The château of Val-Saint, which could be seen from a certain point in

the garden, like a great, black mass in the horizon, appeared as though

lighted up with sparks of fire. A light would be seen first at one

window, then at another, and then disappear as quickly as it came. Good

Ragaud could not believe his eyes. Surely something extraordinary was

taking place at the château; for M. le Marquis and mademoiselle, with

all due respect, went to bed with the chickens, and the servants were

not allowed to remain up.

"What the devil is the matter with me to-night?" thought Ragaud. "Am I

dreaming on my feet, or must I fancy the two or three glasses of white

wine more than usual at dessert have turned my brain?"

Not a bit of it; he saw perfectly clear. The light danced about the

windows, as though to mock him, and finally went out entirely. But now

comes the crowning mystery. A great, blue star appeared on the summit

of the high tower, and rose upward until it was hidden by a cloud.

At the same instant, Ragaud felt two heavy hands resting on his

shoulders and something breathe heavily on his neck.

Indeed, only put yourself in his place. There was something to fear;

and so the brave fellow, who in his youth had fought in our great

battles, was all over goose-flesh. But it was only momentary; for,

quickly turning, he saw that he had on his back the soft paws of his

dog Pataud, who, making the rounds at his side, took this means of

caressing him.

"Down, Pataud, old fellow!" said he gently; "it is not daybreak. Go lie

down! Be quick! Be off to your kennel! Do you hear me?"

Pataud heard very well, but obedience was not to his taste that night.

He wagged his tail, and appeared in splendid humor; one would think he

suspected something was going on at the château.

"So you think there is something in the wind up there, do you?" asked

Ragaud, snapping his fingers in the air. "Will you come with me, and

see what it is all about?"

At these words, he started as though to leave the garden, and Pataud

this time seemed to consent.

"This comes from having an animal well brought up," thought Ragaud. "If

you could speak, my cunning old fellow, doubtless you would tell me

what I wish to know; but as that can't be expected, I must remain very

anxious until the morning."

He re-entered the house after this reflection, having obliged Pataud to

remain quiet by giving him a friendly kick over the threshold of the

kennel.

To sleep was difficult; he had the faithful heart of an old servant,

who could not repose when he feared evil was impending over his

masters. He remembered that ten years before, on a similar night in

November, lights appeared in every window the whole length of the

façade of the château, and on the next day, alas! it was known they had

been lighted during the agony of our beloved mistress, Mme. la Marquise

de Val-Saint. Was it not enough to make him apprehend some misfortune

for his dear lord?

Poor mademoiselle's health was not very robust, and she frequently

said, in such a mournful tone, that the country air was not good for

her.

"To-morrow," said Ragaud to himself, "I will take back Jeannette the

first thing in the morning; if mademoiselle is sick, it will do her

good to see her again; and perhaps I would have done better if I had

let her remain. Who knows but the dear soul was so fondly attached to

the child, she has become ill in consequence?"

You must know Ragaud listened to the voice of his conscience as a

devotee hears a sermon; and once persuaded that it was his duty to take

back to mademoiselle her favorite plaything, twenty-five notaries could

not have shaken his decision. Consequently, at the first break of day,

he took from the chest his Sunday clothes, and was in holiday trim when

Pierrette came down to go out and milk the cows. You can well imagine

her astonishment.

"Wife," said Ragaud, "go and make Jeannette get up quickly, and tell

her to put on her château dress."

"Is it possible the child will leave us so soon?" replied Pierrette,

deeply grieved.

"I wish it," said the good man, "for reasons, Pierrette, that you will

know later."

She obeyed without answering. Jean-Louis, meanwhile, entered the room.

"Light the fire, boy," said Ragaud, "and warm us up something. I must

go to the château with your sister, and I will not take her out in the

cold, fasting."

"Father," said Jean-Louis, while rapidly breaking up the fagots, "did

you see a bright light last night around the big tower of the château?"

"Did you?" asked Ragaud.

"I saw something like a rocket go up from the château," the boy replied.

"Yes, I saw it also," answered Ragaud; "and Pataud did, too. What do

you think it could have been, Jeannet?"

"I think," said Jean-Louis, "they illuminated the château and fired off

rockets in honor of S. Martin."

"Very probable, child; that is a good idea," said Ragaud laughing.

"Perhaps, after all, it is the whole secret; but, any how, I would

rather go and find out."

"Shall I go with you, father?" asked Jeannet.

"No, stay and help your mother; if I want you, I will tell you. It is

enough that I must carry off the little girl."

Jeannette all this time was dressing as fast as possible, without

asking why or wherefore. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, not having had

her full sleep; but I think the idea of returning to her godmother was

not very disagreeable.

However, she was sufficiently wide awake to swallow down a big bowl of

sweetened milk; after which, Pierrette wrapped her up in a warm shawl,

and kissed her good-by with a full heart.

All this had taken two hours; and Ragaud not wishing to hurry her, the

village clock struck eight when they reached the door of the château.

The first person they saw, contrary to the usual custom, was Master

Jean Riponin, who was M. le Marquis' man of business. From his imposing

manner and the great fuss he was making--ordering every one here and

there with a voice as rough as the captain of a fire-brigade--it was

difficult to fancy there was any one above him in the château; Ragaud,

sharp fellow that he was, took it in at a glance, and, instead of

approaching the steward, as he had always done, without ceremony and a

good shake of the hand, he remained at a slight distance, and touched

his hat.

"It is you, Master Ragaud?" said Jean Riponin with a patronizing air.

"Wait a moment; I will speak to you after I have given my orders to

these stupid things."

"Don't disturb yourself," replied Ragaud. "I have not come on business

to-day; I only wish to see mademoiselle."

"It is I who have received full power from M. le Marquis at his

departure," replied Riponin, a little provoked. "Mademoiselle is not up

yet; and, if she were, be assured, Ragaud, she would send you back to

me. So let me know what you want without further delay, as I am in a

hurry."

"Did you not say M. le Marquis had left?" asked the farmer, as much

from interest as to cut short the puffed-up superintendent.

"Yes, this morning before the day-dawn," said he; "and it seems it was

something very hurried, for he had only time to hand me all the keys of

the house, except those of his desk and safe, which were forgotten in

his great haste. But he must have already perceived it, and I expect to

receive those two keys by express."

"Indeed," thought Ragaud, "it will be time enough to see them when

they come--that is to say, if they will ever come." For he knew Master

Riponin was not a man who regarded the marquis' crowns as relics once

that he saw the heap. Fortunately, M. le Marquis was of the same

opinion; therefore, he kept Riponin in his service on account of many

other good qualities that he possessed; but as for the desk and safe,

he never saw anything but the key-holes.

While Riponin and Ragaud were conversing, mademoiselle, who had just

risen, drew aside her curtains to see what caused such a noise in the

court; and the cunning little Jeannette, as soon as she perceived her

godmother, kissed her hand to her. In less than a minute, Dame Berthe

appeared at the door.

"M. Ragaud," said she, "I am sent by mademoiselle to beg that you will

go to her immediately; and you, Jeannette, run and kiss your godmother."

"M. Riponin, I wish you good-morning," said Ragaud, carelessly turning

his back on the steward.

The steward watched him enter the château with anything but a pleased

expression; but he dared not show his displeasure before Dame Berthe,

whom he knew was not friendly to him.

Dear mademoiselle's eyes filled with tears when she saw her darling

pet. The little one was tender-hearted, and was deeply moved by this

proof of affection. Ragaud, likewise, showed great emotion, and Dame

Berthe said it would have been a cruel shame to have longer deprived

the château of its chief delight.

"Ragaud," said mademoiselle, "my dear Ragaud, if you had not come

to-day, I was going myself to bring back Jeannette. You see, I am so

unhappy."

"I did not think you loved the child so much," replied Ragaud; "it is

a great honor for Jeannette and for us all, dear mademoiselle, and I

desire nothing so much as to contribute to your happiness."

"Only think," said mademoiselle, sighing, "I am always alone; and now

that my father has left home, ... and perhaps for such a long time!"

"Will M. le Marquis go far?... Excuse my curiosity," said Ragaud; "but

you know, mademoiselle, I only ask the question from the great interest

I feel in your dear family."

Mademoiselle was about to reply; but Dame Berthe stopped her short by

glancing at Jeannette, who was listening with profound attention.

"I will take her with me," said she in a low tone to her governess,

"and then tell everything to Ragaud; our family never keeps a secret

from this old servant."

When mademoiselle had withdrawn, under the pretext of showing some new

article of the toilet to Jeannette, Dame Berthe carefully closed the

door, and approached Ragaud.

"Can I rely on your devotion?" she asked in such a solemn manner Ragaud

could only bow his head in assent. "And even on your life?" continued

Dame Berthe with a still more serious air.

"If I must give it in exchange for that of my master, yes, certainly,"

replied the faithful old fellow without any hesitation.

"Very well. Sit down, Ragaud; you are going to learn a secret--the

greatest secret a Christian can keep."

Ragaud sat down, rather astonished, his heart beating in spite of

himself. However, strictly speaking, the words of Dame Berthe appeared

a little exaggerated, and he felt so without being able to account for

it, except from his own good sense.

"Master Ragaud," said the governess, who was a devoted reader of

newspapers, and had learned to talk in their style, "great events are

preparing, and, before long, the face of the world will be changed."

"Ah!" said Ragaud. "Excuse me, my good lady, but the face of the

world, ... I don't know what that means."

"When I speak of the world," resumed Dame Berthe, "I mean

France--_France_--Ragaud, our country."

"Now I understand better; yes, I know that France is our country. Well,

then, what is going to be changed in France?"

"Everything," said she, rising in a frantic manner. "France, my good

Ragaud, is tired of the odious yoke that has weighed her down for ten

years."

"My oxen are also sometimes tired of the yoke," said Ragaud dryly; "but

that does not pay them while the whip is around."

"Yes, but a nation can't be whipped like a beast of burden," replied

Dame Berthe. "Come, Ragaud, I see you do not understand what I am

aiming at."

"No, not at all," said he. "I am not learned, my good lady; sometimes I

hear such expressions as you use when M. le Curé reads aloud from some

public journal; but, between ourselves, it always puts me to sleep. You

see, the useful things in the newspapers, for a farmer, are the price

of grain and the announcement of the fairs; the rest is all twaddle for

me."

"So it appears," answered Dame Berthe, a little hurt. "I am now going

to talk in a way that you can understand. Well, then, Ragaud, M. le

Marquis left home last night. Where do you think he has gone?"

"It is not my custom to inquire into the private affairs of my

masters," replied Ragaud. "By chance I walked through my garden late

last night, and I saw the château lighted up. I was afraid mademoiselle

was ill; so this morning I brought back Jeannette to amuse her. In the

court, M. Riponin told me of the departure of M. le Marquis; and now I

do not wish to hear anything further, unless you judge it necessary."

"It will certainly be useful," said Dame Berthe, who was longing to

tell all she knew, "you will agree with me, M. Ragaud, when you know

that M. le Marquis was called off by a letter, which assured him that

they were only waiting for him...."

"To change _the face of the world_," said Ragaud with dry humor.

"Precisely," replied Berthe seriously. "It appears that the

insurrection has broken out near Angers, where there are thousands of

armed men. Monsieur, who fought with the Chouans in his youth, will be

appointed general, and they will advance to the capture of Paris, where

nothing is suspected. The usurper will be driven out, M. Ragaud, and

our dear young legitimate prince will ascend the throne. Won't it be

magnificent? Dear Eveline will go to court. Poor child! she has been so

long tired of the country."

"Hum!" said Ragaud, not the least bit excited. "Are they very sure of

all that?"

"Sure? How can it be doubted, when the friend of M. le Marquis in that

province declares, do you understand--declares positively--that it only

needs a spark to set fire to the powder?"

"To the powder!" cried Ragaud, this time very much frightened. "Are

they dreaming of blowing up the magazine at Angers? That would be a

terrible misfortune, my dear lady."

"Be easy," replied Dame Berthe, shrugging her shoulders. "I always

forget that you don't read the papers. 'Setting fire to the powder'

means to kindle the insurrection, to inflame the minds and hearts of

the people; and it is expected that, at the first word, the country

will rise as one man."

"They are going to fight?" said Ragaud. "Battles are not gay, and the

poor fare badly in time of war."

"Fight? Oh! you are blind, my dear M. Ragaud," replied Dame Berthe,

laughing with the most charming simplicity. "Do you expect a few little

regiments to withstand millions of men? Before a week, the insurgents

will be counted by millions. And now, if you wish to know the real

truth, ... well, ... the army itself is with us."

"Ah! indeed," said Ragaud. "This is great news."

"Do you think those gentlemen would be so silly as to commence the work

without being assured of this support?" replied the governess, clasping

her hands. "My God! Ragaud, for whom do you take M. le Marquis and his

friends?"

"For brave men, most assuredly," said the farmer, unable to repress a

smile; "and since all is so well arranged, Dame Berthe, allow me, with

all due respect, to ask you two questions. In the first place, when

will the marriage come off? In the second, what does my dear master

wish me to do under the circumstances?"

"When will the marriage take place? You mean, when will the king enter

Paris?"

"Just so, my good lady."

"I don't think this great event could possibly take place before a

month, or three weeks at soonest. Although this revolution, inspired

by God, must, I am fully convinced, spread like lightning, time flies

rapidly; and then, we must always think of unforeseen accidents."

"Doubtless, doubtless; it is always more prudent," said Ragaud.

"As for what M. le Marquis expects of you, my good Ragaud, it is very

easy. It would be shameful, you know, when all France is rising in

arms for her true sovereign, to see Val-Saint and the neighborhood

sleeping in carelessness and indolence. You are, then, designated--you,

Jacques Michou, who for forty years has been the head-keeper of the

estate, Master Perdreau, the notary of the family, and some other old

servants--you are expected to prepare the people for the change about

to take place, and make them cry 'Long live the King!' throughout the

commune."

"And if they won't do it?" asked Ragaud innocently; "for, in truth,

that is to be well considered."

"They will do it; they will _all_ do it," cried Dame Berthe. "France is

burning with the desire of uttering this cry of love and gratitude,"

she added, remembering that she had just read this expression in her

morning paper.

"So much the better," said Ragaud; "and it only remains to thank you

for your confidence, my dear lady, and I will do my best to fulfil the

wishes of M. le Marquis."

The entrance of mademoiselle, who thought there had been time enough

for the secret to be told and retold, cut short the conversation, as

she brought Jeannette with her. Ragaud bowed politely to the ladies of

the château, kissed his daughter, told her to be good and obedient,

and closed the door behind him, his head full of all he had just heard.

Dame Berthe overtook him at the head of the staircase.

"Ragaud," said she, "you told me you were up late last night. Did you

not see, about midnight, a blue light go up from the summit of the

tower?"

"Yes," replied Ragaud, "and I was dumb with astonishment; I do not

conceal it."

"It was the given signal to warn several châteaux of the neighborhood

of the departure of M. le Marquis. Watch all these nights, for we

expect a messenger, who will come to announce the triumph of the holy

cause, and then a second light will go up at the same hour. This one

will be red, and, when you see it, you will instantly march, with the

armed bands you will have assembled, to join the grand army."

"All right," said Ragaud; "we will do our best."

And he descended the staircase slowly, without appearing the least

excited.

"Eveline," said Dame Berthe, pressing mademoiselle to her breast,

"thank God, my dear child. I have had the happiness of completely

winning over good Ragaud to the holy cause. He is even more ardent than

myself, and as well disposed as we could wish. Before long, we will see

Val-Saint and Ordonniers rise and march to victory under the command

of this brave peasant. Jacques Cathelineau and M. Stofflet should be

of the same stamp. What I admire in Ragaud is that cold determination,

which would make one fancy he was not enthusiastic; but I am not

deceived by appearances."

"Perhaps," said mademoiselle, "all will be over in time for us to go

and finish the winter in Paris."

"I have no doubt of it," replied Dame Berthe; "and thus, my dear child,

as I have thought the dressmakers might be half crazy with the quantity

of court-dresses that would be ordered, I have already decided what

your costume is to be on the entrance of the king into Paris; for I

expect the daughter of the commander-in-chief to be the first to salute

her sovereign; and I will immediately commence to embroider the satin

train, so as to be ready."

"How good you are! You think of everything!" said mademoiselle, very

much overcome. "I wish I was there now!..."

"Oh!" cried Dame Berthe, "only be patient."

After leaving the château, Ragaud, with his hands in his pockets, went

off in search of his old comrade, Jacques Michou, that he might consult

with him over Dame Berthe's revelations. Jacques lived alone--being a

widower and childless--in a little house close to the edge of the woods

that bordered La Range. He had no one about him but a niece of his late

wife, whom he fed and clothed; in return for which, she cooked for him

and cleaned his hunting-gun. The girl was little trouble to him; she

was idiotic and half dumb, and, among other little eccentricities,

liked to sleep with the sheep. So, in the summer she camped out on

the meadow with the flock, and in winter slept in the sheepfold,

which certainly had the advantage of keeping her very warm, but could

have had no other charm. From this habit she had acquired the name of

_Barbette_ throughout the country; and it was not badly given, as with

us a great many shepherd-dogs are called Barbets, on account of the

race; and since the poor girl shared their office, she had at least a

claim to the name if she so pleased.

Jacques Michou, on his side, had his particular fancies. First of

all was the idea (which he would only give up with his life) that,

in virtue of his badge and his gun, he was the head-keeper of M. le

Marquis de Val-Saint. Now, we must acknowledge it was mere show, there

was nothing in it; for our good lord never wished to displease any one,

not even the poachers. He said there was always some good in those men;

and as in everything he pursued one aim--which was, as you know, to

enrol one day or other all our boys in a regiment for the benefit of

the king--he preferred to be kind to these bold and cunning rascals,

who were not easily hoodwinked. After a while, Jacques Michou became

weary of carrying the delinquents before M. le Marquis only to see them

graciously dismissed, so it ended by his letting them alone; and at the

end of a few years, his principal occupation was to carefully keep to

the right of the estate in making his rounds when he knew the poachers

were at work on the left. However, he took pride in letting them know

that each and every one could be caught at any moment he wished; he

knew every path in the woods as well as the bottom of his sauce-pan,

and all the thieves as though they belonged to his family. When he

met the rascals, he threatened them with loud voice and gesture, and

swore tremendous oaths that made heaven and earth tremble. "But," he

would shout, "what can I do? Robbers and vagabonds that you are, if M.

le Marquis allows himself to be plundered, the servant must obey the

master's orders; but for that, you would see!" And the end of the story

was--nothing was seen.

You can understand very well that the brave old fellow, having only the

title of keeper, and nothing to show for it but the fine silver badge,

engraved with the arms of the family of Val-Saint, which he wore on

the shoulder-strap of his game-bag, clung all the closer to the empty

honor, and allowed no joking on the subject.

When Ragaud entered his friend's house, he found him carving playthings

out of cocoanut-shells--something which he did wonderfully well--and in

a few words related what had taken place at the château.

"We will find ourselves floundering in the mire," said Ragaud. "As for

me, I am ready to promise before the good God that I will give my life

to fulfil the commands of our dear master; but it remains to be seen if

many around here are of my opinion."

"Many?" exclaimed Jacques, shrugging his shoulders. "Bah! I am very

sure you will not find one out of a dozen!"

"If it is true," replied Ragaud, with hesitation; "I wonder if it is

really true about the insurrection in Anjou?"

"Nonsense," said Jacques Michou. "That poor M. le Marquis is crazy on

one point, which takes him out of the country every five or six years

for change of air, and that is good for his health; for every man needs

hope to keep him well. That is the truth of the business."

"Do you think, then, we had better not attempt to fulfil his orders?"

asked Ragaud.

"As for that, a good master must always be obeyed, old fellow; we can

say a few words here and there quietly. You will find the people as

stupid as owls, and they will understand you as well as though you

spoke Prussian. We shall have done our duty. As to monsieur, he will

return before long, a little cross for the moment, but not at all

discouraged--take my word for it."

"It is a great pity," said Ragaud, "that a man of such great good sense

couldn't listen to reason!"

"Why so?" replied Jacques. "A great lord like him is bound in honor to

be devoted, body and soul, to his king; for you see, Ragaud, the king

who is not on the throne is the real one--no doubt about that. But

often one tumbles over in running too fast; and since it appears not to

be the will of the good God that things should return to the old style,

it would have been much better not to have sent off letters, gone off

at night, and fired off signals. It is just as if they had played the

flute. Men stop a moment, listen, and then, the music ended, each one

returns to his plough."

"You speak capitally," said Ragaud; "it is just what I think also; so

I will do as you say--neither more nor less. But we will agree on one

point, old fellow, which is, to have an eye on the château, so that we

can defend the doors if the women are threatened."

"Bah! bah! No fear about that," said Michou, shaking him by the hand.

"I will give my life for all that belong to the house of Val-Saint,

comrade. I would as willingly fire a pistol in defence of monsieur,

mademoiselle, and the old fool of a governess, as for the hares and

rabbits on the estate. But for these it would be powder thrown away,

as monsieur, we must believe, only likes butcher's meat, and prefers to

leave his game for those devils of thieves!"

Thereupon the worthy old souls refreshed themselves with a jug of

cider, and conversed together for some time longer, principally

repeating the same ideas on the same subject, which was the one we have

just related--something which often happens to wiser men than they,

and, therefore, I consider it useless to tell you any more of their

honest gossip.

They separated about mid-day, and I will inform you what was the result

of the great insurrection. At Angers, as with us, it was as Michou had

predicted. M. le Marquis returned from his trip rather fatigued and

thoroughly disgusted with France, which he called a ruined country.

Mademoiselle wept for a week that she could not go to Paris. Dame

Berthe commenced Novenas to the Blessed Queen Jeanne, in order that the

next enterprise, which would not be long delayed, might succeed better

than the last; and the result of all was that Jeannette remained more

than ever at the château, as she was the greatest consolation to her

dear godmother.

X.

I think we will do well, at this period of our story, to pass over

several years, during which time nothing of great importance occurred.

In the country, days succeed each other in undisturbed tranquillity,

unmarked by many great events. According as the spring is rainy or

dry, the villagers commence the season by making predictions about the

summer, which, twenty times out of twenty-two, are never fulfilled.

It must be acknowledged that we peasants seem afraid to appear too

well pleased with the good God; and, though it is a great fault,

unfortunately it is not rare. Men grumble and swear, first at the sun,

and then at the wind, for burning and parching their fields; and when

the rain commences, there is another cause for displeasure; and most

of all, at the end of summer, when, after these doleful repinings,

the harvests have been plentiful, far from thanking the Lord God, who,

instead of punishing them, has sent blessings, they instantly commence

to worry about the approaching vintage. And so S. Sylvester's day finds

them with well-stacked barns and cellars filled with barrels of wine,

but not to make them wiser the year after from such experience, which

should teach them faith in divine Providence.

Whence I conclude that men are only incorrigible, gabbling children,

and that the good God must have great patience and mercy to tolerate

them. Much more could be said on this subject; but, not being a priest,

I prefer to leave off moralizing, and return to our friends.

Therefore, we will, if you please, resume our narrative about seven

years from where we left off, at which time Jeannette Ragaud had nearly

completed her sixteenth year and Jean-Louis his twentieth.

Weeks and months, rapidly passing, had brought them from childhood

to youth without their knowing it, and they had each followed their

inclinations, as might easily have been foreseen. Jeannette, well

educated, coquettish, and extremely pretty, was the most charming

little blonde in the province. She scarcely ever came to Muiceron,

except on Sundays and festivals, between Mass and Vespers; and if you

ask me how this could have happened, so contrary, as you know, to the

wishes of father and mother Ragaud, I will reply that I know nothing,

unless there is a special wind which blows sometimes over men's

desires, and prevents their ripening into facts. To be convinced of

this truth needs only a little unreserved frankness. See, now, you who

listen to me, you may be more learned than a schoolmaster, and more

malicious than a hump-back--that I will not dispute; but if you will

swear to me that everything in this life has happened as you desired,

without change or contradiction, I will not hesitate to think you, but

for the charity which should reign among Christians, the greatest liar

in your parish.

If any one spoke to Ragaud about the dangerous road in which he had

placed his daughter, and that there was no longer chance to retrace his

steps, he did not show displeasure or excuse himself, as heretofore.

His serious and rather sorrowful air, joined to a very convenient

little cough, showed more than by words that he did not know how to

reply, and the poor man was truly sensible of his weakness and error;

but what could he do? Something always happened to prevent him from

carrying out his intention of taking Jeannette from the château.

Sometimes mademoiselle was sick; sometimes it was a festival of the

church that needed a reinforcement of skilled embroiderers to make

vestments and flowers for the altars; another day Dame Berthe had gone

off for a month's vacation. In winter the pretext was that Jeannette's

health would be endangered if she resumed her peasant life, as she

could not bear the exposure; and when that was over, the summer days

were so long, mademoiselle would have died of _ennui_ without her

darling Jeannette; and all this mademoiselle explained with such a

gentle, winning air, old Ragaud never could refuse her; so that at last

he was so accustomed to ask and be refused each time that he went for

Jeannette, he finally abandoned the attempt; and seeing that his visits

to the château were mere matters of form, he submitted with good grace,

by making none at all, at least with that intention.

As for good Pierrette, she remained quiet; but accustomed to submit,

and filled besides with admiration for the great good sense of her

husband, she told all her troubles to the good God, and awaited,

without complaint, the time when he would decree a change. But yet I

must say things were not so bad as you might fancy. Life at the château

had not spoiled Jeannette's heart. She was rather light-hearted,

and the vanity of fine clothes had more effect on her than that of

position; but as for her parents, she adored them, and overwhelmed

them with embraces and kisses on her visits to the farm, which gave

her undisguised pleasure. Our _curé_, who watched her closely, and who

never liked to see country girls quit the stable for the drawing-room,

was forced to acknowledge that the affair had not turned out so

badly as he apprehended; and although he did not hesitate to scold

mademoiselle for spoiling Jeannette--which he had the right to do, as

he had known her from her birth, and had also baptized her--it was easy

to see, by his fond, paternal air, that he loved the child as much as

at the time when Germaine whipped her.

I will also tell you that this good pastor was beginning to feel the

weight of years. He lost strength daily, and, like all holy men, his

character softened as he drew nearer to the good God. Besides, fearing

that soon he would be unable to visit his beloved flock, he thought

rightly it was better not to be too severe, as it might wean them from

him.

"For," said he, "if it is true that flies are not caught by vinegar, it

is still more evident that men are never won by scolding and threats."

It was a sound argument, and, consequently, who was more venerated

than the _curé_ of Val-Saint? I will give only one proof. His

parishioners, seeing that walking fatigued him, consulted among

themselves at a fair, and resolved to buy him a steady animal, with a

sheep-skin saddle and leather reins, embroidered in red, according to

the country fashion.

It so happened that just at that moment a pedlar, owning a good mule,

wished to barter it for a draught-horse, put up for sale by a farmer

from Charbonnière. The bargain was made after a short parley, and our

good friends returned home joyfully, and, without saying a word, tied

their present to the tree before the priest's house. It was too good an

act to be kept silent; the next day the _curé_ and all the parish knew

it. I need not ask who was deeply moved. The following Sunday our dear

_curé_ thanked his flock with words that repaid them a hundred-fold;

and really, if you know anything about country people, you must

say, without meaning any wrong by it, they are not accustomed to be

generous; therefore, a little praise was fully their due.

As for the mule, it was a famous beast. She was black, and sniffed

the air at such a rate, she always seemed eager to start off at full

gallop; but, fortunately for our dear old _curé_, it was only a little

coquetry she still practised in remembrance of her youthful days, and

never went further. After making six or seven paces, she became calmer,

dropped her head, and trotted along as quietly as a lady taking up a

collection in the church. Otherwise she was gentle and easily managed,

except at the sight of water, into which she never could be induced to

put her foot.

"But who has not his faults?" as the beadle of Val-Saint was accustomed

to say to his wife, when she scolded him for returning home rather the

worse for having raised his elbow too often.

In speaking a little here and there about each and every one, don't

think that I have forgotten Jean-Louis; on the contrary, I have kept

the dear boy as the choicest morsel.

You must not expect me to relate in detail all his acts and gestures.

In the first place, he spoke little, and what he said was so kind and

gentle that, if he was forced to deal with the noisiest brawler in

the neighborhood, he soon conquered him by his mildness. One reason

of this was that, having learned so young the painful circumstances

of his birth, and being proud by nature, he controlled himself before

people, in order not to provoke any insolence. I must also add that the

greater part of our young men get into trouble over their wine; and for

Jeannet there was nothing to fear in that respect. Why, you can easily

guess: because he knew nothing of the tavern, but the entrance and the

sign--just what could be seen in passing along the street.

The good fellows, his companions, loved him dearly; the wicked were

forced to respect him, and feared him also, as Jeannet had grown up

tall, and had arms strong enough to stop a mad bull; and as for work,

no one could compete with him. Only one thing on earth he feared, and

that was to commit a sin. And do you know, that those who have only

this fear can overcome, with a sign, a raging madman? It daily happens,

as much in the city, among the black coats, as in the village, among

the blouses. Try it, and you will be convinced, and then you will

acknowledge I speak the truth.

The Ragauds, as they watched this pearl of a boy grow up, learned

to love him more than many parents do their legitimate sons. He was

worth five hired men, and Ragaud, with his strict sense of justice,

had calculated the value to the last cent, and for the past ten years

had placed to his credit in the savings-bank, every 1st of January,

one thousand francs, upon which the interest was accruing. Jean-Louis

knew nothing of the secret, and never did he dream his labor was worth

remuneration. The boy's mind and heart were so thoroughly at ease that,

knowing he had not a cent, and nothing to expect on the death of his

parents, as they had a daughter, he never troubled himself about the

present or the future, believing firmly that the good God, who had

given him a family, would provide for his daily wants; for this second

blessing was nothing, in his eyes, in comparison with the first.

Pierrette was careful that her Benjamin's pocket was never empty. At

Easter and on S. John's day she always gave him a five-franc piece;

and even this was often too much, as Jeannet's clothes and linen were

always kept in perfect order by his devoted mother, and, consequently,

as he never indulged in dissipation, and seldom joined in the village

games, he did not know how to spend it. He would have liked sometimes

to treat himself to a book when the pedlar--the same who had sold the

mule to the farmers for M. le Curé--came around, and Ragaud, sure now

of his good conduct, would certainly not have objected; but one day,

after having searched over the package, he bought for thirty sous what

he thought was a good and entertaining work, as it bore the seal placed

by the government on all publications peddled through the country; but,

to his horror, he found it filled with villanous sentiments. This

saddened and disgusted him for several days; these thirty sous laid

heavy on his mind, not from the avaricious thought that he had thrown

his money to the wind, but from the idea that he had wronged the poor;

for thirty sous was the exact price of a six-pound loaf of bread of the

best quality. Between ourselves, I verily believe he accused himself of

it in confession, as what I ever heard of the good boy makes me think

it most likely he would do so.

Perhaps you would like to know if Jean-Louis had grown up handsome

or ugly. Well, he was ugly, at least according to common opinion; we

villagers admire red faces and those who look well fed, and dress

showily. Jeannet's face was long and pale; his features delicate; teeth

white and beautiful, in a large mouth that seldom smiled; and his

deep, dark eyes were brilliant as stars; and when those eyes looked in

displeasure at any one, they were fearful. Besides, Jean-Louis, who was

tall, appeared so thin you would have thought him a young gray-beard,

ready to break in two at the first breath of wind. With us, thin people

who have not a pound of flesh on their bones are not admired, and it is

quite an insult to be called thin. I think that is all nonsense, for

vigor does not come from fat, but from good health, flesh strengthened

by exercise and good habits; and as Jeannet was acknowledged to be

the strongest boy in the neighborhood, he was only called thin from

jealousy, as he certainly could thank God for being a sound young man,

as strong as the foundation of a barn.

The only amusement he allowed himself was sometimes, on great

festivals, to assist at the pigeon-shooting which M. le Marquis had

established on the lawn before the château. It was a difficult game,

which demanded good sight, coolness, and, above all, great strength of

wrist. Jeannet, on two successive years, carried off the prize; the

first was a silver goblet, the second a beautiful knife, fork, and

spoon of the same metal. On these occasions his pale face became red

with pleasure; do you think it was from vanity? Not at all. If his

heart beat quickly, it was at the thought of the splendid presents he

would make his good mother Pierrette; and, in reality, he made her

promise she would never drink a drop or eat a mouthful but out of the

goblet or with the knife and fork. We must say, in spite of the crowns

heaped up at Muiceron, the earthen pipe and tin cups were alone used.

At first Pierrette was ill at ease with her silver service, but she

nevertheless accustomed herself to the use of it, so as to please

Jeannet; and at last, to make her feel more comfortable, Ragaud, on his

next trip to the city, bought himself a similar set, very fine, for

eighty-four francs, which he constantly said was rather dear; but at

heart he thought it very suitable, as it was not proper for his wife to

eat with silver and he with tin; and to Jeannet's mind, who regretted

that he had not drawn four prizes instead of two, so as to delight both

his dear parents, a brighter idea had never entered his good father's

head.

If I relate all these little anecdotes at length, it is to show you

Jeannet's good heart; and without speaking ill of little Jeannette, who

had also her fine points, I think her brother surpassed her in delicate

attention to their parents, which I attribute to the difference in

their education. Believe me, it is always better to let a cabbage

remain a cabbage, and never attempt to graft a melon upon it. You will

make nothing worth eating; for the good God, who created the cabbage

on one side, and the melon on the other, likes each to remain in its

place, without which you will have a hybrid vegetable, which will not

really be of either species.

Pierrette, like a true woman, knowing Jeannet's excellence, often

thought he could make some woman very happy, and that it was her duty

to speak to him of marriage, since he was twenty years old, and they

knew he would never have to enter the army, even though he should

draw the fatal number. One evening, when she was spinning beside the

hearth, with Jean-Louis near her, making a net for catching birds,

she commenced to speak of the happiness of her married life, the

blessings she had received from heaven, and her perfect contentment on

all points. Jean-Louis listened with pleasure, and acknowledged that

a happy marriage was something to be envied, but, according to his

custom, never thinking of himself, he did not dream of wishing this

fine destiny might one day be his.

"And you, my Jean, would you not like to marry?"

Jean-Louis dropped his shuttle, and looked at Pierrette with

astonishment.

"What an idea!" said he. "I have never even thought of it, dear mother."

"It is nevertheless very simple, my son. Ragaud was your age when he

married me, and, when his parents asked him the same question, he

thought it right, and instantly replied, yes!"

"Doubtless he knew you, and even loved you; then I could easily

understand it."

"That is true," replied Pierrette, slightly blushing; "for a year

before, the dear man had cast glances at me on Sundays at High Mass;

at least, he told me so after we were engaged. Why don't you do

likewise?"

"For that, I should be obliged to think of some of the girls around us,

and I have never troubled myself about them yet."

"That is queer," said Pierrette innocently. "You are not like other

men; for without showing particular attention, it is allowable to look

at the girls around when one wishes to be established."

"Bah!" said Jeannet; "but I don't care about anything of the kind. When

I am in the village on Sunday, I have something else to think about."

"About what, dear boy?"

"Well, then, I think that we will all be quiet at Muiceron until

evening, and I hasten to return, so as to sit down near you, as I

am now, and laugh and talk to amuse you; and I don't wish any other

pleasure. Besides, it is the only time in the week when we can see

Jeannette; and, to speak the truth, dear mother, I would not give that

up for all the marriages in the world."

"All very well," replied Pierrette; "but without giving up those

pleasures, you can take a wife."

"Oh!" said Jeannet, "I see that you are tired of me, or else you would

not speak thus."

"What do you say?" replied Pierrette, kissing him on the forehead.

"It is not right to speak so, and surely you do not mean it. On the

contrary, whether you marry or remain single, I never wish you to leave

me. There is room enough for another woman, and even for children. What

I proposed, my Jean, was for your happiness, and nothing else."

"Well, then, dear mother, let me remain as I am; I never can be happier

than now."

"But when we come to die, it will be so sad to leave you alone!"

Jeannet started up, and leaned against the mantel. A clap of thunder

at the time would not have astonished him more than such a speech. He

to be left alone in the world, no longer to have his father and mother

beside him! And nevertheless it was something to be anticipated; but

his life flowed on so smoothly and happily, the thought of such a

misfortune had never before struck terror to his heart.

He remained silent a moment, looking fixedly at the bright wood fire

that burned upon the hearth; and suddenly, as it often happens when

some remark has penetrated the very soul, he saw, as in a picture, his

dear good mother Pierrette and father Ragaud stretched on their biers,

and laid in the cold ground, in the dread repose of death that never

awakens. But, no! it was not possible; and yet it happens any day,

sometimes for one, sometimes for another. Muiceron, where they all

lived in tranquil happiness, was truly a paradise on earth, but most

assuredly not the celestial paradise where immortality alone exists.

For the first time since the memorable day when he had suffered so

cruelly on learning the secret of his birth, Jeannet felt his poor

heart ache with a similar grief. Pierrette, who thought it perfectly

natural to have opened his eyes to such a desirable event, continued

her spinning. Seeing Jean-Louis in deep thought, and receiving no

answer, she simply fancied her argument had been conclusive, and that

he felt the necessity of establishing himself, and so was debating in

his own mind the relative attractions of the girls in the neighborhood.

Besides, Jeannet's back was to her, and she did not see the change in

his face.

"Think a little," said she, pursuing her idea; "there is no greater

pleasure for parents who feel themselves growing old than to see their

children well married. Then they can die in peace, thinking that,

after they are gone, nothing will be changed; only, instead of the old

people, young ones will take their place, the work will go on, all

hearts will be happy, and kind prayers and fond recollections will

follow them to the tomb."

"Oh!" cried Jean-Louis, covering his face with his hands, "if you say

another word, I will die!"

"What!" said Pierrette, "die--of what? Are you ill?"

Jeannet, in spite of his twenty years, burst into tears like a little

child; he clasped Pierrette in his arms, fondly embraced her, and said

in a tone melting with tenderness:

"My mother, my dear, dear mother, I shall never marry--never, do you

hear? And I beg of you never to mention the subject again. I have but

one heart, and that I have given you undivided; nothing remains for

another. When you speak of marriage, it makes us think of death and the

grave; and that is beyond my strength--I cannot speak of it. If the

good God calls you before me, my dearest mother, it will not be long

before I rejoin you; and thus it will be better for me to die single

than to leave a family after me. And now, as I do not wish to marry,

and you only desire my happiness, do not urge me further."

"Your heart is too gentle for a man," said Pierrette, feeling the

tears of her dear child on her brow; "you make me happy, even while

opposing me, and I see that I have made you unhappy without wishing

it. Be consoled, my Jeannet; we will never speak of it again. If you

change your mind, you will tell me. Meanwhile, we will live as before.

Don't be worried; it will be a long time yet before we leave you. I am

in good health, and your father also; and so Muiceron will not change

masters soon."

"No, no, thank God!" cried Jean-Louis; "the Blessed Virgin will watch

over us. We have not lived together for twenty years now to separate,

my darling mother!"

Truth to say, this was not very sound argument, for, whether twenty

years together, or thirty, or forty, friends must separate, all the

same, at the appointed hour; but Jeannet spoke with his heart torn with

sorrow, and Pierrette was perfectly willing to acknowledge, in her

turn, that she really desired things should happen as he wished.

From that time the question of marriage was put in her pocket, and

never taken out again. God and his holy angels looked down with delight

upon this innocent household, full of tenderness and kindness, and did

not allow evil to overshadow it. However, the child Jeannette deserved

to be cured of her little sins of vanity, and you will see the means

taken by the Heavenly Father to make her a Christian according to his

will.

XI.

About this time came a year which is still remembered, although a good

long time has since elapsed. Swarms of locusts devoured the young wheat

before it ripened, while the field-mice, moles, and other villanous

pests, gnawed and destroyed it at the roots. Corn especially suffered

in this unlucky season; not a plant escaped. Before it had grown ten

feet in height, it was blighted, and then withered and died. It would

take too long to enumerate all the difficulties that overwhelmed the

peasants. Hailstorms beat down the meadows at haymaking time; splendid

cows died of the pest; sheep were suddenly attacked and perished; and

as for the horses, decimated by the glanders, which became epidemic,

and was very dangerous, as it often passed from animals to men, it

would be impossible to count the victims.

This year, at least, those who had begun the season by prophesying

evil had their predictions fully accomplished; but, thank God! such

an unfortunate season rarely happens. The poor people were fearfully

discouraged; and, in sooth, it was not strange that men dreaded the

future, in face of such a present.

Nevertheless, greater activity was never seen in the fields. To save

the little that remained, each one did his best, even down to the

little children, in reaping, gathering the harvest, piling the carts,

in spite of the locusts, the hail, and the devil, who was said to have

a great deal to do with the affair, and which I am very much inclined

to believe. The people even worked until late in the night. It was a

devouring fever, which made every one half crazy, and it was a miracle

that no one died of it; for, in our province, we are accustomed to

work slowly, without hurry or excitement, and it is commonly believed

everything happens when and how it is decreed, but none the worse

on that account; but I wish to prove that they could hurry up when

occasion required.

Our friend, Jean-Louis, did wonders in these sad circumstances. He

seemed to be everywhere at once--in the fields, the stables, at

the head of the reapers, at the barn when the carts were unloaded;

encouraging some, urging on others, in a friendly way; hurrying up

the cattle; when necessary, giving a helping hand to the veterinary

surgeon; and, withal, gentle and kind to everybody.

You think that, with order, energy, and intelligence, work will always

be rewarded with success. He who first said, "Help yourself, and Heaven

will aid you," did not speak falsely. God does not work miracles for

those who fold their arms in idleness, but he always gives to humble

and persevering labor such abundant reward that, for many centuries, no

matter what may be the suffering, the truth of the Holy Scriptures has

always been verified, that "never has any one seen the just man die of

hunger, or his seed begging their bread."

In virtue of this rule, it came to pass that, at Muiceron, the harvest

of hay, as well as of wheat, rye, and corn, was far better than could

have been expected by the most sanguine. The unfortunate ones, who lost

nearly all their crops, said that Ragaud had dealt in witchcraft to

protect himself from the prevailing bad luck. This nonsense made every

one laugh, but did not stop their envy and jealousy; and so unjust do

men become, when their hearts are envenomed by rage and disappointment,

that some of the worst--the laziest, undoubtedly--went so far as to

declare openly, in the village inn, that it would be for the good of

the public if some of the splendid hay-stacks at Muiceron were burned,

as the contrast was too great between the well-kept farm and the ruined

fields around.

Fortunately, our friend, Jacques Michou, was drinking in a corner while

this delightful conversation took place; he rose from his seat, and,

placing his hand on the shoulder of him who had been the loudest in

threats, declared he would instantly complain of him to the police; and

that, merely for speaking in such a manner, he could be sent to prison

for a month. No further grumbling was heard after this speech, and it

can be easily understood no wicked attempt was made. So true is it

that a little courage will easily defeat the most wicked plans; for

vice is very cowardly in its nature.

While all the country around Val-Saint, Ordonniers, and many other

neighborhoods, were thus afflicted, M. le Marquis had been busy with

some of his grand affairs, of which we have already heard, and started

on a journey for some unknown place. He returned this time a little

happier than usual, as it was near the beginning of 1847; and it is

not necessary to remind you that it preceded 1848. At this time even

the stupidest felt that a revolution was approaching, and our good

lord and all his friends were doubly certain of the impending storm.

He was therefore excusable in having neglected the care of his large

estate, so as to devote himself to that which was the first desire

of his heart. But he who should have watched over his interests in

his absence, the superintendent Riponin, he it was that was every

way blamable; for, whether intentionally, that he might continue his

orgies in the midst of disorder, or through idleness and negligence,

he had allowed the place to fall into a fearful state of ruin. Nothing

was to be seen but fields devastated by the ruin, or grain rotting as

it stood; the animals that died had not been replaced; and even the

vegetable garden of the château presented a most lamentable picture of

disorder and neglect. Ragaud and Michou, had seen all this; but they

were too insignificant to dare say a word, and too proud, besides, to

venture a remonstrance, which certainly would not have been received.

M. le Marquis, on his return, was anything but agreeably surprised. He

summoned Riponin before him, and reprimanded him in a manner which he

long remembered. Our master was goodness itself, but he could not be

unreasonably imposed upon; his old noble blood would fire up, and he

could show men that for more than five hundred years his ancestors, as

well as he, had been accustomed to command and obey only the laws of

the Lord God.

Riponin was a coward; he trembled and asked pardon, promised to do

better, and gave a hundred poor excuses. M. le Marquis would not

receive any such explanation; he ordered Riponin out of his presence,

and seasoned the command with several big military words, which I

will not repeat. It was a sign that he was terribly angry. Thus the

unfaithful steward was obliged to retire without further reply; and,

between ourselves, it was the best he could do.

Thereupon M. le Marquis, still in a fury, sent off for Ragaud, who came

in great haste, easily divining what had happened.

"Ragaud," said the master, "you are no better than the rest. I will

lose forty thousand francs on my crops; and if you had seen to it, this

would not have happened."

"Forty thousand francs!" quietly replied Ragaud. "I beg your pardon, M.

le Marquis; but you mean sixty thousand francs, and that, I think, is

the lowest calculation."

M. le Marquis was naturally cheerful; this unexpected answer made him

smile, instead of increasing his anger. He looked at his old servant,

whom he highly esteemed, and, folding his arms, said:

"Is that your opinion? Come, now, let us say fifty thousand; I think

that is enough."

"No, no, sixty," replied Ragaud. "I will not take off a crown; but

there is yet time to save half."

"Is that so? What can I give you, if you do that much?"

"Nothing, M. le Marquis, but permission to be master here for a week,

and the honor of serving you."

"Old fool!" said the marquis. "And your own work, what will become of

it?"

"It is all finished," replied the good farmer; "don't be uneasy, my

dear master, only give me, as I said before, full power."

"Be off, then. I know your devotion, and I have full confidence in you;

but you will not object to my making a present to your children?"

"Presents!" said Ragaud, much moved. "What else have you done for the

past twenty years, M. le Marquis? Is it not the least you can do to let

me be of some use to you for once in my life? I owe everything to you,

down to the roof that shelters me, my wife, and the children. Presents!

No, no, if you do not wish to pain me."

"Proud and obstinate man that you are," said the marquis, smiling,

"have everything your own way. I am not so proud as you; you offer to

save me thirty thousand francs, and I don't make such a fuss about

accepting it. Isn't that a present?"

"It is thirty thousand francs that I will prevent you from losing,"

said the obstinate Ragaud.

"Yes, as though one would say grape-juice was not the juice of the

grape," replied the marquis, who was highly amused at the replies of

his old servant. "Well, if I ask you to drink a glass of old Bordeaux

with me, will you take that as the offer of a present you must refuse?"

"Certainly not," said Ragaud, "but it is too great an honor for me to

drink with my lord."

M. le Marquis made them bring refreshments on a silver waiter, and kept

Ragaud in close conversation for a full hour, knowing well that this

friendly manner of treating him was the greatest reward he could give

the good, honest soul, to whom God had given sentiments far above his

condition. Afterwards, he dismissed him with such a warm shake of the

hand that Ragaud was nearly overcome and could scarcely restrain his

tears.

"Well," said he, returning to Muiceron, where he found Jean-Louis

occupied with arranging the wood-pile, "what do you think we are going

to do, my boy, after having worked like ten men to get in our crops and

fill the barns?"

"I was thinking about that," replied Jeannet; "and, meanwhile, I have

put the fagots in order, so that mother can easily get at them, when I

am not at hand, to make the fire."

"You have never thought to take a little rest?" asked Ragaud, who knew

well beforehand what would be the reply.

"Why, yes," said Jean-Louis, "an hour's rest now and then is very

pleasant; but after that, my dear father," he continued, laughing, "I

like to stretch my legs."

"Well, then, let us imagine nothing was done at Muiceron, and that, at

this very moment, we should be obliged to begin; what would you say?"

"All right; and I would instantly begin the work. I hope you don't

doubt me?" he replied, with his usual air of quiet resolution.

"No, I do not doubt you, my good boy," resumed Ragaud; "and to prove

my confidence in your courage and good-will, I have to-day promised to

undertake an enterprise which, in honor, we are bound to accomplish."

And he related to him what we already know.

"Hum!" said Jean-Louis, after having listened attentively; "it will be

pretty hard work, but with the help of God nothing is impossible."

"That is just what I think," replied Ragaud; "but for that, I would not

have undertaken such a task. Now, Jeannet, we must begin to put the

place in order to-morrow at the latest."

"That will be time enough, father, and we will do our best," said

Jean-Louis.

The subject was dropped for the rest of the evening. Ragaud did not

trouble his head about the means his son would employ; and Jeannet,

without being otherwise sure of himself, remained tranquil, like all

those who ask the assistance of divine Providence in the management

of their affairs. Nevertheless, it was a difficult task, not only on

account of the severe manual labor, but also from the certainty of

incurring the deadly hatred of Riponin, who was a very wicked man.

The thought of it somewhat disquieted Ragaud, and Jean-Louis from the

first understood the full danger; but what could be done? Duty before

everything.

The next morning Jean-Louis was up before sunrise. During the night,

he thought over his plan, like the general of an army; he remembered

having read somewhere that a troop can do nothing, unless conducted by

able chiefs. He would need one hundred hands, and, for one all alone,

that would be a great many. His first care was to knock at the window

of a fine young man of his own age, who, from infancy, had been his

most intimate friend. He was called Pierre Luguet, and lived in the

hamlet of Luchonières, which is a small cluster of twelve or fifteen

houses a little lower down than Ordonniers, but on the other side of La

Range. By good fortune, the stream at this place is so choked up with

a big heap of gravel and old stumps of willow-trees, which serve as

stepping-stones across the water, that any one who is light-footed can

cross as easily as on a narrow bridge.

This name of Luguet, I suppose, strikes your ear oddly. He was really

the nephew of poor Catharine, and thus first cousin of Jean-Louis, who

undoubtedly knew it, as you can imagine. Perhaps it was the reason

these two young men were so much attached. They say the voice of blood

cannot be smothered; and although it is not always true, in this case

it was very evident that, whether for that reason or simply from

similarity of character and pursuits, good conduct and age, Pierre

Luguet was the only one of the neighborhood whom Jeannet ever sought,

and that Pierre was never happier than when he could detain Jean-Louis

for several hours in conversation or some innocent amusement.

Jean-Louis went straight to the house of his friend, who, recognizing

his voice behind the shutter, quickly opened it and let him in.

He lived in a little room in front of the farm-buildings, and,

consequently, the noise did not awaken his parents. Jeannet entered

by the window, and, without losing any time, explained his plans to

Pierre, while he rapidly dressed.

"You," said he, "must be my lieutenant. We must get together one

hundred young men, each one resolved to do his part. M. le Marquis will

not begrudge the crowns; we will promise them good wages, and they must

work all night, if necessary; and, to encourage every one, we will keep

a roaring fire in Michou's house, so that Barbette will always have

the soup warm and a tun of cider ready for tapping. In this manner the

laborers will be contented, and not obliged to return home twice a-day

for their meals. As for you, Pierre, be assured that M. le Marquis

will reward you most generously for your work; and, besides, you will

be doing a good action, for it is a great sin to see the estate of the

master worse cared for than that of his servants."

"I am not thinking about the price," said Pierre Luguet, putting on his

blouse. "I ask no more than you will have."

"That is good; we will see about it," replied Jeannet, laughing in his

sleeve; for he knew well that he was going to work for the honor of it,

and he did not wish to make Pierre go by the same rule, knowing that he

supported his old parents.

They decided upon the places where they would expect to find the best

men, and separated, one to the left, the other to the right, promising

to meet again at twelve o'clock.

There was really great rejoicing when the young men of Val-Saint

and Ordonniers learned that they were required to work for M. le

Marquis under the lead of the two best men of the neighborhood. They

had nothing to fear from brutality and injustice, as in the time of

Riponin; and the news of his disgrace put all the brave fellows in the

best humor.

Riponin was cordially detested, and for double the pay not one would

have volunteered to serve under him, or have undertaken such a

disagreeable and bungled affair; but with Jeannet it was another thing,

and although he warned them beforehand that he would allow neither

idleness nor bad language, and that they must work long and steadily,

they followed him, singing as joyously as though they were going to a

wedding.

Before noon, the two bands met on the edge of the wood, where dwelt our

old friend, the game-keeper. Pierre Luguet, after leaving home, had

taken care to pass by, so as to forewarn him. Jacques Michou threw

up his cap at the news; he also despised Riponin, and, more than any

other, he had good reason for hating him. He therefore laid his plans,

and borrowed from the château a huge kettle, such as is used during the

vintage for pressing the grapes, which he put up, for their service, in

his little barn. Everything was ready at the appointed hour, and I can

assure you the delightful surprise was fully appreciated by our young

friends. The two leaders had taken the precaution to tell each one

of the boys to bring half a loaf of bread, a piece of goat's cheese,

and a slice of pork; so the soup was doubly welcome, as it was not

expected, and the cider still more so, as they had counted only on the

river-water. This good beginning put them in splendid humor; and when,

after being fully refreshed, they marched up to the château to pay

their respects to M. le Marquis before beginning their work, one would

have said, from the noise and singing, that it was a band of conscripts

who had drawn the lucky number.

They instantly put their shoulders to the plough. Jeannet wisely made

them commence with the worst fields, so that, when the first excitement

was over, and they would be rather fatigued, they could find that they

had not eaten the white bread first. Thus, having been well selected,

well fed, well paid, and, above all, well led, our boys did wonders,

not only that afternoon, but on the following days. The weather,

however, was decidedly against them; rain drenched the laborers, and

strong winds prevented them from building up the hay-stacks; but their

ardor was so great that nothing discouraged them; and often, when

Jeannet, moved by sympathy, put it to vote whether they should continue

or not, he saw with pleasure that not one man deserted his post.

At the end of a week, half the work was so well under way it could

easily be seen that, in spite of the bad season and worse management,

M. le Marquis would not lose all his crops this time, but that, on the

contrary, his barns would make a very good show, if not in quality,

at least in quantity. The worthy gentleman came several times himself

to visit the laborers and distribute extra pay. On these occasions it

was admirable to see the modesty of Jean-Louis, who always managed to

disappear, leaving to Pierre Luguet the honor of showing the progress

of the work to M. le Marquis; and as workmen are generally just when

they are not found fault with, brow-beaten, or ill-treated, they

rendered to Jean-Louis greater honor and respect the more he concealed

himself from their applause. In short, everything went on well to the

end without interruption.

The given fortnight was not over when the last cart-load, ornamented

on top with a huge bouquet of flowers and sheaves of wheat tied with

ribbons, was conducted in triumph, accompanied with songs of joy,

under the windows of mademoiselle, who appeared on the balcony, with

Jeannette Ragaud on her right and Dame Berthe on the left. M. le

Marquis was in the court of honor, enchanted with the success of the

measure; and Ragaud and Michou could not remain quiet, but clapped

their hands, and cried "Bravo!" to the brave young men.

Jean-Louis tried to escape this time also, but was not allowed.

His friends raised him in their arms, and placed him on top of the

cart with his good comrade, Pierre Luguet; and thus they made their

appearance, both standing alongside of the bouquet, Jeannet crimson

with shame and vexation, whilst Pierre sang loud enough to crack his

throat.

You can imagine that this cart, upon which had been heaped the last

gleanings of the harvest, was piled up immensely high, so that the top

was on a level with the first floor of the château, and mademoiselle

could thus converse at her ease with the young men.

She spoke most graciously to Jean-Louis, and congratulated him with

words so complimentary that the poor fellow wished himself under the

grain, rather than on top. What embarrassed him still further was to

see his sister Jeannette playing the part of great lady as much as her

mistress. With his usual good sense, he considered it out of place, and

would have been much better pleased if she had appeared ill at ease in

her false position; but, far from that, she leaned over the balcony,

laughing and talking like a vain little parrot, and even rallied

Jean-Louis on his subdued manner.

He did not wish to spoil the affair by looking severe and discontented,

but he was grieved at heart, and hastened to put an end to the scene.

Mademoiselle, at the close of her complimentary remarks, presented

each of the two friends with a little box of the same size, wrapped in

beautiful paper, and tied with pink ribbon.

"They are filled with bonbons," said she in her sweet, gentle voice;

"and you will not refuse to eat them in remembrance of me?"

Then she made them a most friendly bow, which they returned with great

respect, and the big cart was driven off to the barn to be unloaded.

"Bon-bons!" said Pierre to Jeannet, taking out his box after they

had descended from their high post of honor. "What do you think,

Jean-Louis? It seems to me this plaything is too heavy only to contain

candies."

"At any rate," replied Jean-Louis, "they can't do us any harm, as the

boxes are not very large."

They quickly untied the pretty pink ribbon, and found in Pierre's

box fifteen bright twenty-franc pieces, while Jeannet's contained a

beautiful gold watch, with a chain of equal value.

To add to the general happiness, the sky, which until then had been

cloudy as though threatening rain, suddenly cleared, and the sun went

down in the full splendor of August, and shed a brilliant light over

the bare fields, as Jean-Louis was carried in triumph by his comrades,

who cried out that surely he controlled the weather, as the very winds

seemed to obey him; and, strange as it may appear, the season continued

so fine that never was there a more delightful autumn than after the

unfortunate spring and summer.

If I dared express my opinion, I would tell you that, without calling

it miraculous, the good God scarcely ever fails to send joy after

sorrow, peace after war, heat after cold, as much to the visible things

of the earth as to the secret ones of the heart. It is, therefore, well

not to throw the handle too quickly after the axe; and, to prove this,

I will tell you a short and true story, which I just happen to remember.

It relates to Michel Levrot, of the commune of Saint-Ouaire, who,

against everybody's advice, married a woman from near Bichérieux.

She was a bad Christian and totally unworthy of the good little man,

who was rather too gentle and weak in character. For a year they got

along so-so, without any great disturbance; but gradually the wicked

creature grew to despise her poor husband, for no other reason but

that he was too good for her, and let her have her own way completely.

She wasted money at fairs, bought more fine clothes and silver jewelry

than she knew what to do with, kept up a row in the house from morning

until night, and ended by being nearly always drunk; all which made

Michel Levrot so unhappy that one sad day in a moment of despair,

without stopping to think of his eternal salvation, he threw himself

headlong into the river Coussiau, which, fortunately, was not so deep

as La Range, although nearly as wide.

As he was out of his head, and acted without thinking, his good angel

most assuredly took care of him; for, if he had been drowned, he

certainly would have lost his soul; but, although he did not know how

to swim, he floated on his back, and the current carried him to the

bank of the stream, where he was picked up, half-dead and in a swoon,

by some of the neighbors, who rubbed and warmed him, and managed to

bring him back to life. Those who had saved him were good, pious men,

who spoke to him in such a Christian manner, they made him feel ashamed

of his cowardice and want of confidence in the Heavenly Father; so he

promised to go and see our _curé_, who lifted him upon his beast--that

is to say, made peace enter his soul; after which he explained to him

that, having no children, he had the right to leave this wicked and

perverse woman, who deserved a severe lesson, and not return home

until she should be converted or dead.

He left that part of the country, entirely cured of his desire to kill

himself, and made the tour of France, honestly earning his bread by

working at his trade, which was that of an upholsterer. From time to

time the neighbors sent him news of his abominable wife, who led such

a scandalous life it was easy to predict she would not make old bones;

for, if strong drink and vice soon kill the most robust men, they are

still more fatal to women. After a few years, he received the welcome

intelligence that his house was rid of its baneful mistress. He then

returned to Saint-Ouaire, and was charitable enough to give fifty

francs for Masses for the unfortunate soul. Some time after, he married

the daughter of Pierre Rufin, a good worker and housekeeper, who,

besides other excellent qualities, never drank anything stronger than

honey and water that she took for a weak stomach, which she had from

childhood. They lived most happily, and had a family of five handsome

children. I knew him when he was very old, and he always loved to

relate this story of his youth, never failing to return thanks to the

good God, who had saved him from drowning.

"For," said he, "my dear children, if I had been drowned that day from

want of a little patience, I should have lost my soul, besides the good

wife you see here and all my present happiness."

TO BE CONTINUED.

ORDINANDUS.

The goal--and yet my heart is low,

When rather should it brim with glee!

They tell me this is ever so.

Ah! well, I cling to one I know:

Sweet Virgin, keep thou me.

O thou for whom I venture all--

The fragile bark, the treacherous sea

(I needs must serve my Lady's call,

Her captive knight, her helpless thrall)--

My pilot, keep thou me.

From tyranny of idle fears,

And subtle frauds to make me flee--

Distorting unto eyes and ears

The burden of the coming years--

My mercy, keep thou me.

From shirking the accepted cross

For all the galling yet to be;

From seeing gold in what is dross,

And seeking gain in what is loss,

My wisdom, keep thou me.

From lures too strong for flesh and blood--

With show of ripe philosophy,

That points the fallen, who had stood,

Contented with the lesser good--

My victory, keep thou me.

O Lady dear, in weal, in woe,

Till Heaven reveal thy Son and thee,

Thy true love's mantle round me throw;

And tenderly, calmly, sweetly so,

My glory, keep thou me.

NOVEMBER, 1870.

ONE CHAPTER FROM HESTER HALLAM'S LIFE.

"Ah! Hester, Hester, keep back your tears. Be the brave little wife and

woman now. Have faith, hope, and courage; the year will soon speed by,

and, lo! here shall I find you again! God grant it! And good-by, my

wife, my children--my all and only treasures."

They are engraven on my memory--these last words of Henry Hallam, my

husband, my beloved. They were spoken hopefully, cheerfully, though I

knew they were intended to cover the sorrow of a heart that ached, even

as did mine, at our final parting.

Henry Hallam was to go to South America as chief engineer of a proposed

road from some inland city to the Pacific. After a marriage of eight

years, this was our first separation. I never did consent to it. Better

poverty and the humblest life together than that mountains and seas

should divide us, I argued.

But Henry was proud, as he was tender and loving; he could not bear to

see his wife, delicately reared, doing menial service; nor his little

girls deprived of waxen dolls, because they would usurp the ragged

dollar that must go for bread.

Our situation had fallen from bad to worse; an expensive lawsuit had

been decided against us, to liquidate the cost of which an out-West

piece of land, that was to have been our children's fortune, had to

be sold at a sacrifice; and when all was paid, except our scanty

furniture, we had but three hundred dollars in the world. We lived in

a rented house in the beautiful suburbs of Brooklyn; three months'

rent would consume our all. Meantime, upon what should we live, and

wherewithal should we be clothed? This was a serious question, which

vexed my husband for many days. He suddenly answered it by accepting

with alacrity this lucrative position in South America. My only living

relative in all America was one sister, widowed and childless. She came

from the West to abide with me during my husband's absence. She, too,

had comparative poverty for her dowry, her only income arising from the

interest of less than a thousand dollars.

No thought of poverty haunted us, however; heretofore all our wants

had been supplied, and we had lived almost luxuriously, counting upon

the fortune which had been for six years dwindling to less and less in

courts of law.

It was with no dread of poverty, I repeat, that I saw my husband

take his departure. I thought only how the light had gone from our

house, and joy from existence. I am distressed whenever I read of the

ever-recurring matrimonial quarrels and divorces which appear now the

order of the day. I could have lived with Henry Hallam through the

countless eternal years, and--God forgive me!--desired no other heaven.

We had no particular creed or faith. The Hallams had been Methodists;

the Griffeths, my father's family over in Wales, had been members of

the Church of England.

Henry and I, reading here and there indifferently, had become somewhat

inclined to Swedenborg's theories. We read Dr. Bushnell and his

colleagues with some faith and more interest. But we fashioned the

great hereafter--the heaven we all talk of and dream so much of--after

our own ideals. Those may have been in the right, thought we, from

whom Shelley and many another poetical dreamer imbibed the idea that

the Godhead was but the universal spirit pervading and animating

nature; that man was immortal, and was to arise from the dead, clothed

in purity and beauty, and was to wander endlessly in some limitless,

enchanting paradise, where should be all things lovely to charm the

eye, all sounds to entrance the ear, all spirits gentle, and wise,

and good for communion of intellect and heart. In this heaven stood

no stately throne upon which sat a God of justice, receiving one unto

life, banishing another unto everlasting perdition. It was the same

here as upon earth; the beauty, bloom, fragrance, and glory were

permeated with an essence subtle, invisible, intangible, but present,

the life and source of all--and this was God! The ancients had a heaven

and a hell, which Christianity had adopted; but we lived in the XIXth

century, and we need not pin our faith to such notions borrowed from

the heathen. Were youth and health on earth immortal, we would prefer

never to pass through the iron gate of death and the pearly gate of

life; since, however, all must yield to the inexorable fiat, and _all

men must die_, we would make a virtue of necessity, and be willing to

go to that sensual heaven, which wore all the beauty of earth, with

naught of its thorns and blight. Ah! we, Henry and I, were still in the

glow of youth and hope; life seemed a beautiful vista, and the end far

off! Of the great beyond we but carelessly dreamed--as carelessly as if

our feet were never there to stand, nor our souls to tremble upon its

awful brink.

With Henry gone, I was like a child bereft of its mother. I wept and

would not be comforted. I counted the hours of every day; they seemed

so inconsiderable, deducted from the almost nine thousand which the

three hundred and sixty-five days yielded. I see now how foolish, weak,

and wicked I was!

I was seized with a slow fever, which lasted me through the summer.

In my weakness and wakefulness I saw visions and dreamed dreams which

haunted me constantly. I began to fancy that I was to die. I would have

been satisfied to have fallen in a sleep that should have known no

waking until the dread year was over.

Early in September I heard from my room an unusual bustle in the

house--the feet of men, and the unwonted sound of boxes or trunks laid

heavily upon the floor. But why need I go into details?

Henry Hallam had died of yellow fever, and his trunks had been sent

home!

In my despair, one thought overpowered me. I had made myself wretched

counting over the hours until Henry should return. Now he would never,

never come back, no matter how many hours; I might count for an

eternity, and he would not come at the end. Oh! could he but some time

come, even in the distant years, when his step was feeble and his hair

was gray, how patient I would be, how hopeful, cheerful, in the waiting

for that certain time!

_Why_ had I not been happy when I knew that he still lived; when the

fond hope was mine that, after a few months, I should again behold him?

We never know--alas! we never know! With my beloved gone, I fancied

myself sunk in the lowest depth of desolation.

More than two years elapsed. My sister struggled bravely to keep a roof

above our heads and the wolf of hunger from our door. Notwithstanding

her closest economy, untiring industry, and fertile ingenuity, her

small principal had become reduced one-half. Her zeal and energy were a

reproach to me, and I had already commenced heroic endeavors to imitate

and assist her. We might still have done well, educated my two little

girls, and taken comfort in each other, now that my hopeless grief had

become partially assuaged, and I had begun to take an interest in the

management of our affairs. A fresh grief, however, was in store for me.

Maria, my sister, upon whom alone I had come to depend, was stricken

with an incurable disease, and, after lingering through months of pain,

which often amounted to torture, died, and was buried.

I was not allowed to remain in my stupor of grief after I had beheld

the cruel grave close over my only sister. The fact that but a trifle

remained after all expenses had been paid aroused me to most painful

apprehensions for the fate of my children. But for them I fully

believe I should have adopted the advice of his friends to Job, the

patient--curse God, and die!

The dear little children, however, who had no friends but their

unhappy mother, and who clung to me as if they had in me all that was

sufficient and all the world, were an incentive to further endurance

and fresh exertion.

In a moment of discouragement and gloom I wrote an unaccustomed letter

of six pages to a lady who had been my friend while sojourning in the

West. I had spent a year with my husband in a growing village upon the

banks of the Mississippi where this lady resided. She had a delightful

home in the midst of charming grounds, an indulgent, devoted husband,

three lovely children, with wealth enough to command the desirable and

good things of this world. We had corresponded for a time, but since my

great affliction I had written no letters.

Without delay came Mrs. Bell's reply. In my selfish grief I had not

thought that upon others also might be falling showers of the self-same

woe. The thought of Mrs. Bell, with her happy surroundings, had formed

a pleasant picture, comforting to dwell upon. Ah! how my eyes filled

and my heart throbbed as I read her letter!

The beautiful home, with its pictures, books, its nameless household

gods, was in ashes; the husband, really the handsomest, most elegant

gentleman I have ever met, full of health, vigor, and cheerfulness, a

year after the fatal fire had died suddenly, leaving his large property

in an involved and unavailable condition; and my friend was living in

a small cottage amidst the ashes and blackened trunks of trees--which

stood like weird spectres about her former home. The letter, half read,

fell from my nerveless grasp, and I clasped tightly my trembling hands,

bowing down upon them my throbbing head, murmuring:

"Doth _all_ of beauty fade to blight, and all of joy to gloom? Are

_all_ human loves so vain and transient? Are all hopes and dreams

fleeting and unsubstantial as the goodly shadow of a summer cloud? Is

it true of _all_ beneath the sun, 'ashes to ashes, dust to dust'?"

Gathering courage to finish the letter, another surprise awaited me. My

friend had become a Roman Catholic. After giving brief details of her

conversion, she thus addressed me:

"At this moment I feel more sorrow for you than for myself. My dearest

earthly loves and hopes lie, like yours, in ashes. But out of _my_

desolation hath sprung the green branches of heavenly peace. I weep not

unavailing tears at the loss of what so charmed my heart as to separate

my soul from God. Arise out of the ashes watered with your tears. Go

to the nearest Catholic priest; ask him for books, counsel, and prayer

that shall lead you upward and onward toward the kingdom of rest. Make

the effort, I entreat you, in the name of God. If you find no peace to

your soul, what will you have lost? If you find comfort and rest, will

not all have been gained?"

Had I learned, in the midst of my happiness, that Miriam Bell had

become a Catholic, I might have wondered, thought strange of it, but

set it down as one of the unaccountable things, and not puzzled my

brain by studying into it. But now it was different. Her afflictions,

so similar to my own, brought her very near to me in sympathy. I would

have as soon thought of myself becoming deluded by the snares of Popery

as my friend, Mrs. Bell. Yea, sooner; she was more matter-of-fact,

calm, philosophical, more highly educated, with a mind more thoroughly

disciplined, and naturally more inquiring and comprehensive than my

own. And she had heartily embraced this religious faith which, without

ever having bestowed much thought upon, I had naturally regarded as one

of superstitions and lies.

The sun went down, the twilight fell. Charlotte and Cora helped

themselves to a slice of bread, and lay down to rest. The

sewing-machine had for hours been idle, and the unfinished white shirt,

suspended by the needle, looked like a ghost in the gathering gloom;

and still I held my hands and deeply thought, or walked the floor with

stilly tread.

And so Miriam Bell had found a balm for her sorrow, a light amid her

darkness. How? By becoming a Catholic. And what was it to become a

Catholic? To believe impossibilities, and to worship idols; to behold,

in a tiny wafer of human manufacture, the body and blood, soul and

divinity, of an incarnate God? Does Miriam Bell believe this? If she

can believe it with all her heart and soul, then might she well be

comforted! To fall upon one's knees before the relics of a saint, and

beg his prayers, as if he could see and hear? To implore the Blessed

Virgin to succor and defend, as if she were not a creature, but

omnipotent and divine? To reverence the priest as a being immaculate,

an angel with hidden wings walking upon earth, unto whose feet you

must kneel, and unveil, as unto God, all the thoughts and interests

of your heart? I pondered over this last suggestion. Standing in the

white moonlight that silvered a space of the floor, I lifted up both

weary heart and waiting hands, and, with eyes toward the unknown and

infinite, I cried:

"Unto God would I pour forth the sins and sorrows of my soul; but I am

all unworthy. He whom I have disregarded and failed to acknowledge is

shut out from my vision and approach. Between him and me is the thick

wall of my offences. Oh! if, in his infinite mercy, he could send forth

one little less than an angel--who should have something of the human,

that he might compassionate and pity; of the divine, that he might

comprehend, guide, and assist--to that one I might yield in reverence.

All the sins, and follies, and rebellions of my life should be poured

into his ear; perhaps, oh! perhaps the hand of such an one might lift

me into the light, if light there be indeed for soul so dyed as mine."

How this fancied being, uniting the human and angelic, became

gradually, and by slow degrees, associated in my mind with the Catholic

priest, I know not. Certain only I am that, after a few days of

mental struggle, of resolve and counter-resolution, I complied with

my friend's entreaty, and, accompanied by my little girls, sought the

nearest priest.

I took this step not with faith, nor yet altogether with doubt. I

went, not willingly, but as if irresistibly impelled. I was like one

shipwrecked--floating in maddened waters, threatened death below, an

angry sky above, and darkness everywhere. A friend in whom I trusted

had pointed out to me a life-preserver.

"Stretch forth thy hand, hold it fast; it will save thee," she had said.

"It is but a straw," I murmured, clutching at it, drowning.

The priest entered the parlor a few moments after our admission by a

domestic.

I scanned him narrowly as he walked straight up to us, rubbing one

hand against the other, slightly elevating his shoulders. He was a

middle-aged man, whose benevolent countenance wore the reflection of a

happy, cheerful soul at peace with God and man.

My first thought on viewing him was of the woman who wished but to

"touch the hem of our Saviour's garment"; and, when he uttered his

first salutation: "And what can I do for you, my child?" I said

involuntarily: "Oh! that I may be made whole."

"Ah! you would go to confession. Go into the church, and pray before

the altar; I will be there presently." And he turned to leave the room.

I did not speak nor move. At the door he said:

"You are a stranger in the city?"

"No--yes--that is, I have lived here several years, but I have no

friends; I am indeed a stranger."

"You understand and attend to your religious duties?"

"I have no religious duties; I have no particular religion. I am

beginning to think myself a heathen."

"And have you not been brought up a Catholic?" he questioned in

surprise, returning to where I still sat.

"The furthest from it. If you have time to listen, I will tell you what

has brought me to you." And I went on to tell him of the advice of my

friend, received in the depth of my afflictions and despair. If my

conversion to the Catholic faith, entire, absolute, blessed, thanks be

to God! was not instantaneous; if, being blind, I received not sight,

being deaf, I received not hearing, in a moment, in the twinkling of

an eye, as did those whom Christ himself touched and healed, still do

I believe it to have been the work of Almighty God, and marvellous

unto my own eyes. If God commissioned Miriam Bell, instead of his own

holy angel, to direct me to the priest of his own anointing, I believe

myself no less to have been sent to pious F. Corrigan than was Paul

sent to Annanias, or Cornelius to Simon.

From regrets and lamentations, from dulness and despair, my heart bowed

low unto God in rejoicing and thanksgiving.

Aside from this, the Catholic religion and the history of the church

became to me an attractive, fascinating study. I seemed philosophizing

with sages, praying with religious, meditating with saints. The whole

world seemed newly peopled, unnumbered voices joining in that grand

chant that the church for almost nineteen centuries hath sung: "Glory

be unto God, and on earth peace to men of good-will."

F. Corrigan had sent a young priest to a new town in the interior, made

by the opening up of new railroads. Here F. McDevitt had built a small

church, and, in his report to his superior, spoke of having need of a

teacher for a parish school. F. Corrigan offered me the situation, and

in one week I was at Dillon's Station.

On the first day of our arrival, F. McDevitt asked my eldest little

girl her name.

"Charlotte Griffeth Hallam," she replied promptly.

"Charlotte Griffeth?" he repeated; then turning to me:

"And for whom was she named?"

"For my mother," I replied.

"And is your mother living?"

"She died in my infancy."

"She must have been the person advertised." And taking a slip of paper

from his memorandum-book, handed it me.

It was an advertisement for Charlotte Griffeth or her heirs in America,

to whom an estate in Wales had descended, valued at one hundred

thousand pounds! And what interest had this possessed for F. McDevitt?

His brother had a short time previously married a Miss Griffeth, and it

was to send in a letter to his brother that he had extracted from the

paper this brief paragraph. Was not this too much? I closed my eyes to

keep back the tears, and pressed my hand against my side, to still the

tumultuous throbbings of my heart.

God! my God! so long time from me hidden, giving me now the true faith,

and then this unexpected fortune! What should I do with it? A few

months before, I would have purchased a splendid house, perfect in all

its appointments. I would have gathered about me all that would have

pleased the taste and gratified the senses.

Now was it thrown in my way as a temptation? Before the sun had set

upon this wondrous change of fortune, my decision was formed. I would

go on in the way I had intended. It had evidently been God's way chosen

for me, and I would follow in it. I would go into a temporary cabin,

and teach the children of the Irish laborers.

The fortune should be divided into three shares. My children should

have two; the third, which was mine, should go to build a home for

widows and orphans.

And I? Every morning, with my troop of little girls and boys, I go to

the holy sacrifice of the Mass, where adoration is perpetually blended

with thanksgiving--the latter one of the deepest emotions of my heart.

I never expected to be so content and happy in this world.

Through thee I have found, O God! that "thou art the fountain of all

good, the height of life, and the depth of wisdom. Unto thee do I lift

up mine eyes; in thee, O my God! Father of mercies, do I put my trust.

"Bless and sanctify my soul with heavenly benediction, that it may be

made thy holy habitation and the seat of thy eternal glory; and let

nothing be found in the temple of thy divinity that may offend the eyes

of thy majesty!"

AN ENGLISH CHRISTMAS STORY.

I.

The winter wind is howling over the bleak moor, and Christmas is

ushered in with a sore famine that has already made many a hearth

desolate. The stout-hearted folk of Yorkshire have borne it well up

to this, but the recurrence of the especial festival of good cheer

makes their lot seem harder in December than it did two months

before. On these Northern moors are scattered many Catholics, whose

family traditions point to unknown martyrs as their ancestors, and

whose honest pride in their forefathers is as strong as that of

the descendants of the cavalier families. But though there may be

famine and wretchedness on the moor, there is a worse squalor in the

town. There no helping hand comes from the "Hall," bearing relief

and consolation; the hovels and tall, crazy tenements are full to

the brim of unknown human misery; and, for the poor, Christmas

this year means little less than starvation. Those were not the

days of subscription-lists, benefit societies, soup-kitchens, and

clothing-clubs; spiritual and temporal relief were both scarcer than

they are now, and the wars of the previous twenty years had made people

button their pockets tight and repeat the axiom that "charity begins at

home."

Through the manufacturing town of Weston, on a chill Christmas eve in

the early part of this century, walked a thoughtful, almost middle-aged

man, wrapped in a rich furred cloak, and preceded by a youth bearing

a lantern. He had first left the town-hall, where he had assisted at

a political meeting, and heard a few pompous speeches hung upon the

scantiest may-pole of facts. While these worthies had been declaiming,

thought he, how many poor men, out of employment, uncared for by their

pastors, must have been murmuring or swearing at their ill-luck and the

apathy of their superiors! How many might be driven to crime or suicide

by their wretched circumstances! He had heard that the Dissenters

helped their poor rather more effectually than the "church" people did;

and, luckily, in a manufacturing population there were always plenty

of Dissenters! The Catholics, too, about whose "emancipation" there

had been so much said lately in the Whig meetings, were generally a

charitable set, and there were more of them in the North than anywhere

else in the kingdom; but they were mostly country people, and the great

houses had enough to do to support their own village poor. Could not

something be done on a generous scale by the talkative municipality of

the town? Should he suggest something to that effect? But he was only a

visitor and traveller, and had but little interest with the magnates of

Weston. General knowledge there was none at that time; and it mattered

nothing to the local authorities here that he had travelled in the

East, was a professor of ancient history in a French university, and

corresponded with half the _savants_ of Europe. To the insular mind of

a trading community, he was a mere nameless atom of humanity, whose

doings only concerned Weston as far as the paying of his reckoning at

the inn, and his consumption of the most costly items that the scarcity

of the times rendered a fair source of profit to the landlord.

As he was sunk in these half-derisive thoughts, he was suddenly

accosted by a man, whose figure, as far as the light of the lantern

revealed it, was the very reverse of a highwayman. He had a pistol,

however, and held it threateningly to the gentleman's heart. In a

hollow, unsteady voice he quickly asked:

"Sir, hand me your money; you know what I can do, if you refuse, and I

see you are unarmed."

The man's manner contrasted strangely with his present occupation. He

was no experienced robber, that was evident; and his eyes rolled from

side to side like those of a hunted animal. Our friend, who called

himself Prof. John Stamyn, very quietly replied:

"My good friend, you have come to the wrong man. You will have no great

booty from me. I have only three guineas about me, which are not worth

a scuffle; so much good may you do with them. But you are in a bad way."

The man did not answer or recriminate. Hanging his head and lowering

his pistol (an useless weapon enough, since the trigger was broken off

and the barrel was cracked), he took the money offered him, and moved

quickly away. Mr. Stamyn stood looking thoughtfully after him, then he

said to the youth:

"Mind, James, and watch that man carefully, that he may not be aware

of you; but be careful to see him housed, and bring me word of

everything." And shaking his head, as if in pity, he walked back alone

to his hotel.

Meanwhile, the boy, proud of his mission, cautiously started on

his pursuit of the seeming robber. Many a time he had to darken his

lantern with his cloak, or flatten himself against doors, as the man he

pursued turned round, glancing fearfully behind, and then, mending his

pace, hurried on again with unsteady footsteps. Once he paused before

a large, brightly lighted shop. Loaves and cakes of all shapes were

piled in the window; but behind the counter sat two resolute-looking

men, whose expression, as they gazed on the hungry face outside, was

certainly the reverse of encouraging. The poor wayfarer turned away

with a sigh, and dived down a side street. Squalid little booths

alternated with equally squalid dwelling-houses along the sides of

the alley, and grim, fierce, animal faces gathered in evil-looking

clusters round the doors. The poor wretch hastened on; apparently

none knew him, as the boy, who followed him, noticed that no one paid

any attention to him. At last he stopped at a baker's shop--a dirty

place, very different from the respectable one he had looked into so

wistfully before. The boy waited at a convenient distance, and, by

skilfully shading his lantern, remained there unperceived. There was no

light, save what came from the shop--a dull flare at best. After a few

minutes, the man came out, carrying a large brown loaf of the cheapest

kind that was then sold in Weston. He now entered another street, and

turned various corners, so that it was like threading a labyrinth to

follow him. The youth then saw him disappear in the door-way of a tall,

dilapidated house. The door was open, and hung awry from one rusty

hinge; a nauseous smell greeted the nostrils, and shrill, disagreeable

voices were heard in some up-stairs roost. The man began to scale

the rickety steps, one or two of which were missing here and there,

and made a break-neck gap for the undoing of careless climbers. Each

landing-place seemed more disreputable than the last, until the fourth

was reached. It required a good deal of ingenuity in Mr. Stamyn's

messenger to creep unperceived up these dangerous ladders, never

startling the man he followed, and, above all, never helping himself

along by the tell-tale light, whose radiance might have betrayed him.

At last the poor "robber" entered a room, bare of any apology for

furniture, and unlighted, save by the frosty rays of the moon. The

wind whistled through it, crevices in the wall there were plenty, and

not one pane of glass in the grimy window was whole. The boy crouched

outside, and listened. A crevice allowed him to see a woman and four

children coiled up in a heap, trying to keep each other warm. The man

threw the loaf on the floor, and a sort of gurgle rose to welcome him.

Bursting into tears, he cried, in a voice half-defiant, half-choked

with grief:

"There, eat your fill; that's the dearest loaf I ever bought. I have

robbed a gentleman of three guineas; so let us husband them well, and

let me have no more teasings; for sooner or later these doings must

bring me to the gallows, and all to satisfy your clamors!"

Here the wife mingled her lamentations with his, and the hungry

children set up a howl of sympathy, all the while eying the loaf

impatiently. The poor woman, whimpering faintly, broke off four

large portions, and distributed them among the starving little ones,

reserving smaller pieces for herself and her wretched husband, who was

leaning despairingly on the window-sill.

When hunger was a little appeased, the group sat together as before,

trying to keep each other warm by the contact of their frozen limbs,

and drawing over their feet the few rags of clothing they possessed. At

last the man broke out into sobs:

"God forgive me! wife, this cannot go on. This money weighs like lead

in my pocket."

"Dear," said the woman timidly, "I heard a priest say once that a

starving man might take a loaf out of a baker's shop to stay his

hunger, and do no sin."

"Ay," said the man gloomily, "if the baker would let him take it. But

he would have put me in jail if I'd done it. I'd as lief go to jail as

not, if it wasn't for you here; but I thought that would not do, and I

know a gentleman is less likely to make a fuss, and Jim's pistol did

the business; but hang me if I'll do it again, if we do have to starve

for it."

The listener outside took up his lantern. "So the man's a Catholic," he

wondered. "I heard master say the Catholics helped each other; anyhow,

I'll go home, and report about what I've seen."

Cautiously he got down the dangerous stairs, and looked well about

him, that he might know the landmarks of the region again. He reached

the inn about an hour after Mr. Stamyn, who was sitting in his room,

waiting anxiously for him. He told his tale, not forgetting to make

much of his own dexterity in following the poor "robber." His master

listened attentively, then gave orders to the boy to call him at six

the next morning, when he would follow him to the man's dwelling. The

morning was clear, frosty, and bright. The dawn was just breaking, and,

if the town could look peaceful at any time, it did then. On the way,

or, rather, in the immediate neighborhood of the poor man's abode, Mr.

Stamyn stopped to inquire what the man was who lived in such a chamber

with a wife and four children. He was told that he was a shoemaker,

a very good kind of a man, very industrious, and a neat workman; but

being burdened with a family, and the times being so bad, he had fallen

out of work, and had a hard struggle to live.

The two then climbed the stairs, Which were hardly safer in the

morning's uncertain light than they had seemed in the dark the night

before, and stopped before the shoemaker's door.

They knocked, and the crazy door was opened by the unfortunate man

himself. He no sooner perceived who his visitor was, than he dreaded

to learn the motive of the visit, which must surely be the speedy

punishment of last night's robbery. He threw himself at the feet of Mr.

Stamyn, saying in a broken voice:

"O sir! indeed it was the first time, as it will be the last, that ever

I touch what does not belong to me; but I was drove to it by my poor

children here. Two days had they been without bread, sir, and they

cried that pitiful I couldn't stand it no longer. I was ashamed to beg,

sir, and folk mostly say no to a story as looks so like a ready-made

one. Surely, sir, you won't go to punish me, ... and these poor things

dependin' on me? I swear I'll die sooner than do such a thing again. It

was against the grain I did it, sir; indeed it was."

Mr. Stamyn had taken up the youngest child in his arms, and was hushing

its cries.

"No, my poor fellow, it was not to reproach or punish you I came. I

have not the least intention of doing you any harm. You have a good

character among your neighbors; but you must expect to be quickly

cut short in such freedoms as you took with me. Hold your hand;

here's thirty guineas for you to buy leather. Live close, and set

your children a commendable example; and to put you further out of

temptation with such unbecoming doings, as you are a neat workman (they

tell me) and I am not particularly hurried, make for me and this boy

two pairs of shoes each, which he shall call upon you for."

The poor man, dumfounded and almost in tears, stood before his

benefactor, gazing at him and at the shining coins in his own open

hand. The wife cried softly to herself, and the children, growing

accustomed to the stranger, began swarming about his legs. Mr. Stamyn's

servant then laid down a good-sized basket, and took off the lid. The

children rushed to this new attraction, and began diving into the

recesses of the basket with their poor, skinny little hands. The woman

went up to Mr. Stamyn:

"Oh! sir, we'll bless you to our dying day. And never fear; my husband

is a good workman, and he will work night and day with a will to make

you the finest pair of shoes that ever was.... And, oh! sir, the

children shall pray for you, that God may reward what you've done for

a poor, starving family. No; my husband, he never stole before in his

life, sir."

Here the husband, recovering his powers of speech, joined in, and

rained blessings on his kind patron, who left the miserable place in

a far more cheerful frame of mind than he had enjoyed at the great

meeting last night. Just before he left Weston, the shoes were brought

to him by the wife and her eldest child, who loaded him again with the

most grateful blessings, and promised to pray that, if he were not a

Catholic, still God would "grant him grace to save his soul."

Mr. Stamyn smiled sadly, and bade his new friends good-by, having

learnt their name, and promised in return never to forget it, should he

happen to be in Weston again. Christmas had been a happy season with

him this year; and though, by his present to the poor shoemaker, he

had curtailed his own pleasure-jaunt, he felt that, after all, he had

chosen the better part....

II.

It was Christmas once more. Forty years had come and gone, and

prosperity reigned in the North of England. A famine worse than that

early one had swept over the land--a famine of work and cotton--but

even the traces of that dire misfortune had gone now, and mills and

factories were as busy as they could be.

In the neighboring county of Cumberland, in a retired little town,

agricultural and pacific, stood a pretty, old-fashioned house,

half-mansion, half-cottage. One side, with its dignified portal of

granite, faced the street; but its garden, with bow-windows and porches

jutting out among the flowers, almost leaned on the mountain. The

family room looked into the snow-covered garden; the deep windows

were embowered in ivy, bearing a fringe of tiny icicles, while inside

wreaths of holly hung festooned over the dark curtains. Over the large

and very high mantel-piece, where a fox's brush and head mingled with

the branching antlers of the red deer, there hung a framed device,

illuminated in mediæval letters: "Peace on earth to men of good will";

above the door was a large bunch of mistletoe.

The window was partly open, the huge fire warming the room quite

enough to allow of this; on the sill was scattered a feast of

bread-crumbs steeped in milk, at which two or three robins were pecking

industriously.