III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

Old Ragaud was miserable that he could not go off with the other men of the neighborhood. He was too old, and this only increased his vexation, as he was but three or four years older than Michou, and he was in the battle! The sadness and ill-humor of the poor old fellow rendered Muiceron still gloomier, and the women neither dared stir nor sigh before him.

The little they knew was very terrible; and when the private letters began to arrive, all the families were plunged in despair and sorrow. Our commune alone lost three men; among them Cotentin, the miller, an honest peasant, and father of four children. He was shot dead, almost at the moment of his arrival; and the next day came the news of the death of Sylvain Astiaud, son of the head-forester, one of our bravest boys. Each one trembled for his own at the announcement of these misfortunes, and at last silence was considered a sure sign that mourning should be prepared.

Jeanne felt all her courage fail. She could no longer either eat or sleep, and even feared to question the passers-by. Certainly the good God, who wished to sanctify the poor child, and make her a perfect woman, did not spare her any suffering. He acted with her like a father who is tender and severe at the same time; who corrects the faults of his child, knowing well that they are more hurtful than death, and then recompenses her when petting can no longer spoil her.

Therefore this little Jeannette had to go to the end of her trial before relief came and her tears were dried. And this happened through that giddy, wild Pierre Luguet, who had left, like the others, singing and blustering, assuring the people around that he did not believe a word of the current rumors, and that, in one hour after his arrival in Paris, he would find out the whole truth, and send them all the news. But, behold! as soon as he was in the midst of smoking and bleeding Paris, he lost his senses, imagined himself killed before he had fired a shot, and wrote in pencil, on a scrap of blood-stained paper, a letter to his parents, all sighs and tears. He bade them farewell, and begged them to pray for his soul, as he would be dead before night; for no one could live in such a terrible conflict. If he had only spoken for himself, it might have passed; but he added that M. le Marquis, Jean-Louis, and Michou were certainly dead. He had sought for them everywhere, asked everybody, and no one could give him good news. To crown his stupidity, he added that, among the great heaps of corpses that lay yet unburied, he had recognized Jean-Louis' blouse of gray linen bound with black; and therefore they must weep for the death of that good, brave boy.

The next day you would have been shocked to have seen the ravages grief had made on their honest faces. Jeannette, wearied out with weeping and fatigue, slept in the arms of her mother, paler than a camomile-flower. Pierrette restrained her tears, from fear of awakening the child; but her hollow eyes and cheeks were pitiful to see; and the sun shone brightly in the room, without any one taking the trouble to close the shutters.

It was in this state that M. le Curé found the Ragaud family. His entrance at Muiceron renewed the lamentations; but Jeannette was calm, which greatly pleased the good pastor, as he saw that his lessons, joined to those of divine Providence, had borne their fruit.

He took the little thing aside, and, much affected by her deathlike appearance, spoke gently to her, and asked her to walk with him on the bank of La Range.

“My daughter,” said he, “it is not right to sink into such utter despair about news which is yet uncertain. Show a little more courage, for a while at least, until we hear something positive.”

“He is dead,” said Jeannette. “May the will of God be done! Alas! I should have been too happy, if I had seen him again.”

“Why are you so certain? As for me, I confess Pierre's letter would not make me lose all hope.”

“They were three together,” said she. “Pierre has written; could they not have written also?”

This argument was not bad. The curé could not reply; for, without acknowledging it, he did think the silence very strange. He made the poor child sit down by the side of the swift-running stream that glittered in the bright sunshine, and spoke to her for a long time in such soothing, touching words, Jeanne listened with profound respect and piety. He spoke of the happiness of this world, which is but for a short time; of the necessity of living and regaining her strength, that she might console her parents; of the beautiful day of eternity; of the heavenly home, where we will meet again the loved ones gone before us, never again to be separated.

At another time, Jeannette would not have understood these words, and perhaps might have even found them out of place; but now they fell upon her heart like soft caresses.

“Oh!” said she, “it is only now I understand how dearly I loved him. Father, tell me, can he see us from above?”

“You will have it, then, that he is absolutely dead,” said the curé, smiling.

Jeannette, in spite of her grief, smiled in her tears.

“That is true,” she said; “perhaps he is not dead.”

Hope had re-entered her soul with the consolations of the holy priest. They walked down the road to the farm, and Jeannette thanked him with much tenderness, and remarked, as it was near sunset, he must return home.

“One moment,” said the good curé; “you are a little egotist. I can't go without saying a word to father and mother.”

“Oh! yes,” said she, “of course you must; but, dear father, I will remain here, and say my rosary in the shade under the trees; the air will completely restore me.”

“Very well, dear child,” replied the curé; “and may the Blessed Virgin console you, my daughter!”

Jeanne retired under the heavy foliage, and really took her little rosary out of her pocket. But this wood recalled many sweet reminiscences. It was there Jean-Louis had found her and saved her life on that stormy night the year before. She looked for the spot, near the woodman's cabin, where he had taken her in his arms with a father's care; and as the remembrance of all this past happiness, which she had then slighted, came back to her heart, she leant against a tree, and hid her face in her hands.

Whether they were tears of repentance, of regret, of love, or of prayer that fell from her eyes God only knows; and surely, in his infinite goodness, he waited for this moment of supreme anguish, which could not have endured much longer, to say to that heart-broken child, “You have suffered enough; now be happy!”

For in that same hour Jean-Louis, wild with joy, leaped from the imperial of the country stage on the highroad, and ran, without stopping to take breath, toward his beloved Muiceron.

He also remembered the stormy night, and, from a sentiment you can well understand, wished to see again the little hut, if only to throw a passing glance.

He reached the spot, and was soon near the tree where Jeannette leant motionless. He recognized her. The beating of his heart almost suffocated him; for, with a lover's instinct, he immediately knew, if she had come to weep in that spot, it could only be on his account.

He advanced until he stood close behind her.

“Jeanne!” said he, so softly he scarcely heard his own voice.

Jeannette turned, and gave one scream. Her eyes wandered a moment, as if she had seen a phantom, and she fell half-dead into his arms.

“Jeanne! dear, dear Jeanne! don't you know me?” said he, pressing her to his breast. “I have caused you much sorrow, but it is all over—oh! it is all over; tell me, is it not?”

The poor child could not speak; her emotion and joy were too great. But such happiness don't kill; and gradually she revived, although she still trembled like a leaf.

“O Jeannet!” she said at last, “they wrote word you were dead.”

“And was that the reason you were weeping here all alone in this wood, my poor, dear darling?” he tenderly asked.

“Yes,” said she, looking down; “I could not be consoled. Why did you not send us some news?”

“I wished to surprise you,” said he, with simplicity; “and now I see I did wrong.”

“One day more, and I would have been dead also,” said she, leaning on his arm. “Cruel boy, go!”

She looked so lovely, still pale with grief, and yet as lively and coquettish as before, Jeannet was obliged to clasp her once again in his arms, and even kissed her, for which I hope you will pardon him, as I do.

“You will never leave us again; you will promise that?” she replied. “When you are away, all sorts of misfortunes happen. Oh! how much we have suffered.”

And as these words suddenly recalled the sad events of the last six months, her flirtation, her thoughtless conduct, and the lamentable scenes that followed, she blushed, sighed, and leant her face, down which the tears were streaming, against Jean-Louis' shoulder.

“My own Jeannette,” said he, “you must no longer think of all that sorrow, now that God has made us so happy again. There is no misfortune which does not carry with it a profitable lesson when we recognize in it the hand of the Lord; and, for my part, although I have been nearly dead with grief, I say that my present happiness has not been too dearly bought, and I would consent to pass again through the same trials, on condition of possessing a second day like this.”

“Oh! no,” said Jeanne, “I have had enough. I have not your courage, and I will pray to God that I may be spared from such great trials. Come,” added she, taking Jeannet's arm, “we must go and surprise our parents. And the dear curé is just now with them! He told me so—the good, holy man told me you were not dead.”

“But who set such a report afloat?” asked Jeannet. “For really I was not even in danger.”

“Oh! what a story,” cried Jeanne. “You were in the fight; it could not be otherwise.”

“Certainly,” said Jeannet, “I fought, and did my best; but I never for an instant imagined the good God would let me die without seeing you again.”

“It is very well to have such happy thoughts,” said Jeanne joyfully; “if I could have had them, I would not have been nearly dead with anxiety, and hopeless from such great fear. Now I regret my tears, and would like to take them back.”

“You would not be the richer for it,” said he, laughing; “but, Jeannette, don't laugh at me. It was neither presumption nor carelessness made me think so. The good God put the faith in my heart; and then, didn't I have round my neck the silver medal you gave me the day of your first communion? Wasn't the image of the Blessed Virgin powerful enough to turn aside the balls?”

“What!” said Jeannette with emotion, “have you still my medal? Is it the very same one? Have you always worn it, in spite ... in spite of all.... Jeannet, show it to me; let me kiss it!”

“No,” said Jean-Louis, blushing, “not now. I will show it to you later.”

“Right away; I won't wait,” said she in the peremptory manner which so well became her. “I like to be obeyed.”

“But,” said Jeannet, much embarrassed, “I can't, because....”

“Because what?” she replied. “Don't think you are going to be master here! No, no, not more now than before, when, you remember, my mother said, ‘Jeannette is the boy....’ ”

“Really,” answered Jean-Louis, “you have a good memory. Well, then, since Jeannette is the boy, and I am the girl, I must submit to her wishes.”

And as, in spite of all this talk, he made no attempt to show her the medal, another idea entered her head.

“You are wounded,” said she, “and you don't wish me to see it.”

“That is not the reason,” he replied, unbuttoning his vest. “I don't wish you to believe any such thing.”

On opening his shirt, he showed the medal on his breast, and then the curious Jeannette understood his resistance; for, near the blessed image of our dear Mother, she recognized the long tress of blonde hair which had been cut off during her illness.

“It has never left me,” said he; “but I dared not let you see it. Do you forgive me? Your poor hair! I said to myself, While it rests upon my heart, it is as though my little sister were watching over me. And in the fight, I thought that, as the medal of the Blessed Virgin and your precious souvenir were also exposed to the fire, I could not be killed; and you see I was not mistaken.”

“Oh!” cried Jeannette, with tears in her eyes, “my dear Jeannet, I do not deserve such love.”

They reached Muiceron, arm-in-arm. Oh! how refreshing was the shaded court-yard and the fragrant hedges! And then, the dear house looked so gay in its new white coat, its green shutters, the fresh young vines that hung from the trellis, and its slate roof newly repaired, all shining in the soft rays of the sinking sun. The songs of the bullfinch and robin were more joyous than the trumpets and horns on a patronal feast; and it seemed as though the good God in heaven were well pleased, so beautiful was the blue sky, flecked with golden-edged clouds! Was it really the house we saw six months ago? Jeannet, who had long loved it, scarcely recognized it; he was mute with admiration, and, although he had left it in despair, he accused himself of having neglected to look at it until now; for surely his memory did not recall anything as joyous and beautiful as he now beheld in his beloved Muiceron.

Shall we ask the reason? There is a great artist who can paint, with colors of unparalleled brilliancy, whatever he chooses to place before our eyes. He is called happiness; and God wishes him to walk beside us, both in this world and the other.

The two dear children began to run as soon as they entered the court-yard of Muiceron. Jeannette was the first to spring across the threshold, and fell speechless into her mother's arms. Jean-Louis quickly followed her, and stood in the door-way, holding out his hands to his parents. Then there were cries, and tears, and confusion of kisses, and questions without end and without reason. Their hearts overflowed. The little one, as they always called the tall, handsome boy, was covered with caresses, stifled with embraces quite overpowering; for country-people drink in joy by the bucketful and don't put on gloves when they wish to show their love. But you can imagine Jean-Louis did not complain. M. le Curé alone kept aside, with clasped hands, from time to time putting his handkerchief to his eyes, and thanking God, while he waited his turn.

Fortunately, Marion, whom no one thought of, and who bellowed with joy in chorus with the others, came to her senses sooner than any of them, and thought of the supper. Jeannet smelt the butter frying on the stove, and acknowledged he was very hungry. This covered Pierrette with confusion. She felt very guilty that she had so neglected her duties, and asked a thousand pardons; but Jeannet laughed, as he kissed her, and told her not to be excited, as he could easily wait until the next day, being only really hungry to see and kiss her.

Ragaud would not let the dear curé go home. It was right that he should wait until the end of the feast; and as the good pastor, who always thought of everything, expressed a fear that old Germaine might be anxious about him, they despatched a stable-boy, with the wagon and quickest mare at Muiceron, to fetch her.

What a fine supper that was! All these good people recovered their appetites, and ate and drank as they had not done for a long while. I leave you to imagine the stories that were told of the revolution. But Jeannet, not wishing to cloud their present joy, was careful to relate events as though all had been a kind of child's play. Jeannette, however, paused more than once as she was about to take a mouthful. She felt that Jean-Louis stretched a point now and then for love of her, and she showed her gratitude by looking tenderly at him, while she pressed his hand under the table.

At the dessert, they formed plans. They talked of re-establishing the old order of things, of living together again in peace and harmony, and that there should be no more separations. Ragaud, especially, dwelt at length, and very particularly, upon the happy future in store for all of them; threw meaning glances right and left, in which could be remarked much hidden meaning and not a little white wine. Jeannette smiled, blushed, looked down; and, I fancy, Jean-Louis' heart beat high with hope and expectation of what was to follow.

The good man ended by being much affected, though he endeavored to pass it all off as a joke; for it was his wish always to appear deaf to any kind of sentiment.

“After all,” said he, tapping Jean-Louis on the shoulder, “here is a boy upon whom we cannot depend. He is here now at this very moment; but who knows if to-morrow he will not be out of sight as quickly as the stars fall from the sky on an August night? Isn't it so, M. le Curé?”

“Oh! what nonsense,” said Jeannet. “My dear parents, I will never leave you again!”

“Hum!” replied Ragaud, “you said that a hundred times before, and then what did we see? One fine morning, no Jeannet!”

“We must tie him,” said old Germaine, laughing; “when Jeannette misbehaved in school, I used to tie her by the arm to an end of the bench.”

“I remember it well,” said Jeannette; “and more than once I broke the string.”

“Then we must find some other means, if that will not do; think of something, Germaine,” replied Ragaud, winking over at the children.

“Think yourself, M. Ragaud,” said she. “Are you not master here?”

“That depends,” replied Ragaud. “If I were master, I would say to Jean-Louis, Marry, my boy; when you will have a wife and children, they will keep you in the country more than all the ropes, even that of our well. But Jeannet has declared he will not hear of marriage; and here is Jeanne, who can't be relied upon for advice, as she said the same thing not more than a month ago, in presence of M. le Curé; so we can't sing that tune any longer.”

“But how do you know? Perhaps by this time they have both changed their minds,” said the curé, smiling.

“Let them say so, then,” replied Ragaud, his eyes beaming with paternal tenderness that was delightful to see.

“O father!” said Jean-Louis, rising, “if I dared to understand you, I would be wild with joy!”

“If you can't understand me, little one, Jeannette perhaps can be a little quicker. Speak, Jeanneton!”

The child instantly understood his meaning. In a second she was beside Jeannet, took his hand, and both knelt down before their father.

“My children, ask M. le Curé's blessing before mine,” said Ragaud solemnly. “He is the representative of the good God, and it is God who has conducted all.”

It was a touching scene. The good curé extended his trembling hands over Jean-Louis and Jeannette, who bent low before him, weeping; then Ragaud did the same with great simplicity, which is the sign of true piety, and then Pierrette took each of their dear heads in her arms, kissed them, and said:

“My poor darlings! May God protect you all the days of your life! You have wept so much, you deserve to be happy together.”

However, it was very easy to see our curé had something to say. Jean-Louis and Jeannette had softly retreated to the corner near the sideboard, a little out of sight of the parents; and we must imagine that, feeling themselves a little more at ease thus sheltered from observation, the faculty of speech returned to them, as they could be heard whispering and laughing like children at recreation. It was so charming to see them thus relieved from all their difficulties, and swimming in the full tide of happiness, like fish in the river, no one had the courage to disturb them.

But our curé had his own idea, and would not leave until he had made it known; so, as he saw Jean-Louis and Jeannette might chatter away a long while, he rose, as if to say good-night, which made all the rest rise; for, although intensely happy, they did not forget to be civil.

“My children,” said the pastor, addressing the old as well as the young, “I will go to sleep to-night very happy. For forty years, come next All-Saints, that I have been your curé, never have I assisted at a betrothal as consoling as yours, for which I will return thanks to God all my life. You are going to marry as is seldom done in the world nowadays; that is to say, with hearts even more full of esteem than of love, which enables me, in the name of the Lord, to promise you as much happiness as can fall to the lot of mortals here below. You know already that a house built without foundation cannot stand, and that the grain sown in bad soil bears no fruit. It is the same with the sacrament of marriage, when it is received by a soul that is frivolous and vain, and feels neither regret for the past nor makes good resolutions for the future. Oh! how happy I am I cannot say this about you; and how my old heart, which has pitied all your sufferings, now is gladdened at your happiness, well deserved by the piety and resignation of the one and the sincere repentance of the other—this is for our betrothed. Great disinterestedness, and all the domestic virtues of a Christian life is the praise I unhesitatingly bestow upon you, the good parents! But if this reward is beautiful, if nothing can exceed it, since it is the pledge of a whole life of peace and happiness, know that the Lord will not be surpassed in generosity, and that he has prepared a delightful surprise by my mouth, which will be like the crowning bouquet on the summit of an edifice just completed.

“My dear Ragaud, I speak now to you. Twenty years ago, when your generous heart received, without the slightest hesitation, a poor, abandoned child, it was an honorable and religious act, which deserved the warmest praise; but to-day, when you give your only daughter to this same child, from pure esteem of his noble qualities, without regard to the gossip of the people around, this second action surpasses the first in excellence, and deserves a special recompense from our good God.

“Alas! for the name. I cannot repair that misfortune; but for the family, know, my friends, that the blood of him whom you call son and brother is equal to yours. In the name of my conscience, I here declare that Jeannet is the son of Catharine Luguet, who died in my arms sincerely repentant, and most piously giving me perfect license to reveal this secret, confided in confession, when I should judge it necessary. I have waited a long time, and I do not regret it. At no other time, I think, could you have been happier to hear me tell such good news. So, Ragaud, embrace your nephew; and you, my daughter Jeannette, in taking a perfect husband, you gain, at the same time, a good cousin. Too much happiness never hurts any one!”

“Ah!” said Germaine, wiping her eyes, “it was worth while staying so late to-night. I have been tempted half a dozen times to tell what M. le Curé has just made known; for I also received the secret from poor dear Catharine, and even before my master, although I do not pretend to interfere with his rights.”

“M. le Curé,” said Ragaud, “if I am very happy to learn that our dear child belongs to us by nature as much as by friendship, believe me when I say that I am most grateful to God that, without my knowing it, he allowed me to repair the too great severity with which I formerly treated my niece. Alas! I well remember it, and most sincerely do I regret it; and if she gave us this handsome boy a little too soon, according to the laws of God and man, I have no right to blame her, as I was the cause, from want of gentleness and kindness! Come, my son,” added the good Christian, extending his arms to Jeannet—“come, that I may ask your pardon in memory of your poor mother.”

Jean-Louis threw himself on his father's breast, whom he could not yet call dear uncle, while Jeannette added her embrace, giving herself up to the full joy of cousining her future husband. Pierrette had her full share of kisses, you can well fancy. It was so delightful to feel that he really had a family, and was bound to the country by ties of flesh and blood, and also to know that he belonged to the best people in the neighborhood, the Luguets and Ragauds, that Jeannet, who in his whole life never had a spark of vanity, felt a little glow of excitement and satisfaction, perfectly natural, flame up in his heart. But his beautiful soul quickly drove out such a feeling, to which he already reproached himself for having listened, even for a moment, although it could be easily understood, and was honorable in itself. The remembrance of his unknown mother, dying in sorrow and want, and who would have been so happy could she have witnessed his present joy, surmounted any personal satisfaction. He questioned M. le Curé, and spoke in the most tender and respectful manner in memory of his poor mother, and wished to know every detail of her death, which was sad, but very consoling at the same time.

Jeannette, while the curé spoke, was often much confused when she thought of the dangerous result of coquetry, wilfulness, and too great love of one's own pretty face and fine dresses. She felt how kind God had been to her, that she had not gone the same way as Catharine Luguet; for she had walked down the same path, and had nearly fallen as low as she.

By way of recovering her spirits, she embraced Jeannet, and promised she would be a good housekeeper, and nothing else.

“And also a pretty little wife, that will make me very happy,” replied Jeannet, pressing her to his heart.

“Now,” said Pierrette, who for several moments had been very silent and thoughtful, “I have just found out something that makes me feel how stupid I am. I never before noticed that Jeannet is the living image of his dear departed mother.”

“It is fortunate, Mme. Ragaud,” said Germaine, “that you have just perceived it, after seeing him twenty years; for, in truth, the likeness is so striking it has caused M. le Curé and me much embarrassment. It was so easily seen that I prayed God would protect him in case of discovery; and if there is one miracle in the whole story, it is that such a strong resemblance did not sooner strike you.”

As it had just been mentioned, in the course of the story, that Catharine Luguet, in her day, was the most beautiful girl in the country, this declaration made Jeannet blush, and I dare not affirm it was not from pleasure. They discovered, also, that Solange had a strong family likeness, and Pierrette, more and more astonished, acknowledged it was true, and that she was as stupid as an owl.

They had to separate at last, although no one felt the least fatigued; but they had had enough for one day, and a little sleep after these heavy showers of happiness would injure none of them.

As the surprises were not yet over, Jeannet had another charming one when he saw his room newly painted and papered, and his bed, with white curtains, perfumed with the iris-root that our housekeepers love to use in the wash. They installed him like a prefect on a tour of inspection, with a procession of lights, and wishes of good-night, and what do you want, and there it was, and here it is; and if he slept quietly is something I cannot say positively; but, at any rate, you needn't worry about his eyes, whether they were open or shut. What I can swear to is that his good angel watched joyfully by his bedside, and took care to drive off all bad dreams.

In the first place, according to the proverb, “Give every man his due.”

So we will commence with our good master, M. le Marquis, whom we left, if you remember, wounded in the arm and seated on a log near the barricade in the bloody days of June.

This wound, which was believed to be nothing, became inflamed and very dangerous, owing to the great excitement of the patient and the extreme heat of the summer. The poor marquis was obliged to keep his bed for a long time, and they even feared they would be obliged to amputate the arm. When the physicians made the proposition, he sprang up with a start on his couch, and, weak and feverish as he was, did not hesitate to tell them, in the most emphatic manner, that the first one who mentioned it again would go out of the window with one turn of the hand that was still sound. They advised him to be quiet and calm himself, all the while giving him to understand there was no hope for him—which, in my opinion, was not the best means of soothing him; but doctors never wish to be thought in the wrong, and, without meaning to offend any one, I may say very many of us are doctors on that point.

Our master was brave. He contented himself with saying:

“I prefer to be buried with two arms, rather than to live with one.”

“That depends on taste,” replied Michou, who nursed his master with loving fidelity; “but he must not be contradicted.”

When the doctors left, M. le Marquis said to Michou:

“Come here, old fellow; these idiots of Parisians know as much about revolutions and medicine as planting cabbages. Send for Dr. Aubry. I can get along with him.”

M. Aubry was summoned by telegraph, and God so willed it that scarcely had he seen the wound of M. le Marquis than he shrugged his shoulders, and said he would answer for him; and added, with much satisfaction, that one had to come to Paris to find doctors that talked like asses and acted like butchers.

He made them bring him a quantity of pounded ice, which he applied to the wounded arm, and took care that our master always kept a piece in his mouth. In that way his blood was refreshed, and there was no longer danger of the flesh mortifying. He added to this remedy another potion not less wonderful, which was to distract the mind of the marquis by telling him night and day—for he never slept—all kinds of stories, sometimes lively, sometimes serious, but always suitable to his state; and so kept him constantly amused and interested, which prevented him from thinking of his poor arm. At the end of a week, he was out of danger, and he could get up, eat the breast of a chicken, and think of going out in a few days. If I would be a little malicious, I could tell you that the Parisian doctors were not very well pleased at the triumph of their country colleague, and perhaps would have been more content to see our master dead than their prophecies frustrated; but I had better be silent than wanting in charity, and therefore I prefer to let you think what you please about them.

Poor mademoiselle and Dame Berthe, during this painful time of anxiety, acted admirably and showed great devotion and love. It was then seen that, although they had their little defects on the surface, their souls were generous and good. The old governess forgot her scarfs and embroideries, and devoted herself to making lint, and no longer indulged in dreams of the king's entrance into Paris, but constantly recited fervent prayers, which had not, I assure you, “the cause” in view. Mademoiselle received a salutary blow. She became, through this trouble, serious and recollected; began to see that in Paris nothing is thought of but pleasure and fine toilets, and that, after all, at Val-Saint there were a thousand ways of passing her life in a pleasant way worthy of a Christian whom God had so liberally endowed with riches.

One day, when she had gone out to pray and weep in a neighboring church, she returned with her eyes radiant with joy, and said to Dame Berthe:

“All will be right. My father will be cured. I cannot explain to you why I am so confident, but I am sure of it. When I was in the church before the altar of the Blessed Virgin, the idea entered into my head to make a vow; and I have promised to return to the country, and remain there the rest of my life, to work for the poor, and to occupy myself with all other kinds of good works, as my mother used to. I have too long neglected to follow her example, and henceforth I will act differently. I depend upon your assistance.”

Dame Berthe nearly fainted with admiration of her pupil's saintliness. As she was naturally very good, she was impressed with the beauty of the project, and promised to do all in her power to aid her.

After that, mademoiselle looked like another person. She visited churches and chapels, conferred with pious priests; and as monsieur improved every day, he could accompany her in the carriage; and she took great pleasure in confiding to him her new plans, proving to him that he could be much more useful to “the cause” by instructing the peasants in politics than by fighting the rabble in Paris; that, by his great wealth and the high esteem in which he was held, he could make himself still more beloved; and that, when they loved him, they would love the nobility which he represented; so that when the time came—and it would not be far off—for the triumph of his hopes, he could offer to the king a faithful population devoted to good principles, which was scarcely possible in the present state of affairs.

About a month afterwards, M. le Marquis being perfectly cured, they all returned to Val-Saint; and it is unnecessary to say how universal was the joy. It is equally useless to tell you that their first occupation was the marriage of our children, which was so beautiful, so joyous, so enlivened with the music of violins and songs, it resembled that of a prince and princess in Mother Goose. During a whole week, the boys of the neighborhood beat tin pans and fired off guns under the windows of Muiceron, as signs of honor and rejoicing. With us peasants, joy is always rather noisy, but, at least, it can be heard very far; and, besides, as we don't often have a chance of amusing ourselves, it is best to let us have our own way.

There remains very little more for me to say, except that mademoiselle persevered in her laudable resolutions, and became the angel of Val-Saint. One of her first good acts was to buy the house of the unfortunate Perdreaux, which, since the sad end of its masters, had remained deserted and shut up, no one daring to put it up at auction. Mademoiselle sent for workmen, who soon transformed it into a fine school-house, divided into two parts by a garden, where nothing was spared in fruit-trees, flowers, and vegetables. The following year the school was ready for occupation, and the Sisters were placed in charge of the girls, and a good teacher over the boys. By good luck, they were able to obtain Solange, who came among the first. Thus all our friends met again, and formed one family, of which the good God was the true father.

M. le Curé was very old when he died, and Germaine soon followed him. This good pastor left many regrets which are not yet assuaged; but he departed from this world happy that he saw all his children around him leading good, holy lives; and at the moment he expired, they heard him softly repeat the Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine, secundum verbum tuum in pace—which is a prayer of compline, printed in all the Breviaries.

Muiceron continued to prosper under the management of good Jeannet and his dear wife. The Ragauds passed their old age in a dream of happiness, free from clouds, amidst the love and respect of the community. Pierrette, who had never sinned but from weakness of heart, was never cured of this defect. On the contrary, it increased; and she devoted herself so completely to spoiling the beautiful children that Jeanne gave her, that more than once the parents had to cry, Stop! But aside from these little troubles, which did not cause much difficulty, peace and concord never ceased to reign in this house of benediction.

And now, at this late hour, I pray that God may send down upon you, as well as myself, his choicest blessings, without which, you may truly believe, there is nothing worth living for here below.