talk at all. 
 
 After dessert he went up into his 
 tower, and left the father and daughter 
 alone. Beauvais folded his napkin, 
 took out his pipe, lighted it solemnly, 
 and looking at his daughter very 
 seriously, said : — 
 
 " Well, Denise, how did you like 
 Monsieur Delétang? "
 
 The Abbe Daniel . \ 79 
 
 " The lather? " asked the c^irl, niib- 
 chie\'oiisl)'. 
 
 " Xo, the son." 
 
 "Oh, I found him — very polite and 
 very proper." 
 
 ** Very good ! " exclaimed Beauvais ; 
 " \'ery good ! and as he pleased you, I 
 am coming straight to the point. Yes- 
 terda\' father Deletang and I planned to 
 marry you two. What do \'ou say to it?" 
 
 Denise was sitting down ; she rose, 
 blushed, and said very gravel)' : — 
 
 " What ! father, did )'ou pledge my 
 word without consulting with me?" 
 
 "Well, not exactly pledged it," 
 replied Beauvais, somewhat astonished, 
 " but I supposed you would give your 
 consent, and consequently in\ited all 
 the Deletangs to come here next 
 Sunda\'." 
 
 " In that case," said Denise, with de-
 
 i8o The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 cision, ** you must write them not to 
 come, for I do not wish M. Delétang 
 for a husband." 
 
 '' That makes quite a difference ! 
 And why not, mademoiselle? " 
 
 " Because I do not love him." 
 
 " Bah ! Bah ! stuff and nonsense ! 
 You do not love anybody, not even 
 your own father! " 
 
 She rose, threw her arms around 
 his neck, sat down on his knee, took 
 the pipe out of his hands, and said 
 coaxingly : — 
 
 **Yes, I love you well, my darling 
 father, but don't speak so loud, and let 
 us talk reasonably. You want me to 
 marry, do you? And yet you want 
 me to stay with you ? And I wish 
 so too. ..." 
 
 **\Vhat then?" said Beauvais. De- 
 nise continued : —
 
 The Abbe Daniel. i8i 
 
 ** This M. Delétang is always on the 
 road, on account of his business. He 
 would take nie with him, and )'ou 
 would be left alone. . . . But would 
 you like to know the real, honest truth? 
 Well, I would much rather have some 
 one like — like M. Daniel." 
 
 Beau vais was astounded by this reve- 
 lation. He pushed his daughter quickly 
 away from him, walked across the room 
 without sa\'ing a word, then all of a sud- 
 den burst forth like a bomb : — 
 
 "The sergeant-major.? Heavens! 
 he has n't a sou to his name ! Who 
 has put such an idea into your head? . . . 
 A non-commissioned officer ! . . . " 
 
 " He is going to be an officer." 
 
 " I thought you did n t want to leave 
 me .? " 
 
 " Well, he will send in his resigna- 
 tion."
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 " Leave me alone ! " exclaimed Beau- 
 vais, in exasperation. " It is the abbé 
 who has been the cause of this fine 
 love affair ! " 
 
 Denise approached her father slowly, 
 compelled him to stop, and said, much 
 agitated : — 
 
 "■ Speak lower, father ! You know 
 that I always tell the truth. Well, I 
 assure you that the abbé has never 
 spoken to me about his charge." 
 
 '* Indeed ! Indeed ! he has spoken 
 wonderfully without saying a word ! 
 You see what this cousin is that I took 
 for a kind of a text-book ! He has 
 done well ! " 
 
 ''Father—" 
 
 " Leave me ! *' mterrupted Beauvais, 
 much irritated. " Go to your room 
 and think over what I have said." 
 
 *' It has all been thought over,"
 
 The Abbe D.inicl. 
 
 rci)licd Denise sadl\', but also with 
 decision. " I sludl not mari'\- at all." 
 
 She went out and took refui^e under 
 the trees in the orcluu'd. Heaux'ais, in 
 strant^e agitation, walked up and down 
 the hall for a long" time, gesticulating, 
 growling, and muttering to himself. 
 Then suddenl}' he went up to the abbe's 
 quarters and found him reading his 
 journal. 
 
 " There you are, }'ou man of mys- 
 teries ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked the 
 amazeel cousin. 
 
 " I mean that Denise refuses M. Dele- 
 tang, because her head is full of }'our 
 sergeant-major." 
 
 The abbé tried to make some reply, 
 blushed, and said nothing. 
 
 " Why don't you speak? " 
 
 The abbé rose, looked Beauvais in
 
 1 84 The Abbé Daniel, 
 
 the face, and finally said to him with 
 ardor : — 
 
 "Yes, I have been mysterious, if it 
 is mysterious to have secretly desired 
 the marriage of my ward to Denise for 
 seven years. Yes, I had Daniel come 
 here with the hope that he would please 
 Denise, and that she would please him. 
 I intended to wait till he should be 
 made an officer, because I didn't wish 
 to offer you anything lower, but Dele- 
 tang crossed my path, and I wrote 
 Daniel to come at once. Yes, I wished 
 to take your Denise from you, as you 
 took my cousin from me. This idea 
 has possessed me for a long time, and 
 consoled me in m.y sorrow. Daniel is 
 my own child ; I was born for family 
 life, and if, contrary to my vocation, 
 I took orders, it was because you 
 forced me to do so. If Daniel is here
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 1S5 
 
 i>)-dii\', you arc the indirect cause of 
 it, and if Denise loves my child, it is 
 a just dispensation of Providence. I 
 have been ni\'sterious. I will be so no 
 lon<^er. If ni\' Daniel does not please 
 \'ou, it is enough. Let us keep the 
 secret to ourselves. We will part. If 
 I ha\'e been m\'stcrious with }'ou, I 
 ha\'e been equally so with Denise and 
 Daniel, and I should be forever morti- 
 fied if my ward were to hear me." 
 
 " Cousin," replied Beauvais, gravely, 
 ** one would suppose that you too were 
 in loN'C." 
 
 " I am," replied the abbé, ** I have 
 been in love with m\' dream for seven 
 )'ears." 
 
 Beauvais went to open the window, 
 lie was suffocating. lie looked into 
 the garden and saw Daniel just coming 
 in, and called him. The abbé, alarmed.
 
 i86 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 started forward, and was going to bolt 
 the door, but Beauvais stopped him. 
 
 " Let him come up," he said calmly. 
 
 " Beauvais," replied the abbé, in a low 
 voice, " send us away, but do not humil- 
 iate him ! " 
 
 " Sit down and be quiet ! " said Beau- 
 vais, sharply. 
 
 " My life is in your hands," mur- 
 mured the abbé, dropping into a chair. 
 
 Daniel came in, looking rather pale, 
 but calm and resolute. Beauvais 
 walked up and down the room for a 
 moment, then, stopping in front of the 
 young man, said : — 
 
 " I wanted to have your advice 
 about something we have just been 
 discussing. This is it. I have a rela- 
 tive, who has the reputation of being 
 very rich, and has a marriageable 
 daughter. This young girl is loved
 
 The Abbe Dm id. 1S7 
 
 and sought tur b\' a vcr}' poor young 
 man. ..." 
 
 Here Uanicl interrupted him. 
 
 "Monsieur," he saiel, '"I see that 
 }'ou know all. Ves, I love )-our daugh- 
 ter, aiul as \"ou ha\'e just remarked, 1 
 am ver}' poor; I understand you, so 
 spare me the mortification of an expla- 
 nation which I can guess." 
 
 " Vou ha\'e neither understood nor 
 guessed an)thing," interrupted Beau- 
 vais. *' Let me finish. My relative, as 
 I told you, has the reputation of being 
 rich, but all that glitters is not gold, 
 lie has houses and lands, but he is 
 over head and ears in debt, and his 
 propert}' is covered with mortgages. 
 In a \-ear or two it will be seized and 
 sold; m}' relati\'e will find himself then 
 without resources, and his daughter 
 without a dowr}'. What do you think
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 the very poor young man ought to 
 do?" 
 
 " Cousin," exclaimed Daniel in a 
 shrill voice, "will >'ou give me a lease 
 of your Bruasseries? " 
 
 " You know \-er\' well that it is 
 yours," said the abbé, opening his 
 eyes wide, and no longer understand- 
 ing what was going on. 
 
 Daniel then drew near to Beauvais, 
 and in a firm but gentle voice, said : — 
 
 " If I were the young man of whom 
 you speak, monsieur, I should go to 
 the young girl's father, as I come to 
 you now, and I should say to him: 
 'I am }'oung, I am strong, I am accus- 
 tomed to country life, and I have a 
 friend who is willing to entrust me with 
 a farm in excellent condition, well sup- 
 plied with implements and well fruited. 
 Give me your daughter, and we two will
 
 The Abbé Daniel. i;^9 
 
 work to c^ivc }'oii back a portion ofj'our 
 lost fortune' " 
 
 As hc listened to Daniel, Ik'anvais 
 i;"re\v red in tlic face, liis lips trembled, 
 the veins in his forehead swelled, and 
 hc seemed to be deeply mo\'ed. He 
 walked across the roi^m aL;ain, and 
 when he reached the window, looked 
 toward the orchard. 
 
 " Denise," he cried in his loudest 
 voice. 
 
 After a few minutes Denise came in, 
 in great agitation. She was alarmed 
 to see the solemn faces of Beauvais 
 and the abbJ-, anil Daniel looking so 
 excited ; she tried to speak, and the 
 words died away on her lips. 
 
 " Denise," said Beauvais, pointing to 
 Daniel, " there is a foolish fellow, who 
 is willing to marr\' \'ou without a 
 dowr}-; do you give \'(jur consent?"
 
 90 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 The young girl looked radiantly at 
 her father, and threw her arms around 
 his neck. 
 
 ** Leave me alone ! " he said in a 
 choking voice. " If you both give 
 your consent, does n't the fact that 
 you are both poor frighten you ? I 
 assure you that what I have told you 
 is serious; it is no pretty story such 
 as you see in plays." 
 
 " I am taking it seriously," replied 
 Daniel. '' I have been in love with 
 Denise for more than a month, but 
 the fear of seeming to be a fortune 
 hunter compelled me to be silent. I 
 intended to go away without letting 
 my feelings be known, and I should 
 have done so but for the accident 
 yesterday and your statement to-day." 
 
 "So," said Beauvais, somewhat piqued, 
 " if Denise were still rich, you would
 
 The Abbe Diimcl. 191 
 
 think twice before askiiiL,^ me for lier? 
 you would be afraid to marry her, 
 would you? " 
 
 " Certainly, monsieur." 
 
 '• Oh, that is a little too much," ex- 
 claimed Beauvais, whose homely face 
 was beginning to look irritated; and 
 besides he could no longer play a rôle 
 so humiliating to him; " that is a little 
 too much ! Don't you suppose one 
 can do more good about him with a 
 fortune than without a sou in the 
 world? Money is money, and poverty 
 leads to nothing. By my faith, \'our 
 reasoning breaks me all up, and I would 
 refuse to give Denise to you now if 
 I had not given }-ou my word. Eh ! 
 D>) }'ou believe, proud as )'ou are, that 
 I would give her to you, if 1 were as 
 ruined as I have led you to suppose? 
 No, no ! nothing with nothing causes
 
 192 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 uiihappiness, and when there is no hay 
 in the loft the asses kick ! . . . Denise 
 has enough for two, thank God ! " 
 
 *' But Daniel is not absolutely poor," 
 the abbé ventured to remark, as he at 
 last understood what they were talking 
 about, and was recovering his serenity; 
 '' my Bruasseries are a little something 
 and worth at least twenty-five thousand 
 francs. ..." 
 
 " Who is talking about your Bru- 
 asseries? " quickly interrupted Beau- 
 vais. " That would be a great conso- 
 lation to us if I were ruined ! but I am 
 not, thank God ! I am not. Come," 
 he said to Denise, " come, Miss Per- 
 versity, kiss your lover! If your 
 mother were here she would weep for 
 joy. . . as I do ! " 
 
 Indeed, the rough Beauvais could 
 control his emotion no longer, and
 
 The Abbè DjnicL 193 
 
 the hot tears were flowing down his 
 cheeks. Daniel imprinted his first kiss 
 on Denise's forehead, then kissed the 
 abbé and Beauvais. 
 
 Wlien all four were calm and had 
 wiped their red eyes they went down 
 together into the garden. La Bruère 
 was spreading out the linen. Denise 
 took Daniel's hand, led him to the old 
 servant, and said joyfully : — 
 
 " Bruère, here is my future hus- 
 band ! " 
 
 La Bruère clasped her hands: *' Ah, 
 m\- darling! Ah! my good people! 
 So much the better! I said to myself, 
 ' What can they all be doing up there 
 together? Monsieur le cure's room 
 hardl\- holds four people. . . .' " 
 
 But the lovers had no time to listen 
 to her, and did not wait; they sped 
 away together through the orchard. 
 13
 
 te^.*l%; 
 
 m 
 
 iSS^ 
 
 CHAPTER VITI. 
 
 It was the evening of Denise's wed- 
 ding. . . . The hurdy-gurdy and the 
 bagpipe were playing in the garden 
 under the windows of the large hall, 
 filled with people and the hum of 
 voices. Beauvais could not let a mo- 
 ment of this day pass without music. 
 He wanted the air and the walls of Les
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 195 
 
 rcmplicrs to be as gay as he was 
 himself. 
 
 Xearh' a hundrecl people were seated 
 
 it two immense tables brii;"htl\^ lii^htetl 
 with a double row of candles. Beaii\-ais 
 sat at one of the tables, surrounded by 
 the older people, — distant relatives, 
 farmers and their wives from the neigh- 
 boring^ districts. At the other sat the 
 newly married couple and the abbé, 
 wreathed about with blooming young 
 people. They had gathered in Pres- 
 signy and from the neigboring farms 
 all those over fifteen and under twenty- 
 five \-ears old. 
 
 /\t the end of the hall was still a third 
 table, and the noisiest, filled with chil- 
 dren, with the little folk. The bagpiper 
 and the luird\'-gurd\' phu'er could hard- 
 1\- be heard abo\e the noise of voices, 
 laughter, and the jingling of glasses;
 
 196 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 still the harmony of these instruments 
 formed a sort of vibrating background 
 to the tumultuous joy of the banquet. 
 
 Les Templiers breathed forth a rich 
 perfume of hospitality and abundance. 
 Servants were constantly running to 
 and fro. They were constantly bring- 
 ing new dishes in their outstretched 
 hands, and mingling their gayety with 
 the gayety of the guests. Wine flowed 
 freely. The guests conversed in groups 
 of two or three or more, then all to- 
 gether at a table, and from one table to 
 another. The older people argued, dis- 
 cussed, drank each other's health, while 
 the young folk laughed, conversed mer- 
 rily, and talked of love. Now and then, 
 a word, or a whole sentence, was heard 
 distinctly above the hubbub. Some- 
 times a whole table would burst into 
 loud laughter.
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 197 
 
 In the midst of this noise there was 
 a sort of oasis of silence where the 
 bridal couple and the abbé were. 
 There ever\'thing was sweet and quiet. 
 " Denise — Daniel — Cousin" were mur- 
 mured low. More frequently a smile, 
 or a j^rolonc^ed look, translated their 
 thoui^hts. Denise was absorbed in her 
 happiness, as she sat dressed in white 
 tulle, wearin<^ natural orange-blossoms 
 in her brown hair, her face pale and 
 innocent, her e}-es sparkling and yet 
 thoughtful. 
 
 Daniel was dressed in black. He had 
 left off his uniform, never to put it on 
 again. His strong, beaming, sunburnt 
 \\\cc contrasted with his dark clothes. 
 He hardly took his eyes away from De- 
 nise, and she, charming in her agitation, 
 occasionally looked around at the throng 
 of invited quests. The abbé did not
 
 198 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 see the guests ; he saw nothing but the 
 bridal pair. His admiration was be- 
 yond words. He asked himself whether 
 he were not dreaming. His joy was 
 unspeakable, and yet a strange touch 
 of sadness was mingled with it. 
 
 A mother is never gay on her child's 
 wedding-day. The hurdy-gurdy and 
 the bagpipe, to the abbe's sensitive 
 ears, seemed to be playing a farewell 
 sonGf, a souG^ fjrowiuG^ more and more 
 distant, and finally ceasing altogether. 
 He was both happ)' and sad. 
 
 At the end of the dinner the heavy 
 dishes of venison with which the table 
 was spread disappeared in the twinkling 
 of an e}'c, and were immediately re- 
 placed with cakes and fruit. Petit- 
 Pinson brought in the baskets, and 
 distributed the contents according to 
 his own pleasure. He, too, was going
 
 T}?e Abbe Daiiiel. 199 
 
 to be married two weeks later. He 
 stepped proudly, and opened his eyes 
 wider than ever. La Brucre reserved 
 for herself alone the privilege of serv- 
 ing the young master and mistress, and 
 with her old, wrinkled, trembling hands 
 placed the finest fruits of the orchard 
 before them, — transparent grapes, crim- 
 son apples, yellow pears, almonds in 
 their green shells, hazel-nuts in their 
 prickly coverings. They were so many 
 fantastic emblems of congratulation for 
 Denise and the abbé, who were unable 
 to touch them. 
 
 When dessert was brought on the 
 hall was more tumultuous than ever, 
 and they drank the health of the newly 
 married couple. " To the bridal pair 
 and the abbé !" exclaimed Beauvais in 
 a stentorian voice ; and all the guests 
 rose, and approached the new couple,
 
 2 00 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 forming above the abbe's head a sort of 
 chandeher of glasses, with a thousand 
 facets and a thousand crystaUine jin- 
 ghngs. The poor abbé, with his one 
 hand, was very mucli embarrassed. Si- 
 lence having been restored with con- 
 siderable difficulty, three young girls, 
 carrying bouquets of flowers, came and 
 placed them in front of Denise, and 
 standing wdth downcast eyes, they sang 
 the following couplet to a slow air: 
 
 " Madam, from this bouquet 
 Which I hold in m}^ hand 
 
 Take one flower bright and gay, 
 That thou may'st understand 
 
 How all these honors of a day 
 Like flowers will pass away,"* 
 
 It was a bridal song, the young girls' 
 farewell to the new wife, — a song full 
 of grave lessons, a sad, serious note in 
 
 * N. H. D.
 
 The Abbe Daniel. 201 
 
 the midst of the ox'crflouing lo\'c of 
 the first day. . . . 
 
 Denise hstencd with a smile, and 
 thoiiL^ht to herself that love would not 
 pass away like the flowers. 
 
 After the dinner there was a ball. 
 Two violins and an oboe had taken the 
 place of the hurdy-gurdy player and 
 the bagpiper, who were quite out of 
 breath. All the young people followed 
 the new music, in a crowd, to the gar- 
 den, where colored lamps were arranged 
 to light a terrace given up to the dan- 
 cers. The bridal pair were surrounded, 
 and the ball began. Although it was 
 October, it was one of those warm 
 nights such as often occur in Tourainc, 
 where the autumn is so beautiful. 
 
 The gaycty, transferred to a different 
 environment, seemed to have taken a 
 fresh start.
 
 202 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 The abbé walked about among the 
 dancers for a long time, looked several 
 times into the hall where tlie older 
 people remained with Beauvais, then 
 went alone through the dark paths in 
 the garden. A solemn joy followed him 
 everywhere. He finally kissed Daniel 
 and Denise, and went up into his tower. 
 When he reached his room he opened 
 the window, and sat down by it. 
 
 Around him extended the dark coun- 
 try and the starry heavens. At his 
 feet, surrounded by a border of trees, 
 the ball was going on, and sent up 
 to him bursts of music and gayety. 
 He forgot to watch the dancers, taking 
 their partners, leaving them, intermin- 
 gling and separating again. He fol- 
 lowed every motion made by Denise 
 and Daniel. About midnight a v/hite 
 form and a black one left the dance
 
 The Abbe DJiiiel. 203 
 
 to<^ethcr, aiul disappeared. Gradually 
 the music ceased, and the chuicers went 
 a\va\' in their turn. The huiips were 
 e\tini;uished, the garden became dark 
 and still ; but towartl rressiL;n\', the 
 -;iL,diin!^ of the oboe could be heard, 
 accompanied by the scraping of the 
 violins, while the hurdy-gurdy and the 
 bagpi[)e resounded from the direction 
 of l^tableaux. Singing and merry 
 shouts were heard growing fainter and 
 more distant. Here and there in the 
 valle\'s lights appeared. They were 
 lights from the windows in the houses 
 to which some of tlie guests had just 
 returned. 
 
 The abbé soon found himself, as it 
 were, wrapped in silence. On the front 
 of Les Templiers a single window was 
 still lighted up, the one in the bridal 
 chamber. The abbé looked at the
 
 204 
 
 The Abbé Daniel. 
 
 white lamp-light, then lifting his head 
 toward the deep heavens, where the 
 twinkling stars seemed to thrill with 
 delight, he thought of the Denise of 
 other days, the Denise so well beloved, 
 who now dwelt above. His heart was 
 full of joy, full of tenderness and sad- 
 ness. He murmured half aloud this 
 fragment from Simeon's song: — 
 
 " Lord, now lettest thou thy servant 
 depart in peace. . . ," 
 
 And the tears flowed freely and 
 gently down his emaciated cheeks.
 
 inis DOOK IS LJuc uii iiie iast 
 date stamped below 
 
 @CT 231343 
 
 îm-10,'48(B1040)470
 
 r/u 
 
 llllllllHiniiilinii 
 
 B 000 010 952 
 
 2450 
 
 T34A1E 
 
 1894