GEORGE SANDYS NOVELS 
 
 J)«nlip tihtKxv ^riitian 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT 
 
THE MILLER OF 
 ANGIBAULT 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE SAND 
 
 BOSTON 
 LITTLE, BROWN 
 AND COMPANY 
 
 
Copyright, 1871, 
 By Roberts Brothers. 
 
 Copyright, 1899, 
 By Little, Brown, and Company. 
 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. 
 
^^. 
 
 s 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. Introduction 1 
 
 II. The Journey 12 
 
 III. The Mendicant 22 
 
 IV. The Morass 29 
 
 V. The Mill 34 
 
 VI. A Name on a Tree 40 
 
 VII. Blanchemont 51 
 
 VIII. The Parvenu Peasant 61 
 
 IX. An Unexpected Friend 71 
 
 X. Correspondence 77 
 
 XI. Dinner at the Farm 87 
 
 XII. Castles in the Air. V . . . .93 
 
 XIII. Rose 101 
 
 XIV. Marcelle 108 
 
 XV. The Rencontre 119 
 
 XVI. Diplomacy 126 
 
 XVII. The Ford of the Vauvre .... 133 
 
 XVIII. Henri 142 
 
 XIX. A Portrait 157 
 
 XX. Love and Money ...... 160 
 
 XXI. The Mill-boy 173 
 
 XXII. By the Water-side 179 
 
 XXIII. Cadoche 189 
 
 (V) 
 
 226396 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PACK 
 
 XXIV. Thb Maniac 201 
 
 XXV. Sophie 211 
 
 XXVI. The Eve of the FfiiB 221 
 
 XXVII. The Cabin 232 
 
 XXVIII. The F^te 241 
 
 XXIX. The Two Sisters 252 
 
 XXX. The Contbact 260 
 
 XXXI. An After-thought 267 
 
 XXXII. The Patachon 274 
 
 XXXIII. The Will 285 
 
 XXXIV. Disaster 296 
 
 XXXV. A Rupture 305 
 
 XXXVI. The Chapel 312 
 
 XXXVn. Conclusion ....... 315 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 /^NE hour after midnight rang from St. Thomas 
 ^-^ d'Aquin, as a dark, slender figure rapidly glided 
 beneath the high and shadowy wall of one of the fine 
 gardens still found in Paris, on the left bank of the Seine, 
 The night was warm and serene. A delicate fragrance 
 breathed from the flowering daturas, which stood in the 
 light of the full moon like tall, white spectres. There 
 was an air of ancient splendor about the broad flight of 
 steps leading up to the Hotel de Blanchemont ; and tlie 
 apparent opulence of the mansion, dark and silent as it 
 now rose against the moonlight, was enhancefl by the 
 extent and beauty of the surrounding garden. 
 
 But the brilliant moonlight was not quite agreeable to 
 the young woman in mourning, who took her way, by the 
 darkest alleys, to a little door placed at the extremity of 
 the wall. Nevertheless, she went resolutely on, for it was 
 not the first time she had risked her reputation for the 
 sake of a love, always pure, and henceforth legitimate, — 
 she had been a widow now for a month. 
 
 She took advantage of a shadowing clump of acacias 
 to reach, unperceived, the little private door, which opened 
 on a narrow and unfrequented street. Almost at the 
 same moment the door turned on its hinges, and the per- 
 son she had summoned entered softly, and followed liis 
 mistress, in silence, to a small summer-house. But, as 
 soon as the door was closed, the young baroness of 
 
i:\,: T'i^'B. mi<i!iER of angibault. 
 
 y.^BIgpnfcbomoQt,; frpjr j^mjtipfitive modesty, taking from her 
 pocket a pretty little Russia leather box, drew a match, 
 and lighted a candle, which seemed to have been hidden 
 beforehand in a comer, while the young man, in a simple, 
 timid, and respectful manner, assisted her in dispelling 
 the darkness of the room. He was so happy to see her 
 again ! 
 
 The summer-house was closed with large wooden shut- 
 ters. It may have been the voluptuous retreat of some 
 marquise of the old regime ; but the only furniture and 
 light left to the now deserted boudoir consisted of a rustic 
 bench, a few empty boxes, some gardening tools, and the 
 little taper, with no better candlestick than a broken 
 flower-pot. 
 
 Marcelle, the fair descendant of its former occupants, 
 was dressed with the simplicity and decorum befitting a 
 modest widow. Her only ornament was the beautiful 
 golden hair, which fell over her black crape collar. But 
 for the delicacy of her alabaster hands, and of her satin- 
 slippered foot, which alone betrayed her aristocratic hab- 
 its, she might have been taken for the natural companion, 
 in rank, of the man now kneeling by her side — for a 
 Parisian grisette. There are grisettes with brows of 
 queenly dignity and of saintly grace. 
 
 Henri Lemor had an agreeable face, but intelligent 
 and striking rather than handsome. It was dark and 
 pale, and shadowed by abundant black hair. It was 
 easy to see that he was a true Parisian — strong through 
 will, delicate by organization. His dress, neat and 
 modest, betokened humble circumstances ; his ill-tied 
 cravat showed an entire absence of foppery, or habitual 
 preoccupation of mind ; his brown gloves were enough 
 to prove that he was not, as the Blanchemont servants 
 would have phrased it, a "suitable" man to be the lover 
 or husband of their lady. 
 
 These two young people, scarcely older the one than 
 the other, had more than once held tender interviews in 
 the summer-house during the mysterious hours of night ; 
 but within a month, that they had not met, deep anxiety 
 had darkened the romance of their love. Henri Lemor 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 3 
 
 was dismayed and trembling ; Marcelle de Blanehemont 
 seemed frozen with fear. He knelt before her as if to 
 thank her for having granted him a last meeting ; but he 
 soon rose without speaking, and his manner was con- 
 strained, and almost cold. 
 
 " At last ! " she made an effort to say, and reached 
 him her hand. He carried it to his lips with a convul- 
 sive movement, but no gleam of joy appeared upon his 
 countenance. 
 
 " He loves me no more," thought she, pressing both 
 her hands upon her eyes ; and she remained mute, and 
 stiffened with dread. 
 
 ''^At last? " repeated Lemor. " Is it not so soon that 
 you would say? I ought to have had strength to wait 
 longer. It was wanting — forgive me ! " 
 
 " I do not understand you," said the young widow, 
 letting her hands fall dejectedly. 
 
 Lemor saw her tearful eyes, and mistook the cause of 
 her emotion. 
 
 "Oh yes!" he resumed; "I am to blame; I see, by 
 your grief, the remorse I cause you. These four weeks 
 have seemed to me so long, that I had not the courage to 
 tell myself they were too tew ! Yet I had sci^rcely writ- 
 ten to you this morning to ask leave to see you, when I 
 repented. I blushed for my own cowardice, I reproached 
 myself for the scruples of conscience I was forcing you 
 to stifle ; and when I received your calm, sweet answer, 
 I saw that you recalled me from pity alone." 
 
 " Oh, Henri, how you pain me by speaking so ! Is it 
 jest, or pretext? Why ask to see me, if you return 
 with so little happiness and confidence?" 
 
 The young man started, and throwing himself again 
 at her feet — 
 
 " I had rather meet your pride and your reproaches," 
 cried he ; " your kindness kills me ! " 
 
 "Henri! Henri!" cried Marcelle, "you have, then, 
 been false to me? Oh, you do look guilty! You have 
 forgotten me, or slighted me — I see it too well ! " 
 
 " Neither, neither ; to my eternal grief, I revere you, 
 
4 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 I adore you, I believe in you as I do in God — I love 
 only you on this earth ! " 
 
 "Ah, well then!" said the young woman, throwing 
 her arms around the poor fellow's dark head, "it is not 
 so great a misfortune to love me thus, since I love you in 
 the same way. Listen, Henri ! I am now free, and I 
 have nothing with which to reproach myself. So little 
 did I desire the death of my husband, that I have never 
 permitted myself to imagine what I would do with my 
 liberty, were it restored to me. You know we have never 
 spoken of this, you knew that I loved you passionately, 
 and yet this is the first time that I have uttered it I But 
 how pale you are, my friend ! your hands are icy — you 
 seem in great pain ! You frighten me !" 
 
 " No, no ! speak on, speak on ! " answered Lemor, 
 yielding to the force of emotions at once most sweet and 
 distressing. 
 
 "Well !" continued Mme. de Blanchemont, "it is im- 
 possible for me to feel the conscientious scruples and dis- 
 tress which you dread for me. When the bloody corpse 
 of my husband, killed in a duel for another woman, was 
 brought to me, I own that I was struck with horror and 
 consternation ; I believed it my duty, when sending you the 
 terrible news, to bid you remain for a certain time absent 
 from me ; oh, if it were a crime to feel that time very 
 long, I have been sufficiently punished by your scrupulous 
 obedience ! But during this month of seclusion, while I 
 have been occupied solely with the care of my boy, and 
 with doing my utmost to console M. de Blanchemont's 
 parents, I have carefully examined my heart, and I do not 
 find it guilty. I could not love that man. He never loved 
 me ; and all that I could do was to respect his honor. 
 Now, Henri, I owe nothing to his memory, but an ex- 
 ternal respect to decorum. I must see you in secret, and 
 seldom, till the end of my mourning ; but in a year, in 
 two years, if necessary — '* 
 
 "Well, Marcelle! in two years?" 
 
 " You ask me what we shall be to one another, Henri ? 
 You love me no longer — I told you so !" 
 
 Henri deserved this reproach too little to be moved by 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 5 
 
 it. Anxiously attentive to every word of his mistress, he 
 entreated her to continue. 
 
 '* Well," she resumed, blushing like a young girl, " do 
 you not wish to marry me then, Henri?" 
 
 Henri let his head sink upon Marcelle's lap, and re- 
 mained several moments as if overpowered by joy and 
 gratitude ; but he rose abruptly, with a look of the deep- 
 est despair. 
 
 "Has not your experience of marriage been sad 
 enough?" said he, almost harshly. "Would you place 
 yourself again under the yoke?" 
 
 "You frighten me," said Mme. de Blanchemont, after 
 a moment of silent terror. "Are you conscious of tyran- 
 nical instincts, or is it for yourself that you dread the 
 yoke of eternal fidelity ? " 
 
 "No no ! it is nothing of the sort," replied Lemor, in 
 a dejected manner. "What I dread, what I cannot en- 
 dure for myself or for you, you know ; but you will not 
 — you cannot understand it. Yet we have often spoken 
 of it, before we imagined that such discussions were ever 
 to interest us personally, or could contain for me the sen- 
 tence of life or death ! " 
 
 "Is it possible, Henri, that you carry fanaticism so 
 far ? What ! cannot even love conquer it ? Ah ! you 
 men, how little do you love ! " added she, with a heavy 
 sigh. "When it is not vice that hardens your souls, it is 
 virtue ; and whether base or noble, you love nothing but 
 yourselves." 
 
 "Listen, Marcelle ! if I had asked you a month ago to 
 fail in your duty, if my love had implored what your re- 
 ligion and your principles would have made you consider 
 a great and irreparable fault — " 
 
 "You did not ask me," said Marcelle, blushing. 
 
 "I loved you too well to ask you to suffer and weep 
 for me. But if I had, MarceUe ? " 
 
 "It is an inconsiderate question," said she, endeavor- 
 ing, with amiable coquetry, to elude a reply. 
 
 Her grace and beauty stirred Lemor's blood. He 
 clasped her passionately to his heart ; but instantly re- 
 pressing his excitement, he left her, and walking hurriedly 
 
6 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 to and fro behind the bench on which she was seated, 
 said in an altered voice : 
 
 " And if I asked of you now this sacrifice, which your 
 husband's death would certainly render less terrible — 
 less alarming — " 
 
 Mme. de Blanchemont was again pale and serious. 
 
 *' Henri," she replied, ''I should be offended and 
 wounded to my heart's core by such a thought, when I 
 have just offered you my hand, and you seem to refuse 
 it." 
 
 "I am indeed unhappy that I cannot make myself 
 understood, and am taken for a villain, when I feel within 
 me the very heroism of love ! " answered he, bitterly. 
 " You think the phrase ambitious, and are ready to smile 
 with pity. Nevertheless it is true, and God knows my 
 agony — it is fierce, it passes my courage ! — " 
 
 And Henri burst into tears. 
 
 The young man's grief was so deep and unfeigned, as 
 to terrify Mme. de Blanchemont. These burning tears 
 seemed like an invincible refusal of happiness, like an 
 eternal farewell to all the illusions of youth and love. 
 
 " Oh, my dear Henri ! " cried Marcelle, " what wrong 
 can you have resolved to do us both ? Why this despair, 
 when you are the master of my life, when nothing longer 
 prevents our union before God and man ? Can my son 
 be an obstacle between us? Do you not feel large- 
 hearted enough to bestow upon him part of your affec- 
 tion for me? Do you fear ever having to reproach 
 yourself with the misery and desertion of the child of 
 my bosom ? " 
 
 "Your son ! " cried Henri, sobbing. " I should have 
 a more serious fear than that of not loving him. I should 
 fear to love him too well, and that I could not resign my- 
 self to seeing his life borne on the current of the time in an 
 opposite direction from mine. Custom and opinion would 
 command me to leave him to the world, and I should de- 
 sire to tear him from it, even should I render him unhappy, 
 poor, and desolate, with me. i No, I could not look upon 
 him with enough indifference and selfishness to consent 
 that he should grow up like other men of his classj — no, 
 
p 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 no ! that, and other things, everything, in your position 
 and mine, is an insurmountable obstacle. From which- 
 ever side I contemplate such a future, I see nothing but a 
 frenzied struggle, — misery for you, anathema upon me ! 
 It is impossible, Marcelle, eternally impossible. I love 
 you too well to accept sacrifices whose extent you cannot 
 measure, and whose results you cannot foresee. I see 
 that you do not know me. You take me for a weak and 
 vacillating visionary. I am an obstinate and incorrig- 
 ible visionary. You have sometimes, perhaps, accused 
 me of affectation ; you believed that one word i)f yours 
 would bring me back to what you think reason and truth. 
 Oh, I am more unfortunate than you imagine, and I love 
 you more than you can yet understand. In future — 
 yes, in the time to come — you will thank me in your 
 deepest thoughts for having chosen to be unhappy alone." 
 
 "In the future .-^ And why? And when? What do 
 you mean ? " 
 
 " In the future, I mean, when you awake from this 
 dark and evil dream into which I have drawn you, when 
 you return to the world, and share its sweet and easy 
 pleasures ; when you are no longer an angel, in short, 
 and descend again to earth." 
 
 " Yes, yes, when I am withered by selfishness, and 
 corrupted by flattery ! That is what you would say, that 
 is your prophecy for me ! Your stern pride does not 
 believe me capable of receiving your thoughts, or of 
 comprehending your heart. Say it out, — you do not 
 think me worthy of you, Henri I " 
 
 "These are terrible words, madam, and this struggle 
 cannot be longer endured. Let me fly, for we cannot 
 understand one another now." 
 
 " You leave me thus ! " 
 
 " No, I do not leave you. I go, far from your pres- 
 ence, to contemplate you in myself, and to adore you in 
 my secret heart. I go to constant suffering, but with the 
 hope that you will forget me, with remorse for having 
 desired and sought your love, and with the one consola- 
 tion, at least, of not having basely abused it." 
 
S THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 Mme. de Blanchemont had risen to prevent Henri from 
 going. She fell back, exhausted, upon her bench. 
 
 " Why, then, did you ask to see me? " inquired she, in 
 a cold and offended tone, as he turned away. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said he, '' you are right to blame me for 
 it. It was my last piece of cowardice. I felt it, but 
 I yielded to the necessity of seeing you once more. I 
 hoped to find you changed toward me : your silence 
 made me think you were ; I was consumed by sorrow, 
 and thought to obtain strength for my cure in your cold- 
 ness. Why did I come ! Why do you love me I Am 
 I not the coarsest, most ungrateful, savage, and detest- 
 able of men ? But it is well that you should see me so, 
 and know that there is nothing to regret in me. That is 
 best ; and thus was it not well that I came ? " 
 
 Henri spoke distractedly; his calm, grave features 
 were distorted, and his voice, usually sweet and sympa- 
 thetic, was painfully hard and untoned. Marcelle saw 
 his suffering, but her own was so keen that she could say 
 and do nothing for their mutual consolation. She sat pale 
 and mute, her hands clenched together, and her body 
 rigid as marble. Just on the point of leaving, Henri 
 turned, and, seeing her thus, flung himself at her feet, 
 covering them with tears and kisses. " Farewell," said 
 he, "loveliest and purest of women, best of friends, no- 
 blest of lovers ! Mayst thou find a heart worthy of thee, 
 a man who shall love thee as I do, and who will bring thee 
 a better marriage gift than discouragement and weari- 
 ness of life ! Mayst thou be happy, and bestow happi- 
 ness, without encountering the struggles of an existence 
 like mine ! And finally, if there remain in the world 
 where thou livest one spark of loyalty and of human 
 charity, mayst thou rekindle it with thy divine breath, and 
 find grace before God for thy caste and thy generation, 
 whom thy perfection alone is sufficient to ransom ! " 
 
 With these words, Henri rushed out, forgetting that 
 he left Marcelle in despair. He seemed like one driven 
 by the Furies. 
 
 Mme. de Blanchemont remained a long time as if 
 Btunned. When she returned to her apartments, she paced 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 9 
 
 her chamber slowly till morning, without shedding one 
 tear, or disturbing by one sigh the stillness of the night. 
 
 It would be rash to say that this young widow, only 
 twenty-two, beautiful, wealthy, and distinguished in 
 society for her grace, talents, and intelligence, was not in 
 a certain degree mortified and affronted at seeing her 
 hand refused by a man without birth, fortune, or reputa- 
 tion. Offended feminine pride probably sustained her at 
 first. But the true nobility of her sentiments soon sug- 
 gested more serious reflections, and for the first time she 
 looked deeply into her own life, and into the general life 
 of those about her. She recalled all that Lemor had 
 said to her in former days, when the only connection 
 possible between them was that of hopeless love. She 
 was astonished that she had not been more seriously im- 
 pressed by the austerity of his opinions, and had let them 
 pass as romantic fancies. She began to estimate him 
 with the calmness attained by a strong and generous de- 
 termination, even amidst violent emotion. As the hours 
 of the night passed on, and were echoed by the clear and 
 silvery voices of the distant steeples through the silence 
 of the great sleeping city, Marcelle arrived at that clear- 
 ness of perception which sorrow draws from the medita- 
 tions of long watchfulness. Educated with different 
 views from Lemor, she had, nevertheless, been as it 
 were predestined to share the love of this plebeian, and 
 to find it her shelter from all the languor and weariness 
 of aristocratic life. Hers was one of those strong and 
 loving souls to whom self-sacrifice is a necessity, and who 
 imagine no other happiness than that they give. Unhappy 
 at home, weary of society, she had yielded with a girl's 
 romantic confidence to a sentiment which had soon become 
 sacred to her. Sincerely religious in her youth, it was in- 
 evitable that she should be passionately attached to a lover 
 who respected her scruples and worshipped her purity. 
 She was impelled by her very piety to heighten her love, 
 and to desire to consecrate it by indissoluble bonds the 
 moment she found herself free. She had thought with 
 joy of bravely sacrificing those external advantages 
 which are valued hy the world, and the narrow preju- 
 
JO THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 dices of birth, by which her own judgment had never 
 been misled. The poor child thought to do a great thing, 
 and it was really great, for the world would have laughed 
 or blamed. She had not foreseen that all this was yet 
 as nought, and that the pride of the plebeian would repel 
 her sacrifice almost as an affront. 
 
 Suddenly enlightened by the dismay, the grief, and the 
 resistance of Lemor, Marcelle revolved in her perturbed 
 miiid all that she had dimly seen of the social crisis of 
 the age. fThe high regions of thought are no longer un- 
 familiar to the women of our time. All, according to 
 the rate of their intelligence, can henceforth, without 
 affectation on their own part, or ridicule on that of others, 
 read daily, under all its forms, newspaper or romance, 
 philosophy, politics, or poetry, official statement or inti- 
 mnte conversation, the great book of actual life, sad, 
 diffuse, contradictory, yet always full of depth and sig- 
 nificance^ Thus she well knew, as we all do, that this 
 diseased and benumbed Present is at war with the Past, 
 which holds it back, and the Future, which beckons it on. 
 She saw sharp lightnings dart over her head, she felt the 
 approach, sooner or later, of a great struggle. Her na- 
 ture was not cowardly ; she neither feared, nor closed 
 her eyes. The regrets, complaints, terrors, and recrim- 
 inations of her noble relations had wearied and disgusted 
 her with fear. Youth will not belie the season of its 
 bloom, and holds its sweet summer dear, though laden with 
 storms ! The affectionate and courageous Marcelle felt 
 that, while with the being she loved, she could smile in 
 the wildest tempest, and under the lowliest shelter. The 
 threatening strife of external interests appeared to her as 
 nothing. ^' Of what consequence are ruin, exile, and 
 imprisonment ? " thought she, when those who were 
 deemed fortunate trembled around her. " They can 
 never exile love ; and as for me, thanks to Heaven, I 
 love a poor man who will be unmolested.'* 
 
 But it had not occurred to her that she might be stricken 
 in her very affections by this obscure and mysterious war, 
 which exists in defiance of all official restraint and appar- 
 ent discouragement. This conflict of feeling and opinion 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. n 
 
 is now thorougUy opened, and Marcelie saw her illu- 
 sions drop from her as suddenly as if she had awakened 
 from a dream. War, moral and intellectual, is declared 
 between the different classes imbued with opposite beliefs 
 and passions, and Mme. de Blanchemont found, in the man 
 who adored her, a sort of irreconcilable enemy. Shocked 
 at first by the discovery, she familiarized herself gradually 
 with the idea, which suggested to her new designs still 
 more romantic and generous than those which had sus- . 
 tained her during the past month, and at the end of her 
 long walk through her silent and deserted rooms, she 
 found composure in a resolution which perhaps no one 
 but herself could regard without a smile of admiration or 
 of pity. 
 
 This took place quite recently — it may be last year.* 
 
 *Thi8 novel was published in 1846. — IV. 
 
la THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 THE JOURNEr. 
 
 "V/TARCELLE having married her cousin-german, bore 
 ^^ the name of Blanchemont both before and after her 
 marriage, and the estate and chateau of Blanchemont 
 made part of her patrimony. The estate was valuable, 
 but the chateau was no longer inhabited, even by the 
 tenants to whom it had been abandoned for more than 
 two hundred years, because it was much decayed, and 
 would have cost too much in repairs. Mile, de Blanche- 
 mont, early left an orphan, brought up in a Parisian 
 convent, married very young, and, not initiated by her 
 husband into the management of her affairs, had never 
 seen this, her ancestral domain. Resolved to quit Paris, 
 and to seek in the country a mode of life in accordance 
 with her new projects, she chose Blanchemont as the 
 commencement of her pilgrimage, with the intention 
 of establishing herself in this residence, if it met her 
 purpose. She was aware of the dilapidated state of her 
 chateau, and this was one reason why she looked toward 
 it in preference. The embarrassment and disorder in 
 which her husband had left all her affairs and his own, 
 served her as pretext for undertaking a journey, of which 
 she spoke as only to last some weeks, but to which, in 
 her secret thought, she assigned no precise object or term ; 
 her own real design being to quit Paris, and the manner 
 of life to which she was there compelled. 
 
 Fortunately for her plans, there was no member of her 
 family who could easily accompany her. She was an 
 only child, and not troubled by the protection of elder 
 brothers or sisters. Her husband's parents were aged, 
 and as they were somewhat alarmed at the debt left by 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 13 
 
 their son, which could be paid off only by excellent man- 
 agement, they were at once astonished and delighted to 
 see a woman of twenty-two, who had hitherto shown no 
 taste or aptitude for business, determine to arrange her 
 own, and go to see for herself into the state of her prop- 
 erty. Still they made several objections to her starting 
 alone with her child. They wished that she "should be 
 attended by her man of business. They feared lest the 
 child should suffer from a journey in such hot weather. 
 Marcelle replied to her father and mother-in-law that a 
 prolonged tete-a-tete with an old lawyer would not ex- 
 actly alleviate the burden she was about to take upon 
 herself; that she should obtain more direct information 
 and advice better adapted to the locality, from the pro- 
 vincial advocates and notaries ; in fine, that there was 
 nothing so very difficult in settling accounts with tenants, 
 and renewing leases. As to the child, the air of Paris 
 enfeebled him more and more. The country, exercise, 
 and sunshine would do him only good. And then Mar- 
 celle, grown suddenly adroit in overcoming the obstacles 
 which she had foreseen and considered during her vigil 
 related in the preceding chapter, laid stress upon her 
 duty as guardian of her son. She was still in partial ig- 
 norance of the condition of M. de Blanchemont's estate, 
 she said, and knew not whether he had drawn largely in 
 advance upon his agents, or given heavy mortgages upon 
 his lands, etc. All these things it was her duty to examine, 
 and make a personal investigation, that she might know 
 how to arrange her future establishment without com- 
 promising her boy's interests. She talked so wisely of 
 these interests, of which in reality she thought very little, 
 that at the end of twelve hours she had carried the day, 
 and brought all the family to approve and praise her res- 
 olution. Her love for Henri had remained so secret, that 
 no suspicion of it disturbed the confidence of the grand- 
 parents. 
 
 Sustained by unaccustomed activity and enthusiastic 
 hope, Marcelle slept little better the night following that 
 of her interview with Lemor. She had strange dreams, 
 now cheerful, now sad. At last, awaking with the dawn, 
 
14 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 she cast a thoughtful look around her apartment, and was 
 struck, for the first time, with the useless and extrav- 
 agant luxury displayed about her, with the satiu hang- ' 
 ings, the extreme ease and softness of the furniture, the 
 number of expensive trifles and costly toys ; in short, the 
 whole array of gilding, china, carved wood, and frippery 
 which now crowds the house of a fine lady. " I should 
 like to know," thought she, "why we have such contempt 
 for women of the town. They make others give them 
 what we are able to give ourselves. They sacrifice their 
 modesty to the possession of things which should have 
 no value in the eyes of thoughtful and serious women, 
 and which we, nevertheless, regard as indispensable. 
 They have tastes like ours, and it is to appear as rich 
 and ibrtunate as we that they degrade themselves. We 
 should give them the example of severe simplicity in our 
 lives, before condemning them. And if our indissoluble 
 marriages were compared with their transient unions, 
 would there be found much more disinterestedness among 
 the young girls of our class ? Would there not be seen 
 as often among us, as with them, a child bound to an old 
 man, beauty profaned by the ugliness of vice, and intel- 
 lect subjected to imbecility, all for love of a set of dia- 
 monds, a carriage, and an opera-box ? Unhappy women ! 
 They say you also despise us, and well you may ! " 
 
 Meanwhile, the pale, clear light which penetrated the 
 curtains, showed all the enchantment of the sanctuary, 
 which, in former times, Mme. de Blanchemont had pleased 
 herself in decorating with exquisite taste. She had almost 
 always lived apart from her husband, and this retired 
 and beautiful chamber, into which Henri himself had 
 never dared penetrate, was endeared to her only by sweet 
 and pensive recollections. It was here that, flying from 
 the world, she had read and meditated amid the perfume 
 of flowers of unequalled beauty, — flowers such as are 
 found only in Paris, and which now form part of the 
 daily life of the wealthy. She had made this retreat as \ 
 poetic as she could. She had adorned and beautified it 
 for herself; she was attached to it as a mysterious 
 refuge, wher« th« sorrows of her life, and the passionate 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 15 
 
 storms of her spirit, had always been soothed by medita- 
 tion and prayer. She gazed around it long and affection- 
 ately, and then pronounced in her heart an eternal 
 farewell to all these silent witnesses of her inner life, — 
 a life concealed like that of the flower, whose stainless 
 beauty could endure the broadest sunlight, but which 
 bows its head beneath the foliage, for love of the shade 
 and coolness. " My chosen retreat, my beloved orna- 
 ments, you have been dear to me," thought she ; " but I 
 can love you no longer, for you belong to wealth and indo- 
 lence, and help to consecrate them. You typify to me, 
 henceforth, all that divides me from Henri, and I could 
 not look upon you without disgust and bitterness of heart. 
 Let us part before we hate. Thou, stern Madonna, 
 wouldst cease to protect me ; clear and deep mirrors, you 
 would make me detest my own image ; and you, beau- 
 tiful flower-vases, would have for me neither grace nor 
 fragrance ! " 
 
 Then, before writing, as she had resolved, to Henri, 
 slie y^Qni softly to see and bless the sleep of her child. 
 The sight of the pale boy, whose precocious intellect had 
 been developed at the expense of his bodily strength, 
 passionately moved her. She spoke to him in her heart, 
 as if, in his slumber, he could have heard and under- 
 stood her maternal thought. "Be calm," she said to 
 him, " I do not love him more than thee. Be not jealous. 
 Were he not the best and noblest of men, I would not 
 give him to thee for a father. Yes, little angel, thou art 
 warmly and faithfully loved. Sleep on, we will never 
 forsake thee ! " 
 
 All bathed with delicious tears, Marcelle returned to 
 her chamber, and wrote these few lines to Lemor : 
 
 "You are right, and I understand you. I am not 
 worthy of you, but I shall become so, for I am resolved 
 upon it. I am starting on a long journey. Do not be 
 troubled about me, and continue to love me. In a year 
 from to-day you shall receive a letter from me. Arrange 
 your affairs so as to be free to come whenever I shall 
 call you. If you do not find me sufficiently converted, 
 you shall give me another year, — a year, two years, 
 
l6 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 •with hope, is almost happiness for two creatures who 
 have loved hopelessly so long." 
 
 She sent this note very early. But M. Lemor was 
 not to be found. He had gone away the evening before, 
 no one knew where, or for how long. But it was certain 
 that he would have the note, because one of his friends 
 was charged to come every day to the modest lodging he 
 had occupied, to receive and send to him any letters that 
 might come. 
 
 Two days later, Mme. de Blanchemont, with her son, 
 a maid, and a man-servant, were travelling by post 
 through the wastes of La Sologne. 
 
 At eighty leagues from Paris the traveller found her- 
 self nearly in the centre of France, and stopped for the 
 night in the town nearest in that direction to Blanche- 
 mont, which was still five or six leagues distant. In these 
 central parts of the kingdom, notwithstanding all the new 
 roads opened within a few years, there is so little commu- 
 nication between the different country places, that at a 
 short distance it is difficult to obtain from the inhabitants 
 any distinct information concerning a neighboring estate. 
 All know very well the way to the town, or to the foreign 
 district where their business occasionally calls them. But 
 ask in a village the way to a farm a league beyond, and it 
 is ten to one that nobody can tell you. There are so many 
 vyrays ! and they all look alike. Mme. de Blanchemout's 
 servants were up early to prepare for their mistress's de- 
 parture, but could obtain neither from the inn-keeper, his 
 people, or the country travellers who happened to be there, 
 and were still half asleep, any light upon the subject of 
 Blanchemont. No one knew exactly where it was. Oiie 
 came from MontluQon, another knew Chateau Mcillant ; 
 all had crossed Ardentes and La Chatre a hundred times, 
 but of Blanchemont they knew only the name. 
 
 " It is a good estate," said one ; " I know the farmer, 
 but I never was there ; it is a great way from us — four 
 long leagues at least.'* 
 
 " Faith ! " said another, " I saw the Blanchemont cattle 
 at Berthenoux Fair only last year, and I spoke to M. Bri- 
 colin, the farmer, just as I speak to you now. Oh yes, 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 n 
 
 yes ! I know Blanchemont, but I don't know which way 
 it lies from here." 
 
 The bar-maid, like all bar-maids, knew nothing of the 
 neighborhood. Like all bar-maids, she was new to the 
 place. 
 
 The waiting-maid and man, accustomed to attend their 
 mistress to superb residences known for twenty leagues 
 round, and situated in civilized countries, began to think 
 themselves in the depths of Sahara. Their faces elon- 
 gated, and their pride was cruelly hurt at having to ask 
 in vain the way to the chateau they were about to honor 
 with their presence. 
 
 " Is it a hovel, or a den, then?" said Suzette, disdain- 
 fully, to Lapierre. 
 
 " It is the palace of Corybantes," replied Lapierre, 
 who had admired in his youth a favorite melo-drama called 
 the Castle of Corisanda, and who applied the name, some- 
 what distorted, to every ruin he met. 
 
 At last, a bright idea struck the stable-boy. 
 
 " I have a man up there in the hay-loft," said he, " who 
 will tell you, for it is his business to drive through the 
 country day and night. It is Grand-Louis, otherwise 
 called the tall miller." 
 
 "Go fetch the tall miller," said Lapierre, majestically ; "it 
 appears that his sleeping-apartment is at the ladder's end." 
 
 The tall miller descended from his loft, stretching, and 
 cracking the joints of his large arms and legs. Seeing 
 his athletic form and resolute face, Lapierre came down 
 Irom his facetious tone of grandeur, and politely ques- 
 tioned him. The miller was certainly well informed, but 
 from the revelations which he made, Suzette judged it 
 necessary to bring him to Mme. de Blanchemont, who 
 was taking her chocolate in the dining-room with little 
 Edward, and who, far from sharing the dismay of her 
 people, was rejoiced to learn from them that Blanchemont 
 was a lost and almost undiscoverable country. 
 
 The specimen of the soil who presented himself at this 
 instant before her, was five feet eight inches in height, a 
 remarkable stature in a country where the men are gen- 
 erally diminutive. He was robust in proportion, well- 
 
l8 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAU LT. 
 
 made, easy, and of a striking countenance. Tlie girls of 
 his neighborhood called him the handsome miller, and 
 this epithet was as well deserved as the other. When he 
 wiped away with the back of his sleeve the flour which 
 usually covered his cheeks, he discovered a brown, ani- 
 mated, and beautifully toned complexion. His features 
 were regular, strongly cut like his limbs, his eyes blue 
 and deep-set, his teeth of dazzling whiteness, and his long 
 chestnut hair, close-curled like that of a very strong man, 
 framed squarely a broad and full forehead, which told 
 rather of acuteness and good sense than of poetic ideality. 
 He was dressed in a blouse of coarse blue, and gray linen 
 pantaloons. He wore no stockings, great hob-nailed 
 shoes, and carried a heavy stick of mountain-ash, termi- 
 nated by a knot of the branch, so as to make a sort of club. 
 
 He entered with assurance which might have been taken 
 for effrontery, if the mildness of his light blue eyes, and 
 the smile of his large vermilion mouth, had not testified 
 that frankness, goodness, and a sort of philosophic non- 
 chalance, were at the foundation of his character. 
 
 " At your service, madam," said he, raising his wide- 
 brimmed hat of gray felt, but without exactly removing it 
 from his head ; for, just as the old-fashioned peasant is 
 obsequious, and disposed to salute every one better dressed 
 than himself, so are those who date from after the Revo- 
 lution remarkable for the adherence of their head-gear 
 to their hair. "I am told that you wish to know of me 
 the way to Blanchemont ? " 
 
 The loud and sonorous voice of the tall miller startled 
 Marcelle, who had not seen him enter. She turned 
 quickly, surprised, at first, by his bluntness. But such is 
 the privilege of beauty, that, on a mutual examination, 
 the young miller and the young lady presently forgot the 
 sort of mistrust always inspired at first by a difference in 
 rank. Only Marcelle, seeing him disposed to be familiar, 
 thought proper to remind him, by exceeding politeness, 
 of the regard due to her sex. 
 
 " I am much obliged to you for your kindness," said 
 she, bowing to him, " and I pray you, sir, to be good 
 enough to tell me if there is a tolerable carriage-road 
 from here to the farm of Blanchemont." 
 
r 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 19 
 
 The tall miller, without being invited, had already taken 
 a chair to seat himself, but on hearing himself called Sir^ 
 his fine natural perception told him that he was speaking 
 with a person of native sweetness and dignity. Without 
 any embarrassment, he quietly took off his hat, and rest- 
 ing his hands on the back of the chair, as if to assure 
 himself — 
 
 '' There is a cross-road, not very smooth," said he, 
 " but you will not overturn if you take care ; you need 
 only to follow it, and not take another. I will explain 
 that to your postilion. But the surest way will be to 
 take a pataclie here, for the Black Valley is worse than 
 usual, on account of the late rain-storms, and I do not be- 
 lieve that your little carriage-wheels would ever come out 
 of the ruts. It might be, but I would not answer for it." 
 
 ''I see that your ruts are no joke, and that it will be 
 most prudent to take your advice. You are sure that I 
 shall not overturn in a patache ? " 
 
 " Oh ! do not be afraid, madam." 
 
 " I am not afraid for myself, but for this little child. 
 That is what makes me prudent." 
 
 " Indeed then it would be a pity to break these little 
 bones," said the tall miller, going up to Edward with a 
 look of cordial kindness. " What a cunning, pretty little 
 man it is ! " 
 
 "Very slender, is he not?" said Marcelle, smiling. 
 
 " Faith ! not strong, but pretty as a girl. And so you 
 are coming down to our country, sir ? " 
 
 " Ho ! how tall he is ! " cried Edward, catching hold 
 of Grand-Louis, who had bent towards him. '' Make 
 me touch the ceiling ! " 
 
 The miller took the child, and, lifting him above his 
 head, carried him along the blackened cornice of the 
 room. 
 
 " Take care ! " said Mme. de Blanchemont, somewhat 
 alarmed by the freedom with which the rustic Hercules 
 handled her child. 
 
 " Oh ! don't fear," answered Grand-Louis. " I had 
 rather break all the alochons of my mill, than one of thia 
 gentleman's fingers." 
 
20 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 Tho word alochon delighted the boy, who repeated 
 it laughing, but without understanding its meaning. 
 
 *'You do not know what that is?" said the miller. 
 " They are the little wings — the bits of wood — which 
 ride on the wheel, and which the water pushes to make 
 it turn. I will show you how, if you ever come where 
 I live." 
 
 " Yes, yes — alochon ! " cried the child, bursting into 
 a laugh, and turning a somerset in the miller's arms. 
 
 " Is the little rogue making fun of me ? " said Grand- 
 Louis, replacing him in his chair. "Well, madam, I 
 must go to my business. Have I done all I can 
 lor you?" 
 
 " Yes, my friend," replied Marcelle, forgetting her 
 reserve in her kind feeling. 
 
 " Oh, I ask no better than to be your friend," gayly 
 returned the miller, with a look which expressed that, 
 Irom a person less young and beautiful, this familiarity 
 would not have gratified him. 
 
 " Very well," thought Marcelle, with a blush and a 
 smile ; " I shall take the warning. Farewell, sir," she 
 added aloud, " till we meet again, for you doubtless live 
 at Blanchemont ? " 
 
 " Very near. I am the Miller of Angibault, one league 
 from your chateau ; for I understand that you are the 
 lady of Blanchemont? " 
 
 Marcelle had forbidden her people to betray her incog- 
 nito. vShe desired to come unobserved to the country ; 
 but she saw plainly, by the manner of the miller, that 
 her rank as proprietor did not make as much sensation 
 as she had feared. An absentee proprietor is a stranger 
 for whom nobody cares. The farmer who represents 
 him, and transacts his affairs, is quite another personage. 
 
 Notwithstanding her intention to start early, and arrive 
 at Blanchemont before the noonday heats, Marcelle was 
 forced to pass most of the day at this inn. Every 
 patache of the town was in the country, on account of a 
 great fair in the neighborhood, and it was necessary to 
 await the return of the first. It was not till near three 
 ill the afternoon that Suzette came to inform her mis- 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 21 
 
 tress, in a lamentable voice, that a sort of willow basket, 
 horrible and shameful, was the only vehicle yet at her 
 disposal. 
 
 To the great astonishment of the wondering maid, 
 Mme. de Blanchemont did not hesitate to make use of it. 
 Taking a few necessary articles, she gave the keys of her 
 carriage and trunks to the innkeeper, and set off in the 
 classic patache — which respectable testimony to the sim- 
 plicity of our fathers is daily becoming more rare, even 
 on the roads of the Black Valley. That which Marcelle 
 was unlucky enough to find was of the purest indigenous 
 construction, and an antiquary would have contemplated 
 it with respect. It was long and low, like a coffin ; no 
 manner of springs varied its motions ; the wheels, as 
 high as the top, were prepared to brave the muddy 
 trenches which furrow our cross-roads, and which the 
 miller, doubtless through national vanity, was pleased to 
 denominate ruts ; finally, the top itself was woven only 
 of osier, and comfortably lined with coarse cloth and 
 dried mud, of which latter every good jolt detached frag- 
 ments upon the travellers' heads. A little, lean, and 
 fiery stallion rattled along with this rustic car ; and the 
 paiachon, or driver, sitting sideways on the shaft, his 
 legs hanging — inasmuch as our fathers found it more 
 convenient to bring a chair to help them climb into their 
 carriages than to twist their feet on a step — was the 
 least crowded and least endangered of the passengers. 
 
 The journey was, nevertheless, endurable while it was 
 possible to keep to the high road. The patachon was a 
 lad of fifteen, red-headed, flat-nosed, forward, sticking at 
 nothing — not hesitating to urge on his horse with all the 
 oaths of his rich vocabulary, without respect to the pres- 
 ence of ladies — and pleasing himself with exhausting 
 the ardor of the courageous pony, who never in his life 
 had tasted oats, and who was put into capital spirits by 
 the mere sight of the green fields ; but when these were 
 succeeded by a barren wilderness, he lowered his head 
 — more in anger than in sorrow — and dragged the 
 carriage furiously over rough and smooth, in a manner 
 absolutely cruel to the occupants. 
 
aa THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 TEEE MENDICANT. 
 
 TT was far worse when they left the sands to descend 
 -*• into the heavy clay soil of the Black Valley. From the 
 edge of the sterile upland, Mme. de Blanchemont had ad- 
 mired the vast and beautiful landscape, which was unrolled 
 from her feet to the horizon in many- wooded zones of pale 
 violet color, cut by golden bands from the rays of the set- 
 ting sun. There are no more charming situations in 
 France. Yet the vegetation is not in itself remarkably 
 vigorous. No great river furrows these plains, and no 
 slated roofs reflect the sun. There are no picturesque 
 mountains, nothing is striking, nothing extraordinary in 
 this quiet scenery, but, from the heights of Labreuil or 
 Corlay, a single glance takes in a noble succession of 
 cultivated estates, and an endless parcelling out of fields, 
 meadows, coppice, and broad commons, which give va- 
 riety of form and color, blended in one general liarmony 
 of dark verdure shading into blue. It is a rich confusion 
 of ample enclosures, orchard-hidden cabins, curtaining 
 poplars, and low-lying bushy pastures ; while, upon the 
 table-lands, paler fields and brighter hedges relieve the 
 neighboring masses, and the whole country, for fifty 
 leagues round, presents a character of peculiar and har- 
 pionious grace. 
 
 But this magnificent panorama was soon lost from the 
 sight of our traveller. Once involved in the windings 
 of the Black Valley, the scene changes. By turns de- 
 scending and ascending roads bordered by high thickets, 
 you skirt no precipices, but these roads are themselves 
 precipices. The sun, sinking behind the trees, gives 
 them a peculiar appearance, singularly wild and graceful. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 23 
 
 There are mysterious caves beneath their dark sliadows, 
 watercourses of emerald green leading to stagnant pools 
 or pathless morasses, steep descents impossible for a car- 
 riage to reascend, and, in fine, continual enchantment for 
 the imagination, and real danger for those who ventu- 
 rously assay otherwise than on foot, or at least on horse- 
 back, these enticing, uncertain, and treacherous by-ways. 
 
 While the sun was above the horizon, the red-haired 
 charioteer made out very well. He followed the track 
 most travelled, and consequently most rough, but also the 
 safest. He crossed two or three brooks by observing the 
 marks of cart-wheels on their banks. But when the sun 
 had set, the darkness came on rapidly in these hollow 
 ways, and the last peasant whom they addressed an- 
 swered carelessly : 
 
 " Go on ! go on ! you have only a short league more, 
 and the road is all good." 
 
 Now this was the sixth peasant who, within about two 
 hours, had stated that there was only a short league more, 
 and this good road was such that the horse was exhausted, 
 and the travellers at the end of their patience. Marcelle 
 herself began to fear an overturn ; for if the patachon and 
 his nag needed all their skill to choose their passage in 
 broad day, it was impossible that in dark night they 
 should avoid the false openings which the unequal nature 
 of the ground renders as dangerous as picturesque, and 
 which are liable to sudden terminations, exposing you to 
 a fall of ten or twelve perpendicular feet. The lad had 
 never penetrated so far into the Black Valley ; he lost 
 patience, and swore furiously every time that he was 
 forced to retrace his steps to recover the way ; he com- 
 plained of thirst, of hunger, groaned over the fatigue of 
 his horse, beating him unmercifully meanwhile, and 
 cursed the savage country and its stupid inhabitants, witl) 
 all the airs of a little cockney. 
 
 More than once, seeing the road steep, but dry, Mar- 
 celle and her servants alighted ; but they could not walk 
 five minutes without coming to a hollow where the road 
 narrowed, and was entirely occupied by stagnant springs 
 on the level of the ground, forming a liquid mud impos- 
 
24 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 sible for a delicate woman to pass on foot. The Parisian 
 Suzette had rather be overturned, she said, than leave her 
 shoes in these sloughs ; and Lapicrre, who had passed his 
 life in pumps upon polished floors, was so awkward and 
 confused, that Mme. de Blanchemont dared not let him 
 carry her sou. 
 
 The usual answer of the peasant, when asked the way, 
 is, " Go straight on, always straight on." This is simply 
 a joke — a sort of pun — which means that you are to walk 
 8traiu:ht on your legs ; for there is not a straight road in 
 the Black Valley. The numerous ravines made by the 
 Indre, the Vauvre, the Couarde, the Gourdon, and a 
 hundred lesser streams which take different names in their 
 course, and have never borne the yoke of any bridge or 
 dike, force you to a thousand turns to find a fordable 
 place, so that you are often obliged to turn your back 
 upon the spot you wish to reach. 
 
 When they came to an angle of the road surmounted 
 by a cross — a sinister locality always peopled by the 
 peasant imagination with demons, sorcerers, and fantastic 
 animals — our embarrassed travellers addressed them- 
 selves to a beggar, who, seated upon the death-stone,* 
 cried to them in a monotonous voice, " Charitable souls, 
 have pity on a miserable creature ! " 
 
 The great stature of this man, who was very old, but 
 still robust, and armed with an enormous stick, was not 
 very encouraging in case of a single combat. His stern 
 features could not be well distinguished, but there was 
 something more imperious than suppliant in the inflection 
 of his harsh voice. His melancholy attitude and his 
 filthy rags contrasted with the sense of humor which had 
 made him put an old bouquet and a faded ribbon on his 
 hat. 
 
 ••' Friend," said Marcelle, giving him a piece of money, 
 *' show us the way to Blanchemont, if you know it." 
 
 Instead of replying, the beggar gravely continued to 
 repeat aloud an Ave Maria in Latin, which he had begun 
 for his own benefit. 
 
 * A hollow stone, in which each passing funeral leaves, at the 
 foot of the cross, a small cross rudely cut in wood. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 25 
 
 *' Answer," said Lapierre to him; "you can mumble 
 your Pater Nosters afterwards." 
 
 The beggar turned his head scornfully toward the foot- 
 man, and continued his prayers. 
 
 "Don't speak to that man," said the patachon ; " he is 
 an old beggar tramp, and never knows where he is going. 
 You meet him everywhere, and nowhere in his senses." 
 
 "The road to Blancheraont ? " said the mendicant, when 
 lie had at last finished his prayer; "you are not on it, 
 my children ; you must turn, and take the first to the 
 right." 
 
 '' Are you sure of it?" said Marcelle. 
 
 " I have been there more than six hundred times. If 
 you do not believe me, do as you will ; it is all the same 
 to me." 
 
 " He seems to know what he is about," said Marcelle 
 to her driver. " Let us attend to him ; what reason 
 should he have to deceive us ? " 
 
 " Bah ! the pleasure of doing harm," replied the anx- 
 ious patachon. " I don't trust this man." 
 
 Marcelle insisted upon following the advice of the beg- 
 gar, and soon the patache plunged into a narrow gully, 
 winding, and prodigiously steep. " I say," resumed the 
 swearing patachon, while his horse stumbled at every step, 
 " that this old cheat sent us wrong." 
 
 " Go on,'' said Marcelle, "since there is no way to go 
 back." 
 
 The farther they advanced, the more impassable became 
 the road, but it was too narrow to turn the vehicle ; two 
 splendid hedges confined it closely. After performing 
 miracles of strength and endurance, the little nag arrived 
 at the bottom, under a clump of old oaks which appeared 
 to be on the border of a wood. The road suddenly 
 widened opposite a great pool of standing water, not in 
 the least resembling the ford of a river. The patachon, 
 nevertheless, plunged in, but when half across he sunk so 
 deep that he would fain have turned. It was the last ef- 
 fort of his meagre Bucephalus. The wheels sank to the 
 hub, and the animal fell, breaking the shafts. It was 
 necessary to unharness him. Lapierre stepped into the 
 
26 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 water up to his knees, groaning like a man at point of 
 death ; but when he had helped the patachon to free the 
 horse, all their efforts were useless (neither of them was 
 strong) to raise the carriage. Then the patachon sprung 
 nimbly on his beast, and cursing the beggar for a wizard, 
 and swearing by all the devils below, he went off at full 
 trot, promising to go for help, but in a tone which fore- 
 told that it would be no weight on his conscience to leave 
 his passengers in the swamp till morning. 
 
 The patache had not been overturned. Carelessly tip- 
 ped sideways in the marsh, it was still very habitable, and 
 Marcelle arranged herself upon the back seat with her 
 child lying in her lap, that he might sleep comfortably, for 
 Edward had long since asked for his supper and bed, and, 
 having appeased his hunger on some cakes from Suzette's 
 pocket, he needed no entreaty to begin his nap. Mme. de 
 Blanchemont, judging that her small driver would not 
 hurry himself to return if he found a good resting-place, 
 desired Lapierre to go and see if he could not discover 
 some cabin near by. They are so deep buried under 
 foliage, and so silent and tightly closed after sunset, that 
 one must touch them to see them, and take them by as- 
 sault to find hospitality at that unaccustomed hour. Old 
 Lapierre had but one anxiety — to find a fire to dry his 
 feet and keep off the rheumatism — and needed no urging 
 to leave the morass, after having assured himself that the 
 patache, leaning against the prostrate trunk of an old wil- 
 low, was in no danger of sinking deeper. 
 
 The most forlorn of the party was Suzette, who was 
 horribly afraid of robbers, wolves, and snakes ; three 
 pests unknown in the Black Valley, but which are never 
 out of the mind of a lady's maid on a journey. Mean- 
 while the easy composure of her mistress prevented her 
 from yielding aloud to her terror ; and nestling, as best 
 she could, upon the front seat, she betook herself to silent 
 weeping. 
 
 " What is the matter, Suzette?" asked Marcelle, when 
 she perceived it. 
 
 "Ah ! madam," replied she, sobbing, "do not you hear 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 27 
 
 the frogs sing? They will come upon us, and fill the 
 carriage — " 
 
 "And eat us up, doubtless," returned Mme. de Blanche- 
 mont, laughing outright. 
 
 In reality, the green dwellers in the morass, disturbed 
 for an instant by the fall of the horse and the clamor of 
 the driver, had resumed their monotonous psalmody. 
 Dogs were also heard to bay and howl, but from such a 
 distance that they gave no reason to count upon prompt 
 assistance. The moon had not yet risen, but the stars 
 shone on the stagnant water of the marsh, which had 
 again become smooth. A soft breeze crept through the 
 tall reeds that grew in thick tufts on the bank. 
 
 " Come, Suzette," said Marcelle, who had already 
 yielded herself to a poetic revery, " one is not so badly 
 off as I thought in a swamp, and, if you choose, you will 
 sleep as if you were in your bed." 
 
 " My lady must have lost her senses," thought Suzette, 
 " to think herself well off in such a situation. O heaven, 
 madam ! " she cried, after a moment's silence, "it seems 
 to me I hear a wolf howl ! Are we not in the midst of 
 a forest ? " 
 
 "The forest is only a willow swamp, I believe," re- 
 plied Marcelle, " and as for the wolf you hear howl, it is 
 a man singing. If he would come our way he might help 
 us to reach firm land." 
 
 " And if it is a robber? " 
 
 " In that case it is a kindly robber, who sings to warn 
 us to take care. Listen, Suzette ! without jesting, he is 
 coming here ; the voice is nearer." 
 
 In reality, a voice, full, manly, and harmonious, although 
 rough and untaught, came over the silent fields, with the 
 measured accompaniment of the slow and regular step of 
 a horse ; but this voice was still far off, and there was no 
 certainty that the singer was taking the direction of the 
 swamp, which might be entirely impassable. When the 
 song was ended, whether it were that the horse trod on 
 the turf, or that the rider had turned another way, noth- 
 ing more was heard. 
 
 At this moment Suzette, whose terrors were renewed, 
 
28 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 saw a silent figure glide along the pool. Reflected in the 
 water, it appeared gigantic. She gave a cry, and the 
 figure, plunging into the marsh, came straight toward the 
 patache, though slowly, and with precaution. 
 
 " Do not be afraid, Suzette," said Mme. de Blanche- 
 mont, herself now a little uneasy. " It is the old beggar 
 we saw this afternoon. Perhaps he will show us a house 
 from which we can obtain help. Friend," said she, with 
 much presence of mind, "my servant, over there, will go 
 with you if you will show him the way to some house." 
 
 "Thy servant, little one?" answered the mendicant, 
 familiarly. " He is not there ; he is far oflT. And be- 
 sides, he is so old, so weak, and stupid, that he could not 
 help thee here." 
 
 For once, Marcelle was frightenecL 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 29 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE MORASS. 
 
 'TPHIS answer sounded like the rude threat of an ill- 
 ■*• iutentioned person. Marcelle seized Edward in her 
 arms, resolute to defend him at the price of her life, if 
 necessary, and she was about to leap into the water on 
 the opposite side from that by which the beggar was ap- 
 proaching, when the rustic chant before heard was re- 
 sumed in a second couplet, and this time at very little 
 distance. The beggar stopped. 
 
 " We are lost ! " murmured Suzette. *' There is the 
 rest of the band coming." 
 
 " We are saved, on the contrary," answered Marcelle. 
 " That is an honest peasant's voice." 
 
 In truth, the voice was full of cheerful assurance, and 
 the calm, clear song evidently came from a good con- 
 science. The horse's step also came nearer. The coun- 
 tryman was evidently descending the path leading to the 
 morass. 
 
 The mendicant drew back to the edge, and remained 
 motionless, seeming to show more prudence than fear. 
 
 Marcelle leaned out of the patache to call the rider ; 
 but he sang too loudly to hear her, and if his horse, fright- 
 ened at the sight of the black mass that the patache pre- 
 sented, had not stopped with a snort, his master might 
 have passed on without paying any attention to it. 
 
 " What the devil is there?" cried, at last, a stentorian 
 voice, without a tone of fear, and which Mme. de Blanche- 
 mont recognized immediately for that of the tall miller. 
 " Halloo there, friends ! your carriage does not exactly 
 move. Are you all dead inside, that you say nothing .? " 
 
 When Suzette recognized the miller, whose handsome 
 
30 THB MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 physiognomy had already made an agreeable impression 
 on her that morning, she became very gracious, notwith- 
 standing her slight toilette. She related the piteous con- 
 dition to which her mistress and herself were reduced, 
 and Grand-Louis, after laughing immoderately at their 
 misadventure, declared that nothing was easier than to 
 deliver them. He began first to free himself from a large 
 sack of grain, which he carried before him on his horse ; 
 and perceiving the mendicant, who seemed not to think 
 of concealment — 
 
 " Ah ! you are here too. Father Cadoche ? " said he, in 
 a friendly tone. " Stand aside, so that I can fling down 
 my sack I " 
 
 " I was here trying to help these poor children ! " re- 
 plied the mendicant ; " but there is so much water that I 
 could not go forward." 
 
 " Stay quiet, my old man, and do not wet yourself for 
 nothing. At your age it is dangerous. I can easily get 
 out these women without you." And he went towards 
 Mme. de Blanchemont, sinking up to his horse's breast in 
 the mud. " Come, madam," said he gayly, " step out a 
 little on the shaft, and seat yourself behind me ; nothing 
 is easier. You will not even wet the tip of your foot, for 
 your legs are not as long as those of your humble servant. 
 Your patachon must have been a fool to have mired you 
 here, when two steps to the left there are not six inches 
 of mud ! " 
 
 '' I am distressed to cause you such a wetting," said 
 Marcelle ; " but my child — " 
 
 " Ah ! the little gentleman ? Just so ! him first. Give 
 him to me — that is it — here he is in front of me. Be 
 easy, the saddle will not hurt him ; neither my horse nor I 
 are used to one. Come, sit behind me, my little lady, 
 and don't be afraid. Sophie has a strong back and sure 
 legs." 
 
 The miller gently placed the mother and child upon the 
 turf. 
 
 " And me ! " cried Suzette ; " are you going to leave 
 me in here?" 
 
 "By no means, mademoiselle," said Grand-Louis, return- 
 ing for her. *' Give me your bundles, too, we will get all 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 31 
 
 out — make yourself easy. And now," said he, when he 
 had effected the entire debarkation, " this unhicky pat- 
 achon may come when he will for his carcase of a carriage. 
 I have neither shafts nor ropes to harness Sophie to it, 
 but I will take you wherever you please, my little ladies." 
 
 '' Are we very far from Blanchemont ? " asked Marcelic. 
 
 " Tiie deuce ! yes ! a pretty way your patachon took 
 to get you there! It is two leagues off; and when you 
 arrive everybody will be in bed, and it will be no easy 
 thing to make them let us in. But if you will, we are 
 ouiy a short league from my mill at Angibault. It is 
 not splendid, but clean, and my mother is a good soul, 
 who will make no fuss about getting up, putting white 
 sheets on the beds, and twisting a couple of chickens* 
 necks. Will that suit you ? No compliments ! Come, 
 ladies ! the fate of war, and the fate of the mill ! The 
 patache will take no cold by passing the night out of 
 doors, and to-morrow morning it shall be got out and 
 cleaned, and you shall go to Blanchemont at what hour 
 you please." 
 
 There was cordiality, and even a kind of delicacy, in the 
 miller's blunt invitation, and Marcelle, won by his good- 
 heartcdaess, and the mention he made of his mother, ac- 
 cepted it with gratitude. 
 
 " That is well, you will do me a pleasure," said the 
 miller ; " I do not know you — you may be the lady of 
 Blanchemont — but that is all one to me ; were you the 
 devil (and they say the devil can look young and pretty 
 when he will), I should be happy to keep you from pass- 
 ing a bad night. Ah 1 so ; I cannot leave my sack of 
 corn ; I will put it on Sophie, the little one shall sit on 
 it, the mamma behind ; it will not trouble you, — on the 
 contrary, it will be convenient to lean on. The young 
 lady will walk with me, and talk with Father Cadoche, 
 who is not very well dressed, but has plenty of wit. 
 But where has the old lizard gone?" said he, looking 
 around for the vanished mendicant. " Halloo there, 
 Father Cadoche ! ai'e you coming to sleep at our house ? 
 Tie does not answer, — never mind, that is not his fancy 
 for to-night. Let us start, ladies ! " 
 
32 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 "You know this man, then?" said Marcellc. "He 
 frightened us very much." 
 
 " I have known him ever since I was born. He is 
 not a bad man. You were wrong to fear him." 
 
 " He seemed to me, however, to threaten us, and he did 
 not appear to use the thee and thou in a friendly manner." 
 
 " He said thee and thou ? The old rogue ! He is not 
 bashful, he ! But that is his way ; do not mind it ; he 
 is a good-hearted man, an original ; in short, he is 
 Father Cadoche, called uncle by everybody, and who 
 promises his inheritance to every passer-by, though he 
 is as poor as his own stick." 
 
 Marcelle travelled very comfortably upon the strong and 
 gentle Sophie. Little Edward, whom she held close be- 
 fore her, was delighted with his ride. With his little 
 feet he rapped the shoulders of the animal, who never 
 felt it, and went none the quicker, but plodded on like a 
 true miller's horse, needing no guidance, knowing her 
 way by heart, and finding her path through the darkness, 
 amid water and stones, without a mistake or a stumble. 
 At the desire of Marcelle, who feared to have her old ser- 
 vant pass the night in the open air, the miller several 
 times uplifted his thundering voice, and Lapierre, who 
 had lost himself in a neighboring wood, and had been for 
 more than half an hour describing circles within the 
 space of an acre, soon rejoined the little caravan. 
 
 After an hour's march, the sound of water over a dam 
 was heard, and the pale light of the moon showed the 
 vine-covered roof of the mill, and the silvered banks of 
 the river, close grown with mint and thyme. 
 
 Marcelle sprung lightly upon this fragrant carpet, after 
 the miller had taken down her boy, who, joyful and 
 proud of his equestrian journey, threw his arms around 
 his new friend's neck, saying, " Good-day, alochonl" 
 
 As Grand-Louis had predicted, his old mother rose 
 good-naturedly, and, with the help of a little servant-girl 
 of fourteen or fifteen, the beds were soon ready. Mme. 
 de Blanchemont had more need of rest than food ; she 
 prevented the old woman from bringing her anything but 
 a cup of milk, and, exhausted with fatigue, she slept with 
 her child by her maternal side, in a feather bed of im- 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAUL 
 
 33 
 
 moderate height, and exquisite softness. These beds, 
 whose only fault is to be too warm aud soft, compose, 
 with a full straw mattress, all the sleeping arrangement 
 of the inhabitants, rich or poor, of a country where 
 geese abound, and where the winters are very cold. 
 
 Weary with a very rapid journey of eighty leagues, and 
 especially with that part made in the patache, which had 
 been, so to speak, the crown of it, the fair Parisian 
 would gladly have slept late tlie next morning ; but it 
 was scarcely dawn when the crowing of cocks, the 
 tic-tac of the mill, the loud voice of the miller, and all 
 the sounds of rustic labor, compelled her to relinquish a 
 longer repose. Besides, Edward, who was not in the 
 least tired, and was already stimulated by the country 
 air, began to frisk upon his bed. Notwithstanding all 
 the noise without, Suzette, in the same room, slept so 
 soundly that Marcelle had not the heart to wake her. 
 Beginning then the new kind of life she had determined 
 to embrace, she rose and dressed herself without the 
 help of her maid, completed with extreme pleasure the 
 toilet of her boy, and went out to bid good-morrow to 
 her hosts. She found only the mill-boy and the little 
 maid, who told her that the master and mistress had just 
 gone to the end of the field to make ready the breakfast. 
 Curious to know in what these preparations consisted, 
 Marcelle crossed the rustic bridge, which also served as 
 gate to the mill-pond, and leaving on her right a fine 
 plantation of young poplars, she traversed the meadow, 
 following the course of the river, or rather brook, which, 
 though always full to the brim, and laving the flowering 
 grass, is here no more than ten feet wide. This slender 
 watercourse has, nevertheless, a strong current, and near 
 the mill forms quite a large basin, motionless, deep, and 
 smooth as glass, in which are reflected the ancient wil- 
 lows, and mossy roofs of the dwelling. Marcelle con- 
 templated this peaceful and lovely scene, which answered, 
 she knew not why, to her own heart. She had seen 
 more beautiful spots, but there are places which insen- 
 sibly affect us with unconquerable emotion, and where we 
 feel as if led by fate to meet joy, grief, or duty. 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE MILL. 
 
 XT^THEN Marcelle made her wAy into the deep wood 
 ^ ^ where she expected to find her hosts, she felt as if 
 she were entering a virgin forest. The ravages of the 
 little river, when swollen by the rainy season, had every- 
 where undermined and broken the ground, which wa8 
 covered with a heavy growth of trees, alders, beeches, 
 and raaguificent aspens, half overthrown, and with their 
 enormous roots lying on the wet sand, like interlaced ser- 
 pents and hydras, leant over each other in superb con- 
 fusion. The numerous channels of the stream flowed 
 capriciously around many verdant islands, where, upon 
 the dewy grass, vigorous festoons of briar were entwined 
 with a hundred varieties of tall plants ; and all were left 
 to the incomparable grace of their free growth. No 
 landscape-garden could equal this natural luxuriance, the 
 happily grouped masses of foliage, the numerous basins 
 which the river had hollowed for itself in the sand and 
 among the flowers, the bowers meeting above the water, 
 the varied grace of the banks, and the fallen branches 
 overgrown with moss, which looked as if thrown there 
 to complete the beauty of the whole. Marcelle was lost 
 in a kind of rapture, and would have forgotten herself 
 and the passing time, but for her little Edward, who ran 
 before her like a freed fawn, eager to make the print of 
 his tiny feet on the smooth sand by the water. But the 
 fear that he might fall in aroused her ; and, following his 
 steps, and burying herself deeper and deeper in the en- 
 chanted wilderness, she felt as if in one of those dreams 
 where nature appears to us in such absolute beauty, that 
 we are sometimes ready to say we have seen the earthly 
 paradise. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 35 
 
 At length the miller and his mother appeared on the 
 opposite bank — one fishing for trout, the other milking 
 her cow. 
 
 "Ah! ah! my little lady, already up?" said the 
 miller. "You see we are busy for you. Here is my old 
 mother tormenting herself because she has nothing good 
 to offer you ; but as for me, I say that you will be con- 
 tented with our good heart. We are neither cooks nor 
 tavern-keepers ; but when there is good appetite on one 
 side, and good will on the other — " 
 
 "You treat me a hundred times too well, you kind 
 people," answered Marcelle, venturing, with Edward in 
 her arms, upon the plank which served as bridge to where 
 they stood. "I have never passed so good a night, nor 
 seen so lovely a morning, as here. What fine trout you 
 are taking, Mr. Miller ! And you, mother, what beau- 
 tiful, white, foaming milk ! You spoil me, and I know 
 not how to thank you." 
 
 "We are thanked enough if you are pleased," said the 
 old woman, with a smile. "We never see such fine peo- 
 ple as you, and we do not know much about compliments, 
 but we see plainly that you are kind, and not exacting. 
 Come, come to the house ! the cakes will soon be done, 
 and the little one surely likes strawberries. There is a 
 place in the garden where he will like to pick them him- 
 self." 
 
 "You are so good, and your country is so beautiful, 
 that I should like to pass my life here," said Marcelle, 
 impulsively. 
 
 " So ? " said the miller, smiling good-naturedly. "Well ! 
 if the heart tells you — you see, mother, that our country 
 is not so ugly as you think. Did not I tell you that a 
 rich person might find it agreeable?" 
 
 "Yes," said the old woman, "if a chateau were built 
 here, and then it would be a chateau very ill-placed." 
 
 "Is it possible that you are discontented here?" said 
 Marcelle, in astonishment. 
 
 " Oh ! I am not at all discontented," replied the miller's 
 mother. "I have passed my life here, and I shall die 
 here, if it please God. I have had time to get used to it, 
 
36 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 in seventy-five years that I have reigned here ; and be- 
 sides, one needs must content one's self with one's o^vn 
 country. But if you were to pass a winter here, madam, 
 you would not call it beautiful, — when all our fields are 
 under water, and we cannot even step into our yard ; no, 
 no, it is not pleasant ! " 
 
 *'Bah! bah! women are always frightened," said 
 Grand-Louis. "You know that the water will not carry 
 away the house, and that the mill is well insured. And 
 then, one must take the bad weather as it comes. All 
 winter you want summer, mother, and all summer you 
 do nothing but fret about the coming winter. I tell you 
 ttat one might live here without care or trouble." 
 
 "And why dost thou not do so?" returned the mother. 
 ** Art thou without care thyself? Dost thou like to be a 
 miller, and to have thy house so often under water ? Ah ! 
 if I were to tell all thou sayst sometimes upon the mis- 
 fortune of having a poor house, and not making money ! '* 
 
 " There is no use in repeating all the nonsense that I 
 talk sometimes, mother, you need not take the trouble." 
 But, while speaking thus reproachfully, the tall miller 
 looked at his mother with affectionate, and almost suppli- 
 cating gentleness. Their conversation did not appear sc 
 commonplace to Mme. de Blanchemout, as it may have 
 done to the reader. In her present state of mind, she was 
 desirous to know how those who were obliged to lead a 
 rustic life — always the easiest for the poor — felt and ap- 
 preciated it. She was not examining and testing it by 
 merely romantic notions. Henri's doubt of her ability to 
 embrace it, had made her feel its real privations and trials. 
 But she believed her courage equal to these trials, and 
 what she hoped to learn from the opinion of her hosts of 
 the mill, was the degree in which the philosophy or insen- 
 sibility, given them by nature, would compare with that 
 which she could gather from poetic feeling, and the yet 
 more religious and powerful sentiment of love. Thus she 
 manifested some curiosity when Grand-Louis had gone to 
 fry his trout, as he said, in the stove. 
 
 "So then," she said to the old woman, "you are not 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 37 
 
 happy ; and even your son, notwithstanding his cheerful 
 manner, worries sometimes?" 
 
 "Eh, madam! as for me," replied the good woman, 
 "I should be rich enough, and contented enough, if I saw 
 my son happy. My poor husband was well enough off; 
 his business was good ; but he died before he could bring 
 up his family, and I have had to do the best I could for 
 all my children. Now each one's share is small ; the mill 
 came to my Louis, who is called Grand-Louis, as they 
 called his father Grand-Jean, and as they call mc Grand'- 
 Marie. For, God helping, our family makes a fine 
 growth, and all my children were of good size. But that 
 is the most we have ; the rest is so little, that it is riot 
 enough to raise false hopes." 
 
 "But, after all, why would you have more? Do you 
 suffer from poverty ? It seems to me you are well lodged ; 
 your bread is good, your health excellent." 
 
 "Yes, yes, thanks to the good God, we have what is 
 needful, and many people better than we have not so 
 much ; but you see, madam, happiness or unhappiness it 
 is according to one's ideas — " 
 
 "There you have the real question," said Marcelle, 
 who observed good sense and natural discrimination in 
 both the physiognomy and words of her companion ; "but 
 since you appreciate it so well, how comes it that you 
 complain?" 
 
 "It is not I who complain, it is my Louis ! or rather, 
 it is I who fret, because I see him unhappy ; and it is he 
 who does not fret, because he is brave, and afraid of 
 troubling me. But sometimes, too, when the poor boy is too 
 sad, he will say just one word that goes to my heart. He 
 will say, ' Never ^ never ^ mother ! ' and that means that he 
 has given up all hope. And then, afterwards, as he is 
 naturally lively, like his poor dear father, he will seem to 
 make himself easy, and tell me all sorts of stories, either 
 to comfort me, or because he fancies that what he takes 
 into his head will really happen in time." 
 
 "But what has he taken into his head? Is he am- 
 bitious?" 
 
 "Oh yes, he has a great ambition, — a real madness J 
 
38 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 but it is not the love of money ; for he is no miser, not 
 he ! In the division of the property he gave his brothers 
 and sisters all they wanted, and when he earns a little, 
 he is ready to give it to the first who needs ; and it is not 
 vanity, for he always wears his peasant clothes, though 
 he has had an education, and might go as well dressed as 
 a bourgeois; and it is not bad company, nor extrav- 
 agance, for he is contented with everything, and never 
 wants to go anywhere but on business." 
 
 •*Well, then, what is it?" said Marcelle, whose sweet 
 face and cordial tone insensibly drew out the old woman's 
 confidence. 
 
 "Ah, and what should it be but love?" said the mil- 
 ler's mother, with a mysterious smile, and an indescribable 
 and delicate air of insight, which, in matters of sentiment, 
 establishes an electric chain of freedom and interest be- 
 tween women of every age and rank. 
 
 ''You are right," said Marcelle, drawing nearer to 
 Grand'-Marie ; " love is the great disturber of youth. 
 And is the woman he loves richer than he ? " 
 
 "Oh ! it is not a woman ! my poor Louis is too hon 
 orable to think of a married woman ! It is a girl, a 
 young girl, a pretty girl, by my faith, and a good girl, I 
 must allow. But she is rich — rich ; and, think of it as 
 much as we may, her parents will never give her to a 
 miller." 
 
 Marcelle was struck by the similarity between the mil- 
 ler's romance and that of her own life, and felt curious 
 and interested. 
 
 " If this good and pretty girl loves your son," said she, 
 " she will marry him in the end." 
 
 "So I tell myself sometimes, for she does love him, 
 madam, as I am sure, though my Louis is not. She is 
 a prudent girl, and would not tell a man she would marry 
 him against her parents' will ; and then she is very gay, 
 and a little coquettish ; that is natural at her age — she is 
 o'^^X-SisliM.^H • Her little mocking ways make my poor 
 boy desperate ; so to comfort him, when I see that he does 
 not eat, and talks loud to Sophie (our mare, saving your 
 presence), I cannot help telling him ivhat I think ; and 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 3c) 
 
 he believes me a little, for he sees that I know more than 
 he about women's hearts. Now I see plainly that she 
 blushes when she meets him, and when she passes our 
 house, she looks round for him ; yet it is not right to tell 
 my boy so, for it keeps up his madness, and I had much 
 better tell him that he must not think of it." 
 
 "Why so?" asked Marcelle. "Love is all-powerful. 
 Be sure, good mother, that a loving woman is stronger 
 than all obstacles." 
 
 "Yes, so I thought when I was young. I said to my- 
 self that woman's love was like the river, breaking all 
 away where it comes, and laughing at bars and dikes. I 
 myself was richer than my poor Grand-Jean, yet I mar- 
 ried him. But there was not the same difference as 
 between us now and Mademoiselle — " 
 
 She was interrupted by little Edward calling to his 
 mother. 
 
 " See ! Henri is here ! *' 
 
40 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 A NAME ON A TREE. 
 
 TV/TME. DE BLANCHEMONT started, and hardly re- 
 ^^^ pressed a scream, as she looked around for the cause 
 of her child's exclamation. Following the direction of his 
 looks and gestures, she saw a name cut with a knife on 
 the bark of a tree. The boy had just begun to read, and 
 knew certain words ; familiar names, perhaps taught to 
 him by preference. He had recognized that of Henri in- 
 scribed upon the smooth stem of a white poplar, and he 
 fancied that his friend had just traced it. Carried away 
 by her child's imagination, Marcelle really expected for 
 some moments to see Henri Lemor appear from among 
 the alders and aspens. Short reflection was needed to 
 make her smile sadly at her easy credulity, and yet, as 
 even a vain hope is hard to relinquish, she could not 
 help asking Grand'-Marie which of her family or neigh- 
 bors was named Henri. 
 
 *' None that I know," answered she. " To be sure there 
 is a family called Henri in the town of Nohant, but they 
 arc people like me, and don't know how to write on paper 
 or trees — unless the son should have come back from the 
 army — but goodness ! it is more than two years since he 
 was here." 
 
 " Then you do not know who can have written this 
 
 name 
 
 '' I did not even know there was anything written there. 
 I never paid any attention to it. And if I had seen it, I 
 don't know how to read. I might have been well taught, 
 but it was not the fashion in my time. They made a cross 
 upon deeds instead of a signature, and it was just as good 
 in law." 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 41 
 
 The miller now came back to say that breakfast was 
 ready. He could read and write, and seeing Marcelle's 
 attention fixed upon this name, which he had not before 
 observed, he tried to explain. 
 
 " I see nobody but the man we had here the other day 
 who could have amused himself in this way," said he, 
 '* for there are no city people come here." 
 
 "And what man was here the other day?" said Mar 
 celle, trying to seem indifferent. 
 
 " The gentleman did not tell us his name," replied the 
 old woman. " We do not know much, and yet we know 
 it is not polite to be inquisitive. Louis is like me in that, 
 and though our country people ask all sorts of questions 
 of every stranger they meet, we never desire to know 
 more than others desire to tell us. The gentleman seemed 
 to wish to keep his name and intentions to himself." 
 
 " He asked plenty of questions, however, that chap," 
 observed Grand-Louis, " and we might fairly have ques- 
 tioned him in our turn. I don't know" why I did not dare 
 There was nothing repulsive about him, and I am not 
 particularly bashful ; but he had an odd look, quite sad 
 to see." 
 
 " What kind of look?" asked Marcelle, whose curiosity 
 and interest increased at each word. 
 
 " I can hardly tell you," replied he ; "I did not observe 
 it much while he was here, but when he was gone, I be- 
 gan to think of it. Do you remember, mother?" 
 
 " Yes, thou saidst to me, ' See, mother, here is one 
 like me, who has not all he wants.' " 
 
 *' Ball ! bah ! I did not say that," returned Grand- 
 Louis, fearing for his secret, and not suspecting that his 
 mother had already revealed it. "I only said, ' Here is 
 one who does not appear glad to live.' " 
 
 Marcelle was touched. "Was he so very sad?" she 
 asked. 
 
 " He seemed to think a great deal. He staid here 
 alone at least three hours, sitting on the ground just 
 where you are now, and gazing at the river, as if he 
 would count each drop that passed. I thought he was 
 sick, and I came twice to ask him to come into the house 
 
42 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 and refresh himself. When I came near, he sprang up like 
 a man just waked, and looked vexed. Then all at once 
 his face was very sweet and gentle, and he thanked me, 
 but he would take nothing but a bit of bread and a glass 
 of water." 
 
 " It is Henri ! " cried Edward, who, clinging to his 
 mother's gown, had attentively listened. " Thou know- 
 est, mamma, that Henri never drinks wine ! " 
 
 Mme. de Blanchemont blushed, turned pale, blushed 
 again, and in a voice which she vainly tried to steady, 
 asked what this stranger had been doing in the country. 
 
 "I know nothing about it," replied the miller, who 
 thought to himself, as he fixed his penetrating look upon 
 the beautiful and changing countenance of the young 
 baroness, " here is still another with a busy thought, 
 like me ! " 
 
 And desirous to satisfy Marcelle's curiosity about the 
 stranger, and his own as to the sentiments of his guest, 
 he gratified her anxious expectation by entering upon the 
 following details. 
 
 The stranger had come on foot, about a fortnight pre- 
 vious. For two days he had wandered about the Black 
 Valley, and then disappeared. Nobody knew where he 
 passed the nights ; the miller supposed in the open air. 
 He did not seem to have much money. He had offered, 
 notwithstanding, to pay for his slight repast at the mill, 
 but, upon the miller's refusal, he had thanked him with the 
 simplicity of a man not too proud to accept hospitality 
 from one of his own class. He was dressed neatly, like a 
 workman, or a country bourgeois, in a blouse and a straw 
 hat. He carried a small knapsack on his shoulder, from 
 which he now and then took out paper, and seemed to be 
 making notes. He said he had been at Blanchemont, but 
 nobody there had seen him. Yet he spoke of the farm and 
 the old chateau like a man who had examined everything. 
 While eating his bread and drinking his water, he had 
 asked the miller many questions aboul the extent of the 
 estate, its mortgages, the character and reputation of the 
 farmer, about the expenditures of the late M. de Blanche- 
 mont, about his other estates, etc., so that at the mill 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 43 
 
 tliey had concluded him to be an agent sent by some pur- 
 chaser, to collect information and ascertain the quality of 
 the land. 
 
 " For it seems that the estate of Blanchemont is to be 
 offered for sale, if it is not already," added the miller, who 
 was not altogether so free from the fever of curiosity 
 prevalent among the neighboring peasants as his mother 
 presumed him. 
 
 Marcelle, agitated by a very different solicitude, 
 scarcely heard this last observation. 
 
 " How old might this stranger be?" she asked. 
 
 " If I could trust to his face," said the miller's mother, 
 *' about as old as Louis, — near twenty-three or four." 
 
 "And — how was his face ? Was he dark, of middling 
 height?" 
 
 '^ lie was not tall, and he was not fair," said the miller ; 
 " his face was not ill-looking, but pale, as if he were in 
 poor health." 
 
 " That might be Henri," thought Marcelle, although 
 this rude portrait poorly answered to the ideal in her 
 heart. 
 
 " He is no man to be cheated in business," resumed 
 Grand-Louis ; " for to pleasure M. Bricolin, the Blanche- 
 mont farmer who wants to buy the estate, and to plague 
 him a little, I diverted myself with undervaluing the 
 property, but the fellow had his eyes open. The estate, 
 says he, is worth so and so ; and he counted on his fin- 
 gers the income, the costs, and the expenses, like one at 
 home in the matter, and with no need of long words and 
 much wine, our country fashion, to see the long and short 
 of a thing." 
 
 " Goto — I am wild," thought Mme. de Blanchemont ; 
 " this stranger is the first comel' — some clerk charged with 
 country investments — and his appearance of melancholy 
 and revery on the bank were simply the consequences 
 of heat and fatigue. Even if it be he who cut the name 
 of Henri, it is very possibly his own. Henri never took 
 thought of business, never knew the value of any prop- 
 erty, or the source and management of any of this world's 
 riches. No, no, it is not he. Besides, was he not at 
 
44 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 Paris a fortnij!;ht ago ? It is only three days since I saw 
 bim, and he did not tell me that he had lately been away. 
 What should have brought him to the Black Valley? 
 Did he even know that the estate of Blauchemout, of 
 which I never remember to have spoken to him, was 
 situated in this province?" 
 
 She turned her mind, not without effort, from the mys- 
 terious inscription which had so much excited it, and follow- 
 ing her host to the house, she found an excellent breakfast 
 spread upon a massive table, covered with a snow-white 
 cloth. There was frumenty, the favorite dish in that 
 province, a kind of paste made of grain soaked in water 
 and dressed with milk, preserved pears with spiced cream, 
 trout from the Vauvre, broiled chickens, lean and tender, 
 salad with nut oil, and scarcely ripe fruit, all which 
 seemed delicious to Edward. Plates were set for the two 
 servants, and the two hosts, at the same table with Mme. 
 de Blanchemont, and the old woman was much amazed a! 
 the refusal of Lapierre and Suzette to sit beside their mis- 
 tress. Marcelle, however, insisted that they should con- 
 form to the habits of the country, and merrily entered 
 upon that life of equality, the thought of which was so 
 agreeable to her. The miller's bearing was rough, frank, 
 but never coarse. The manners of his mother were 
 rather more obsequious ; and, in spite of the remon- 
 strances of Grand-Louis, in whom good sense supplied the 
 want of good breeding, she almost persecuted her guests 
 to eat more than sufficed to their appetite, but her ur- 
 gency was so sincere, that Marcelle did not think of find- 
 ing fault with it. There was both heart and sense in 
 this old woman, and her son resembled her in both 
 respects. He had, besides, a good elementary education. 
 He had been through the primary schools, and had read 
 and understood much more than he was in haste to show. 
 Marcelle found, on talking with him, greater accuracy of 
 thought, and more sense and natural taste, than she had ex- 
 pected the evening before from the "tall miller" whom she 
 met at the inn. All this was so much the more valuable, 
 because, far from the vanity of showing it off, he even 
 affected a clownish rounjhness of manner. His chief 
 
i 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 45 
 
 fear seemed to be to pass for a village wonder ; and he 
 had a settled contempt for pretension — for people who try 
 to set themselves above their honest birth and respect- 
 able condition. His language was usually correct, 
 though he liked to introduce the easy and picturesque 
 provincialisms of his district. "When he quite forgot 
 himself, he talked with perfect ease, and no trace was left 
 of the miller ; but soon, as if ashamed of this departure 
 from his sphere, he would resume his harmless pleasant- 
 ries and unpresuming familiarity. 
 
 With all this, Marcelle was somewhat embarrassed 
 when the patachon came, about seven o'clock, to take 
 her directions. She desired, when she took leave of 
 her entertainers, to pay for the expense to which she had 
 put them, but they refused to receive anything. 
 
 ''No, my dear lady, no," said the miller to her in a 
 quiet but firm voice ; "we are not innkeepers. We might 
 be, and it would not be beneath us. But as we are not, 
 we will take nothing from you." 
 
 " Nay," said Marcelle, " will you not permit me to in- 
 demnify you for all the disturbance and expense I have 
 made you? for I know that your mother gave me her 
 chamber, and took your bed, while you slept in the barn on 
 the hay. You left your work this morning to go and fish. 
 Your mother heated the oven, took considerable trouble, 
 and we must have made quite a hole in your larder." 
 
 "Oh, my mother slept very well, and I still better," 
 replied Grand-Louis. " Trout cost me nothing from the 
 Vauvre, and to-day is Sunday, when I always fish all 
 the morning. A little flour, bread, and milk, with some 
 poor poultry, which served for your breakfast, will not 
 ruin us. So the service is nothing great, and you can 
 accept it without uneasiness. We shall never cast it up 
 to you, especially as we may never see you again." 
 
 " I hope that you will," replied Marcelle, " for I in- 
 tend staying some days, at least, at Blanchemont, and I 
 should like to return and thank your mother and yourself 
 for your cordial hospitality, which I am still rather 
 ashamed to accept." 
 
 " And why be ashamed to take a little service from 
 
46 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 honest folks ? If you are pleased with our good-will, all 
 is even. I know that, in cities, everything, to a cup of 
 water, is paid for. It is a poor way, and here in the 
 country we should be badly off if we did not help one an- 
 other. Pray, then, say no more about it." 
 
 " Then you would not like to have me come again and 
 ask for some breakfast? You will force me to deny my- 
 self that pleasure, or feel myself encroaching upon you ? " 
 
 " That is another affair. We have only done our duty 
 in showing you what you call hospitality, for we have been 
 brought up to look upon it as a duty ; and although the 
 good custom is passing away, and nowadays poor peo- 
 ple, without asking to be paid for such little services, take 
 pretty much all that is given them, it is neither my 
 mother's judgment nor mine to change old customs when 
 they are good. If there had been a tolerable inn here- 
 abouts, 1 would have taken you there last night, thinking 
 you would be better off than with us, and seeing that you 
 were able to pay for what you wanted. But there was 
 none, good or bad ; and unless I had been a brute, I could 
 not have let you pass the night out of doors. Do you 
 think I would have asked you to my house if I had 
 thought of letting you pay ? No ; for, as I tell you, I am no 
 innkeeper. See, there is no sign or bush over our door ! " 
 
 " I ought to have observed tliat at first," said Marcelle, 
 " and shown more discretion in my conduct here. But 
 what do you say to my question ? You do not wish me 
 to return ? " 
 
 '* That is another affair. I invite you to come back 
 whenever you please. The place suits you, and your 
 little boy likes our cakes, w^hich makes me bold to say 
 that you will do us a pleasure whenever you come." 
 
 " And will you oblige me, as you have to-day, to take 
 all gratis f " 
 
 " When I invite you ? Did I express myself so badly ? " 
 
 *•• And you do not see that this seems to me like taking 
 too much advantage of your kindness ? " 
 
 " No, I do not see it. When one is invited, one makes 
 use of one's right to accept." 
 
 '' Come," said Mme. de Blanchemont, " I see that you 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 47 
 
 have true politeness, a thing not to be had in our world. 
 You have taught me that the caution and reticence of 
 which we boast, and which are unhappily so necessary 
 in society, have taken such high place only since kindness 
 has changed into compliment, and good-breeding is no 
 longer the expression of real sympathy." 
 
 " You say well," answered the miller, his face lit up with 
 a ray of quick intelligence ; " and by my honest faith, I 
 am very glad to have had the opportunity to oblige you ! " 
 
 " If so, you will allow me to receive you in my turn 
 when you come to Blanchemont ? " 
 
 " Ah 1 pardon me ! but I shall not go to your house. I 
 shall go, as I often do, to carry grain to your farmers, and 
 I shall simply have the pleasure of bowing to you." 
 
 " Ah ! ah ! Monsieur Louis, then you will not break- 
 fast with me ? " 
 
 " Yes, and no. I eat often with your tenants ; but 
 there would be a difference, if you were there. You are 
 a noble lady — enough." 
 
 " Explain — I do not understand." 
 
 " Well, then, have you not preserved the habits of the old 
 nobility ? Should you not send your miller to the kitchen 
 to eat with your servants, and certainly without your com- 
 pany? Now I have no objection myself to eating with 
 them, since I did the same thing to-day in my own house ; 
 but it would seem odd to me that you should have sat at 
 ray table, and I could not sit at yours, or draw my chair 
 by your own, in your chimney-corner. The fact is, I am 
 rather proud. I should not blame you — each one has his 
 own way of thinking and acting — and for that very 
 reason I do not choose to go where I should be obliged to 
 yield to that of another." 
 
 Marcelle was much struck with the miller's good sense 
 and sincere hardihood. She felt that he had given her a 
 valuable lesson, and she rejoiced inwardly that her new 
 theory of life permitted her to receive it unabashed. 
 
 " Monsieur Louis," she said," you are mistaken with re- 
 gard to me. That I am of the nobility is not my fault ; 
 but it so happens that, by chance or good fortune, I no 
 longer wish to conform to its customs. If you come to 
 
48 THB MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 see me, I shall not forget that you received me us your 
 equal and served me as your neighbor ; and if it be neces- 
 sary to show you that I am not ungrateful, I will myself 
 set yours and your mother*s place at my table, as you 
 have set mine at yours." 
 
 " Would you really do that ? " said the miller, fixing 
 his eyes on Marcelle with a mixture of surprise, respect- 
 ful doubt, and familiar sympathy. " If so, I will go — 
 or rather, no, I will not go, for I can see that you are 
 really kind and good." 
 
 " I cannot tell what you mean by that last observation." 
 
 "Faith! if you do not understand — I hardly know 
 how to express myself better." 
 
 " Come, Louis, I think thou art crazy," said old Marie, 
 who had been gravely knitting through all this conver- 
 sation. " I do not know where thou hast picked up all 
 that thou say est to our lady. Your pardon, madam, 
 the boy is a care-for-nought, and has always come right 
 out to everybody, great and small, with all that he hap- 
 pened to think. You must not be angry with him. Be- 
 lieve me, he has a good heart at bottom, and would this 
 minute, I see by his face, fling himself into the fire for 
 you." 
 
 " Not so sure of the fire," said the miller, laughing ; 
 " but into the water — my element. You can easily sec, 
 mother, that the lady is a woman of sense, and one can 
 say what one thinks to her. I say it even to M. Bric- 
 olin, her farmer, who is certainly much more to be feared 
 here than she ! " 
 
 " Say it out, then. Master Louis ! I desire information. 
 Why would not you come to visit me because I am kind 
 and good ? " 
 
 " Because it would be wrong in us to make ourselves 
 familiar with you, and wrong in you to treat us as equalsi 
 It would subject you to many disagreeable things. Your 
 equals would blame you, and say that you forgot your 
 rank, and I know that to be a heavy crime in their eyes 
 And then you would have to be just as kind to others a 
 to us, or the rest would be jealous, and become our en( 
 mies. Each one must follow his own course. They sa; 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 49 
 
 that the world is mightily changed within fifty years, but 
 to my mind nothing is changed but the ideas of people in 
 my rank. We will no longer submit as we have done. 
 Now my mother there, whom, for all that, I love dearly, 
 the good soul, sees things diiFerently from me. But the 
 rich and the nobles hold the same opinions as ever. If 
 you hold them not, if you do not despise common peo- 
 ple, but treat them with the same respect that you do your 
 equals, it may be so much the worse for you. I have often 
 seen your late husband, M. de Blanchemont, whom some 
 people continued to call the Lord of Blanchemont. Every 
 year he came to the country for two or three days. He 
 said thee and thou to us. If it had been in friendliness, 
 very well : but it was in contempt, and we must always 
 speak to him standing, and cap in hand. Now this did 
 not suit me at all. One day he met me on the road, and 
 ordered me to hold his horse. I made believe deaf : he 
 called me boor ; I looked sideways at him ; if he had not 
 been so slender and feeble, I would have let him hear a 
 word or two. But it would have been cowardly, and I 
 went singing on my way. That man could not be pleased 
 if he were living, and heard you speak as you do now to 
 me. Why, look you ! I saw to-day, only by your servants' 
 faces, that they thought you too unceremonious with us 
 and themselves. Ay, ay, madam, it is for you to come 
 and revisit the mill, and for us, who love you, not to go 
 and put ourselves at the table of the chateau." 
 
 " I forgive you all the rest for that last word, and I 
 think yet to convince you," said Marcelle, offering him 
 her hand, while the noble purity of her countenance com- 
 manded respect at the same time that her manner engaged 
 affection. The miller blushed as he received the delicate 
 fingers in his enormous hand, and, for the first time, felt 
 himself timid in Marcelle's presence, like a bold but lov- 
 ing child whose pride is suddenly conquered by tender- 
 ness. 
 
 "I will mount Sophie, and be your guide to Blanche- 
 mont," said he, after a moment of embarrassed silence ; 
 "this unlucky patachon would lead you astray again, 
 though it is not far." 
 
50 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 " I accept your kindness," said Marcelle ; " will you 
 still say that I am proud?" 
 
 " I will say, will say," cried Grand-Louis, rushing has- 
 tily out, "that if all rich women were like you — " 
 
 The end of his sentence was lost, and his mother fin- 
 ished it for him. 
 
 "He is thinking," said she, " that if the girl he loves 
 has as little pride as you, he should not be so tormented." 
 
 " And could not I be useful to him?" asked Marcelle, 
 with a joyful thought of her wealth and its sacred uses. 
 
 " Perhaps, by speaking well of him before the young 
 lady, for you will soon know her. But pshaw ! she is too 
 rich!" 
 
 "We will talk of it again," said Marcelle, perceiving 
 that her servants had come for her baggage. "I will 
 come back soon, perhaps to-morrow." 
 
 The red-headed, scrubbed patachon had passed the night 
 under a tree, for in the darkness he had not been able to 
 discover any habitation in the Black Valley. At day- 
 break he had perceived the mill, and there he and his 
 horse had been fed and refreshed, notwithstanding which 
 he was in very ill temper, and quite ready to reply inso- 
 lently to the reproaches which he expected. But, on the 
 one hand, Marcelle made him none, and on the other, 
 the miller overwhelmed him with so many jeers, that he 
 could not put in a word, and took his place on the shaft 
 in sheepish silence. Little Edward besought his mother 
 to let him ride on horseback before the miller, who took 
 him lovingly in his arms, saying aside to the old woman : 
 
 " Such an one would make a gay house for us, mother, 
 eh ? But that will never be ! " 
 
 And the mother understood that he would never marry 
 another than her to whom he could not reasonably aspire. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 51 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 BLANCHEMONT. 
 
 "\/l"ARCELLE having embraced Grand-Marie, and pri- 
 ^^ vately but amply recompensed the servants at the 
 mill, gayly reentered the detestable patache. She felt a 
 larger expansion and freedom of spirit from this, her first 
 trial of equality, and the result of her romantic projects 
 appeared to her eyes clothed in the most poetic colors. 
 But the mere sight of Blanchemont cast a shadow over 
 her thoughts, and she had no sooner passed the gate of 
 her domain, than her heart sank within her. 
 
 The terrace of Blanchemont is reached by following 
 the road up the river Vauvre, and climbing a rather steep 
 eminence. It is a pretty lawn, shaded by old trees, and 
 commanding a beautiful view, not one of the most exten- 
 sive in the Black Valley, but gentle and pleasing, over 
 a country which seems uninhabited, on account of the 
 scarcity of its dwellings, and the way in which their 
 roofs, of thatch or brown tile, are hidden among the 
 trees. 
 
 The terrace slopes gently toward the river, here flow- 
 ing in graceful windings, and is surrounded by the low 
 cabins of the hamlet, among which stands a humble 
 church. Thence a broad and stony road leads to the 
 chateau, placed in the midst of green fields, a little below, 
 and in rear of the terrace. From this level the beau- 
 tiful blue horizons of Berry and La Marche are lost from 
 sight, and become visible only from the second story of 
 the chateau. 
 
 This building never possessed great means of defence ; 
 its walls are only five or six feet thick at their foundation, 
 and its flanking towers are corbelled. It dates from the 
 
52 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 end of the feudal wars. Nevertheless, the small size of 
 its doors, the scarcity of windows, and the remains of 
 numerous walls and turrets which once clustered around 
 it, indicate an age of general distrust and precaution. It 
 is built with some elegance, in an oblong form, contain- 
 ing at each story one large room, with four towers en- 
 closing smaller chambers at the angles, and another tower 
 at the back, serving as cage to the solitary staircase. 
 The chapel is isolated by the destruction of the former 
 offices, the moat is partially filled up, the surrounding 
 turrets are broken off midway, and the pond which for- 
 merly washed the northern side of the chateau has be- 
 come a pretty meadow, with a little spring in its centre. 
 But the attention of the heiress of Blanchemont was not 
 at first occupied by the still picturesque aspect of the old 
 chateau. The miller, in helping her from the carriage, di- 
 rected her towards what he called the new chateau and the 
 immense farming establishment, situated at the foot of the 
 ancient manor, and close upon a very large court, enclosed 
 on one side by a battlemented wall, and on the other by a 
 hedge, and a ditch full of muddy water. Nothing can be 
 more dismal and disagreeable than this wealthy farmer's 
 dwelling. The new chateau is only a large and ordinary 
 house, built perhaps fifty years since, with the ruins of the 
 old fortifications, but the fresh stucco on its solid walls, and 
 the new tiles, of screeching red^* upon the roof, show that 
 it has been lately repaired. This exterior rejuvenation 
 jars with the antiquated look of the other farm-buildings, 
 and the egregious filthiness of the court. These dark 
 buildings, which show traces of ancient architecture, and 
 are solid and well preserved, form a continuous range of 
 barns and stables, the property of one tenant, who is 
 thereby the pride of all the farmers, and the admira- 
 tion of all the agriculturists of the country round. But 
 the space they enclose, although useful and convenient 
 for the work of the farm, offers a repulsive prospect to 
 the eye. Enormous heaps of manure, sunk in square 
 
 * Rouge criard. The grotesque strength of the French phrase 
 seems only to be matched by one of our own Western expres- 
 sions, which I have accordingly used. — Tr, 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 53 
 
 stone pits, and still rising ten or twelve feet above ground, 
 send forth unclean streams which arc allowed to run freely 
 towards the lower land, to improve the vegetables of the 
 kitchen garden. These stores of fatness are the favorite 
 possessions of the farmer. They fill his eye, and swell 
 his heart with pride when a neighbor looks upon them 
 with admiration or envy. In smaller farm-yards, these 
 details are not disagreeable to the artistic eye or mind. 
 Their irregularity, the confusion of farming tools, and the 
 verdure around all, conceal or make them graceful ; but 
 on a large scale, and in a broad field, nothing is more dis- 
 gusting than this all-surrounding filth. Flocks of turkeys, 
 geese, and ducks take care that there shall be no safety 
 in setting one's foot upon any spot spared by the flow 
 from the manure heaps. The ground, bare and uneven, 
 is crossed by a paved way, which at present is no more 
 practicable than the rest, for the remains of the old roof- 
 ing of the new chateau are scattered everywhere, so that 
 one literally walks upon a field of broken tiles. It is six 
 months, indeed, since the work was finished ; but the re- 
 pairs were at the charge of the owner of the estate, 
 while the expense of carrying away the rubbish and 
 clearing the court belongs to the tenant, who intends to 
 do it when the summer work is over, and his own men 
 can attend to it. On the one hand, he will thus econ- 
 omize several days of his laborers' time, and on the 
 other, he gratifies the heavy apathy of a Berrichon,* 
 who always leaves something unfinished, as if, after any 
 effort, his exhausted activity found repose and the luxury 
 of indolence indispensable before the end of the task. 
 
 Marcelle compared this coarse and disgusting rustic 
 opulence with the poetic competence of the miller, and 
 would have spoken to him on the subject, if a word could 
 have been heard amid the distressed cries of the turkeys, 
 unluckily rendered immovable by their very terror, the 
 hissing of maternal geese, and the barking of four or 
 five lean, yellow dogs. As it was Sunday, the cattle were 
 in the stables and the laborers hanging about the door, 
 
 ♦Native of the province of Berri. 
 
54 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 dressed from head to foot in their holiday clothes of dark 
 blue cloth. They stared at sight of the pataclie, but no 
 one stirred to receive it, or to warn the farmer of the ar- 
 rival of a visitor. Grand-Louis was obliged to serve as 
 usher to Mme. de Blanchemont, which he did with little 
 ceremony, calling out, as he entered without knocking : 
 
 " See here, Mme. Bricolin ! Here is Mme. de Blanche- 
 mont come to see you." 
 
 The three Bricolin women, who had just returned from 
 mass, and were about to partake, standing, of a slight col- 
 lation, were so startled by this unexpected news, that they 
 remained stupefied, looking at each other as to ask what 
 was to be said and done in such circumstances ; and they 
 had not yet stirred from their places when Marcelle 
 entered. The group before her was composed of three 
 generations. The mother Bricolin, who could neither 
 read or write, and who wore the peasant costume ; Mme. 
 Bricolin, the farmer's wife, a little more elegant than her 
 mother-in-law, and looking something like a curate's 
 liousekeeper ; she could sign her name legibly, and find 
 the times of sunrise, and the phases of the moon, in the 
 Liege almanac ; last. Mile. Rose Bricolin, fair and fresh 
 as a May rose, who knew very well how to read ro- 
 mances, keep the house accounts, and dance a contra^ 
 dance. Her hair was carefully braided, and she wore a 
 dress of rose-colored muslin, fitting perfectly to her beau- 
 tiful form, which was, however, somewhat injured by the 
 exaggerated length of the waist, and the tight sleeves 
 then in fashion. The expression of her charming face 
 was at once artless and shrewd, and effaced the disagree- 
 able impression which her mother's sharp and crabbed 
 look had made upon Marcelle. The physiognomy of the 
 grandmother was free and open, though she was sun- 
 burned and wrinkled, like one who had seen hard work 
 and weather. Tliese three women stood open-mouthed ; 
 Mother Bricolin really wondering whether this young and 
 beautiful lady were the same whom she had sometimes 
 seen at the chateau thirty years before ^-meaning Mar- 
 celle's mother, whom, nevertheless, she knew to have been 
 long dead — Mme. Bricolin, the mistress of the house, 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 55 
 
 observing that she had been too hasty on her return from 
 mass, in putting a kitchen apron over her maroon-colored 
 merino dress, and Mile. Rose, rapidly considering that 
 she was irreproachably clad and shod, and that, thanks to 
 the Sabbath, she could be surprised by a Parisian fine 
 lady without having to blush for any vulgar domestic 
 occupation. 
 
 In the eyes of the Bricolin family, Mme. de Blanche- 
 mont had always been a problematical being of possible 
 existence, whom they never had seen, and certainly never 
 would see. They had known her lordly husband, who 
 was not loved because he was haughty, not esteemed be- 
 cause he was extravagant, and not at all feared because 
 he was always in need of money, and would have it at 
 any price. Since his death, they had thought to deal only 
 with men of business, as the deceased had often said to 
 them, when producing his wife's complaisant signature, 
 " Mme. de Blanchemont is but a child ; she takes no con- 
 cern in all this, and cares very little where the money 
 comes from, if I only carry her enough." It is to be 
 understood that the husband was accustomed to lay to the 
 charge of his wife's expensive tastes all that he himself 
 lavished upon his mistresses. Thus there was no sus- 
 picion of the true character of the young widow, and Mme. 
 Bricolin thought herself dreaming, when she saw her ap- 
 pear in person in the very midst of Blanchemont Farm. 
 Ought she to be glad or sorry? Was this singular ap- 
 parition of good or evil augury for the prosperity of the 
 Bricolins? Had she come to claim or to sue? 
 
 While, a prey to these sudden perplexities, the dame 
 examined Marcelle something as a goat does a strange 
 dog in the flock. Rose Bricolin, suddenly won by the af- 
 fable air and simple attire of the stranger, had found 
 courage to advance two steps towards her. The grand- 
 mother was the least embarrassed of the three. After 
 the first moment of surprise, and when she had exerted 
 her feeble head to understand the state of the case, she 
 approached Marcelle with blunt frankness, and greeted 
 her in almost the same terms that had been used, though 
 with more grace and dignity, by the miller's mother of 
 
56 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 Angibault. The two others, reassured by the sweet aud 
 geutle maimer in which Marcelle requested their hospi- 
 tality for a lew days, that she might, as she said, talk 
 over her affairs with M. Bricolin, soon hastened to offer 
 her breakfast. 
 
 The excellent meal which she had taken, an hour be- 
 fore, at the mill of Angibault, was Marcelle's excuse for 
 refusing, and not till then were the eyes of the three 
 Bricolin women turned upon Grand-Louis, who stood 
 near the door, chatting with the servant-maid, for a pre- 
 text to stay a little longer. These three looks were very 
 different. The grandmother's was friendly, her daughter- 
 in-law's disdainful, and that of Rose doubtful and inde- 
 finable, as if both feelings were secretly mingled in it. 
 
 *' How ! " cried Mme. Bricolin, in a tone of united 
 condolence and scorn, when Marcelle had in few words 
 related her night's adventures, "you were forced to sleep 
 in that mill ? And we did not know it ! Eh 1 why did 
 not that stupid miller bring you here at once? Ah, 
 heavens ! What a bad night you must have passed, 
 madam ! " 
 
 "Excellent, on the contrary. I was treated like a 
 queen, and I am a thousand times obliged to M. Louis 
 and to his mother." 
 
 "Now that does not astonish me," said the mother 
 Bricolin ; " Grand'-Marie is such a fine woman, and 
 keeps her house so neatly ! She is my own old friend ; 
 we have kept sheep together, saving your presence ; we 
 were called two pretty lasses in those days, though you 
 would not think it now, would you, madam ? We each 
 knew just about the same things — to spin, and knit, and 
 make cheese, and that was all. We married very differ- 
 ently ; she took a man poorer than herself, and I one 
 richer than I was. But both were for love : that was the 
 way in our time ; now they marry only for money, and 
 shillings count for more than sentiments. They are nonej 
 the better for it, are they, Mme. de Blanchemont?" 1 
 
 " I am quite of your opinion," said Marcelle. 
 
 " Eh ! good conscience, mother, what idle tales are 
 you telling the lady ? " sharply resumed Mme. Bricolin. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 SI 
 
 "Do yon think she will be amused with your old stories? 
 Eh! miller!" she added in an imperious voice, "go 
 see if M. Bricolin is in the warren or the oat-field behind 
 the house. Tell him to come and pay his respects to 
 the lady." 
 
 "M. Bricolin," answered the miller, with a clear 
 glance and a look of merry bravado, "is neither in his 
 oat-ficld nor in the warren ; I saw him as I passed by, 
 drinking a measure with Monsieur the Curate, at the 
 presbytery." 
 
 "Ah, yes," said the grandmother, "he must be at the 
 freciijitary . Monsieur the Curate is always very hungry 
 and thirsty after high mass, and likes to have company. 
 Say, Louis, my boy, wilt thou go and fetch him, thou art 
 always so obliging?" 
 
 " I will go instantly," said the miller, who had not 
 stirred at the command of the farmer's wife ; and he 
 ran hastily out. 
 
 " If you think him obliging," muttered Mme. Bric- 
 olin, looking crossly at her mother-in-law, "you are not 
 hard to please." 
 
 "Oh, mamma, that should not be said," spoke pretty 
 Rose Bricolin, with her soft voice ; " Grand-Louis is 
 very good- hearted." 
 
 "And what is his good heart to you?" returned Mme. 
 Bricolin, with increased indignation. "What has set 
 you both up for him lately?" 
 
 "Nay, mamma, it is thou who art unjust towards 
 him of late," replied Rose, who, accustomed to her grand- 
 mother's protection, seemed to have no great fear of her 
 mother. "Thou art always rough with him, and yet 
 thou knowest that papa has great esteem for him." 
 
 " Thou wouldst do better thyself," said the mistress, 
 "to go, instead of prating, and prepare thy chamber, 
 which is the best ordered in the house, for the lady, who 
 perhaps would like to rest herself before dinner-time. 
 Madame will excuse us if she is not very well lodged 
 here. It was only last year that the late M. de Blanche- 
 mont agreed to fit up the new chateau a little, for it was 
 almost as much ruined as the old one ; and it was only 
 
58 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 then, at the renewal of our lease, that we could begin to 
 furnish suitably. Nothing is finished, the papers are not 
 yet put up in the chambers, and we expect bureaux and 
 beds, which have not yet come from Bourges. We have 
 some, too, still unpacked. We are fairly heels-over-head, 
 since the workmen overturned everything." 
 
 The domestic disarray which Mme. Bricolin thus detailed 
 in her discourse, sprung from precisely the same causes 
 as that which Marcelle had remarked outside the house. 
 Economy, joined to apathy, induced slow and long ex- 
 pense, and postponed indefinitely the enjoyment of the 
 desired luxury, wh^, although within their reach, 
 they dared not grasp. The dismal and smoke-blackened 
 room in which they had been surprised by the chatelaine, 
 was the ugliest aud dirtiest of the new chateau. It was 
 at once kitchen, eating-room, and parlor. The poultry 
 had access to it through the ever open door, and the oare 
 of driving them out was one of the constant occupations 
 of the mistress, whose natural activity and love of dis- 
 cipline were perhaps sustained by the perpetual state of 
 anger and severity in which she was kept by the repeated 
 offences of the fowls. Here were received the peasants 
 who came incessantly on business ; and as their muddy 
 feet and the freedom of their habits would inevitably 
 have spoiled a polished floor and fine furniture, only 
 coarse straw chairs and wooden benches were placed 
 upon the bare stone pavement, swept ten times a day, 
 but swept in vain. Swarms of flies, and the fire, which 
 at all hours and in all seasons burned in the huge 
 chimney-place, with its swinging cranes, made it an un- 
 comfortable place in summer. Yet this was the room 
 continually inhabited by the family ; and when Marcelle 
 was shown into the next apartment, she saw that the 
 parlor was virgin yet, although it had been furnished for 
 a year. It was decorated with the vulgar finery of a 
 tavern. The new floor had never yet been polished with 
 wax. The showy muslin curtains were hung from de- 
 testably ugly copper ornaments. The chimney garniture 
 corresponded to these in glitter and bad taste. A very 
 rich stand, intended for some future coffee-taking, re- 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 59 
 
 mained, with all its gilded bronzes, wrapped in paper and 
 twine. The furniture was covered with a red and white 
 check, beneath which the worsted damask was destined 
 to wear out without seeing the light ; and, as in these 
 farms no distinction is made between parlor and bed- 
 room, two mahogany bedsteads, still uncurtained, were 
 placed facing the window, on the right and left of the 
 door of entrance. It was whispered in the family that 
 this would be Rose's bridal chamber. 
 
 Marcelle found this house so disagreeable, that she de- 
 termined not to stay in it. She declared that she did 
 not wish to cause her hosts the least trouble, and that 
 she would find some peasant's hoilH in the village where 
 she could be lodged, imless tjiere were some habitable 
 chamber in the old chateau. Mme. Bricolin appeared 
 disturbed at this last idea, and spared no pains to turn 
 her guest's mind from it. 
 
 "It is very true," she said, "that there is always 
 what we call the 'master's room* in the old chateau. 
 When the baron, your late husband, did us the honor 
 to come here — as he always wrote beforehand, to give 
 us notice — we took care to clean up, that he should not 
 find things so bad. But the poor chateau is so dismal, 
 and so decayed — the rai3 and the night-birds make a 
 frightful noise inside — and besides, the roofs are so poor, 
 and the walls so tottling, that there is surely no safety 
 in sleeping there. I cannot imagine why the baron had 
 such a fancy for that room. He never would take one 
 with us, and one would have thought that he felt it a dis- 
 grace to pass a night elsewhere than under his own old 
 roof." 
 
 " I will go and look at the chamber," said Marcelle, 
 "and if it afford a shelter, it will be all I need. Mean- 
 while, I beg you not to disturb yourselves. I do not 
 wish to give you any trouble whatsoever." 
 
 Rose expressed her desire to yield her apartment to 
 Mme. de Blanchemont in so amiable a manner, and 
 with so winning a face, that Marcelle gently pressed her 
 hand to thank her, but adhered to her resolution. The 
 appearance of the new chateau, joined to an instinctive 
 
50 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 repugnance for Mrae. Bricolin, made her obstinate in 
 refusing the hospitality which at the mill she had at last 
 cordially accepted. 
 
 She was still declining the dame's ceremonious impor> 
 tunities, when M. Bricolin arrived. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, Si 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE PARVENU PEASANT. 
 
 IVyT BRICOLIN was a man of fifty, robust, and with 
 ^^^* regular features. But his thick-set limbs were 
 swollen by corpulence, as happens to all well-to-do country 
 bourgeois, who, passing their days in the open air, chiefly 
 on horseback, and leading an active, but not laborious life, 
 have just enough fatigue to keep them in excellent appe- 
 tite and perfect health. Thanks to the stimulus of con- 
 tinual air and exercise, such men endure daily excess for 
 a long time without suiFering from it ; but although in 
 their rural occupations their dress is very similar to that 
 of the peasant, they can never be mistaken at the first 
 glance. While the peasant is always thin, well-propor- 
 tioned, and of a swarthy complexion, which is not with- 
 out its beauty, the country bourgeois is always, from the 
 age of forty, afflicted with obesity, a heavy bearing, and 
 a vinous coloring of face, which vulgarize and disfigure 
 the finest organization. 
 
 Among those who have made their own fortunes, and 
 have begun life by the forced sobriety of the peasant, are 
 found no exceptions to this enlargement of the figure and 
 alteration of the skin. For it is a proverbial observation, 
 that when the peasant begins to eat meat and drink wine 
 freely, he becomes incapable of labor, and the return to 
 his former habits would be infallibly and promptly fatal. 
 It might be said of these men that their money has parsed 
 into their blood, that body and soul are bound to it, and 
 that the loss of fortune would cost them life or reason. 
 Every idea of devotion to humanity, every religious con- 
 ception, is almost incompatible with the transformation 
 produced by wealth in their physical and moral being. It 
 
62 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 would be useless to feel indignation against them. They 
 cannot be otherwise. They are fattening for apoplexy or 
 imbecility. Their faculties for the acquisition and pres- 
 ervation of wealth, strongly developed at first, are ex- 
 hausted toward the midst of their career, and after having 
 made a fortune with remarkable skill and rapidity, they 
 fall early into apathy, disorder, and incapacity. No social 
 ideal, no sentiment of progress upholds them. Digestion 
 becomes the business of their lives ; and the fortune they 
 have so vigorously acquired is involved, before its con- 
 solidation, in a thousand embarrassments, and compro- 
 mised by a thousand mistakes, not to speak of the vanity 
 which hurries them into speculations beyond their credit, 
 so that each of these rich men is commonly ruined just 
 when he is considered most an object of envy. 
 
 M. Bricolin had not yet reached this point. He was 
 at an age when the whole force of his activity and will 
 could still struggle against the double intoxication of 
 pride and intemperance. But one look at his sunken 
 eyes, his huge stomach, his shining nose, and the nervous 
 trembling given to his robust hand by his habit of a morn- 
 ing cup (that is to say, two bottles of white wine fasting), 
 was enough to show that the time was near when this man, 
 now so active and vigilant, so sagacious and so pitiless in 
 business, would lose health, memory, judgment, and even 
 his hard-heartedness, and become an exhausted drunkard, 
 a clumsy braggart, and an easily-cheated master. 
 
 His face had been handsome, although entirely desti- 
 tute of refinement. His compact and strongly-marked 
 features were indicative of uncommon energy and sever- 
 ity. His eye was black, quick and hard ; his mouth sen- 
 sual ; forehead low and narrow ; his hair crisp, and his 
 speech short and rapid. There was no falseness in his 
 look, nor hypocrisy in his manners. He was not a fraud- 
 ulent man, and his great respect for meum and tuum^ 
 according to the terms of actual society, made him incap- 
 able of cheating. Besides, the cynicism of his cupidity 
 prevented him from veiling his intentions ; and when he 
 had said to his neighbor, "My interest is contrary to 
 thine," he considered that his subsequent action was 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 63 
 
 based upon the most sacred right, and looked upon its 
 announcement as a deed of exaUed loyalty. 
 
 Half bourgeois, half laborer, his Sunday costume was 
 between that of the peasant and the gentleman. The form 
 of his hat was lower than that of the one, and it had a 
 narrower brim than that of the other. He wore a gray 
 blouse, gathered in folds around his short waist, so that 
 he looked like a girdled cask. His gaiters smelt unmis- 
 takably of tlie stable, and his black silk cravat was shin- 
 ing and greasy. This short, brusque personage made an 
 unpleasant impression upon Marcelle, and she had still 
 less sympathy with his conversation, which was prolix, 
 and always turning upon money, than with the unpleasing 
 attentions of his better half. 
 
 The following is nearly the substance of the two hours' 
 babble which she had to endure from Master Bricolin. 
 The estate of Blanchemont was loaded with mortgages 
 for a large third of its value. The late baron had, beside, 
 demanded considerable advances from his tenant, and paid 
 enormous interest, which M. Bricolin had been forced, to 
 exacts on account of the difficulty of procuring money, and 
 the usurious rates established in the country. Mme. de 
 Blanchemont would be obliged to submit to still harder 
 conditions, if she chose to continue the system which she 
 had authorized her husband to pursue, or else, before 
 claiming the revenues, she must pay the arrears, capital 
 and interest, and compound interest, altogether more than 
 a hundred thousand francs. As for the other creditors, 
 they desired to receive their entire due, or keep the whole 
 debt as an investment. It had thus become necessary to 
 sell the estate, or to obtain ready money ; in a word, the 
 property was worth eight hundred thousand francs, and 
 was encumbered with four hundred thousand francs of 
 debt, without counting that toward M. Bricolin. There 
 remained three hundred thousand francs, henceforth the 
 only fortune of Mme. de Blanchemont, independent of 
 what her husband had or had not left to his son, and of 
 which she was yet ignorant. 
 
 Far from foreseeing such great disasters, Marcelle had 
 not imagined the half of them. The creditors had made, 
 
6^ THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 as yet, no claim, and, well furnished with their titles, they 
 waited, M. Bricolin at their head, till the widow should 
 inquire into her position, to demand of her entire pay- 
 ment, or the continuation of the revenue assured to them 
 by the loan. When she asked Bricolin why, during a 
 month that she had been a widow, he had not informed 
 her of the state of her affairs, he told her with coarse 
 frankness that he had no reasons for haste, that her credit 
 was good, and that every day of indifference on the side 
 of the owner was a day of profit for the farmer, during 
 which he accumulated the ititerest of his money without 
 any risk. This peremptory reasoning quickly enlightened i 
 Marcelle upon M. Bricolin's species of morality. \ 
 
 "It is just," she answered, with a smile whose irony ' 
 was beyond the farmer's comprehension. " I see that 
 the fault is mine, if every day that I let slip devours more 
 than my expected income. But, for my son's interest, I 
 must put a stop to this kind of sliding-scale, and I expect 
 from you, M. Bricolin, good counsel on this subject." 
 
 M. Bricolin, much amazed at the composure with Avhich 
 the lady of Blanchemont had just received the informa- 
 tion that she was very nearly ruined, and still more at the 
 confidence with which she consulted him, looked full in 
 her face. He saw in her eyes a sort of arch defiance, 
 given by absolute candor to his cupidity. 
 
 "I see plainly," said he, "that you are trying me, but 
 I have no desire to expose myself to blame from your 
 family. It is injurious to a man to be accused of inter- 
 ested acquiescence in usurious rates. I must speak with 
 you seriously, Mme. de Blanchemont, but these walls are 
 too thin, and what I have to say must not be rumored 
 abroad. If you will pretend to go and examine the old 
 chateau with me, I will tell you, first, what I should ad- 
 vise you to do if I were your relation, and secondly, 
 what, being your creditor, I desire that you should do. 
 You will sec if there is any third course ; I think not.'* 
 
 If the old chateau had not been surrounded by bram- 
 bles, foul and stagnant pools, and a quantity of rubbish 
 which gave it an appearance of barbarous disorder, it 
 would have been a picturesque relic of the past. Part 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. ^^ 
 
 of the moat was filled with tall reeds, and one face of the 
 building, including a breach in the wall where some wild 
 cherry-trees had attained a magnificent growth, was cov- 
 ered with a superb ivy. This side was truly poetic. M. 
 Bricolin showed Marcelle the chamber which her husband 
 had been accustomed to inhabit on his visits ; it con- 
 tained some remains of furniture in the style of Louis 
 XVI., very dirty, and much faded. Nevertheless the 
 room was habitable, and Mme. de Blanchemont resolved 
 to pass the night there. 
 
 "That will rather vex my wife, who counted on the 
 honor of receiving you with her new furniture," said M. 
 Bricolin ; "but I know nothing more ill-mannered than to 
 tease people. If the old chateau please you, there is no 
 disputing on taste, as the saying is, and I will have your 
 baggage brought here. A cot shall be put in this closet 
 for your maid. Meanwhile, I must speak seriously to 
 you of your affairs, Mme. de Blanchemont. That is the 
 first thing to do." 
 
 And, drawing up an arm-chair, Bricolin seated him- 
 self and began thus : 
 
 " First, allow me to ask if you have of your own any 
 other fortune than the estate of Blanchemont? I think 
 not, if I am rightly informed." 
 
 "I have nothing else of my own," replied Marcelle 
 quietly. 
 
 " And do you think that your son inherits much for- 
 tune in right of his father ? " 
 
 " I know nothing about it. If M. de Blanchemont*8 
 estates are as heavily burdened as mine — " 
 
 " Ah ! you know nothing about it? You never attend, 
 then, to your affairs? That is odd ! But all the nobility 
 are so. Now as for me, I am obliged to know your situa- 
 tion. It is my business and my interest. Well then, 
 seeing that the late baron lived at a grand rate, and not 
 foreseeing that he would die so young, it was necessary 
 to assure myself of the holes he had made in his fortune, 
 so as to be on my guard against loans which might in 
 time have exceeded the value of this land, and left me 
 without security. So I have had the proper people on 
 
 5 
 
SS THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 the lookout, and I kuovv to a sou what remains, in theit 
 days of ours, to your little man." 
 
 " Do me the pleasure to inform me, Monsieur Bricolin.** 
 
 " It is easily done, and you can verify it. If I am 
 wrong by ten thousand francs, that is the outside. Your 
 husband had about a million, and that remains in appear- 
 ance, except that there are niue hundred and eighty or 
 ninety thousand francs of debts to pay." 
 
 " Then my son has nothing?" said Marcelle, disturbed 
 by this new revelation. 
 
 "As you say. With what you possess he will yet 
 have three hundred thousand francs some day. It is still 
 a pretty property if you will collect and free it. In land, 
 it will bring in six or seven thousand francs of rent. If 
 you live on the capital, it is still prettier." 
 
 " I do not intend to destroy my son's only future for- 
 tune. My duty is to free myself as much as possible 
 from my present embarrassment." 
 
 " In that case, see here ; your estates and his bring 
 you in two per cent. You are paying fifteen and twenty 
 per cent, on your debts ; with the accumulated interest, 
 you will soon greatly increase the capital of the debts. 
 What will you do?" 
 
 '* I must sell, must I not? " 
 
 " As you will. I believe it is your best way, unless, 
 nevertheless, as you have for some time the use of your 
 son's property, you should not prefer making your own 
 profit of the disorder." 
 
 "No, M. Bricolin, I have no such intention." 
 
 " But you might still draw upon this fortuue for money, 
 and as the boy has grandparents who will leave him 
 something, he would not be bankrupt when he came of 
 age." 
 
 "The argument is good," said Marcelle, coldly, "but 
 I choose a very different course. I will sell everything, 
 so that the liabilities of the inheritance may not exceed 
 the capital ; and as for my own property, I will free it, 
 to provide means for the suitable education of my son." 
 
 "In this case, you wish to sell Blanchemont ? " 
 
 " Yes, M. Bricolin, immediately." 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 67 
 
 "Immediately? I should think so. For one in your 
 position, who wishes to clear one's self, there is not a day 
 to lose, since each day makes a hole in the purse. But 
 do you think it an easy thing to sell an estate of such 
 importance immediately, either as a whole, or in divis- 
 ions ? As well say that by to-morrow you could build a 
 chateau like this, solid enough to last five or six hundred 
 years. You must know that in these days of ours, funds 
 are invested only in manufactures, in railroads, and 
 other great concerns, where there is cent, per cent, to 
 lose or gain. As for real estate, it is the devil to get 
 rid of. In our country, everybody wants to sell it, and 
 nobody will buy, because they are tired of burying heavy 
 capital in furrows where they reap only a slender income. 
 Real estate is good for one who resides upon it, lives by 
 it, and lays up money ; that is the life of country folks 
 like me. But it is a miserable revenue to you city people. 
 And so you would see an estate worth fifty, or at most a 
 hundred thousand, find eager purchasers among men like 
 me. Our means are seldom equal to a purchase worth 
 eight hundred thousand francs, and your Paris notary 
 would have to look up a capitalist with more money 
 than he knows what to do with. Do you imagine there 
 are many such nowadays, when a thousand larger 
 games are open, the exchange, the roulette table, railroad 
 bonds, and government places? You must come across 
 some timid old noble who had rather place his money 
 at two per cent., for fear of a revolution, than to plunge 
 into the splendid speculations which tempt everybody in 
 these days of ours. And then a handsome house would 
 be essential, where the old proprietor could finish his 
 days. But you see your chateau ? I would not take it 
 for the building materials. The rotten wood and broken 
 stone would not pay for the trouble of pulling it down. 
 So that you might, indeed, by advertising your estate, 
 sell it entire any morning ; but you might as likely wait 
 ten years, for though your notary should put upon his 
 placards, according to custom, that it pays three and 
 three and a half per cent., my lease will be seen, 
 
68 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 and show, that deducting the taxes, it does not pay 
 two." 
 
 *' Your advances to M. de Blanchemont were, perhaps, 
 a consideration in the drawing up of your lease ? " said 
 Marcelle, smiling. 
 
 " Just so," returned Bricolin, bluntly, " and my lease 
 is for twenty years ; one is gone — that leaves nineteen. 
 You know all about it, you signed it. Perhaps you did 
 not read it, after all. Faith ! that was your fault." 
 
 ''True — I complain of no one. And it seems I can 
 neither sell by wholesale or retail ? " 
 
 " By retail, you will sell well ; you will sell dear ; but 
 you will not be paid." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 "Because you will be forced to sell to a crowd of 
 people, of whom the greater number will not be solvent ; 
 to peasants who, at the best, will pay by instalments of 
 a sou at a time ; and to beggars led away by the fancy 
 of possessing a bit of land, as everybody does in these 
 days of ours, and whom you will be obliged to turn 
 out at the end of ten years, without recovering anything. 
 You would not like to distrain them ? " 
 
 " I could never bring myself to it. So, M. Bricolin, 
 according to you, I can neither keep nor sell?" 
 
 "If you will be moderate, not sell dear, and want 
 ready money, you can sell to somebody I know." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Me." 
 
 " You, Monsieur Bricolin ? " 
 
 "Me, Nicolas Etienne Bricolin." 
 
 "In truth," said Marcelle, who at this moment re- 
 called some words she had heard drop from the Miller 
 of Angibault, "I have heard of this before. And what 
 are your proposals ? " 
 
 " I will arrange everything with your mortgagees ; I 
 will cut up the estate, sell to these, buy of those, keep 
 what I like, and pay you the rest." 
 
 "And will you pay the creditors ready money too? 
 You are immensely rich, M. Bricolin ! " 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 69 
 
 *'No, I shall make them wait, and, in one way or 
 another, I will rid you of them." 
 
 "I thought they were all impatient to be paid; did 
 you not tell me so?" 
 
 "They would be exacting with you, but they will 
 allow me credit." 
 
 "Right. Perhaps they consider me insolvent.'*" 
 
 " Possibly ! in these days of ours, people are very 
 suspicious. Let us see, Mme. de Blanchemont: you 
 owe me one hundred thousand francs ; I will give you 
 two hundred and fifty thousand, and we are quits." 
 
 "That is to say, you would pay me two hundred and 
 fifty thousand francs for what is worth three hundred 
 thousand ? " 
 
 " It is fair that you should give me this little bonus ; 
 I pay ready money. You may say it is for my own 
 advantage to avoid the interest, having the money by 
 me ; but it is as much for your advantage to have the 
 cash in hand, for, if you wait, you will see neither sou 
 nor centime of it." 
 
 "Thus you will profit by the embarrassment of my 
 situation to take a sixth of what is left to me?" 
 
 "I have a right to do so, and anybody else would ex- 
 act more. You may be sure that I will attend to your 
 interests as much as possible. Well, my first word is 
 my last. You will consider it." 
 
 "Yes, M. Bricolin, it appears to me to require con- 
 sideration." 
 
 " Faith ! I believe it does ! You must first make sure 
 that I do not deceive you, and am not deceived myself, 
 as to your position and property. You are here now ; 
 you will take information, see everything for yourself; 
 you can even visit your husband's estates at Blanc ; and, 
 when you are prepared, say in a month, you will give 
 me your answer. Only, in thinking of my offer, you 
 may establish your calculations with certainty upon this 
 basis : you may indeed, in the first place, make a net 
 sale at double the price 1 offer, but you will not get half 
 of it, at least not these ten years, in which time the 
 interest you have to pay will swallow it up ; or, in the 
 
70 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 second place, you may sell to me at the loss of a sixth, 
 and receive within three months two hundred and fifty 
 thousand francs in fine gold or silver, or good bank- 
 notes, as you choose. There, I have done ! Now let us 
 go back to the house, and in less than an hour dinner 
 will be ready. You must make yourself entirely at home 
 with us, you see, my lady baroness. We are on busi- 
 ness, and unless you should call for the other pint stoup, 
 it is a trifle." 
 
 Marcelle's position with the Bricolins removed all 
 scruple from her mind, and indeed made the acceptance 
 of the invitation necessary. She promised to avail her- 
 self of it, but desired to stay at the old chateau to write 
 a letter in the intermediate hour, and M. Bricolin left 
 her to send her servants and baggage. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 71 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND. 
 
 TOURING- the few moments that she was left alone, 
 •*-^ Marcelle made many rapid reflections, and soon 
 felt that she derived an energy from love which nothing 
 but this all-powerful inspiration could have supplied. 
 She had been a little frightened by the first sight of the 
 forlorn manor, the only dwelling she possessed ; but 
 when she learned that even this ruin would not long be 
 hers, she smiled, and began to look upon it with simple 
 and disinterested curiosity. The lordly escutcheon of 
 her family was still uninjured over the huge chimney- 
 place. 
 
 "And now," she said to herself, "all will soon be 
 broken between me and the past. Riches and nobility 
 fade together, in these days of ours, as this Bricolin says. 
 O my God ! be Thou praised for having made love for 
 all time, and immortal as Thyself!" 
 
 Suzette came, bringing her mistress's writing mate- 
 rials ; but as she opened them, Marcelle chanced to turn 
 her eyes upon her waiting-maid, and could not help laugh- 
 ing at the strange expression with which she contem- 
 plated the bare walls of the old chateau. Suzette's face 
 grew darker, and her voice had a decided tone of revolt 
 as she said : "Madame is determined to sleep here?" 
 
 "You see that I am," replied Marcelle, "and here is 
 a closet for you, with a magnificent view and plenty of 
 air." 
 
 "I am much obliged to madame, but madame may be 
 sure that I shall not sleep there. I am frightened here 
 in broad daylight, and what will it be at night ? They 
 say that he walks here, and I can easily believe it." 
 
73 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 "Nonsense, Suzette. I will protect you from ghosts.** 
 
 "Madame will have tlie goodness to let one of the 
 women on the farm sleep here, for I would set off on 
 foot to get out of this dreadful country — " 
 
 "You are tragic, Suzette. I will not constrain you in 
 the least, you shall sleep where you like ; but you must 
 understand that if you are in the habit of refusing me 
 your services, I shall be under the necessity of parting 
 with you." 
 
 "If madame expects to stay long in this country, and 
 live in this dungeon — " 
 
 "I am obliged to stay here a month, and perhaps 
 more ; what will you decide ? " 
 
 " I will ask madame to please to send me to Paris, or 
 to some other of her estates, for I can take my oath that 
 I shall die here before three days." 
 
 "My dear Suzette," replied Marcelle, with great gen- 
 tleness, " I have no other estate, and it is not likely that 
 I shall ever again live in Paris. I have no longer a 
 fortune, my child ; and it is probable that I could not 
 keep you much longer in my service. Since you dislike 
 this place, it would be useless to keep you here for 
 some days only. I will pay you your wages and your 
 expenses. The patache which brought us has not gone 
 back. I will give you a good recommendation, and 
 my relations will help you to find a place." 
 
 "But how does madame expect that I should go off all 
 alone ? It was taking a deal of pains, truly, to bring me 
 so far into this lost country." 
 
 "I did not know that I was ruined, and I have but 
 just learned it," replied Marcelle, calmly ; "make me no 
 reproaches ; it is against my will that I have given you 
 this vexation. Besides, you will not go alone ; Lapierre 
 will return to Paris with you." 
 
 "Will madame dismiss Lapierre too?" asked Suzette, 
 in consternation. 
 
 "I do not dismiss Lapierre. I return him to my 
 mother-in-law, who lent him to me, and will be glad to 
 take back the good old man Go and dine, Suzette, and 
 prepare to start." 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 73 
 
 Confounded by the composure and quiet sweetness of 
 her mistress, Suzette burst into tears, and in a quick, 
 and perhaps unreflective return of affection, besought 
 that she would forgive and retain her. 
 
 "No, my dear child," replied Marcelle, "your wages 
 are henceforth beyond my means. I regret you, not- 
 withstanding your whims, and perhaps you will also 
 regret me, notwithstanding my failings. But it is a neces- 
 sary sacrifice, and the present time is not one for weak- 
 ness." 
 
 "And what will become of madame? without fortune, 
 or servants, and with a young child, in such a desert? 
 Poor little Edward ! " 
 
 " Do not be troubled, Suzette ; you will certainly find a 
 place with some one of my acquaintance. We shall meet 
 again. You will see Edward again. Do not cry before 
 him, I beg of you." 
 
 Suzette went out, but Marcelle had not yet dipped her 
 pen in the ink, when the tall miller appeared before her, 
 carrying Edward on one arm, and a carpet-bag on the 
 other. 
 
 "Ah !" said Marcelle, as he put the child in her lap, 
 "you are always busy obliging me, M. Louis. I am 
 very glad that you have not gone. I had scarcely thanked 
 you, and I should have been sorry not to say good-by." 
 
 "No, lam not gone," said the miller, " and to say 
 the truth, I am in no hurry to be off. But see, madam, 
 if it is the same to you, do not call me monsieur. I am 
 not a gentleman, and from you this ceremony annoys me. 
 Call me Louis, or Grand-Louis, as everybody does." 
 
 "But I must remind you that this will be contrary to 
 equality, and that after what you said this morning — " 
 
 "This morning I was a brute, a horse, and a mill- 
 horse, which is worse. I was prejudiced — on account 
 of your nobility and your husband — how do I know? 
 If you had called me Louis, I believe I should have 
 called you — what is your name?'* 
 
 " Marcelle." 
 
 "I like that name, — Madame Marcelle! Ah, welll 
 
74 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 I will call you so ; that will not remind me of the 
 baron." 
 
 "But if I do not call you monsieur, you will call me 
 plain Marcelle," said Mme. de Blanchemont. 
 
 "No, no, you are a woman, and one in a thousand — 
 the devil take me ! Hold, I will not deny it, I have you 
 in my heart, especially for the last few moments." 
 
 "Why for the last few moments, Grand-Louis?" 
 asked Marcelle, who had begun to write, and only 
 half heard the miller. 
 
 "Because while you were talking with your maid 
 just now, I was on the stairs with your rogue of a boy, 
 who played a thousand pranks to keep me from going on, 
 and I heard all you said in spite of myself. I ask your 
 pardon." 
 
 " There is no harm in that," said Marcelle ; " my 
 position is no secret, since I tell it to Suzette ; and if it 
 were, I am sure that a secret would be well placed in 
 your hands." 
 
 "Your secrets would be placed in my heart," re- 
 turned the miller with emotion. " So then you did not 
 know, till you came here, that you were ruined?" 
 
 " No, I did not know it. It was M. Bricolin who 
 told me. All I expected were reparable losses." 
 
 " And you are no more sorry than this?" 
 
 Marcelle, who was now writing, did not reply ; but, 
 looking up after a moment, she saw Grand-Louis stand- 
 ing before her, his arms crossed, and his eyes fixed upon 
 her with a kind of simple enthusiasm and profound 
 wonder. 
 
 " Is it so astonishing," said she to him, " to see a per- 
 son lose her fortune without losing her senses ? Besides, 
 have I not enough left to live upon ? " 
 
 " I know pretty well what you have left. I am per- 
 haps better acquainted with your affairs than you are, for 
 Father Bricolin loves to talk when he has drank his cup, 
 and he tired me to death with all this business, when I 
 did not care a straw for it. But it is all the same. A 
 person who does not wince at seeing a million on one 
 side and half a million on the other go from her — crac I 
 
T?IE MILLER OP ANGIBAULT, 75 
 
 — in a twinkling ! I never saw such a thing, and I do 
 not understand it now.*' 
 
 " You would be still more puzzled if I told you that, 
 as far as I am concerned, it gives me great pleasure." 
 
 " Ah ! but on your son's account ! " said the miller, 
 lowering his voice, that the boy, playing in the next room, 
 should not hear. 
 
 " I was somewhat alarmed at the first moment," said 
 Marcelle, "but I soon comforted myself. For a long' 
 time I have felt it a misfortune to be born rich, and be 
 destined to idleness, and the hatred of the poor, and the 
 selfish immunities of wealth. I have often been sorry 
 not to be the daughter and mother of laborers. Now, 
 Louis, I shall be one of the people, and men like you will 
 be no longer suspicious of me." 
 
 " You will not be one of the people," said the miller ; 
 " you have still a fortune which they would look upon as 
 immense, though it be not much for you. Besides, this 
 little one has rich relations, who will not suffer him to be 
 brought up in poverty. So these are all romances of 
 yours, Madame Marcelle ; but where the deuce did you 
 get these ideas ? You must needs be a saint, the devil 
 take me ! It sounds very strange to hear you say such 
 things when all other people of wealth only think of get- 
 ting more. You are the first of your kind that I have 
 seen. Are there other rich and noble persons at Paris 
 who think as you do ? " 
 
 " There arc none, I must confess. But do not give me 
 so much credit, Grand-Louis. The day may come when 
 I can make you understand why 1 feel thus." 
 
 " Excuse me, but I suspect." 
 
 *' No." 
 
 " True, and the proof is that I cannot tell you. These 
 are delicate matters, and you would tell me that I was 
 too bold to question you upon them. Yet if you knew 
 how shamefaced I am upon this chapter, and how cap- 
 able of comprehending the pains of others ! I will tell 
 my own troubles. Yes, thunder ! that I will. Only you 
 and my mother shall know. You will say some good 
 words to me, which will restore my senses." 
 
fj6 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 ** And what if I told you, in my turn, that I suspect? ** 
 
 " You ought to suspect ! That shows tliat love and 
 money are mixed up in all these things." 
 
 " I desire your confidence, Grand-Louis ; but here 
 comes my old Lapierre. We shall meet soon again, shall 
 we not ? " 
 
 " We must," said the miller, lowering his voice, " for 
 I have many things to ask you about your affairs with 
 Bricolin. I am afraid the old fellow is too hard upon 
 you ; and who knows but, peasant as I am, I may be of 
 some service to you ? Will you treat me as a friend ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " And you will do nothing without letting me know? " 
 
 " That I promise you, my friend. Here is Lapierre." 
 
 "Must I go?" 
 
 " Stay in the other room with Edward. I may have 
 need of your advice, if you have some minutes more to 
 spare." 
 
 " It is Sunday — and then I would have if it were any 
 other day." 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 77 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 T APIERRE entered. Suzette had already told him 
 •*-' everything. He was pale and trembling. Old, 
 and incapable of laborious service, he was only a kkid 
 of escort for Marcelle on her journey. But without ever 
 having expressed it, he was strongly attached to her, and 
 notwithstanding the dislike -vhich he, as well as Suzette, 
 felt for the Black Valley and the old chateau, he refused 
 to quit his mistress, and declared that he would serve her 
 for whatever wages she should think proper to give him. 
 
 Touched by his noble devotion, Marcelle aifectionately 
 pressed his hand, and overcame his resistance by proving 
 to him that he could be more useful to her by returning to 
 Paris than by staying at Blanchemont. She wished *© 
 dispose of her rich furniture, and Lapierre was well qual- 
 ified to preside over the sale, receive the proceeds, and 
 apply them to the settlement of what small running ac- 
 counts Mme. de Blanchemont might have left at Paris. 
 Upright and intelligent, Lapierre was flattered with play- 
 ing the part of a confidential agent, and with rendering a 
 service to the mistress from whom he reluctantly separ- 
 ated. The arrangements for departure were then made. 
 Here Marcelle, who thought of all the details of her sit- 
 uation with remarkable coolness, summoned Grand-Louis, 
 and asked him if he thought that the carriage she had left 
 at * * * could be sold in the neighborhood. 
 
 " So you are burning your ships?" answered the mil- 
 ler. " All the better for us ! Perhaps you will stay 
 here ; and I ask no better than to keep you. I often go 
 to * * * on business, and to see one of my sisters, who 
 is settled there, so that I know pretty much all that ia 
 
jrS THE MILLER OF ANGIBAVLT. 
 
 going on ; and I see that for some years past all our 
 bourgeois are used to fine carriages and all sorts of lux- 
 ury. I know a man who thinks of sending for one to 
 Paris. Now yours is already here, which will save him 
 the freight, and with us, people are very careful in little 
 savings, even while extravagant in great follies. Your 
 carriage seemed to me good and handsome. How much 
 is such a thing worth ? '* 
 
 " Two thousand francs." 
 
 " Would you like me to go to * * * with M. Lapierre ? 
 I will introduce him to the purchasers, and he will re- 
 ceive the price ; for it is only strangers who can get ready 
 money from us." 
 
 "If it were not for encroaching upon your time and 
 kindness, you could do the business alone." 
 
 " I will go with pleasure. But do not speak of it to 
 M. Bricolin ; he would want to buy it himself the next 
 thing." 
 
 "Well, why not?" 
 
 " Oh, pshaw ! that would be all that is wanting to turn 
 his — all his family's heads! Besides, Bricolin would 
 find some way to pay you only half its value. I will take 
 charge of it." 
 
 " If so, will you bring me the money, if possible? for 
 I expected to receive some here, instead of which I shall 
 doubtless have some to pay." 
 
 " Very well, we will start this evening ; that will not 
 disturb me, because it is Sunday ; and if I do not come 
 back to-morrow evening or next day morning with two 
 thousand francs, call me a braggart." 
 
 " How good you are ! " said Marcelle, thinking of the 
 rapacity of her wealthy farmer. 
 
 " Sliall I bring you your trunks, too, that you left over 
 there ? " asked G rand-Louis. 
 
 " If you will be so good as to hire a cart and send 
 them to me — " 
 
 "No, no ; where*s the use of hiring a man and horse? 
 I will put Sophie to the wagon, and I will warrant that 
 Mile. Suzette had rather ride in the open air on a bundle 
 of straw, with a good driver like me, than with that crazy 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 79 
 
 patachon in his salad-basket. Stay a minute ! that is 
 not all. You must have a maid ; M. Bricolin's are too 
 busy to amuse your rogue of a child from morning till 
 night. Ah ! if I had only time myself, we would lead 
 a merry life together, for I adore children, and this one 
 has more wit than I ! I will lend you little Fanchou, 
 my mother's maid-servant. We can do without her very 
 well for a while. She will guard him like the apple of 
 her eye, and will do all you bid her. Her only fault is 
 that she will say ' Ma* am f * three times, at every word 
 you speak to her. But what would you have? She 
 thinks it polite, and would expect a scolding if she did 
 not pretend to be deaf." 
 
 " You are my good angel," said Marcelle ; " and in my 
 very embarrassing situation, it is wonderful that I should 
 find such a kind heart to help me." 
 
 " Bah ! bah ! these are little friendly services, which 
 you will return in some way or other. You have already 
 done me a great kindness, without suspecting it, since 
 you came here." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " We will talk of it by-and-by," said the miller with a 
 mysterious look, and with a smile in which the earnest- 
 ness of his passion made a strange contrast with the 
 gayety of his character. 
 
 The departure of the miller and the domestics having 
 been fixed, by common consent, for the same evening, in 
 the cool, as Grand-Louis said, Marcelle, having only a 
 few moments before the dinner-hour, wrote in haste the 
 two following letters : 
 
 LSTTEK I. 
 
 *' Mabcelle, Baroness of Blanchemont, to the Countess of 
 
 Blanchemont, her mother-in-law : 
 
 "Dear Mamma, — I address myself to you as the 
 bravest of women and the best head in the family, to 
 announce to you, and to desire you to announce to the 
 worthy count and to the rest of our dear relatives, a piece 
 of news which will, I am sure, aifect you more than it 
 
 i 
 
So THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 does me. You have too often shared with me your ap- 
 prehensions, and we have talked too much on the sub](?ct 
 now before me, for you not to understand me at the first 
 hint. Of Edward^s fortune^ there is nothing^ ahsolutehj 
 nothing^ left. Of mine, there remains two hundred and 
 fifty thousand or three hundred thousand francs. I still 
 know my situation only through a man who would be in- 
 terested in exaggerating, if the thing were possible, the 
 disaster, but who has too much sense to attempt to de- 
 ceive me, when to-morrow, or the day after, I can pro- 
 cure my own information. I send good Lapierre back 
 to you, and need not urge you to take him again. You 
 gave him to me for the purpose of keeping some order 
 and economy in my household expenses. He did his best ; 
 but of what avail was the domestic saving, when the pro- 
 digality without was so imcontroUed and boundless? 
 Certain reasons, which he will himself explain to you, 
 oblige me to hasten his departure, and this makes me 
 write to you so hastily, and without entering into details, 
 of which I am not yet entirely mistress, and which you 
 shall have later. I depend upon Lapierre*s seeing yow 
 alone and giving you this, so that you may have some 
 hours, or days, as you need, to prepare the count for this 
 revelation. You will soften it to him by repeating what 
 you know of me, how indifferent I am to the enjoyment 
 of wealth, and how utterly incapable of saying evil of 
 any person or anything in the past. How can I help 
 pardoning him who was so unhappy as not to live long 
 enough to repair his errors ? Dear mamma, let his mem- 
 ory receive full and easy absolution from your heart and 
 mine ! 
 
 " Now, two words about Edward and myself, who are 
 only one in this stroke of destiny. I shall have enough 
 left, I hope, to provide for his support and education. 
 He is not old enough to mourn over losses of which he is 
 ignorant, and of which he had better be left ignorant, as 
 far as possible, till he is capable of understanding them. 
 Is it not fortunate for him that this change in his circum- 
 stances has happened before a luxurious life had become 
 a necessity to him ? If it be a misfortune to be reduced 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 8 1 
 
 to mere necessaries, (and it is not so in my eyes,) he will 
 not feel it, and, accustomed henceforth to a modest way 
 of life, he will think himself sufficiently rich. Since he 
 was destined to fall into moderate circumstances, it is a 
 kindness of Providence to bring him to them at an age 
 when the lesson, far from being bitter, can be only useful 
 to him. You will tell me that other inheritances are in 
 store for him. I know nothing of these possibilities, and 
 have no desire to profit by them. I should refuse almost 
 as an insult the sacrifices which his family might impose 
 upon themselves to procure me what is called an honor- 
 alile life. In the apprehension of what I have just learned, 
 I had already formed a plan of conduct. I am now con- 
 firmed in it, and nothing in the world shall make me de- 
 part from it. I am resolved to establish myself in the 
 depths of the country, where I will accustom my boy's 
 first years to a simple and laborious life, and where he 
 will have neither the sight, nor the contact of others' 
 riches, to destroy the good effect of my example and my 
 lessons. I do not give up the hope of sometimes present- 
 ing him to you, and you will take pleasure in seeing a 
 robust and merry child, instead of the frail, dreamy crea- 
 ture for whose existence we never ceased to tremble. I 
 know your rights over him, and the respect I owe to your 
 desires and your advice ; but I hope that you will not 
 censure my project, and that you will leave to me the 
 guidance of a childhood in which a mother's assiduous 
 cares and the healthful country influences will be of more 
 use than superficial lessons from a fat-salaried professor, 
 gymnasium exercises, and drives to the Bois de Boulogne. 
 Do not be concerned as to me ; I have no regrets for my 
 easy life and its indolent appliances. I love the country 
 passionately, and I shall occupy the long hours of which 
 the world will no longer rob me, in instructing myself, 
 that I may teach my son. You have always had some 
 confidence in me, and the time is come when I must ask 
 for entire trust. I venture to expect it, knowing that you 
 have only to question your own energetic soul and deeply 
 maternal heart to comprehend my designs and resolutions. 
 •'All this may meet with opposition in the minds of 
 6 
 
82 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 the family, but when you have once pronounced oae right, 
 all will agree with you. Thus I place our present and 
 our future in your hands, and I am, with devotion, ten- 
 derness, and respect, 
 
 " Yours for life, Marcelle." 
 
 A postscript followed relative to Suzette, and a requesi 
 to have the family man of business sent to Blanc, to verifj 
 the ruin of the property there, and take prompt measurej 
 for its settlement. As to her personal affairs, MarcelU 
 could and would arrange them herself, with the assistan 
 of competent men on the spot. 
 
 The second letter was addressed to Henri Lemor. 
 
 Letter II. 
 
 "What joy and happiness, Henri ! I am ruined. Yoi 
 will never more reproach me for my wealth, never mor< 
 hate my gilded chains. I am again a woman whom yoi 
 can love without remorse, and who can make no sacrifices 
 for you. My son has no rich inheritance, at least for the 
 present. I have henceforth the right to bring him up ii 
 your views, to make a man of him, to confide his educa- 
 tion, and to deliver his entire being to you. I will nol 
 deceive you, we may have a little struggle with his father'^ 
 family, who, in their blind tenderness and aristocrati< 
 pride, would restore him to the world by enriching hio] 
 in spite of me. But we will triumph by means of gentle^ 
 uess, a little tact, and a good deal of firmness. I shall 
 keep far enough from their influence to paralyze it, an< 
 we will enfold the development of this young spirit with 
 a sweet mystery. It shall be the childhood of Jupiter ii 
 the recesses of the sacred grottos. And when he leaver 
 this divine retreat to try his strength, when he is temptec" 
 by wealth, we shall have made his soul strong against 
 worldly seduction, and the corruption of gold. Henri, ^ 
 am cradled in the sweetest hopes ; do not destroy thei 
 by cruel doubts, and scruples which I should now cal 
 pusillanimous. You owe me your support and your pro- 
 tection, now that I am about to isolate myself from a 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. S3 
 
 kind and solicitous family, which I resist and leave for 
 this only reason, that they do not share your principles. 
 What I wrote to you two days since, on quitting Paris, is 
 thus fully and easily confirmed by this note. I do not call 
 you to me now, I ought not ; and prudence, too, exacts 
 that I should remain without seeing you, long enough to 
 exclude the possibility of any one's attributing my self- 
 imposed exile to my feeling for you. I do not tell you 
 what retreat I shall choose, I am myself ignorant. But 
 in a year, Henri, dear Henri, in a year from the fifteenth 
 of August, you will rejoin me from wheresoever I call 
 you. Till then, unless you share my confidence in my- 
 self, I had rather that you should not write to me — but 
 shall I have strength to live a year without knowing any- 
 thing of you ? No, nor you either. Write me two words, 
 only to say, / live and I love I And direct to the care of 
 my faithful old Lapierre, at the Hotel de Blanchemont. 
 Adieu, Henri I Oh ! if you could read my heart, and see 
 how much more worthy I am than you think ! Edward 
 is well, and does not forget you. He alone will speak to 
 me of you now. *' M. b." 
 
 Having sealed these two letters, Marcelle, whose only 
 remaining vanity lay in the angelic beauty of her boy, ar- 
 ranged Edward's dress a little, and crossed the farm-yard. 
 Dinner was waiting for her, and, in her honor, served in 
 the parlor, since there was no other eating-room save the 
 kitchen, which Mme. Bricolin, w^ho herself cooked with 
 the help of her mother-in-law and her servant, found 
 most convenient, and where there was no danger of in- 
 juring the furniture. Marcelle soon perceived this varia- 
 tion from the habits of the family. Mme. Bricolin, 
 whose civility was instinctively tinged with that ill-humor 
 which is the essence of ill-breeding, took pains to make 
 her aware of it, by continually asking pardon for the poor 
 attendance on table, and the confusion of her servants. 
 Marcelle requested and insisted that they should hence- 
 forth resume their regular customs, declaring, with a gay 
 smile, that she would go and dine at the mill of Angibault 
 if they treated her ceremoniously. 
 
$4 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 " And speaking of the mill," said Mme. Bricolin, after 
 some strained expressions of politeness, " I must scold 
 M. Bricolin. Ah, there he is ! Now say, M. Bricolin, 
 hast thou lost thy wits, to ask this miller to dine with us 
 on a day when the lady baroness does us the honor to ac- 
 cept our repast?" 
 
 " Ah, the devil ! I never thought," answered the far- 
 mer, candidly; " or rather — I thought when I invited 
 Grand-Louis, that madame would not do us that honor. 
 My lord baron always refused, thou knowest ; he was 
 served in his chamber, which, by the way, was very in- 
 convenient — in short, Tkibaude, if it annoys madame to 
 eat with the boy, thou shalt tell him so ; thou dost not 
 keep thy tongue in velvet. I will have nothing to do with 
 it ; I made the folly — it is not my business to mend it." 
 
 " And it is mine, as usual," said sharp Mme. Bricolin, 
 who, as the eldest of the Thibault girls, retained her 
 family name with a feminine termination, according to 
 the ancient usage of the country. " Come, I will pack 
 thy fine Louis home again ! " 
 
 "You would give me much pain by so doing, and I 
 believe I should go away myself," said Mme. de Blanche- 
 mont in a firm and even severe tone, which imposed re- 
 spect on the dame ; "I breakfasted this morning with 
 this young man, at his own house, and found him so 
 obliging, so polite, and so amiable, that I should really be 
 sorry to dine without him this afternoon." 
 
 " Indeed !" said the lovely Rose, who had listened to 
 Marcelle with much attention, and whose eyes expressed 
 mingled surprise and pleasure ; but she lowered them 
 and blushed, on meeting the scrutinizing and menacing 
 look of her mother. 
 
 " It shall be as madame pleases," said Mme. Bricolin ; 
 and she added, in an under tone, to her servant, who was 
 favored with her confidential observations when she was 
 angry : 
 
 " See what it is to be a handsome man ! " 
 
 La Chounette (diminutive for Fanchon) smiled with 
 a knowing look, which made her uglier than usual. She 
 in reality thought the miller a wQjy handsome man, and 
 
I 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 85 
 
 had a grudge against him for not making love to her- 
 self. 
 
 "Come then!" said M. Bricolin, "the miller shall 
 dine with us. Madame is right not to be proud. It is 
 always the way to make friends. Rose, go and call 
 Grand-Louis in the court. Tell him the soup is on the 
 table. I should have been sorry to affront the boy. Do 
 you know, my lady baroness, that I have reason to stand 
 up for this miller ? He is the only one who does not keep 
 double measure, and does not change the grain. Yes, 
 the only one in the country, the devil take me ! Each 
 one of them is a greater thief than the other ; besides, 
 the country proverb says, ' Catch a miller, catch a thief.' 
 I have tried them all, and find only this one who does not 
 make false accounts and vile mixtures. And then he is 
 attentive in every way to us. He never grinds my wheat 
 on stones that have just been used for rye or barley. He 
 knows that it spoils the flour, and makes it dark. He 
 piques himself on pleasing me, because he knows that I 
 depend on having beautiful bread on my table. That is 
 my one vanity ! I am mortified if any one comes here 
 and does not say, ' Ah ! what fine bread ! It takes you, 
 Master Bricolin, to raise such grain.' " 
 
 " Your bread is certainly magnificent," said Marcelle, 
 as much to praise the miller as to satisfy M. Bricolin's 
 vanity. 
 
 "Dear heart ! what a fuss for a speck more or less in 
 the bread, and for a bushel more or less a week !" cried 
 Mme. Bricolin. " When we have millers much nearer, 
 and a mill at the foot of the terrace, to do business with 
 a man who lives a league off!" 
 
 ."What is it to thee?" said her spouse, "since he 
 comes for the sacks and brings them back without taking 
 a handful beyond his toll ? * Besides, he has a fine, good 
 
 ♦The millers in the Black Valley are never paid; they take 
 their toll of the corn with more or less fidelity, and are gener- 
 ally more honest than M. Bricolin allows. When they have 
 much custom, they make more than their living by their business, 
 and can open a small trade in grain. 
 
S6 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 mill, two great new wheels, a famous reservoir, and never 
 wants for water. It is pleasant never to wait." 
 
 "And then, as he comes so far," said the dame, "you 
 always think yourself obliged to ask him to dinner or 
 supper. Fine economy ! " 
 
 The entrance of the miller put an end to this conjugal 
 dispute. M. Bricolin contented himself, when his wife 
 scolded, with shrugging his shoulders, and talking a little 
 quicker than usual. He forgave her crabbed humor 
 because her active and parsimonious management was of 
 great use to him. 
 
 " Come, Rose," cried Mme. Bricolin to her daughter, 
 who returned with Grand-Louis, "we are waiting for 
 thee to go to table. Thou mightst have sent for the mil- 
 ler by La Chounette, instead of running thyself." 
 
 " My father bid me," said Rose. 
 
 " And I am sure you would not have come without," 
 said the miller, in a low voice, to the young girl. 
 
 " Is that my thanks for being scolded on your account?" 
 replied Rose, in the same tone. 
 
 Marcelle did not hear what they said, but these stolen 
 words exchanged between them, the blushes of Rose and 
 the emotion of Grand-Louis, confirmed her in her sus- 
 picion of the cause of Mme. Bricolin's aversion for the 
 poor fellow ; the fair Rose was the object of the thoughts 
 of the Miller of Angibault. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 87 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 DINNER AT THE FARM. 
 
 T^ESIROUS to advance the interests nearest the heart 
 -■^ of her new friend, and seeing no danger in it for 
 Mile. Bricolin, since her father and grandmother ap- 
 peared to favor Grand-Louis, Mme. de Blanchemont took 
 pains to make him talk during the meal, and to turn the 
 conversation upon subjects on which his information and 
 intelligence made him very superior to all the Bricolin 
 family, perhaps even to the charming Rose. Upon agricul- 
 ture, considered as a natural science rather than as a com- 
 mercial speculation ; politics, considered as an endeavor 
 after happiness and human justice ; upon religion and 
 morals. Grand Louis's ideas were elementary, but just, 
 lofty, stamped with good sense and a perspicacity and 
 nobleness of spirit, never before brought to light at the 
 farm. The Bricolins had only coarsely vulgar subjects 
 of conversation, and all their wit was spent in scanda- 
 lous and uncharitable talk about their neighbors. Grand- 
 Louis, liking neither commonplaces nor scandal, spoke 
 little when there, and had never manifested his powers. 
 M. Bricolin had settled it that, like all handsome men, 
 he was dull ; and Rose, who had always seen her lover 
 fearful and depressed, that is, shamefaced and bashful, 
 could only excuse his want of spirit by boasting of his 
 excellent heart. Thus they were at first amazed at 
 seeing Mme. de Blanchemont talk with him from choice, 
 and then still more amazed to hear him speak so 
 well. M. Bricolin, who, unsuspicious of his love for 
 his daughter, listened to him with pleasure, was five 
 or six times so much astonished as to strike on the 
 table and cry : 
 
88 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 " Thou knowest that, too I Where the devil didst 
 thou fish that up?" 
 
 *' Bah ! in the river ! " gayly returned Grand-Louis. 
 
 Mme. Bricolin fell by degrees into sullen silence, a3 
 she saw her enemy's success, and she determined to warn 
 M. Bricolin that very evening of the discovery she had, 
 or thought she had made, respecting the sentiments of 
 this peasant for his daughter. 
 
 As to the old mother, she understood nothing of the 
 conversation, but slie thought that the miller talked like 
 a book, because he uttered several sentences together 
 without hesitation or stammering. Rose did not appear 
 to listen, but she lost not a word, and involuntarily her 
 eyes were fixed on those of Grand-Louis. There was a 
 fifth Bricolin, to whom Marcelle paid little attention. 
 This was the old father Bricolin, dressed, like his wife, in 
 peasant costume, who ate much, said nothing, and did 
 not seem to think much more. He was almost deaf, 
 almost blind, and seemed entirely idiotic. His old wife 
 had led him to table like a child. She was very busy 
 about him, filled his plate and his cup, took away the 
 crumb of his bread, because he had lost all his teeth, 
 and his hard and insensible gums could crunch only the 
 hardest crusts, but never spoke to him, as if that had 
 been lost pains. Nevertheless, when he sat down she 
 made him understand that he must take off his hat, out 
 of respect to Mme. de Blanchemont. He obeyed, but 
 without appearing to know why, and resumed it imme- 
 diately ; a liberty which M. Bricolin, his son, after the 
 country fashion, also permitted himself. The miller had 
 not abstained from this custom in the morning at the 
 mill ; but now he slyly thrust his cap into his pocket, 
 divided between a new instinct of deference that Mar- 
 celle had inspired in him towards women, and the fear 
 of seeming to play the pupoy for the first time in his 
 life. 
 
 Meanwhile, though admiring what he called the fine 
 learning of the tall miller, M. Bricolin soon found him- 
 self of a different opinion in everything. In agricul- 
 ture, he conceived that there was nothing new to try, 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 89 
 
 that philosophers had never made any discoveries, and 
 that innovation always led to ruin ; that ever since the 
 world was, up to tlie^e days of ours, people had always 
 done the same, and never would do better. 
 
 " Good ! " said the miller ; " nevertheless, the first 
 who did what we do now, they who yoked cattle to open 
 the earth and sow the seed, they did something new, and 
 could they have been stopped by persuading them that 
 land which had never been tilled could never become 
 fertile ? It is so in politics ; now say, M. Bricolin, if 
 you had been told a hundred years ago that you should 
 pay no more tithes nor due-moneys, that the convents 
 should be destroyed — " 
 
 "Bah ! bah ! I might not have believed it ; very true, 
 but that happened because it was to happen. All is for 
 the best in these days of ours. Everybody is free to make 
 his fortune, and nothing will ever be invented better than 
 that." 
 
 " And the poor, the lazy, the weak, the stupid, what 
 do you make of them?" 
 
 '"I make nothing of them, for they are good for 
 nothing. The worse for them ! " 
 
 "And if you were one of them, M. Bricolin, which 
 God forbid ! (you are very far from it,) would you say, 
 ' the worse for me ' ? No, no, you were not saying what 
 you thought when you said, ' the worse for them ! ' You 
 have too much heart and too much religion for that." 
 
 " I ! Religion? I laugh at religion, and so dost thou. I 
 can see it is trying to come back, but I am not in the 
 least concerned. Our curate is a good fellow, and I do 
 not interfere with him. If he were a bigot, I should soon 
 give him his walking ticket. Who believes in all such 
 stuff in these days of ours?" 
 
 "And your wife, and your mother, and your daugh- 
 ter, do they call it stuff?" 
 
 "Oh, it pleases them and amuses them. Women seem 
 to need it." 
 
 "And we peasants, too, we are like women, we need a 
 reli^rion." 
 
90 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 " "Well I you have one to your hand ; go to mass — I do 
 not hinder you, if you do not force me to go." 
 
 " Even that might happen, if the religion that we have 
 should again become fanatic and persecuting, as she has 
 been so much and so often." 
 
 " It is good for nothing then ? Let it fall. I can do 
 very well without it." 
 
 *' But since we others must positively have one, must 
 we have another ? " 
 
 " Another, another ! The devil I how thou goest on I 
 Make one thyself ! " 
 
 "I would have one to keep men from hating, fearing, 
 and injuring one another." 
 
 " That would indeed be something new ! I should 
 fancy one like that, which would prevent my harvesters 
 from stealing my corn at night, and my day-laborers from 
 taking three hours at noon to eat their soup." 
 
 *' That would be, if you had a religion which com- 
 manded you to make them as happy as yourself." 
 
 " Grand-Louis, you have true religion in your heart," 
 said Marcelle. 
 
 " He has indeed ! " said Rose, warmly. 
 
 M. Bricolin dared not reply. He was determined to 
 gain Mme. de Blanchemont's confidence, and not to give 
 her a bad opinion of him. Grand-Louis, who saw Rose's 
 sudden impulse, glanced a look of burning gratitude at 
 Marcelle. 
 
 The sun was low, and the plentiful dinner drew towards 
 an end. M. Bricolin, leaning heavily in his chair, thanks 
 to an ample meal and copious draughts, was disposed to 
 betake himself to his favorite pleasure, of drinking coffee 
 " laced " with brandy, and varied by liqueurs, during two 
 or three hours of the evening. But Grand-Louis, upon 
 whom he reckoned for company, left the table, and went 
 to prepare for departure. Mme. de Blanchemont went 
 also to receive the adieux of her servants, and pay them 
 their wages. She gave Lapierre her letter to her mother- 
 in-law, and, taking the miller aside, she intrusted him 
 with that addressed to Henri, requesting him to take it 
 himself to the post. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 91 
 
 "Make yourself easy," said he, comprehending that 
 here was some mystery. " It shall not leave my hand 
 till it falls into the box, and no one shall see it, not even 
 your servants, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Thanks, my kind Louis." 
 
 "Thanks! You say thanks to me? Me, who ought 
 to say it on my knees to you ? No ; you do not know 
 what I owe you ! I am going by our house, and in two 
 hours our little Fanchon shall be with you. She is 
 neater and gentler than that great Chounette here." 
 
 When Louis and Lapierre were gone, Marcelle felt for 
 an instant mentally distressed at finding herself alone, at 
 the mercy of the Bricolin family. It made her melan- 
 choly ; and, taking Edward by the hand, she slipped out 
 and gained a little wood which she saw on the opposite 
 side of the meadow. It was still day, and the sun 
 sinking behind the old chateau, threw far along the 
 gigantic shadows of its tall towers. She had not gone 
 far before she was joined by Rose, who felt drawn 
 towards her, and whose sweet face was the only agree- 
 able object that her eyes could have met at this moment. 
 
 "I should like to show you the warren," said the 
 damsel ; "it is my favorite spot, and I am sure you will 
 like it." 
 
 "Whatever it be, I shall think it pleasant in your 
 company," replied Marcelle, passing her arm familiarly 
 through Rose's. 
 
 The ancient manorial park of Blanchemont, destroyed 
 in the time of the revolution, was thenceforth enclosed 
 by a deep ditch filled with running water, and by tall quick- 
 set hedges, where Rose left a piece of the trimming of her 
 muslin dress, with the haste and indifierence of a girl 
 whose wardrobe is well filled. The venerable stumps of 
 the old oaks were covered with young shoots, and the 
 warren had become only a close coppice, in which the 
 axe had spared some ancient lords of the soil, who now 
 seemed like dignified ancestors extending their robust 
 and gnarled arms over a fresh and numerous posterity. 
 Pleasant paths went up and down over the natural 
 irregularities of the soil, and wound under the close, 
 
92 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 low foliage. It was a mysterious wood, where one 
 might wander freely, leaning on a lover's arm. Marcelle 
 drove away this thought from her beating heart, and 
 fell into a revery as she listened to the songs of the 
 nightingales, linnets, and thrushes who peopled the de- 
 serted and quiet grove. 
 
 The only avenue not overgrown by the coppice was at 
 the farther edge of the wood, and served as a wagon- 
 road for the farm. Marcelle drew near it with Rose, 
 and her child ran before. Suddenly he paused, and 
 came slowly back, doubtful, serious, and pale. 
 
 "What is there?" asked his mother, accustomed to 
 interpret all his impressions, and seeing that he was 
 struggling between fear and curiosity. 
 
 "There is an ugly woman down there," answered 
 Edward. 
 
 " She may be ugly and good too," returned Marcelle , 
 "Lapierre is very good, but he is not handsome." 
 
 "Oh, Lapierre is not ugly ! " exclaimed Edward, who, 
 like all children, admired those whom he loved. 
 
 "Take my hand," said Marcelle, "and we will go 
 and see this ugly woman." 
 
 "No, no, do not go there, it is of no use," said Rose, 
 in a sad and embarrassed manner, but without any sign 
 of fear. "I did not think that she was there." 
 
 "I wish to accustom Edward to conquer his fears," 
 said Marcelle to her in a low voice. 
 
 Rose dared not withstand her, and she went on. But 
 in the midst of the avenue she stopped, struck with a 
 kind of terror at the sight of the singular being who was 
 slowly advancing towards her. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 93 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR. 
 
 "DENEATH the majestic arch formed by the tall oaks 
 ^^ on either side of the avenue, which were touched 
 with strong lights and deep shadows by the setting sun, 
 there walked with measured steps a woman, or rather a 
 nameless being, who seemed buried in stern meditation. 
 The face was one of those so denaturalized and brutified 
 by misfortune, as to show neither age nor sex. Still 
 there had been a certain nobleness in the regular fea- 
 tures, not entirely destroyed even by the terrible ravages 
 of grief and disease, and the long black hair which 
 streamed dishevelled from under her white cap, over 
 which was set a man's straw hat, torn and broken, gave 
 a sinister cast to the narrow and bronzed physiognomy 
 which it shadowed. Of this face, worn by fever and 
 yellow as satfron, nothing could be seen but two large 
 black glaring eyes, whose preoccupied gaze was seldom 
 met, a straight and well-formed, though somewhat too 
 prominent, nose, and a livid and half-open mouth. Pier 
 garments, disgustingly dirty, belonged to the bourgeois 
 class ; a poor gown of yellow stuff, half unfastened and 
 trailing on one side, clung around a shapeless form whose 
 high and constantly bent shoulders had acquired a size 
 disproportioned to the rest of the emaciated body. Her 
 lean and swarthy legs were bare, and filthy and ragged 
 shoes ill defended her feet against the flints and thorns, 
 to which she seemed, nevertheless, insensible. She walked 
 slowly, her head bent forward, her eyes fixed on the 
 ground, and her hands busied with twisting and squeezing 
 a bloody handkerchief. 
 
 She came straight towards Mme. de Blanchemont, 
 
94 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 who, concealing her terror that it might not infect Ed- 
 ward, waited with dismay to see whether she would 
 take the right or left, that she might pass her. But 
 the spectre, for this creature resembled an ill-boding 
 apparition, came on, without appearing to notice any 
 one, and, judging by her face, which did not indicate 
 idiocy, but rather leaden despair, she received no impres- 
 sion from external objects. Still, when she reached the 
 shadow which Marcelle cast at her feet, she stopped 
 short, as if she had met an insurmountable obstacle, and 
 suddenly turning her back, resumed her perpetual and 
 monotonous walk. 
 
 "It is poor Bricoline," said Rose, without lowering 
 her voice, though she was near enough to hear. " It is 
 my eldest sister, who is crazy. She is not thirty, though 
 she looks like an old woman, and it is twelve years 
 since she has spoken a word to us, or appeared to hear 
 our voices. We do not know whether she is deaf. She 
 is not dumb, for she sometimes speaks when she thinks 
 herself alone, but there is no sense in what she says. 
 She always wishes to be alone, and she is not ill- 
 tempered unless she is crossed. Do not be afraid of her ; 
 if you do not seem to see her, she will not even look 
 at you. It is only when we try to make her a little 
 cleaner that she gets angry, and struggles and screams 
 as if we were hurting her." 
 
 " Mamma," said Edward, trying to conceal his fear, 
 " take me back to the house ; I am hungry." 
 
 "How shouldst thou be hungry? thou has just left 
 the table," said Marcelle, who felt as ready as the boy 
 to quit this melancholy spectacle. "Thou art surely 
 mistaken ; come iuto another path ; perhaps there is too 
 much sun here, and the heat tires thee." 
 
 " Yes, yes, let us go back to the grove," said Rose ; 
 '' this is a sad sight. There is no risk of her following 
 us, and besides, when she is in an alley, she seldom 
 leaves it; you can see in this how the grass is worn 
 away in the middle, she has walked to and fro so often 
 in the same place. Poor sister ! such a pity ! She was 
 so handsome and so sweet ! I remember when she car- 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 95 
 
 ried me in her arms and took care of me as you do of 
 this pretty child. But since her misfortune she does not 
 know me, and does not even remember that I exist." 
 
 "Ah! my dear Mile. Rose, this is indeed a terrible 
 misfortune. And what was the cause of it? Was it 
 grief or sickness ? Does any one know ? " 
 
 " Alas ! yes, we know well. But we do not speak of 
 it." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, if the interest I feel for you has 
 led me to ask an intrusive question." 
 
 " Oh ! it is another thing with you, madam. You seem 
 to me so kind that one would never feel humiliated before 
 you. So I will tell you, between ourselves, that my poor 
 sister became crazy in consequence of being crossed in 
 love. She loved a young man who was very good and 
 true, but had no money, and our parents would not con- 
 sent to the marriage. The young man enlisted, and was 
 killed at Algiers. Poor Bricoline was always sad and 
 silent after his departure ; they thought that time would 
 cure her vexation and disappointment, but she heard of 
 his death in too cruel a manner. My mother, thinking 
 that if she lost all hope she would recover herself, told 
 her this bad news, suddenly and harshly, at a time when 
 such emotion might have been fatal. My sister did not 
 seem to hear, and answered nothing. It was just supper- 
 time ; I i-emember it as well as if it were yesterday, though 
 I was very young. She let fall her fork, and looked at 
 my mother more than a quarter of an hour without say- 
 ing a word, without closing her eyes, and in so strange a 
 way that my mother was frightened, and cried : ' Would 
 not one say she was going to eat me?' 'You will come 
 to that pass,' said my grandmother, who is an excel- 
 lent woman, and would have had Bricoline marry her 
 lover ; ' you will torment her so that you will make her 
 crazy.' My grandmother judged but too well. My sister 
 was crazy, and from that day she has never eaten with 
 us. She touches nothing that is given her, and lives al- 
 ways by herself, avoiding us all, and subsisting on old 
 scraps that she picks up in the kitchen when no one is by. 
 Sometimes she throws herself upon a fowl, kills it, teara 
 
96 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 it with her fingers, and devours it all bloody. I am sure 
 that is what she has just done, for there is blood upon her 
 hands and kerchief. At other times, she pulls vegetables 
 in the garden and eats them raw. In short, she lives 
 like a savage, and frightens everybody. This is what 
 comes from being crossed in love ; and my poor parents 
 are heavily punished for misunderstanding their daugh- 
 ter's heart. Yet they never say what they would do if it 
 were to be done again." 
 
 Marcelle thought that Rose alluded to herself; and wish- 
 ing to know how far she returned Grand-Louis's love, she 
 encouraged her confidence by a gentle and affectionate 
 manner. They had reached the opposite border of the 
 warren, farthest from the madwoman's walk ; Marcelle 
 felt more easy, and little Edward had already forgotten 
 his fear, and resumed his frolic race around his mother. 
 
 " Your mother does seem to me rather strict," said 
 Mmc. de Bkinchemoat to her companion ; '' but M. Bric- 
 olin looks as if he were more indulgent to you." 
 
 Rose shook her head. " Papa makes less noise about 
 it than mamma," she said. " He is more lively and ca- 
 ressing ; he makes more presents, pays more amiable at- 
 tentions, and indeed he loves his children dearly, the good 
 father ! But in what concerns fortune, and what he calls 
 suitability, his will is perhaps more immovable than ray 
 mother's. I have heard him say a hundred times that 
 one were better dead than poor, and that he would kill 
 me rather than consent — " 
 
 " To marry you according to your choice?" said Mar- 
 celle, seeing that Rose was unable to express herself. 
 
 " Oh ! that was not what he said," returned Rose, with 
 a little prudish air. " I have never thought of marriage, 
 and I do not yet know but that my choice would be his. 
 But, in short, he is very ambitious for me, and torments 
 himself already with the fear of finding no son-in-law 
 worthy of him. For this reason I shall not be married 
 so soon, and I am glad of it, for I have no desire to leave 
 my home, notwithstanding the little vexations I have from 
 mamma." 
 
 Marcelle thought Rose not quite honest in this last deo- 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 97 
 
 laration ; but not wishing to force her confidence, she ob- 
 served that Rose herself was doubtless very ambitious. 
 
 "Oh ! not at all ! " answered Rose, openly. '' I have 
 more money than I need or care for ; and though my 
 father says that as we are five children (for I have two 
 sisters and a brother married), each one's share will not 
 be so very large, it is all the same to me. My tastes are 
 simple, and I see plainly that, as things go on, the richer 
 people are so much the poorer also." 
 
 "How so? " 
 
 " At least it is true of us farmers. You of the nobility 
 make splendid use of your fortunes : you are even accused, 
 among us, of extravagance ; and when we see so many old 
 families ruined, we say that we will be wiser, and care- 
 fully — what shall I say ? — passionately set about found- 
 ing a race on wealth. One should always double and 
 triple all that one holds ; at least, this is what my father, 
 my mother, my sisters and their husbands, my aunts and 
 my cousins, have repeated to me in every key ever since 
 I was born. And so, not to delay in growing rich, they 
 endure all sorts of privations. Now and then a show of 
 expense is made before others ; but in the private house- 
 keeping they would, as the saying is, shave an %^^'g. They 
 are afraid of spoiling their furniture, their clothes, and of 
 making themselves too comfortable. At least, this is my 
 mother's system, and it is rather hard to save all one's 
 life, and deprive one's self of all pleasure when one is quite 
 able to command it. And when it is necessary to econ- 
 omize in the comfort, pay, and appetite of others, and to 
 be hard upon workpeople, it becomes very sad. As to 
 me, if I were my own mistress I would refuse nothing 
 to myself nor to anybody else. I would live up to my 
 income, and perhaps the capital would be none the worse 
 for it ; for people would love me, and work for me with 
 zeal and fidelity. Was not that what Grand-Louis said 
 at dinner? He was right." 
 
 " My dear Rose, he was right in theory.** 
 
 " In theory?" 
 
 "I mean that his generous ideas apply to a state of 
 society which does not yet exist, although sure to com© in 
 7 
 
98 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 time. As to actual practice, I mean as to what can be 
 realized now, you are much mistaken if you think that a 
 few good people, in the midst of so many who are bad, 
 could expect to be understood, loved, or rewarded in this 
 life." 
 
 " I am astonished at what you say. I thought that you 
 would agree with me. Then you think it right to crush 
 those who labor for our advantage ? " 
 
 " I do not agree with you, Rose, and yet I am very far 
 from thinking as you suppose. I would have no one com- 
 pelled to labor for another, but that each should work for 
 all, and in this way for God and for himself at once." 
 
 " And how could that be done? " 
 
 " The explanation would be too long, my child, and I 
 fear I should give but a poor one. Meanwhile, till the 
 future of my imagination become a reality, I regard it 
 as a great misfortune to be rich, and for my part am very 
 happy to be so no longer." 
 
 " That is odd," said Rose ; " those who are rich can 
 nevertheless do great good to those who are not, and that 
 is the greatest happiness ! " 
 
 " One well-intentioned person can do but little good, 
 even in giving away his all, and then he would be utterly 
 powerless ! " 
 
 " But if everybody did the same ? " 
 
 " Yes, everybody ! That is what is needed ; but it is 
 impossible now to induce all rich people to make such a 
 sacrifice. Even you. Rose, would not like to make it 
 completely. You would like to use your income in re- 
 lieving as much sutferiug as possible, that is, in raising a 
 few families above want ; but you would retain your cap- 
 ital, and I, who preach to you — I hold to the wreck of 
 my fortune to save what is called the honor of my son. 
 That is, I must preserve enough for him to meet his 
 father's debts without himself falling into absolute desti- 
 tution, which would involve lack of education, exces- 
 sive labor, and probably death for a delicate boy, born of 
 an indolent race, and heir to a feeble organization, which 
 is in this respect far inferior to that of the peasant. Thus 
 you see that, with all our good intentions, we who know 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 99 
 
 not what remedy society can bring to this condition of 
 things, we can do nothing, unless it be to prefer for our- 
 selves mediocrity to riches, and work to idleness. This 
 is one step toward virtue ; but how small is our merit in 
 it, and what inefficient help does it present for the abound- 
 ing misery which meets our eyes and saddens our hearts ! " 
 
 "But the remedy?" said Rose, quite stupefied. "Is 
 there no remedy ? The king ought to find it in his head, 
 since a king can do everything." 
 
 " A king can do nothing, or almost nothing," replied 
 Marcelle, smiling at Rose's simplicity. "The people 
 must find it in their hearts." 
 
 " All this seems to me like a dream," said the good 
 Rose. " It is the first time that I have heard these things 
 talked of. 1 think of them, indeed, sometimes all by my- 
 self, but at home no one ever says that the world does not 
 go on well. They say that one should take care of one's 
 self, because one's own happiness is the only thing that 
 nobody else will take care of, and that everybody is each 
 one's great enemy ; that is fearful, is it not? " 
 
 " And there is a strange contradiction in it. The world 
 goes very ill, because it is filled only with creatures full of 
 mutual fear and distrust." 
 
 "But what is your thought for escape? For one does 
 not perceive the wrong without having the idea of some- 
 thing better." 
 
 "This idea may be clear when all the world has con- 
 ceived it with you, and assists you in producing it. But 
 when there are only a few against all, and one is mocked 
 at for thinking of it, and it is made a crime to speak of 
 it, the sight is troubled and uncertain. This is the 
 case, I do not say with the greatest spirits of our time — 
 I know nothing of them, I am but an ignorant woman — 
 but with the best meaning hearts, and that is our present 
 position." 
 
 " Yes, in these days of ours^ as papa says," said Rose, 
 smiling. Then, with a sad expression, she added : " What, 
 then, can I do? What shall I do to be good, being 
 rich?" 
 
 "You will keep as a treasure in your heart, my deaf 
 
lOO THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 Bose, sympathy with suffering, that love of one's neigh- 
 bor which the Gospel teaches, and the ardent desire to 
 sacrifice yourself for the good of others, in the day when 
 this individual sacrifice may be useful to all." 
 
 *'That day will come, then?" 
 
 *'Do not doubt it." 
 
 *' You are sure of it?" 
 
 "As of the justice and the goodness of God." 
 
 " It is true, indeed, God cannot let evil last forever. 
 It is all the same, my lady baroness ; you have dazzled 
 my brain, and my head aches ; but still it seems to me 
 that I understand now why you lost your fortune so 
 calmly, and there are moments in which I imagine that 
 I could myself accept a mere competence with pleasure." 
 
 " And what if you must become poor — suffer, labor?" 
 
 " Saints ! if it were of no use it would be dreadful ! " 
 
 "And if one began the while to see that it was of 
 some use ? If it were necessary to pass through a crisis 
 of great agony, a sort of martyrdom, that humanity 
 might be saved?" 
 
 "Well, then," said Rose, looking amazedly at Mar- 
 celle, "one would endure it patiently." 
 
 "One would rush into it with enthusiasm!" cried 
 Marcelle, with a look and tone which startled Rose, but 
 electrified her with sympathy, though to her own extreme 
 surprise. 
 
 Edward began to slacken his sport, and the moon 
 rose. Marcelle thought it time to put the child to bed, 
 and Rose followed her in silence, still all confounded by 
 the conversation they had held together. But falling 
 back upon the realities of life as she drew near the farm, 
 and heard from afar her mother's resounding voice, she 
 said to herself, looking at the young chatelaine walking 
 before her : 
 
 "Can she, too, be crazy?" 
 
 i 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIB'AT-JLT. tov 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 TSJOTWITHSTANDING this apprehension, Rose felt 
 •^ ^ irresistibly drawn to Marcelle. She helped her to 
 undress her child, surrounded her with a thousand 
 charming attentions, and when about to leave her, took 
 her hand to kiss. Marcelle, who already loved her as a 
 child of sweet natural endowments, prevented her, by 
 kissing both her cheeks. Encouraged and deHghted, 
 Rose lingered. 
 
 " I should like to ask you one thing," said she at last. 
 *' Has Grand-Louis really enough mind to comprehend 
 you?" 
 
 "Certainly, Rose! But what is that to you?" an- 
 swered Marcelle, with a spice of mischief. 
 
 " Only it seemed very strange to me to-day to see that 
 of us all, it was our miller who had most thoughts. And 
 yet he has had no great instruction, poor Louis ! " 
 
 "But he has so much heart and sense!" said Mar- 
 celle. 
 
 " Oh, indeed he has heart ! I know him very well. 
 I was brought up with him. His elder sister was my 
 foster-mother, and my first years were passed at the mill 
 of Angibault. Did not he tell you about it ? " 
 
 " He did not speak of you to me, but I thought I per- 
 ceived that he was much devoted to you." 
 
 "He has always been very good to me," said Rose, 
 blushing. "His love of children is a proof of his ex- 
 celieuce. He was not more than seven or eight when I 
 was at nurse with his sister, and my grandmother says 
 that he tended me and amused me as if he had been old 
 enough for my father. It seems, too, that I was so fond 
 
iOi lim M7LLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 of him tliat I would not leave him ; and my mother, who 
 did not dislike him ithen as she does now, brought hira 
 home with me for company, when I was weaned. He 
 staid here two or three years, instead of the two or three 
 months proposed at first. He was so active and service- 
 able that he was very useful to us. His mother was then 
 poorly off, and my grandmother, who is her friend, 
 thought it a good plan to relieve her from one of her chil- 
 dren. I remember well the time when Louis, my poor 
 sister, and I were always running and playing together in 
 the field, or the warren, or the barns. But when he was 
 old enough to be of use to his mother in the mill, she 
 sent for him. We were so sorry to part, and I fretted so 
 without him, and his mother and sister (my foster- 
 mother) were so fond of me, that they took me to 
 Angibault every Saturday evening to stay till Monday 
 morning. This lasted till I was old enough to be sent to 
 boarding-school ; and when I came out, of course a young 
 man like the miller, and a girl who was considered a 
 young lady, could no longer be playmates together. 
 Still we often see each other, especially since my father 
 employs him as his miller, notwithstanding the distance, 
 and he comes here three or four times a week. And 
 then I always take great pleasure in making a visit to 
 Angibault, and his mother, whom I love dearly. Well, 
 madam, can you conceive that for some time my mother 
 has an idea that this is not well, and prevents my go- 
 ing there ? She has taken the greatest dislike to poor 
 Louis, she does all she can to mortify him, and has for- 
 bidden me to dance with him at the assemblies, on pre- 
 tence that he is beneath me. But all of us young ladies 
 in the country, we always dance with the peasants wlio 
 invite us ; and besides, it cannot be said that the Miller 
 of Angibault is a peasant. He has about 20,000 francs, 
 and has been better brought up than many others. To 
 tell you the truth, my cousin Honore Bricolin does not 
 write and spell as well as he, though much more money 
 has been spent on his education, and I cannot see why 
 they would have me so proud of my family.*' 
 
 " I cannot understand either," said Marcelle, who saw 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 103 
 
 that a little art was necessary with Mile. Rose, and that 
 she would not confess herself with the ardent freedom of 
 Grand-Louis. "Do you see nothing in the good miller's 
 manners that may have caused your mother's dis- 
 pleasure?" 
 
 "Oh! nothing at all. He is a thousand times more 
 polite and well-behaved than any of our country bour- 
 geois, who almost all drink too much, and are sometimes 
 very coarse. He never said a word in my ear that 
 could make me cast down my eyes." 
 
 "But might not your mother have taken up the sin- 
 gular idea that he was, perhaps, in love with you?" 
 
 Rose was confused, hesitated, and ended by avowing 
 that her mother might easily have persuaded herself of 
 that. 
 
 " And if your mother had guessed truly, would not 
 she be right to put you on your guard against him ? " 
 
 " Why, that is as it may be ! If it were so, and if 
 he spoke to me ! But he never said a word to me be- 
 yond friendship." 
 
 " And if he were deeply enamoured of you without 
 daring to tell you so ? " 
 
 "Then where would be the harm?" said Rose, coquet- 
 tishly. 
 
 " You would be very wrong to keep his passion alive 
 without wishing to encourage it seriously," answered 
 Marcelle, in quite a severe tone. " It would be playing 
 Avith a friend's suffering ; and it is not in your family. 
 Rose, that a disappointment in love should be treated 
 lightly!" 
 
 " Oh ! " said Rose with a roguish look, " men do not 
 go crazy for such things ! Still," added she, artlessly, 
 and hanging her head, " I must own that poor Louis is 
 sometimes very sad, and talks like a man in despair — 
 and I am sure I cannot guess why ! It makes me very 
 sorry." 
 
 "Not enough so, however, to make you condescend 
 lo understand him ? " 
 
 " But if he did love me, what could I do to comfort 
 him?" 
 
I04 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 *' To be sure ! you must love him, or avoid him." 
 
 "I cau do neither. It is as j]jood as impossible to love 
 him, and as to avoiding him, I feel too much friendship 
 for him to resolve on giving him such pain. If you 
 knew how he looks when I pretend not to notice him ! 
 He turns quite white, and that hurts me." 
 
 " Then why do you say that it would be impossible 
 for you to love him ? " 
 
 " Saints I can one love one whom they cannot marry?" 
 
 ''But one can always marry the one whom they 
 love." 
 
 " Oh, not always ! Look at my poor sister. Her 
 example is too fearful for me to take the risk of follow- 
 ing it." 
 
 ''You risk nothing, my dear Rose," said Marcelle, 
 with some bitterness ; " when it is so easy to dispose of 
 one's love and one's will, there is no love, and no danger." 
 
 " Do not say so," returned Rose with vivacity. " I 
 am as capable as another of loving, and risking misfor- 
 tune. But would you advise me to be so courageous ? " 
 
 " God forbid ! I would only help you to determine the 
 state of your heart, that you may not, by your impru- 
 dence, cause unhappiness to Louis." 
 
 " Poor Grand-Louis ! — But see, madam, what can I 
 do? Suppose that my father, after trying anger and 
 threats, consented to give me to him ; that my mother, 
 terrified by my sister's fate, should prefer to sacrifice her 
 repugnance rather than see me fall sick, all of which 
 is by no means likely ; — but to reach this point, what 
 quarrels, and scenes, and vexation would there not be? " 
 
 "You are afraid — you do not love, I tell you ; you may 
 be right, and for this reason it is necessary that Grand- 
 Louis should go." 
 
 This advice, to which Marcelle always returned, 
 seemed not at all to Rose's taste. Her vanity was ex- 
 tremely flattered by the miller's love, especially since 
 Mme. de Blanchemont had so raised him in her estima- 
 tion, and somewhat, perhaps, from the rarity of the case. 
 The peasants have little susceptibility to passion, and in 
 the bourgeois society in whicL Rose lived, strong feeling 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 105 
 
 is more and more uncommon and unknown, among the 
 crowding cares of worldly interest. Rose had read ro- 
 mances ; she was proud of inspiring an extravagant and 
 hopeless attachment, of which, perhaps, the whole coun- 
 try side would one day talk with amazement. Finally, 
 Grand-Louis was the favorite of all the peasant girls, 
 and there was not sufficient distinction between their 
 class, and the parvenu bourgeoisie of the Bricolins, to 
 make this an unimportant conquest over the prettiest 
 girls of the place. 
 
 "Do not think me cowardly," said Rose, after an in- 
 stant's reflection. " I am quite able to reply to mamma 
 when she accuses the poor fellow unjustly, and if I 
 should take a fancy into my head — with help of you 
 who are so wise, and whom my father is so anxious, just 
 now, to please — I might triumph over everything. But 
 in the first place, I assure you that I should not lose my 
 senses, like my poor sister. I am obstinate, and have 
 been so much spoiled that they are a little afraid of me. 
 But I will tell you what I should find hardest." 
 
 " Go on, Rose, I am listening." 
 
 "What will people think of me, if I make this tui- 
 moil at home ! All my young friends will cast scoiri 
 upon me, partly through jealousy of the love I inspire, 
 such as they will never find in their moneyed marriages ! 
 I shall be pursued with blame and mockery by all my 
 cousins and suitors, who think themselves so grand, and 
 will be furious at my preferring a peasant to them ; by 
 all the mothers, frightened at my example for their 
 daughters ; and by even the peasants, envious of one of 
 themselves for making what they call a great marriage. 
 ' There's a crazy girl,' one will say ; ' it is in the blood, 
 and she will soon eat raw meat like her sister.' ' What 
 a fool,' another will say, ' when she might marry a man of 
 her own class ! * ' She is a wicked girl,' everybody will 
 cry, 'to grieve the parents who never refused her any- 
 thing. Oh ! the shameless, abandoned thing, to make all 
 this scandal about a laborer because he is five feet eight ! 
 Why not for her ploughboy? Why not for Uncle 
 Cadoche, who begs from door to door ? ' There will 
 
io6 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 never be an end of all this, and I think it is not well for 
 a young girl to expose herself to such things for love of 
 a mail." 
 
 " My dear Rose," said Marcelle, " your last objections 
 do not appear to me so serious as your first, and yet I see 
 that you shrink more from braving public opinion than 
 the resistance of your parents. We must carefully ex- 
 amine the 'pros and conn together, and as you have re- 
 lated your history to me, I owe you mine. I will tell it 
 to you, though it is a secret — my life secret ! The time 
 will come when it will be none, and meanwhile I am 
 sure you will keep it faithfully." 
 
 " Oh, madam ! " cried Rose, throwing herself on Mar- 
 celle's neck, " how good you are ! I have never known 
 auy secrets, and I have always longed to have one to keep. 
 Judge whether yours will be sacred to me ! It will ex- 
 plain many things to me, for it seems to me that there 
 must be a principle in love as in all things, and no one 
 would ever speak to me of it, under pretence that there 
 was not, or ought not to be, any such thing as love. Still 
 it seems to me — but speak, speak, dear Mme. Marcelle ! 
 I imagine that possessing your confidence, I shall have 
 your friendship." 
 
 " Why not, if I may hope to have yours in answer?" 
 said Marcelle, returning her caresses. 
 
 "Oh, heavens!" said Rose, her eyes full of tears; 
 "do you not see that I love you? that from the first 
 glance my heart leaned toward you, and is all yours, 
 though it is but a day that I know you ? How can it be ? 
 I know nothing of it. But I never saw any one who 
 pleased me as much as you. I have seen such women 
 only in books, and I feel towards you as if you alone 
 were all the beautiful novel heroines of whom I have 
 read." 
 
 " Then too, dear child, your noble heart needs to love ! 
 I will try not to be unworthy of the occasion which 
 favors me." 
 
 The small Fanchon was already installed in the neigh- 
 boring closet, and already breathed loud enough to cover 
 the voices of the owls, and the wailing of the wind around 
 
1^ 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 107 
 
 the old turrets. Marcelle seated herself at the open win 
 dow, and while the quiet stars shone down from a sky of 
 glorious purity, she took Eose's hand in hers, and spoke 
 as follows : — 
 
loS THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MARCELLB. 
 
 "V/TY story, dear Rose, is indeed like a romance ; but it 
 ^^ is so simple, and has so little novelty, that it is like 
 all other romances. You shall have it in as few words 
 as possible. 
 
 *' When my boy was two years old, his health was so 
 poor that I despaired of his life. My anxiety, my de- 
 pression, and the constant care which I would intrust to 
 no one beside, were natural reasons for my retirement 
 from society, of which 1 had seen but little, and that little 
 without pleasure. The physicians advised me to take 
 my child to the country. My husband had a fine estate 
 twenty leagues from here, as you know ; but the noisy 
 and profligate life he led there with his friends, his horses, 
 his dogs, and his mistresses, deterred me from trying the 
 place, even at the times when he was in Paris. My pld 
 Lapierre, who had passed some time there, gave me such 
 a picture of the disorder of the house, the insolence of 
 the servants, whose unpaid wages gave them the privilege 
 of unrebuked pillage, and the disagreeable neighborhood, 
 that I gave up the thought of living there. M. de 
 Blanchemont, who did not care to have me come here, 
 lest I should become acquainted with his irregularities, 
 assured me that this was a horrible • place, and that the 
 old chateau was uninhabitable ; and on this last point you 
 will allow that little exaggeration was necessary. He 
 talked of buying me a country house near Paris ; but 
 where could he have found money for the purchase, when 
 at that very time, without my knowing it, he was nearly 
 ruined? 
 
 " Seeing that his promises came to nothing, and that 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 109 
 
 my boy was failing, I hastily liired half a house, the first 
 and the only one I could find at the moment, at Mont- 
 morency, a village admirably situated near Paris, with a 
 very healthy neighborhood of woods and hills. Houses 
 there are in much request by Parisians, and even rich 
 people go and live there in the simplest manner, for part 
 of the summer. 
 
 ''My relations and friends came to see me often at 
 first, then less and less, as always happens when the per- 
 son visited really loves her retreat, and attracts others to 
 it neither by luxury nor coquetry. Towards the close of 
 the first season, a fortnight often passed without ray see- 
 ing any one from Paris. I had no acquaintance with the 
 notabilities of the place. Edward was better ; I was calm 
 and satisfied : I read much, I walked in the woods alone 
 with him, a woman to lead his ass, a book, and a great 
 dog, the jealous guardian of our persons. This life 
 pleased me exceedingly, and M. de Blanchemont was de- 
 lighted to be free from the care of me. He never came 
 to see me. Now and then he sent a servant to inquire 
 after his son's health, and my pecuniary wants, which, 
 happily for me, were very modest ; he could not other- 
 wise iiave satisfied them." 
 
 "■ Sec now ! " cried Rose ; " he told us here that it was 
 for you he exceeded his income and yours — that you 
 must have horses and carriages, while you perhaps were 
 on foot in the woods, to save hiring an ass ! " 
 
 " You have guessed right, dear Rose. When I asked 
 my husband for money, he told me such long, strange 
 stories about the poverty of his tenants, and how they 
 were ruined by the winter's frost, and the summer's hail, 
 that, weary of all these details, and frequently duped by 
 his generous commiseration for you, I approved it, and 
 waived my claim to the enjoyment of my income. 
 
 " The old house in which I lived was neat, but very 
 humble, and I attracted no attention there. I occupied 
 the upper of its two stories. Two young men, of whom 
 one w^as sick, lived in the lower. A little shady garden, 
 surrounded by a high wall, where Edward used to play 
 
no THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 with his nurse, while I sat at the window, was common 
 to botli the lodgers, M. Henri Leraor and me. 
 
 " Henri was 22. His brother was not more than 15. 
 The poor boy was consumptive, and his brother nursed 
 him with the tenderest care. They were orphans. Henri 
 was a real mother to the poor sufferer. He did not leave 
 him for an hour ; he read to him, carried him in his arms 
 to take the air, dressed and undressed him like a child, 
 and, as the unfortunate Ernest scarcely slept, Henri, pale, 
 exhausted, and haggard with watching, looked almost as 
 ill as he. 
 
 " An excellent old woman who owned our house, and 
 lived in part of the basement, showed great kindness and 
 devotion to these unhappy young people ; but slie could 
 not do everything, and I was eager to second her. I did 
 80, zealously and without sparing myself, as you would 
 have done in my place. Rose ; and even in the last days 
 of Ernest's life, I scarcely quitted his bedside. He testi- 
 fied boundless affection and gratitude to me. Not know- 
 ing and no longer feeling the serious nature of his disease, 
 he died without knowing it, and almost while speaking. 
 He had just said to me that I had cured him, when his 
 breathing ceased, and his hand stiffened and grew cold in 
 mine. 
 
 " Henri's grief was so deep as to make him sick, and 
 it became his turn to be nursed and watched. The 
 strength of the old landlady, Mme. Joly, failed ; Edward 
 was fortunately very well, and I could divide my care be- 
 tween him and Henri. The duty of assisting and com- 
 forting the latter fell to me alone, and, by the end of the 
 autumn, I had the joy of seeing him restored to life. 
 
 " You can easily imagine, Rose, the deep, unalterable 
 friendship that was cemented between us two, amid so 
 much grief and danger. When winter and the urgency 
 of my relations forced me to return to Paris, we had 
 formed such delightful habits of reading, talking, and 
 walking together in the little garden, that our separation 
 was truly heart-rending. But we ventured to promise to 
 meet at Montmorency the following year. We were still 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, m 
 
 timid with one another, and would have trembled at giv- 
 ing the name of love to our mutual affection. 
 
 "Henri had never thought of inquiring into my posi- 
 tion, nor I into his. Our expenses were about the same. 
 He asked permission to come and see me in Paris ; but 
 when I gave him my address at my mother-in-law's, at 
 the Hotel de Blanchemont, he appeared surprised and 
 alarmed. When I left Montmorency in the carriage with 
 armorial bearings which my relations sent for me, he 
 seemed dismayed, and w^hen he learned that I was rich 
 (I thought I was, and passed for such) he looked upon 
 himself as forever separated from me. The winter 
 passed without my seeing him, or hearing his name. 
 
 " Yet at this time Lemor was really richer than I. 
 His father, who had died the year previous, was a man 
 of the people, — a workman brought into easy circumstan- 
 ces by a small trade and much ability. His children had 
 received a very good education, and Ernest's death left 
 Henri with an income of eight or ten thousand francs. 
 But the coarse and money-making character of the trades- 
 man father, his shocking hardness and deep-seated selfish- 
 ness, had early revolted Henri's enthusiastic and generous 
 spirit. The winter after Ernest's death, he eagerly ceded 
 his stock-in-trade, for a nominal price, to a man whom 
 the elder Lemor had ruined by taking advantage of cir- 
 cumstances in the most rapacious and ungenerous man- 
 ner. Henri distributed the proceeds of this sale among 
 the workmen whom his father had long oppressed, and 
 withdrawing from their gratitude with a sort of aversion 
 (for he has often told me that these unfortunate men had 
 been themselves corrupted and degraded by their master's 
 example), he changed his abode, and chose an appren- 
 ticeship to become himself an artisan. The preceding 
 year, and before his brother's illness drove him to the 
 country, he had commenced the study of mechanics. 
 
 '' I learned all these details through the old woman at 
 Montmorency, whom I visited two or three times towards 
 the end of the winter, as much, I confess, to hear some- 
 thing of Henri, as on account of the friendship of which 
 she was in every way worthy. This woman venerated 
 
112 THE MILLER OF ANGIDAULT. 
 
 Lemor. She had nursed poor Ernest as if he had been 
 her own son, and she never spoke of Henri but with 
 clasped hands and tearful eyes. When I asked her why 
 he did not come to see me, she answered that my wealth 
 and position in society could not permit natural inter- 
 course between a person like me and one who had volun- 
 tarily cast himself into poverty. It was on this occasion 
 that she told me all that she knew of him, and which I 
 have just related to you. 
 
 " You cau understand, dear Rose, how I was struck 
 by the conduct of this young man, who in our intercourse 
 had shown himself so simple, modest, and entirely igno- 
 rant of his moral greatness. I could think of nothing 
 else. In company, or in my solitary chamber, at the 
 theatre^ or at church, his remembrance and his image 
 were always in my heart and my thoughts. I compared 
 him with all the men whom I knew, and how noble he 
 appeared to me ! 
 
 " By the end of March I returned to Montmorency, 
 not hoping to find my interesting neighbor there. Yet 
 when I entered the garden with one of my aunts, who 
 had insisted on seeing me reestablished in the country, I 
 had one moment of real grief, on hearing that the lower 
 story was let to an old lady. But when my companion 
 was at a little distance, good Mme. Joly whispered me 
 that she had told this little lie because my aunt seemed 
 inquisitive and gossiping, but that Lemor was there, and 
 now concealed, not to see me till I was alone. 
 
 " I thought I should faint with joy, and was ready to 
 die with my patient endurance of the civilities and atten- 
 tions of my poor aunt. At last she went, and I again 
 saw Lemor ; and not that day alone, but every day, and 
 almost every hour of the day, from the end of winter 
 till the last of autumn. The few and short visits that 
 were paid me, and my necessary journeys to Paris, stole 
 fi"om us at most, putting all the hours togetlier, two weeks 
 of our delightful intimacy. 
 
 '' I leave you to judge whether this life was happy, 
 and whether love became absolute master of our friend- 
 8hip. But our feeling was as pure in the sight of GoU 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 113 
 
 and of my son, as had been the friendship formed at the 
 death-bed of Flenri's brother. There was, perhaps, a 
 little gossip about it among the natives of Montmorency, 
 but the good reputation of our hostess, her discretion with 
 regard to the feeling she could not but guess, her warmth 
 in defending our conduct, the quiet, retired life which we 
 led, and our care never to appear together out of the 
 house, — in short, the absence of any ground for scandal 
 silenced calumny, and no word ever reached the ears of 
 my husband or any of my relatives. 
 
 " Never was love more religiously felt — never did it 
 fill two souls with a more healthful influence. My mind 
 was transported into a new sphere. Henri's opinions 
 may seem very singular to the world, but to me none be- 
 side can be so true, or so Christian. The enthusiasm of 
 faith and virtue became known to me at the same time 
 with that of feeling. These two emotions are henceforth 
 inseparably bound together in my heart. Henri adored 
 my boy, my boy whom his father forgot, deserted, and 
 scarcely knew ! And Edward felt the tenderness and 
 respect for Lemor that his father should have inspired. 
 
 " Once more the winter tore us from our terrestrial 
 paradise, but this time it did not separate us. Lemor 
 came secretly to see me from time to time, and we ex- 
 changed letters almost every day. He had a key to the 
 garden ; and, when we were prevented from meeting there 
 by night, a cleft in the pedestal of an old statue received 
 our correspondence. 
 
 '' You know that M. de Blanchemont lost his life very 
 recently in a tragic and unexpected manner, killed by one 
 of his friends in a mortal duel about a silly mistress who 
 had betrayed him. I saw Henri a month afterwards, 
 and my sorrows date from that moment. I thought it 
 so natural to engage myself to him for life ! I wished to 
 see him for one moment, and fix with him the time wtieii 
 the duties of my position would permit me to give him 
 my hand and myself, as he possessed my heart and soul. 
 BuL would you believe it, Rose? His first impulse was 
 a terrified and despairing refusal ! The fear of being 
 8 
 
114 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 rich, yes, the dread of wealth, was more powerful than 
 love, and he fled from me with horror. 
 
 " I waj offended, dismayed. I knew not how to con- 
 vince him, and I would not stay him. And then, on re- 
 flection, I found that he was right ; that he was consistent 
 with himself, and faithful to his principles. I esteemed 
 him for it, I loved him the more, and I resolved so to 
 order my life as no longer to wound him ; to quit the 
 world altogether, and bury myself in the country, far from 
 Paris, so as to break off all connection with the rich and 
 powerful, whom Lemor looks upon as alike enemies of 
 humanity, whether their action be wilfully injurious or 
 merely blind and involuntary. 
 
 " But with this project, which was only secondary in 
 my mind, I associated another, which should go to the 
 root of the evil, and forever destroy all the scruples of my 
 lover, my future husband. I desired to imitate his ex- 
 ample, and consume my fortune in what we called at the 
 convent good works — in what Lemor calls the work of 
 remuneration — in what is just toward men and pleasing 
 to God in all religious creeds, and in all ages. I was free 
 to make this sacrifice without injury to what the rich 
 would call the future prosperity of my son, since I still 
 believed him heir to a considerable fortune ; and besides, 
 in my secret thought, by abstaining from the use of his 
 revenue during the long years of his minority, by accumu- 
 lating and investing his rents, I should labor for his hap- 
 piness also. That is to say, that by bringing him up in 
 habits of sobriety and simplicity, and communicating to 
 him the fervor of my charity, I should enable him, in 
 time, to consecrate to the same holy use a considerable 
 fortune, augmented by my economy and by my self-im- 
 posed determination not to use it in any way for my own 
 benefit, notwithstanding my legal rights in that respect. 
 It seemed to me that the artless and tender soul of my 
 child would respond to my enthusiasm, and that I should 
 heap up these terrestrial riches for his future salvation. 
 Smile if you will, dear Rose, but it still seems to me that 
 I shall succeed, under more restricted conditions, in mak- 
 ing my Edward regard things in this way. He has no 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 113 
 
 longer an Inheritance from his father, and what is left to 
 me will be henceforth devoted to him for the same end. 
 1 think I have no right to despoil myself of the compe- 
 tence that remains to us both, for I conceive that nothing 
 now belongs solely to myself, since he has no certain ex- 
 pectations but from me. The vow of poverty which I 
 would have taken is a ne\^' baptism, which, perhaps, God 
 does not permit me to iaipose upon my child till he 
 is old enough freely to accept or reject it. Ought I, 
 having given birth to a creature destined to enjoyment 
 and power in society, to deprive him forcibly and uncon- 
 sulted of what society calls a great advantage and a sa- 
 cred right? In the general greed and selfishness which 
 the corrupting influences of wealth have induced in man- 
 kind, if I should die, and leave my son to penury, before 
 I had had time to teach him the love of labor, to what 
 vices and degradation should I not expose his good but 
 feeble instincts ? Some men talk of a religion of brother- 
 hood and community, where all men shall be happy 
 through loving, and become rich through stripping them- 
 selves of their possessions. It is said that the greatest 
 saints of Christianity, and the greatest sages of antiquity, 
 have been upon the point of solving this problem. It is 
 yet farther said that this religion is ready to sink into the 
 hearts of men, though all seems, in the actual world, to 
 conspire against it, because the immense and terrific strife 
 of selfish interest must give rise to the necessity for a 
 change, through very weariness of wrong, need of truth, 
 and love of good. I believe all this firmly. Rose. But, 
 as I said to you just now, I know not what day God has 
 fixed for the fulfilment of His designs. I understand 
 nothing of politics ; I do not see in them sufficiently vivid 
 gleams of my ideal ; and, sheltered in the ark like the bird 
 during the deluge, I wait, pray, suffer, and hope, unheed- 
 ing the scorn which the world lavishes on those who do 
 not approve its injustice, and rejoice in the calamities of 
 their times. 
 
 " But in this ignorance of the morrow, in this unchained 
 tempest of opposing human forces, I must strain my boy 
 to my bosom, and aid him to surmount the wave which 
 
Ii6 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 perhaps is bearing us to the shore of a better world tlian 
 this. Alas, dear Rose if in an age when money is every- 
 thing, everything is bought and sold. Art, science, all 
 instruction — and consequently all the virtues — and re- 
 ligion itself, is forbidden to those who cannot pay for the 
 advantage of drinking from these divine sources. Just 
 as one pays for the sacraments of the church, must one 
 buy with money the right to be a man, to learn to read 
 and to think, to know good and evilA The poor are con- 
 demned, save those of remarkable genius, to vegetate, 
 deprived of wisdom and instruction ; and the beggar, the 
 poor child, whose only trade is to stretch out the hand and 
 utter plaintive sounds, amid what false and obscure notions 
 is his weak and untrained intelligence obliged to struggle ! 
 Tiiere is something terrible in the thought that superstition 
 is the only religion accessible to the peasant ; that his whole 
 worship is reduced to forms, of which he knows neither the 
 meaning nor the origin, and that God is to him only an 
 idol favorable to the harvests and flocks of those who vow 
 to him an image or a candle. While coming here this 
 morning, I met a procession stopping around a fountain, 
 to conjure the drought. I asked why they prayed here 
 rather than elsewhere. A woman replied to me, show- 
 ing a little plaster statue set in a niche, and decked with 
 garlands like a pagan deity,* ' Because this good lady is 
 the best of all for rain.' 
 
 " If my son is poor, he must thus be idolatrous, un- 
 like the early Christians, who embraced the true re- 
 ligion with holy poverty. I well know that the poor man 
 may rightfully demand of me, ' Why should thy son 
 know God and truth rather than mine?' Alas I I have 
 no reply, but that I can save his son only by the sacrifice 
 of mine. And what a cruel answer ! Oh ! the hour of 
 shipwreck is fearful. Each one flies to save what is dear- 
 
 * The Fathers of the primitive Church bitterly condemned 
 tliis pagan custom of ornamenting the statues of the gods. 
 Minutius Felix speaks admirably and clearly on this point. The 
 Church of the Middle Ages reestablished the practices of idol- 
 atry, and the modern Church continues this lucrative specula- 
 tion. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGlBAULT. 
 
 117 
 
 est to him, and abandons the rest. But yet again, Rose, 
 v/hat can we poor women do, who know enough only to 
 weep over all this ? 
 
 " Thus the duties imposed on us by family ties and by 
 humanity are contradictory ; but something we can do 
 for the family, while for humanity, unless we are very 
 rich, we can do nothing. For in these times, when small 
 fortunes are so rapidly swallowed up by those greater, 
 mediocrity is constraint and feebleness. 
 
 " This is why," continued Marcelle, wiping away a 
 tear, " I am forced to modify the fair visions I had on 
 quitting Paris two days ago. But I still mean to do my 
 best, Rose, not to surround myself with little useless pleas- 
 ures at others' expense. I wish to bring myself to what 
 is merely necessary, buy a peasant house, live as cheaply 
 as is possible without injuring my health (since I owe my 
 life to Edward) , arrange my small capital so as one day 
 to give it to him, after having indicated to him whatever 
 pious and useful employment of it God may have revealed 
 to us in that time ; and meanwhile, devote the least pos- 
 sible portion of my humble revenue to our needs and the 
 good education of my son, that I may always have where- 
 with to assist the poor who may knock at my door. This, 
 I believe, is all I can do, unless there should soon be 
 formed a truly holy association, a sort of new church, 
 where some inspired believers should summon their breth- 
 ren to live in common under the laws of a religion and a 
 morality answering to the noble claims of the soul, and to 
 the laws of true equality. Do not ask me what these 
 laws would precisely be. I have no mission to state 
 them, since God has not given me the genius to discover 
 them. My intelligence is limited to the power of under- 
 standing them when revealed, and my good instincts com- 
 pel me to reject the systems now offered somewhat too 
 arrogantly under various names. I see none of them in 
 which moral liberty is respected, or where atheism or 
 ambition do not appear more or less. You have perhaps 
 heard of the St. Simonians and the Fourierites. Even 
 these systems are without religion and without love, abor- 
 tive philosophies, rough sketches, where the spirit of evil 
 
1 1 8 THE MILLER OF AN GIB A UL T. 
 
 Bccms to hide under the guise of philanthropy. 1 do not 
 absolutely condemn them, but they repel me with the pre- 
 sentiment of a new snare laid for the simplicity of man- 
 kind. 
 
 " But it is late, my good Rose, and your beautiful 
 bright eyes are nevertheless striving against the fatigue 
 of listening to me. I have no inference to draw for you 
 from all this, save that we are both loved by poor men, 
 and that one of us aspires to free herself from the alliance 
 of the rich, while the other hesitates and dreads their 
 opinion." 
 
 " Ah, madam ! " said Rose, who had heard Marcelle 
 with religious attention, "how great and good you are! 
 how well you know how to love, and how plainly I now 
 understand why I love you ! It seems to me that your 
 story, and the explanation of your conduct, have made 
 my brain as large again. What a poor, sad, mean life 
 do we lead compared with tliat of which you dream ! 
 My God ! my God ! I think I shall die the day that you 
 go from here !" 
 
 " I confess, dear Rose, that but for you I should be im- 
 patient to go and build my cabin among those of the poor- 
 est people ; but you will make me love your farm, and even 
 this old chateau — Ah ! I hear your mother calling you. 
 Kiss me again, and forgive me for having spoken some 
 harsh words to you. I reproach myself, now that I see 
 how sensitive and affectionate you are." 
 
 Rose embraced the young baroness with eager warmth, 
 and left her. Like a spoiled child as she was, she gave 
 herself the small pleasure of letting her mother call while 
 she went slowly towards her. Then she reproached her- 
 self, and began to run ; but she could not bring herself to 
 answer till she was quite there ; that shrill voice sounded 
 in her ear like a false note in music, after the sweet har- 
 mony of Marcelle's words. 
 
 Still weary from her journey, Mme. de Blanchemont 
 slipped into the bed where her child was sleeping, and 
 drawing the orange-colored curtains of flowered linen, she 
 was falling asleep without thinking of the indispensable 
 ghosts of the old chateau, Avhen an incomprehensible noise 
 compelled her to listen, and startled her into half rising. 
 
T?IE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 119 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE RENCONTRE. 
 
 'T^HE dolse which broke our heroine's repose was that 
 •^ of' i?omething moving to and fro over the outside of 
 her chamber door, with singular persistence and awk- 
 wardness. The touch was too clumsy and unintelligent 
 to be that of a human hand feeling for the lock in the 
 dark, and yet, as the sound was not like that made by a 
 rat, Marcelle could form no other supposition. She 
 thought that some one belonging to the farm might sleep 
 in the old chateau, perhaps some drunken servant, who, 
 groping for his lodging, had mistaken the story. Then, 
 remembering that she had not taken in the key, she rose 
 to repair her forgetfulness as soon as the person should 
 go. But the noise continued, and Marcelle dared not 
 open the door to effect her design, for fear of encounter- 
 ing some clownish insult. This little anxiety was begin- 
 ning to be very disagreeable, when the doubtful hand 
 grew impatient, and scratched the door in such a way 
 that Marcelle was sure it was a cat ; and, smiling at her 
 alarm, put her hand on the latch, to receive or drive 
 away this visitor to her chamber. But scarcely had she 
 opened a crack, with some remaining caution, when the 
 door was flung back upon her with violence, and the 
 madwoman stood upon the threshold before her eyes. 
 
 This visit appeared to Marcelle more unpleasant than 
 any she could have supposed, and she doubted whether 
 she should not repulse the tlisturber by force, notwith- 
 standing what she had been told '^f the habitually quiet 
 nature of her insanity. But tha disgust which she felt 
 
I20 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 at the shocking uncleauliness of the unfortunate creature, 
 and yet more a feeling of compassion, prevented her 
 from carrying this idea into execution. The maniac did 
 not seem conscious of her presence, and it was probable 
 that, with her taste for solitude, she would retreat as soon 
 as Marcelle should attract her attention. Mme. de 
 Blanchemont thought it best to wait and observe the 
 caprice of her vexatious guest ; and drawing back, she 
 seated herself on the edge of her bed, closing the cur- 
 tains behind her, so that if Edward should wake, he might 
 not see the ugly woman who had frightened him in the 
 warren. 
 
 Bricoline (we have already mentioned that in all fam- 
 ilies of the peasantry and country bourgeois, the eldest 
 daughter is called by the hereditary name with a femi- 
 nine termination) hastily crossed the chamber, and went 
 to the window, which she opened after many futile at- 
 tempts, for the weakness of her emaciated hands, and 
 the length of her nails — which she would never permit 
 to be cut — made her very awkward. When she had 
 succeeded she leaned out, and with a designedly subdued 
 voice, called Paul. This was doubtless the name of 
 her lover, whom she always expected, and in whose 
 death she could not be persuaded to believe. 
 
 As this melancholy summons awakened no echo in tho 
 silence of the night, she sat down on the stone bench, 
 which, in all antique structures of this kind occupies the 
 deep embrasure of the window, and remained mute, con- 
 stantly twisting her bloody handkerchief, and apparently 
 resigned to wait. In about ten minutes she rose and 
 called again, still in a low voice, as if she thought her 
 lover concealed in the bushes about the moat, and feared 
 to awaken the attention of some of the people at the 
 farm. 
 
 For more than an hour the unhappy girl continued 
 this course, first calling Paul, and then awaiting him 
 with extraordinary patience and resignation. Her ghastly 
 face and deformed figure were fully displayed by the 
 moon. Perhaps she found a sort of happiness in this 
 vain hope. Perhaps the illusion was so strong that she 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 121 
 
 dreamed, while awake, that he was there, and that she 
 heard and answered him. And then, when the dream 
 faded, she recovered it by calling anew upon her dead 
 lover. 
 
 Marcelle's heart was wrung as she observed her. She 
 would fain have surprised all the secrets of her madness, 
 in the hope of finding some means to mitigate her suf- 
 fering ; but such insane persons never explain themselves, 
 and it is impossible to divine whether they are absorbed 
 by the ceaseless gnawing of one thought, or whether 
 the action of their minds is occasionally suspended. 
 
 When the wretched girl at last left the window, she 
 began to pace the room with the same slow step and 
 gravity of demeanor which had struck Marcelle in the 
 alley of the warren. She appeared no longer to think 
 of her lover, and her strongly contracted countenance 
 resembled that of an old alchemist lost in the pursuit of 
 the grand arcanum. This regular march lasted long 
 enough to be extremely fatiguing to Mme. de Blanche- 
 mont, who dared neither go to bed, nor leave her child 
 long enough to call the small Fanchon. At last the 
 lunatic changed her mood, and going up to the next story, 
 went to another window to call Paul and await his com- 
 ing. 
 
 Marcelle then thought she ought to go and tell the 
 Bricolins. Doubtless they were unaware that their 
 daughter had escaped from the house, and perhaps ran 
 the risk of suicide, or of an involuntary fall from a 
 window. But Fanchon, whom she roused with some 
 difficulty to take her place at Edward's bedside while she 
 went herself to the new chateau, dissuaded her from her 
 intention. 
 
 "Eh ! no, madam ! " said she, " the Bricolins will not 
 stir themselves for that. They are used to seeing this 
 poor young lady run around both night and day. She 
 does no harm, and it is long since she has forgotten to 
 make way with herself. They say she never sleeps. 
 It is no wonder that she is wider awake in the moon- 
 light. Shut your door tight, so that she shall not trouble 
 you again. You did well not to speak to her ; it vexes 
 
122 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 her, and makes her cross. She will go on as usual wy 
 there till day, like the owls ; but now that you know 
 what it is, it will not keep you from sleeping." 
 
 Little Fanelion spoke quite at her ease, and, thanks to 
 her fifteen years and quiet temperament, would have 
 slept close to the roar of cannon, if she but knew what 
 it was. Marcelle found some difficulty in following 
 her example ; but finally, overpowered by fatigue, she 
 slept, notwithstanding the continual and regular steps 
 of the maniac, which she heard above her room, shak- 
 ing the trembling beams of the old chateau. 
 
 The next day Rose was sorry, but not surprised, 
 to learn the incident of the night. 
 
 "Ah, heavens!" said she, "and yet we shut her up 
 closely, knowing that she is used to wander all around, 
 and prefers the old chateau during the moonlight nights. 
 (That is the reason my mother did not want to lodge 
 you here.) But she must have found some means to open 
 her window, and so get out. She is neither strong nor 
 skilful with her hands, but she has such patience ! She 
 has but one idea, and never rests. My lord baron, 
 whose heart was not tender like yours, and who made 
 fun of things that are least to be laughed at, pretended 
 that she sought — now see if I can remember his word 
 — the quadrature, — yes, that is it, the quadrature of 
 the circle ; and when he saw her pass, he would say to 
 us, 'Well, has not your philosopher yet solved the 
 problem ? * " 
 
 " I feel no inclination to jest upon a subject so heart- 
 rending," replied Marcelle ; " and I had dismal dreams 
 last night. See, Rose, we are good friends, and I hope 
 we shall be so more and more ; and since you offered 
 me your chamber, I accept it on condition that you do 
 not leave it, but that we share it. A sofa for Edward, 
 and a cot for me, will be quite enough." 
 
 " Oh ! you make me perfectly happy," cried Rose, 
 throwing her arms round her neck. " It will not give 
 me the least trouble. There are two beds in all our 
 chambers ; it is the country custom, so as to be always 
 ready to receive a friend or relation, and I shall be so 
 happy to talk with you every evening ! " 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 133 
 
 This day, in fact, greatly increased the friendship of 
 the two young women. Marcelle yielded herself to it 
 with the more freedom, that it was the only agreeable 
 thing she could expect while with the Bricolins. The 
 farmer showed her over a part of the estate, talking 
 incessantly of money and arrangements. He tried in 
 vain to disguise his desire to purchase, and Marcelle, 
 who, to bring this tiresome and unpleasant business to 
 an end, was ready to make some of the required sacri- 
 fices as soon as she should be assured of the exactitude 
 of his statements, had tact enough, meanwhile, to keep 
 him uneasy. She understood from Rose that she might, 
 just now, have great influence over her destiny ; and 
 besides, Grand-Louis had made her promise to decide 
 nothing without consulting him. Mme. de Blanchemont 
 felt entire confidence in this unexpected friend, and 
 determined to await his return to choose a competent 
 adviser. He knew everybody, and had too much judg- 
 ment not to place her in good hands. 
 
 We left the excellent miller starting for the town of 
 * * *, with Lapierre, Suzette, and the patachon. They 
 arrived there by ten o'clock, and the next morning, at 
 dawn, Grand-Louis saw the two servants in the Paris 
 diligence, and took his way to the house of the bourgeois 
 whom he had pitched upon as the purchaser of the car- 
 riage. But in passing the post-office, he went in to give 
 to the postmaster himself the letter with which Marcelle 
 had charged him. The first face which met his eyes 
 was that of the young unknown, who, a fortnight before, 
 had been straying through the Black Valley, visiting 
 Blanchemont, and had been led by chance to the mill of 
 Angibault. This young man did not observe him; he 
 was standing near the office door, and reading eagerly, 
 and with emotion, a newly-received letter. Grand-Louis 
 haviog Mme. de Blanchemont's in his hand, and remem- 
 bering the interest excited in the young lady by the 
 name of Henri cut upon a tree on the bank of the 
 Vauvre, cast a side glance upon the address of the 
 young man's letter, which it was easy for him to do, as 
 the unknown held it in such a way i^ to conceal the 
 
124 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 contents, but completely expose the outside. With a 
 rapid look of friendly curiosity, the miller saw the name 
 of M. Henri Lemor, in the same hand as the address of 
 the letter which he was carrying. Doubtless these two 
 letters were both from Marcelle, and the unknown was 
 — the miller used no ceremony in his supposition — the 
 lover of the beautiful widow. 
 
 Grand-Louis was not mistaken ; Lemor had that in- 
 stant received the first note that Marcelle had written 
 from Paris, which the friend who took charge of his 
 letters had sent to the j^oste restante at ♦ * ♦, and he 
 was far from expecting the happiness of immediately 
 receiving another, when Grand-Louis sportively slipped 
 the treasure between his eyes and that which he was 
 about reading for the third time. 
 
 Henri started, and would have snatched the letter ; but 
 the miller withdrew it, saying, "No, no, not so fast, my 
 boy ! The clerk there may spy us, and I have no fancy 
 for paying the fine, which is not small. We will talk a 
 little farther off, for I have no idea that you will have 
 patience to wait till this pretty letter return from Paris, 
 where it would certainly be sent, spite of your claim 
 and your passport, since it is not addressed to the paste 
 restante here. Follow me a little way." 
 
 Lemor followed him, but the miller was already dis- 
 turbed by a new scruple. " Stay," said he, when they 
 had reached a suitably lonely place, " are you really the 
 person whose name is upon this letter?" 
 
 " Certainly you have no doubt of it ; and you appar- 
 ently know me, since you presented it to me ? " 
 
 " Never mind, you have a passport? " 
 
 " Surely, for I have just shown it at the ofiice to pro- 
 cure my letters." 
 
 " Never mind again, though you take me for a gendarme 
 in disguise, let us see it," said the miller, giving him the 
 letter. " Hand over, hand over." 
 
 *' You are very suspicious," said Lemor, hastily 
 giving him his papers. 
 
 " Yet a little moment," pursued the prudent miller ; 
 " I want to be able to swear, if the post-office people did 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 135 
 
 see me give you the letter, that it was unsealed." And 
 he quickly broke the seal, but without permitting himself 
 to open the letter, and returned it to Henri as he took 
 his passport. 
 
 While the young man was eagerly reading, the miller, 
 not sorry to have an opportunity of satisfying his curi- 
 osity, made acquaintance with the titles and qualities of 
 the unknown. Henri Lemor, aged 24, native of Paris, 
 laboring mechanic by profession, going to Toulouse, 
 Montpellier, Nimes, Avignon, and possibly Toulon and 
 Algiers, to seek employment and work at his trade. 
 
 " The devil !" quoth the miller to himself; " a labor- 
 ing mechanic ! beloved by a baroness ! looking for work, 
 and might perhaps marry a woman wiio has still 300,000 
 francs ! It is only with us, then, that money is thought 
 more of than love, and the women are so proud ! There 
 is not so much distance between the granddaughter of 
 Father Bricolin the laborer, and the grandson of my 
 grandfather the miller, as between a baroness and this 
 poor devil ! Ah I Mile. Rose ! I wish Mme. Mar- 
 celle could teach you the secret of loving ! " Then 
 making up the personal description from the life instead 
 of minding that in the passport, Grand-Louis went on to 
 himself, examining Henri, who was absorbed in reading: 
 "Middling height, pale face — good-looking enough, if 
 you will, but the black beard is ugly. All these Paris- 
 ian workmen look as if their strength lay in their chins." 
 And the miller took secret satisfaction in the comparison 
 of his athletic limbs with Lemor's more delicate organ- 
 ization. *' It seems to me," soliloquized he, " that if it 
 takes nothing more remarkable than this to turn a sen- 
 sible woman's, ay, and a fair lady's, head. Mile. Rose 
 might possibly perceive that her humble servant is not 
 worse made than another. But for all that, these Paris- 
 ians have a certain grace, a manner, black eyes, I don't 
 know what all, that makes us look like boobies beside 
 them. And, then doubtless this fellow has more wit 
 than size. If he could but give me a little, and teach 
 me, too, his secret of winning love ! " 
 
126 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 CHAPTER XTI. 
 
 DIPLOMACY. 
 
 "PPULL in the midst of his reflections, Master Louis 
 ■*- suddenly perceived that the young man, lost in still 
 more earnest meditation, was going away without think- 
 ing of him. 
 
 " Hallo ! comrade ! " cried Grand-Louis, running 
 After him ; " do you want to leave me your passport? " 
 
 " Ah, my dear friend, I forgot you, and I ask your 
 pardon ! " answered Lemor. " You did me the kindness 
 to give me this letter, and I owe you a thousand thanks. 
 But I recognize you now. I have seen you before, not 
 long since. I received hospitality at your mill — a 
 lovely place — and such a good mother ! You are a 
 happy man, for it is plain to see that you are both open- 
 hearted and obliging." 
 
 '' Yes, a beautiful hospitality to talk about ! " said the 
 miller. " But, after all, it was your own fault if you 
 would take nothing but bread and water. That gave 
 me a bad opinion of you, that and your Capuchin's 
 beard ! However, you do not look much more like a 
 Jesuit than I do, and if you recall my face, so do I 
 yours. As to being a happy man, you had better envy 
 other people, and especially me ! Are you jesting?" 
 
 " I do not know what you mean. Has any misfor- 
 tune happened to you since I saw you ? " 
 
 " Bah ! my misfortune is an old one, and God knows 
 how it will end ! But I have no more desire to speak 
 than you to hear of it, for I see that you, too, have a 
 buzzing in your brain. What then ! are you not going 
 to give me a word of answer for the person who wrote 
 to you, if it were only to certify that I fulfilled my 
 commission ? " 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 127 
 
 *' Then you know that person?" said Lemor, all 
 trembling. 
 
 " There now ! you had not thought to ask me. 
 Where are your wits ? " 
 
 Lemor began to be annoyed by the friendly, but ban- 
 tering and jocose, manner of Grand-Louis. He was 
 afraid of compromising Marcelle, and yet this peasant's 
 countenance was not one to inspire distrust. But Henri 
 thought he should aiFect indifference. 
 
 '^ I have not, myself, much acquaintance," said he, 
 " with the lady who has done me the honor to write to 
 me. As chance lately took me near her estates in the 
 country, she thought that I might give her some infor- 
 mation — " 
 
 *' Not you, indeed ! " interrupted the miller, " as she 
 has no idea that you have been there, still less why you 
 came, and that is what I pray you to tell me, if you 
 would not have me guess." 
 
 " That is what I will answer some other time," said 
 Lemor, with some impatience and sarcastic pride. " You 
 are inquisitive, friend, and I know not why you choose 
 to think my conduct mysterious." 
 
 " It 18 so, friend ! I tell you that it is so, because you 
 did not let her know that you had been to the Black 
 Valley I " 
 
 The miller's pertinacity became more and more em- 
 barrassing, and Henri, fearing lest he should fall into 
 some snare, or commit some imprudence, endeavored to 
 free himself from this odd investigation. 
 
 "I know neither of whom nor of what you wish to 
 speak to me," he replied, shrugging his shoulders. 
 " Again I thank you, and take my leave. If an answer 
 or receipt is needed for the letter which you brought 
 me, I will send it by post. I start in an hour for 
 Toulouse, and have not time to stay here longer with 
 you." 
 
 *' Ah, you are going to Toulouse ! " said the miller, 
 redoubling his pace to follow him. *•• I should havo 
 thought that you would go to Blanchemont with me." 
 
 '^ Why to Blanchemont? " 
 
128 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 " Because if you have any advice to give the hidy of 
 Blanchemont upon her affairs, as you pretend, it would 
 be more polite to go and speak with her than to write 
 two hasty words. She is well worth the trouble of 
 putting one's self many leagues out of one's way to do her 
 a service ; and as for me, who am but a miller, I would 
 go to the ends of the earth for her." 
 
 Thus informed, almost in spite of himself, of the spot 
 chosen by Marcelle for her temporary retreat, Lemor 
 could not determine to part rudely from a man who 
 knew her, and seemed so ready to talk about her. His 
 young brain, which was voluntarily stoic, but deeply 
 shaken by passion, was dazzled by the sort of proposi- 
 tion or advice given him to go to Blanchemont. He 
 imagined that he concealed the contradictory desires and 
 resolutions which agitated him, but the penetrating 
 miller was not to be deceived, and read the perplexity of 
 his mind written on his face. "If I thought," said 
 Lemor at last, " that verbal explanations were necessary 
 f— but indeed I do not — this lady intimates nothing of 
 the kind—" 
 
 " Yes," replied the miller in a mocking tone ; " thiB 
 lady thinks you in Paris, and one does not send for a 
 man to come so far for a few words. But perhaps if 
 she had known you were so near, she would have 
 ordered me to bring you back with me." 
 
 " No, Master Miller, you are mistaken," said Henri, 
 alarmed at Grand-Louis's penetration. "The questions I 
 have the honor to receive are not important enough for 
 that. I will decidedly reply by letter." 
 
 And in choosing this latter course, Henri felt as if his 
 heart would break. For notwithstanding his submission 
 to Marcelle's commands, all his energetic blood boiled at 
 the idea of seeing her once more before leaving her for 
 a whole year. But this cursed miller, with his com- 
 mentaries, might, through malice or levity, make this 
 step injure the young widow, and Lemor felt that he 
 must deny himself. 
 
 "You will do as you please," said Grand-Louis, some- 
 what piqued by hii reserve ; "but as she will doubtless 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 129 
 
 question me about you, I shall be obliged to tell her that 
 you seemed no way pleased at the idea of coming to see 
 her." 
 
 *' She will certainly be much distressed ! " answered 
 Lemor, with a forced laugh. 
 
 " Yes, yes ! play Master Sly with me, comrade ! " 
 retorted the miller. " But you do not laugh from your 
 heart." 
 
 '•• Mr. Miller," replied Lemor, losing all patience, 
 "your insinuations, as far as I can understand them, 
 begin to be quite mistimed. I do not know whether you 
 are as much devoted to the person in question as you 
 pretend ; but it does not seem to me that you speak of 
 her with as much respect as I, who scarcely know her." 
 
 "You are angry? So much the better! it is more 
 frank, and teases me less than your jesting. Now I 
 know how to deal with you." 
 
 "This is too much," said the irritated Lemor, "and 
 looks like a personal provocation. I do not know what 
 absurd ideas you may attribute to me, but I warn you 
 that I am tired of this game, and will not endure your 
 impertinence much longer." 
 
 "Are you getting angry in earnest?" said Grand- 
 Louis, calmly. " I am ready to satisfy you. I am 
 much stronger than you, but you are doubtless compan- 
 ion in some order, and understand single-stick. And, 
 besides, they say that you Parisians all know the use of 
 the quarter-staff as well as professors. Now we know 
 nothing of the theory, we have only the practice. You 
 are probably more skilful than I — as for me, I shall hit 
 harder than you — that will make the match even. We 
 will go behind the old rampart, if you like, or better, to 
 Father Robichon's cafe. He has a little court where we 
 can come to a good understanding without interruption, 
 for he knows too much to call the police." 
 
 "Come," said Lemor, to himself, "I have chosen to 
 
 be a workman, and the laws of honor are as strict with 
 
 the stick as with the sword. I do not know the savage 
 
 art of killing a fellow-creature any better with one weapou 
 
 9 
 
130 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 than with another. But if this Gallic Hercules desires 
 the pleasure of mauling me, I will not avoid it by talk- 
 ing sense to him. Besides, it is the only way to get rid 
 of his questions, and I do not see why I should be more 
 patient than a gentleman." 
 
 The generous and pacific miller had no desire to fix 
 a quarrel upon Henri, as the latter supposed, from noi 
 understanding his real interest in Mme. de Blanchemont, 
 and consequently in himself ; it was simply the distrust 
 mingled with this last sentiment, from whicli Grand- 
 Louis wished to free his mind by an open explanation. 
 Not succeeding, he thought himself provoked in his turn, 
 and, on their way to the Cafe Robichon, each of the ad- 
 versaries was persuaded that he was forced to comply 
 with the belligerent temper of the other. 
 
 The clock of a neighboring steeple struck six as they 
 came to the cafe. It was a small house, adorned with 
 the pompous title " Cafe de la Renaissance," now seen upon 
 every little provincial cabaret. They entered through a 
 narrow alley, bordered with young acacias and superb 
 dahlias. The little court of explanations was beneath the 
 wall of a Gothic church, covered in this place with ivy 
 and climbing roses. Arbors of honeysuckle and clematis 
 protected it from intrusive eyes, and perfumed the morn- 
 ing air. This flowery nook, now solitary and neatly 
 sanded, seemed intended rather for a lover's trysting- 
 place than for scenes of a tragic nature. 
 
 Grand-Louis ushered Lemor in, closed the gate behind 
 him, and then, seating himself at a small green wooden 
 table — 
 
 "So, then ! " said he, " are we here to deal each other 
 blows, or to take a cup of coffee together ? " 
 
 " Just as you please," replied Lemor. " I will fight 
 with you if you wish ; but I will take no coffee." 
 
 " You are too proud for that ! plain enough why," 
 said Grand-Louis, with a shrug. " When one receives 
 letters from a baroness ! " 
 
 " You are beginning again? Come, either let me bo 
 off*, or let us fight at once." 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 13^ 
 
 " I cannot fight with you," said the miller. " You 
 need only look at me, I think, to see that I am no cow- 
 ard, and yet I refuse the match you offer me. Mme. de 
 Blanchemont would never forgive me, and that would 
 ruin me altogether." 
 
 "What matter for that? If you think Mme. de 
 Blanchemont would blame you for being quarrelsome, 
 you need not tell her that you picked the quarrel." 
 
 "So! then it was I who picked the quarrel? Who 
 was it spoke first of fighting ? " 
 
 " It seems to me that nobody except yourself has 
 spoken of it, but it is very little matter. I accept the 
 proposal." 
 
 " But who, then, insulted the other? I said nothing to 
 you but what was civil, and you treated me as imper- 
 tinent." 
 
 "You interpreted my words and my thoughts in an 
 unmannerly fashion. I requested you to let me alone." 
 
 " Oh ! that is it ! You bid me hold my tongue ! 
 And supposing I will not, what then } " 
 
 " I shall turn my back upon you, and if you take it 
 ill, we will fight." 
 
 " This fellow is obstinate as all the devils ! " cried 
 Grand-Louis, striking with his huge fist upon the little 
 table, which was cleft by the blow. 
 
 " There ! Mr. Parisian ! you see what a heavy hand 
 that is ! Your pride might give me a fancy to try 
 whether your head were as hard as that oaken board ; 
 for there is nothing on earth more insolent than to say to 
 a man, ' I will not hear you.' And yet I ought not. I 
 cannot injure a hair of that iron head. Hark you ! we 
 must make an end of this. Still, I wish you well, and 
 above all do I wish well to a certain person for whom I 
 would break my arms and legs, and who has, I am sure, 
 a fancy for interesting herself in you. We must under- 
 stand one another ; I will ask you no more questions, 
 since it is lost pains, but I will tell you all that 1 have on 
 my mind for and against you ; and when I have done, if 
 you are not suited, we will fight ; and if what I suspect 
 of you is true, I should not be sorry to break your jaw. 
 
132 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 Come, it is best to make matters clear before trying 
 strength, and know why one does it ! Wo will have 
 coffee, for I am fasting since yesterday, and my stomach 
 cries for mercy. If you are too great a lord to let me 
 pay the scot, let us agree that the least maimed of the 
 two shall settle it after all is over." 
 
 *' Agreed ! " said Henri, who, considering himself on 
 hostile terms with the miller, thought there could be no 
 risk of forgetting himself with him through friendliness. 
 
 Father Robichon himself brought the coffee, testifying 
 all manner of kindness towards Grand-Louis. " Is he 
 one of thy friends? " said he, looking at Lemor with the 
 curiosity always felt by tradespeople in small towns, who 
 have not much to do. "I do not know him, but it is 
 all the same ; he must be good for something, since thou 
 bringest him to me. Look you, my boy," added he, ad- 
 dressing Lemor, " you have made a good acquaintance 
 on coming our way. You could not have 'had better 
 luck. Grand-Louis is esteemed by each and all. I now — 
 I love him like a son. Oh, he is so wise, good, and gen- 
 tle — gentle as a lamb, though he is the strongest man in 
 the country — but I can truly say that never, no, never, 
 has he made any disturbance. He would not give a cuff 
 to a child, and I never heard him raise his voice in my 
 house. God knows that there are often quarrelsome 
 people here, but he always brings peace with him." 
 
 This eulogium, so oddly timed at the moment when 
 Grand-Louis had brought a stranger to the Cafe Robichon 
 to try a quarrel with him, made both the young men 
 smile. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 133 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE FORD OF THE VAUVRE. 
 
 npHE panegyric appeared, nevertheless, so sincere, that 
 •*- Lemor, already disposed to great sympathy for the 
 miller, and reflecting on the singularity of his conduct in 
 this instance, began to consider that this man must have 
 powerful motives for questioning him. They took coffee 
 together with much mutual politeness, and when Father 
 Robichon had left them to themselves, the miller began 
 thus : 
 
 " Sir (I must call you so since I do not know whether 
 we are friends or foes), you must know in the first place 
 that I am in love, by your good pleasure, with a girl too 
 rich for me, and who loves me only just enough not to 
 detest me. Thus I can speak of her without compro- 
 mising her ; and besides, you do not know her. I do 
 not like, however, to talk of my love, it is tiresome for 
 others, especially when they have been stung by the same 
 fly, and are, as is customary in this malady, devilish 
 egotists, caring everything for themselves and nothing 
 for their neighbors. Nevertheless, as one gains nothing 
 by working all alone to remove a mountain, I am of 
 opinion that by a little mutual friendly assistance some- 
 thing at least might be done, and this is why I desired 
 your confidence, since I have that of the lady whom you 
 well know, and why I give you mine without any particu- 
 lar certainty of its being well placed. 
 
 " Well, then, the girl I love will have for her dowry 
 30,000 francs more than I, and, as times are, I might as 
 well think of marrying the Empress of China. I do not 
 care a snap for her 30,000 francs ; indeed I may say 
 that I wish them at the bottom of the sea, since it is they 
 
134 ^^^^ MILLER OF ANGIBATTLT. 
 
 who separate us. But love never yet listened to hin« 
 (lerances ; although I am penniless, I am in love ; I 
 can think of nothing else ; and if the lady, whom you well 
 know, does not come to my relief, as she has given me 
 to hope, I am a lost man — I may — I don't know what 
 I may not do ! " 
 
 While speaking thus, there came so dark a change over 
 the miller's usually jovial face, that Lemor was struck by 
 the strength and sincerity of his passion. 
 
 " Well, then,'* said he to him, cordially, " since you 
 have the protection of so good and intelligent a lady — 
 she is called so at least ! — " 
 
 " I do not know what she is called" retorted Grand- 
 Louis, out of patience with the young man's obstinate re- 
 serve ; " I know what I myself think, and I tell you that 
 this woman is an angel of heaven. The worse for you, 
 if you do not know it ! " 
 
 " In that case," said Lemor, unable to resist the sin- 
 cerity of this homage to Marcelle, " what are you aiming 
 at, my dear M. Grand-Louis ? " 
 
 " I wish to tell you, that seeing this good, noble, and 
 pure-hearted woman disposed kindly towards me, and al- 
 ready beginning to give me hope when I thought all lost, 
 I am attached to her at once and forever. Friendship 
 came to me, as they say in romances that love comes, in 
 a flash, and now I want to return beforehand all the 
 good that this woman intends to do me. I want her to 
 be happy as she deserves, happy in her affections, since 
 she cares for nothing else in the world, and despises for- 
 tune, happy in the love of a man wlio shall love her for 
 herself, and not be busy in calculating what remains of 
 the wealth she loses so joyously — only thinking how 
 to find out what she does or does not possess — that he 
 may know whether to rejoin her, or take himself far 
 away from her — forget her, doubtless — and try if his 
 pretty face can make another more lucrative conquest — 
 for—" 
 
 Lemor interrupted the miller. 
 
 "What reason have you," said he, turning pale, '* to 
 fear that this worthy lady has so misplaced her afFec- 
 
THE MILLER OF AJSrOrBAirLT. 135 
 
 tions? Who is the villain to v/hom you impute such 
 dastardly conduct ? " 
 
 " I know nothing about it," said the miller, attentively 
 observant of Henri's agitation, and not yet certain 
 whether to attribute it to the indignation of conscious 
 rectitude or the shame of detection. ''All that I know 
 is that there came to my mill, some fortnight since, a 
 young man of very honest face and manners, who seemed 
 to have some weight upon his mind, and, all at once, be- 
 gan to talk of money, to ask questions, take notes, and 
 at last to assure himself in francs and centimes, on a bit 
 of paper, that a pretty slice of her fortune was still left 
 to the lady of Blanchemont." 
 
 " The truth is, you think this fellow was ready to de- 
 clare his love only in case the marriage appeared advan- 
 tageous to him ? Then he was a scoundrel ; but to have 
 guessed so well, one's self need be — " 
 
 " Go on, Parisian ! Don't pick your words," said the 
 miller, whose eyes flashed like lightning. "We are here 
 to understand one another ! " 
 
 " I say," repeated Lemor, not less provoked, " that 
 when a man makes such interpretation of the conduct of 
 another with whom he is not acquainted, and of whom 
 he knows nothing, he must be himself much in love with 
 his mistress's dowry." 
 
 The miller's eyes faded, and a cloud passed over his 
 brow. 
 
 "Ah!" said he, in a mournful tone, "I know that 
 might be said, and I warrant that many people would say 
 so, if I succeeded in making myself beloved ! But only 
 let her father disinherit her, which would certainly hap- 
 pen if she were to love me, and then they should see if I 
 would count up what she had lost on my fingers ! " 
 
 " Miller ! " said Lemor, in a frank and hasty tone, " I 
 do not accuse you. I do not wish to suspect you. But 
 how is it, that with an honest soul, you have not sup- 
 posed what is most likely and most worthy of you ? " 
 
 " The young man's feeling would be shown by his sub- 
 sequent actions. If he rushed with transport to his deat 
 lady 1 — I say nothing ; but if he takes himself to the devils 
 that is another affair ! " 
 
,36 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 "It should be presumed," answered Lcmor, " that he 
 looked upon his love as madness, and did not wish to ex- 
 pose himself to a refusal." 
 
 *' Ah ! there you are ! " cried the miller. *' Here come 
 the lies again ! I know positively that the lady is re- 
 joiced to have lost her fortune, that she has also taken 
 bravely her share in her son's total ruin, and all because 
 she loves some one, whom, without all these catastrophes, 
 it might have been called a crime in her to marry." 
 
 " Her son is ruined? " said Lemor, starting ; *' totally 
 ruined ? Is it possible ? Are you sure of it ? " 
 
 " Perfectly sure, my boy ! " replied the miller, in a 
 jeering manner. "The administratrix, who, during a 
 long minority, might have shared the interest of a large 
 capital with a lover or husband, will have nothing but 
 debts to pay, so that her intention, as she told me last 
 night, is to have her boy learn some trade for a living." 
 
 Henri had left his seat, and was pacing the little court 
 with agitated steps, and the expression of his face was 
 indefinable. Grand-Louis, who did not take his eyes off 
 him, questioned with himself whether he was at the 
 height of joy or disappointment. " We will see," thought 
 he, " whether he is a man, like lier and like me, hating 
 the riches which thwart love, or an adventurer who has 
 woa her love by some inconceivable craft, and whose am- 
 bition looks higher than the enjoyment of the little rev- 
 enue which is left to her." 
 
 After a few moments* thought, Grand-Louis, who had 
 set his heart on giving Marcelle a great pleasure, or rid- 
 ding her of a deceiver by unmasking him, imagined a 
 strategem. 
 
 " Come, my boy ! " said he, in a milder voice, " you 
 are vexed ! There is no harm in that. Everybody is not 
 romantic, and if you were thinking of the cash, yoa were 
 only like all the people nowadays. You see now that I 
 have not done you an ill turn by quarrelling with you ; 
 you have learned that the jointure has run dry. You 
 doubtless reckoned on the profits of the young heir's 
 minority, for you were aware that the famous three hun- 
 dred thousand francs was a last, a sheer illusion of the 
 widow's ? " 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 37 
 
 *' AVhat do you say? " cried Lemor, pausing in his hur- 
 ried walk ; "is this last resource taken from her?" 
 
 " To be sure ! don't pretend not to know it ; you took 
 your information too carefully not to know that Farmer 
 Bricolin's debt is quadruple what was supposed, and that 
 the lady of Blanchemont will have to sue for a tobacco * 
 or post-office, to have the means of sending her son to 
 school.*' 
 
 "Is it possible?" repeated Lemor, confounded and al- 
 most stupefied by this news. " So sudden a change in her 
 destiny ! A stroke from heaven ! " 
 
 " Yes, a thunder-stroke ! " said the miller, with a bitter 
 laugh. 
 
 " Oh ! tell me, is she not at all affected ? " 
 
 " Oh ! not in the least. So far from it, on the con- 
 trary, she fancies that you will only love her the better. 
 But you — not such a fool, are you ? " 
 
 "My dear friend," replied Lemor, without hearing a 
 word, " what have you told me? And I, who wanted to 
 fight with you — you have done me a great service ! 
 When I was about — you are sent to me by Providence ! " 
 
 Grand-Louis, attributing this effusion to Lemor*s satis- 
 faction in being warned in time of the ruin of his merce- 
 nary hopes, turned away his head in disgust, and remained 
 for some instants absorbed in deep melancholy. 
 
 " To see so confiding and disinterested a woman," said 
 he to himself, " cozened by such a puppy ! She must 
 have as little judgment as he has heart. I ought to have 
 thought, indeed, that she was very imprudent, when in a 
 single day, the first time I ever saw her, she let me dis- 
 cover all her secrets. She is ready to yield her good 
 heart to the first comer. Oh ! I must scold her, warn 
 her, put her on her guard against herself in everything ! 
 And to begin, I must rid her of this rogue. One might 
 tear the rascal's ear a little, or give him a mark on his 
 fine viznomy^ that should hinder him from showing him- 
 self so soon among the ladies — Hallo ! Mr. Parisian ! " 
 said he, without turning round, and endeavoring to make 
 
 * Tobacco, in France, is a government monopoly. — Tr. 
 
138 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 liis voice calm and clear ; " you have heard me, and now 
 you know how much I think of you. I know what I 
 wished to know — you are nothing but a scoundrel. That 
 -IS my opinion, and I will prove it to you immediately, if 
 fou will please to permit it." 
 
 While speaking, the miller had phlegmatically turned 
 jp his sleeves, intending to use only his fists, and he now 
 rose and turned, surprised at his adversary's delay in an- 
 swering. But to his great astonishment, he found him- 
 self alone in the court. He ran through the dahlia alley, 
 hunted in all the corners of the Cafe Robichon, surveyed 
 all the neighboring streets ; Lemor had disappeared. No 
 one had seen him go out. Indignant and almost furious, 
 Grand-Louis sought for him vainly all through the town. 
 
 After an hour of useless investigation, the miller was 
 out of breath, and began to be tired and discouraged. 
 
 "It is all the same," said he to himself, sitting down 
 upon a stone ; " there shall not a diligence or a patache 
 leave the town this day, but I will count the passengers, 
 and look every one of them in the face. This gentleman 
 shall not go off without — but pshaw ! I am mad ! Is 
 he not on foot, and does not a man who shirks paying a 
 debt of honor take to the fields without drum or trumpet? 
 And then," added he, growing calmer by degrees, " my 
 dear Madame Marcelle would doubtless be angry with 
 me for thrashing her gallant. That is no way to cure so 
 strong an attachment ; and perhaps the poor woman will 
 not believe me when I tell her that her Parisian is a true 
 Marchois.* How can I undeceive her ? It is my duty ; 
 and yet, when I think of the pain I shall give her — Dear 
 lady of the good God ! Is it possible one can be so de- 
 luded?" 
 
 While thus talking with himself, the miller remembered 
 that he had a carriage to sell, and went to a wealthy ex- 
 farmer, who, after long examination and cheapening, was 
 finally decided by his fear lest M. Bricolin should seize 
 
 ♦ The natives of La Marche are, with or without reason, in 
 such bad odor with their neighbors of Berri, that Marchois is 
 synonymous with cheat. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 139 
 
 upon a thing which was at once an article of luxury and 
 a good bargain. " Buy it, M. Ravelard," said Grand- 
 Louis, with the admirable patience which belongs to the 
 Berrichons, when, perfectly understanding that their terms 
 are to be accepted, they politely feign to be duped by the 
 assumed uncertainty of the purchaser. " I have told you 
 two hundred times already, and I will repeat it as often 
 as you wish, it is good and handsome, fine and substan- 
 tial. It came from the first establishment in Paris, and 
 you get it free of freight. You know me too well to think 
 I would be concerned in the business if there were any 
 trap under it. Besides, I ask no commission of you, 
 which you would have to pay to anybody else. See ! it 
 is clear profit ! " 
 
 The buyer's irresolutions lasted till evening. It tore 
 his soul to pay down the crowns. When Grand-Louis 
 saw the sun setting — 
 
 " Come," said he, " I do not want to sleep here, and I 
 am ofiT. I see that you will not have this pretty shining 
 Avagon, as cheap as it is. I shall harness Sophie to 
 it, and go back to Blanchemont as proud as Pompey. It 
 will be the first time in my life that I drive a carriage ; 
 that will divert me, and I shall be yet more diverted to 
 see Father and Mother Bricolin strut into it to go to La 
 Chatre of a Sunday! I still think that you and your 
 wife would cut a finer figure in it." 
 
 At length, as the night came on, M. Ravelard counted 
 out the money, and had the fine carriage put under his 
 coach-house. Grand-Louis loaded his cart with Mme. 
 de Blanchemont's effects, put the two thousand francs in a 
 leathern girdle, and started with Sophie at full trot, sitting 
 on a trunk, and singing at the top of his voice, notwith- 
 standing the jolts and the rumbling of his great wheels 
 over the pavement. 
 
 He drove quickly, with no risk of losing his way, like 
 the patachon, and the moon had not yet risen when he 
 passed the pretty village of Mers. The chilling mist, 
 that even in the warmest summer nights floats over the 
 numerous embanked streams of the Black Valley, lay in 
 white sheets, that might have been mistaken for lakes. 
 
140 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 over the low places in the vast and gloomy extent of coim- 
 try opening before him. The harvesters' cries and the 
 shepherds' song had already ceased, and soon the glow- 
 worms, gleaming here and there on the roadside, were 
 the only living creatures on the miller's way. 
 
 Nevertheless, while crossing one of the marshy tracts 
 made by the windings of rivers in a country otherwise so 
 fertile and so scrupulously cultivated, he thought he saw 
 a dim figure running through the reeds before him, whicjh 
 stopped at the edge of the ford as if to wait for him. 
 
 Grand-Louis was not much subject to fear. However, 
 as he had on this occasion to defend a little property, of 
 which he was more careful than if it had been his own, 
 he hastened to rejoin his cart, for he had come part of the 
 way on foot, as much to stretch his limbs as to ease his 
 faithful Sophie. Finding the leathern girdle inconven- 
 ient, he had put it in a sack of corn. When he had re- 
 mounted his car, which he facetiously called, after the 
 country fashion, his equipage hung on wagon-leather, 
 that is, on plain wood, he took a firm stand on his legs, 
 armed himself with his whip, whose heavy handle ren- 
 dered it a weapon of double action, and upright as a 
 soldier on duty he drove straight up to the night-travel- 
 ler, gayly chanting a stanza from an old comic opera, 
 which Rose had taught him in his childhood : 
 
 *• Our miller's purse is full of gold, 
 
 And now for home he gayly pushes, 
 When on the way he hears, I'm told, 
 
 A monstrous rustling in the bushes. 
 Our miller is a sturdy fellow, 
 But then, they say, he turned quite yellow. 
 So, friends, beware, 
 Take mickle care, 
 Through the Black Valley never wander.** 
 
 I believe that the song has it " the Black Forest" ; but 
 Grand-Louis, who mocked at poetic rule as much as at 
 ghosts and robbers, amused himself with adapting the 
 words to his own situation, and this simple stanza, for- 
 merly much in vogue, but now sung only at the mill of 
 Angibault, often beguiled the tedium of his solitary rides. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 141 
 
 When he was near the man, who firmly awaited him, 
 he saw that the post was well chosen for an attack. The 
 ford was not, indeed, deep, but encumbered with large 
 stones, which obliged a horse to walk carefully ; and be- 
 sides, the descent into the water was so steep as to make 
 it necessary to hold in the reins lest the animal should 
 fall. 
 
 *' We shall see," said Grand-Louis to himself, with 
 great composure and prudence. 
 
143 
 
 TUB MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 HENRI. 
 
 npiIE wayfarer did in fact advance to the horse's head, 
 -^ and Grand-Louis, who, during his roundelay, had 
 dexterously fastened to his whip-lash a ball of lead 
 pierced for the purpose, had already raised his arm to 
 make him let go, when a voice that he knew said ami- 
 cably : 
 
 " Master Louis, permit me to cross the water in your 
 vehicle." 
 
 " Oh ho ! my dear Parisian ! " replied the miller ; 
 " delighted to see you. I hunted for you long enough 
 this morning! Up, up, — I have two words to say to 
 
 you." 
 
 " And as for me, I have more than two to ask of you," 
 answered Henri Lemor, springing into the cart, and 
 taking a seat on the trunk beside him, with the confidence 
 of a man who expects nothing disagreeable. 
 
 " This is a bold dog," thought the miller, who, in the 
 first return of his rancor, could hardly restrain himself 
 till they should reach the other bank. " Do you know, 
 comrade," said he, laying his heavy hand upon the other's 
 shoulder, " that I do not know what keeps me from turn- 
 ing about to the right, and giving you a ducking under 
 the sluice there ? " 
 
 " It is an amusing idea," answered Lemor, quietly, 
 "and practicable to a certain degree. Still, my dear 
 friend, I think I should make a stout defence, for to-night 
 is the first time for a long while that I hold to my life 
 tenaciously." 
 
 *' Now ! " said the miller, as he drew up on the sand 
 at the other side of the stream. " We can talk better 
 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 H3 
 
 here. First and foremost, do me the kindness, my dear 
 sir, to tell me where you are going?" 
 
 " I do not know myself," said Lemor, laughing. "I 
 believe I shall follow where chance leads. Is it not a 
 fine evening for a walk ? " 
 
 " Not so fine as you think, my master, and you may 
 go back in worse weather, if such be my good pleasure. 
 You chose to come into my cart. It is my travelling 
 fortress, and people do not always get out as they got 
 in." 
 
 "A truce to repartee, Grand-Louis," returned Lemor^ 
 " and whip up your horse. I can laugh no more, I feel 
 too much — " 
 
 " Confess the truth, you are afraid." 
 
 " Yes, dreadfully afraid, like the miller in your song, 
 and you will understand when I tell you — if I can speak 
 — I have scarcely my senses." 
 
 " In short, where are you going? " said the miller, who 
 began to fear he had misjudged Lemor, and recovering 
 his reason, which had been lost in his anger, asked him- 
 self whether a guilty man would thus voluntarily place 
 himself again in his power. 
 
 *' Where are you going yourself?" said Lemor. " To 
 Angibault, near Blanchemont? I, too, go in that direc- 
 tion, without knowing whether I shall dare to go quite 
 there. But you have heard of the loadstone which at- 
 tracts the iron ? " 
 
 *' I do not know whether you are made of iron," re- 
 turned the miller, " but I know there is a famous load- 
 stone that way for me also. Come, my boy, you would 
 wish — " 
 
 " I wish nothing, I dare not wish anything ! and yet 
 she is ruined, entirely ruined? Why should I go away?" 
 
 " What could make you want to go so far, to Africa, 
 to the devil?" 
 
 " I believed her still rich ; as I told you, compared 
 to my situation, 300,000 francs was opulence." 
 
 " But since she loved you, notwithstanding? " 
 
 "And do you imagine that I could have accepted 
 money with love? I can feign no longer with you. 
 
144 ^^^ MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 friend. I see that tilings have been confided to you 
 which I wouhl not have avowed, had we come to blows 
 upon it. But I reflected, after heaving you so abruptly, 
 when I scarce knew what I was doing, and felt my heart 
 so big with joy that I could not have held my tongue — 
 yes, I reflected on all that you had said, and saw that 
 you knew all, and that it was absurd in me to fear indis- 
 cretion from so devoted a friend to — " 
 
 " Marcelle ! " said the miller, with a little vanity at 
 being able familiarly to pronounce this Christian name, 
 as in his mind he defined it, in opposition to the aristo- 
 cratic title of the lady of Blancheraont. 
 
 Lemor thrilled at this name. It sounded in his ear for 
 the first time. As he had never had any connection 
 with those who surrounded Mme. de Blanchemont, and 
 never confided the secret of his love to any one, he knew 
 not from other lips the sound of this cherished name, 
 which he had read with such reverence at the end of 
 many a note, and never himself dared to pronounce but 
 in moments of despair or rapture. He seized the miller's 
 arm, divided between the desire to make him repeat it, 
 and the fear of profaning it by giving it to the solitary 
 echoes. 
 
 " Well, then,'* said Grand-Louis, touched by his emo- 
 tion, " you have at last found out that you neither should 
 nor could distrust me ? But would you have me tell you 
 the truth? I still distrust you a little. It is in spite of 
 myself, but the idea pursues me, quits me, and again 
 seizes me. Let us see, — where have you been all day ? 
 I thought you were hid in a cellar ! *' 
 
 " I should have been, I believe, if I had found one 
 convenient," said Lemor, with a smile, "I so much 
 needed to hide my distress and my rapture. Do you 
 know, my friend, that I was going to Africa, intending 
 never again to see — her whom you have just named? 
 Yes, notwithstanding the note you brought me, which 
 commanded me to return in one year, I felt that my con- 
 science exacted a dreadful sacrifice. And even to-day I 
 was filled with fear and uncertainty ; for if I, a working- 
 man, have no longer to combat the shame of marrying a 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 H5 
 
 rich woman, still there remains the enmity of race, the 
 struggle of the plebeian against the patricians, who will 
 persecute this noble woman for a choice they will deem 
 unworthy. Yet there may be cowardice in avoiding this 
 crisis. It is not her fault that she is of the blood of the op- 
 pressors, and then, too, the power of the nobility has passed 
 into other hands. Their opinion has lost its force, and 
 perhaps she — who deigns to prefer me — will not meet 
 universal blame. Still, is it not terrible to involve the 
 woman one loves in a contest with her family, and to 
 draw upon her the blame of all those with whom she 
 has always lived ! These attachments are secondary, 
 it is true, but numerous and dear. A generous heart 
 cannot break from them without regret, and by what 
 other affections shall I replace them? For I am isolated 
 upon the earth, as the poor always are, and the people do 
 not yet understand how to greet those who come to them 
 from such a distance, and through so many obstacles. 
 Alas ! I spent part of the day under a hedge, I know 
 not where, in a retired place where I chanced to be, and 
 it was only after hours of anguish and earnest thought 
 that I determined to seek you, and ask you to procure 
 me an hour's interview with her. I sought you in vain, 
 and perhaps you, too, were looking for me, for it was you 
 who filled my brain with this burning idea of going to 
 Blanchemont. But I believe that you are imprudent and 
 I mad, for she forbid my knowing even where she had 
 retired, and she fixed, for the propriety of her mourning, 
 the delay of a year." 
 
 " Is it so indeed? " said Grand-Louis, somewhat fright- 
 ened at having aroused in Marcelle's lover the idea of 
 going to see her, by the suggestion he had thought so in- 
 genious in the morning. " Are these notions of propriety 
 of which you speak so serious in your mind, and is it nec- 
 essary that a year, neither more nor less, should pass 
 after the death of a wicked husband, before an honest 
 woman can see the face of an honest man who intends 
 to marry her ? Is that the custom at Paris ? " 
 
 " Not more at Paris than elsewhere. The religious feel- 
 ing belonging to the mystery of death is everywhere, 
 
 lo 
 
146 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 doubtless, the nearest arbiter of the greater or less time 
 granted to the remembrance of the funeral rites." 
 
 " I know that it is a right feeling which has established 
 the custom of testifying mourning in dress, habits, and 
 general conduct ; but is there not danger of its degener- 
 ating into hypocrisy, when there is really little to regret 
 in the deceased, and when love speaks plainly in favor of 
 another ? Is it necessary to the decent demeanor of a 
 widow that her suitor should expatriate himself, and 
 never pass her door, or even glance at her when she does 
 not appear to see ? " 
 
 " You do not know, my dear fellow, the malignity of 
 those who call themselves people of the world. It is a 
 singular denomination, and yet just in their eyes, since 
 they count the people as nothing, and arrogate the em- 
 pire of the world, which they have always had, and have 
 still — for a time ! " 
 
 " It is not hard for me to credit," cried the miller, 
 " that they are more wicked than we ! And yet," he 
 added mournfully, " we are not as good as we should be ! 
 We, too, babble, and taunt, and condemn the weak. Yes, 
 you are right, we must guard against evil being spoken 
 of this dear lady. With time she will be known, be- 
 loved, and respected as she deserves, but now a single 
 day might bring an accusation of light conduct against 
 her. So it is my advice that you should not show your- 
 self at Blanchemont." 
 
 "' You are a man of good judgment, Grand-Louis, and 
 I was sure that you would not let me do anything wrong. 
 I will have the courage to listen to your reasonable 
 opinion, as I had the folly to take fire at the first impulse 
 of your kind feeling. I will talk with you till we are 
 near your mill, and then I will return to * * *, and 
 continue my journey to-morrow." 
 
 *' Come ! come ! you go from one extreme to the 
 other," said the miller, who had let his patient Sophie 
 walk, while talking with Lemor. " Angibault is a league 
 from Blanchemont, and you can easily pass the night 
 there without compromising any one. My old mother 
 will be the only woman you will find to-night, and that 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 147 
 
 will make no gossip. You have had a pretty walk from 
 * * * here, and I should have neither heart nor soul if 
 I did not force you to accept a bed, with what the curate, 
 who does not fancy them, calls a frugal supper. Be- 
 sides, must not you write ? You will find all that is nec- 
 essary with us — beautiful letter-paper, for example ! I 
 am clerk of my district, and I do not write my deeds upon 
 vellum ; but even if your amorous prose should lie on 
 government stamped paper, that will not hinder it from 
 being read, and perhaps twice rather than once. Come, 
 I tell you, I see already the smoke of my supper rising 
 among the trees ; we will trot a little, for I will warrant 
 that my old mother is hungry, and will not eat without 
 me. I promised her I would be at home early." 
 
 Henri was dying to accept the good miller's offer. For 
 form's sake he let himself be urged ; lovers dissemble 
 like children. He had given up the folly of going to 
 Blanchemont, but he was drawn in that direction as by a 
 magic charm ; and each of Sophie's steps which brought 
 him nearer this centre of attraction, stirred the poor 
 heart, just crushed by a struggle beyond its master's 
 strength. So he yielded, secretly blessing the miller's 
 hospitable urgency. 
 
 "Mother!" cried the latter to Grand'-Marie, as he 
 leaped from his cart, " have I broken my word to you? 
 If the good God's clock is not out of order, the stars of 
 the cross mark ten upon St. James's Way." * 
 
 "That is all," said the good woman ; "it is only an 
 hour later than thou expectedst. But I will not scold 
 thee. I see that thou hast done our dear lady's errands. 
 Dost thou mean to carry all that to Blanchemont 
 to-night?" 
 
 "No, by my faith! it is too late. Madame Marcelle 
 told me that a day sooner or later did not matter. And 
 then, too, can one get into the new chateau after tea 
 o'clock? Have not they mended the embattled court 
 wall, and put iron bars on the great gate ? They are cap- 
 
 *The cross is the constellation of the Swan, and the Milky 
 Way that of St. James. 
 
148 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 able of setting up a drawbridge over their dry ditch I 
 The devil take me ! M. Bricoliu thinks himself already 
 lord of Blauchemoat, and will soon have a coat-of-arms 
 over his chimney. He will be called de Bricolin — but 
 look here, mother, I bring you company Do you rec- 
 ognize this lad ? " 
 
 " Eh ! it is the gentleman of last month ! " said Grand'- 
 Marie ; "the one whom we took for one of the lady of 
 Blanchemont's agents I But it seems she does not 
 know him." 
 
 *' No, no, she does not know him at all," said Grand- 
 Louis, " and he is no agent ; he is a clerk of the registry 
 for the new assessment of taxes. Come, geometer, sit 
 down and eat while the meat is warm." 
 
 " Tell us then, sir," said the miller's mother, when the 
 first course, namely, the lentil soup, was despatched, 
 *' was it you who wrote your name upon one of our trees 
 on the river-bank ? " 
 
 "" It was I," said Henri. " I ask your pardon for it ; 
 perhaps my foolish school-boy trick killed the young 
 willow?" 
 
 "Saving your presence, it is a white birch," said the 
 miller. " You are a true Parisian, and doubtless do not 
 know flax from potatoes. But no matter. Our trees 
 laugh at the strokes of your pen-knife, and my mother 
 asks you only for talk." 
 
 " Oh ! I would not say a word to you for a little tree. 
 We have enough beside," said the old woman, " but our 
 young lady was so troubled to know who could have cut 
 that name there ! And her little boy read it all himself I 
 Yes, sir, a child of four saw what I could never see in 
 letters ! " 
 
 "She has been here then?" said Lemor inconsider- 
 ately, and without full possession of his senses at the 
 moment. 
 
 " What is that to you, since you do not know her?" 
 answered Grand-Louis, giving him a great punch with 
 his knee to remind him to feign, especially before his 
 mill-boy. 
 
 Lemor thanked him with a look, although the warning 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 149 
 
 was none of the gentlest ; and fearing his own imprudence, 
 did not again open his mouth, except to eat. 
 
 When they separated for the night, as Lemor was to 
 share the miller's little room on the ground-floor, oppo- 
 site the mill, he requested Grand-Louis not to fasten the 
 door yet, but to let him walk awhile on the banks of the 
 Vauvre. 
 
 "Pardy, and I will go with you," said Grand-Louis, 
 much interested in his new friend's romance, by its re- 
 semblance to his own. " I know where you are going, 
 and I am in no such hurry to sleep that I should not take 
 a turn with you in the moonlight, for there is the moon 
 rising, and gleaming on the water. Come, my Parisian, 
 see how silvery and proud she is in the basin of the 
 Vauvre, and say if you ever have so fair a moon and so 
 beautiful a river in Paris ! There ! " he added, when 
 they came to the foot of the tree, " there is where sKq 
 leant while she read your name. She was this way 
 against the rail, and she looked with eyes — such as I 
 could never make, though I should spend two hours in 
 opening mine. So then, you knew she would come here, 
 that you left her your signature ? " 
 
 "The strangest thing about it is that I did not know 
 it, and that mere chance — a childish caprice — sug- 
 gested to me to leave this token of my passage through a 
 lovely spot which I never thought to see again. I heard 
 at Paris that she was ruined. I hoped so ! I came to 
 learn what I might depend upon, and when I found that 
 she was still too rich for me, I thought only of bidding 
 her farewell." 
 
 "See you now! There is a God for lovers, or you 
 never would have returned here, in fact. It was this — 
 it was Mme. Marcelle's manner when she questioned me 
 about the young traveller who had cut this name — that 
 made me guess all at once that she loved, and that her 
 lover was named Henri. That was what sharpened my 
 wits to divine the rest, for nothing has been said to me. 
 I have guessed everything else, I must confess, though I 
 boast of it also." 
 
 "How ! nothing has been confided to you, and I have 
 
I50 THE MILLER OF ANGJBAULT, 
 
 ooufesseil till? God's will bo tlonc I I sec His hand in 
 ull this, and I cau no lon;:^cr choose but yield to the ab- 
 solute confidence with which you inspire me." 
 
 *' I wish I could say as much to you," said Grand- 
 Louis, taking his hand, " for may the devil pound me if 
 1 do not love you ! And still there is something that 
 always worries me." 
 
 " How can you yet still suspect me, when I return to 
 your Black Valley only to breathe the air which she has 
 breathed, when I know at last that she is poor? " 
 
 ••* But might not you have been among the notaries and 
 lawyers while I was looking for you this morning? And 
 if you had learned that she is still rich ? " 
 
 " What do you say ? Can it be true ? " cried Lemor, 
 in a woful tone. " Do not play so with me, friend ! you 
 accuse me of things so absurd, that I do not even think 
 of justifying myself. But one thing I must tell you in a 
 word. If Madame de Blanchemont is still rich, thougk 
 she would accept the love of a working-man like me, I 
 must quit her forever. Oh ! if it be so, if I must know 
 it, not yet, in Heaven's name ! Let me dream of happi- 
 ness till to-morrow, till I leave this country for a year, or 
 forever ! " 
 
 " Now, good friend, you are a little cracked," cried 
 the miller. "And at this moment you even seem so 
 exaggerated, that I fear lest it be an attempt to de- 
 ceive me." 
 
 "You are not like me, then? You do not hate 
 wealth?" 
 
 " No, I neither hate nor love it for itself, but for the 
 good or evil it can do me. For example, I detest Father 
 Bricolin's gold, because it hinders me from marrying his 
 daughter — ah ! the deuce ! I let slip names that you 
 might as well be ignorant of — But I know your affairs, 
 after all, and you may as well know mine. So I say 
 that I detest that gold ; but I should heartily like to have 
 thirty or forty thousand francs fall on me from the sky, 
 and enable me to propose to Rose." 
 
 " I do not think as you do. If I owned a million, I 
 would not keep it." 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 151 
 
 " You would throw it into the river rather than make 
 a title from it to reestablish equality between her and 
 you ? You are a droll chap, after all." 
 
 " I think I should distribute it among the poor, like the 
 early communist Christians, so as to rid myself of it, 
 though I know very well that it would not be doing any 
 real good, for those first disciples of equality formed a 
 society, when they gave up their property, and gave to 
 the unfortunate a legislation which was at the same time 
 a religion. That money was food for the soul as well as 
 for the body. There was a doctrine of mutual division, 
 and it had its adepts. There is nothing like it now. 
 There is, indeed, the conception of* a holy and providential 
 community, but its laws are as yet unknown. The little 
 world of the first Christians cannot be renewed, for this 
 doctrine would be its first necessity ; we have it not, and 
 besides, men are not disposed to receive it. The money 
 which might be distributed among a handful of wretches 
 would breed only selfishness and indolence in them, un- 
 less they were at the same time instructed in the duties 
 of association. And I repeat to you, friend, there is not 
 yet on the one side intelligence enough in the initiators, 
 nor on the other enough confidence, sympathy, and im- 
 pulse in the initiated. This is why, when Marcelle (I 
 dare name her, too, now that you have named Rose) pro- 
 posed to me to do like the apostles, and give this wealth 
 at which I shuddered to the poor, I recoiled before her 
 sacrifice, for I did not feel in myself suflicient science and 
 genius to make it fruitful in her hands for the progress of 
 humanity. To possess riches and render them useful, as 
 I understand the term, there needs a man of more than 
 heart — of genius. I am not such an one, and in think- 
 ing on the rooted vices, the fearful selfishness induced by 
 the possession of fortune, I feel myself cold with dread. 
 I thank God for having made me poor — I, who just es- 
 caped a large heritage — and I swear never to possess 
 more than my week's wages ! " 
 
 "So, you thank God for having made you wise by a 
 pure act of His goodness, and you profit by the chance 
 that has preserved you from evil ? It is a mighty easy 
 
152 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 virtiKi, and I am not so much amazed at it as you may 
 think. Now I understand why Mme. Marcelle was so 
 pleased yesterday at being ruined. You put all these 
 fine things into her head ! It is very pretty, but it means 
 nothing. What is it more than if one should say, ' If I 
 were rich, 1 should be wicked, and I am rejoiced not to 
 be so*? It is just like my grandmother saying,'! do 
 not like eels, and I am very glad of it, for if I liked them 
 I should eat them.* Let us see why should you not be 
 rich and generous? Why, even if you did nothing better j 
 than to give bread to those around us who are in want, 1 
 that would be already something, and the money would * 
 be better placed in your hands than in those of misers — 
 oh, I know what you would have. I have understood — 
 J am not so stupid as you think, and I have read, now 
 and then, newspapers and pamphlets, from which I know 
 a little of what is going on beyond our farms, where it is 
 true enough that there is nothing new — I see that you 
 are a maker of new systems, an economist, a philosopher ! " 
 
 " No. It is, perhaps, a misfortune, but I know less of 
 the science of numbers than of any other, and nothing of 
 what is at the present day understood by political econ- 
 omy. It is a vicious circle, in which I can imagine no 
 amusement in turning.'* 
 
 " You have not studied a science without which you can 
 try nothing new ? In that case, you are indolent." 
 
 " No, but a dreamer." 
 
 " I understand. You are what is called a poet.'* 
 
 " I have never made verses, and now I am a workman. 
 Do not take me so seriously. I am a child, and a love- 
 sick child. My only merit is to have learned my trade, 
 and I am about to practise it.*' 
 
 " That is well ! gain your living as I do mine, and do 
 not plague yourself as to the way the world goes, since 
 you can do nothing about it.'* 
 
 *' What reasoning, my friend ! Suppose you were 
 bound to this tree, and saw a boat capsize on the river 
 with a family on board ; would you see them perish with 
 indifference because you could not help them } *' 
 
 " No, sir, I would break the tree, were it ten times as 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 153 
 
 large. I should have such good will, that God would 
 perform this little miracle lor me." 
 
 " And yet the human family perishes," cried Lemor, 
 mournfully, " and God does no more miracles ! " 
 
 " True enough ! nobody believes in Him. But I be- 
 lieve in Him, and I declare to you, since we are in a way 
 to keep nothing from each other, that in my secretest 
 thought, I have never despaired of marrying Rose Bric- 
 olin. Yet to bring her father to accept a poor son-in-law, 
 would be a more amazing miracle than to break with my 
 arm alone the great tree before you. Well ! this miracle 
 will be performed, I know not how ; I shall have fifty 
 thousand francs. I shall find them in the ground when 
 1 plant my cabbages, or in the river as I throw my nets, 
 or some idea — no matter what — will come to me. I 
 shall discover something, since an idea, they say, is 
 enough to move the world." 
 
 " You will discover the means of applying equality to 
 a society which only exists through inequality, will you 
 not?" said Henri, with a melancholy smile. 
 
 "Why not, sir?" returned the miller, with cheerful 
 vivacity. " When I have my fortune, as I should not 
 like to be avaricious and wicked, and as I am very sure 
 of never becoming either, any more than my grand- 
 mother ever became fond of eels, which she could not 
 endure, then I must be all at once wiser than you, and 
 find in my brain what you have not found in your books : 
 namely, the secret of doing justice with my power, and 
 giving happiness with my wealth. Does that amaze 
 you ? Nevertheless, my Parisian, I declare to you that I 
 know less of political economy than you, and understand 
 neither the a nor h of it. But what of that, since I have 
 will and faith ? Read the Gospel, sir. My opinion is 
 that you, who talk so well about it, have forgotten that 
 the first apostles were men of nothing, knowing nothing, 
 like me. The good God breathed upon them, and they 
 knew more than all the school-masters and curates of 
 their time." 
 
 "O people! thou prophesyest ! " cried Lemor, strain- 
 ing the miller to his heart. "It is indeed for thee that 
 
'54 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 God will perform miracles ; the Holy Ghost will breatlio 
 iipou thee ! Thou knowcst not discouragement ; thou 
 doubtest of nothing. Thou feclest that the heart is 
 stronger than science ; thou feelest thy force, thy love, 
 and thou art sure of inspiration ! This is the reason that 
 I burned my books — this is why I wished to return to 
 the ranks of the people, from which my parents forced 
 me. This is why I go among the poor and simple in 
 heart, to seek that faith and zeal which I have lost in 
 growing great among the rich ! " 
 
 " I see ! " said the miller, " You are a sick man \ 
 searching for health." 
 
 " Ah, I should find it if I lived near you ! " 
 
 " I would give it you with all my heart, if you would 
 promise not to give me your disease. And to begin, 
 speak to me reasonably : tell me that whatever be Mme. 
 Marcelle's position, you will marry her if she consent." 
 
 " You recall my anguish. You told me that she had 
 nothing ; you have seemed to bethink yourself since, and 
 give me to understand that she is still rich." 
 
 " Come, then, here is the truth — it was a trial of you. 
 The three hundred thousand francs still remain, and let 
 Father Bricolin do his best, I will advise her so well that 
 she shall keep them. With three hundred thousand francs, 
 comrade, I hope you may do some good, since I propose 
 to save the world with fifty thousand that I have not ! " 
 
 "I admire and envy your gayety," said Lemor, over- 
 powered ; " but you plunge the dagger again to my heart. 
 I adore this woman, this angel, and I cannot be the hus- 
 band of a rich wife ! Upon the subject of honor the 
 world has prejudices which I have entertained in spite of 
 myself, and cannot shake off. I could not look upon her 
 fortune as mine ; she owes it to her son, and will doubt- 
 less preserve it for him. Thus I could not think of mak- 
 ing myself useful by my riches, without failing in what 
 is considered probity. And then I should have certain 
 scruples about condemning to indigence a woman for 
 whom I feel an infinite tenderness, and a child whose 
 future independence I respect. I should suffer in their 
 privations, and shudder every hour lest they should sue 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 155 
 
 «umb before too hard a life. Alas ! tliis child and this 
 woman do not belong to the same race that we do, Grand- 
 Louis. They are the dethroned masters of the world, 
 who would demand from their former slaves the luxuries 
 and attentions to which they are accustomed. \ye should 
 see them faint and fail beneath our thatched roofs. Their 
 feeble hands would be bruised by labqr, and it may be 
 that our love could not sustain them to the end of a strug- 
 gle which is already crushing ourselves — " 
 
 " Here is your malady coming on again, and faith de- 
 serting you," interrupted Grand-Louis. "' You lose be- 
 lief even in love ; you do not see that sAe would bear all 
 for you, and be happy in so doing ? You are not worthy 
 to be so greatly loved, that is a fact ! " 
 
 " Ah, ray friend, let her become poor, absolutely poor, 
 if only I have nothing to do with making her so, and you 
 shall see if I lack courage to sustain her ! " 
 
 " Well ! then you will labor to earn a little money, as 
 we all do. Why so despise the money that she has, 
 which is earned already ? " 
 
 •' It was not earned by the labor of the poor. It is 
 stolen money." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " It is the heritage of the feudal rapine of her ances- 
 tors. Their castles were strengthened, and their lands 
 fattened, by the blood and the sweat of the people." 
 
 '' True enough, that ! but money does not keep that sort 
 of rust. It has the gift of being pure or unclean, accord- 
 ing to the hand that holds it." 
 
 " No I " said Lemor, with fire. " Some money is 
 soiled, and it soils the hand that receives it." 
 
 " That is a metaphor ! " said the miller, quietly. " It 
 is all the while the money of the poor, since it has been 
 extorted from them by pillage, violence, and tyranny. 
 Must the poor abstain from taking it again because rob- 
 bers have long handled it ? Come, let us go to bed, my 
 dear fellow, you are unreasonable ; you shall not go to 
 Blanchemont. I am less than ever for having you go, 
 since you have nothing but nonsense to say to my dear 
 lady ; but, by my faith ! you shall not leave me till you 
 
156 Tim MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 renounce your — what is the word now? — your utopics. 
 Shall it be 80?" 
 
 " Perhaps," said Lemor, sad and thoughtful, and drawn 
 by his love to submit to the ascendancy of his new 
 friend. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 157 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 T^T'E do not know whether a minute description of the 
 ^ ^ features and costume of the characters in a novel 
 is in strict conformity to the rules of art. Perhaps the 
 story-tellers of our time (and we among the first) have 
 somewhat abused the fashion of portraits in their narra- 
 tives. Nevertheless, it is an old custom, and while we 
 hope that future masters, in condemning our details, will 
 sketch their own figures in broader and clearer outlines, 
 we do not feel our hand strong enough to quit the beaten 
 route, and we will now repair our previous forgetfulness 
 by drawing the portrait of one of our heroines. 
 
 Would it not, indeed, seem that something essential was 
 wanting to the interest of a love story, however veracious, 
 if one was ignorant whether the heroine were gifted with 
 a more or less remarkable beauty ? It is not even enough 
 to say, " She is beautiful." However little we may have 
 been struck by her adventures, or the peculiarity of her 
 situation, we want to know whether she is dark or fair, 
 tall or short, languid or animated, elegant or simple in 
 her appearance ; if we heard that she were passing in the 
 street, we should run to the windows to see her, and ac- 
 cording to the impression made upon us by her coun- 
 tenance, we should be disposed to love her, or forgive her 
 for having drawn public attention upon herself. 
 
 Such was doubtless Rose Bricolin's opinion. It was 
 the morning of the first night that she had shared her 
 chamber with Madame de Blanchemont, and still indo- 
 lently recumbent on her pillow, while the more active 
 and matinal young widow was already completing her 
 toilet. Rose examined her attentively, and asked herself 
 
158 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 whether this Parisian beauty would eclipse her own at the 
 village fete which was to take place the next day. 
 
 Marcclle dc Blanchemont was less in height than she 
 appeared, thanks to the elegance of her proportions and 
 the dignity of all her attitudes. We must confess that 
 slie was a blonde, but not an insipid blonde, neither was 
 she of that ashen fairness so much over-praised, which 
 almost always deprives the face of vitality, because it usu- 
 ally betokens a powerless organization. She was a 
 warm, living, golden blonde, and her hair was one of her 
 chief beauties. In her childhood she had been wonder- 
 fully beautiful, and at the convent they called her the 
 cherub ; at eighteen she was only a very pleasing person, 
 but at twenty-two she was such that she had uncon- 
 sciously inspired love in more than one. Yet her fea- 
 tures were not remarkably perfect, and their freshness 
 was often lessened by a slightly feverish animation. The 
 activity of an ardent spirit was shown by the dark shade 
 around her brilliant blue eyes. Her varying color, her 
 clear and open look, and the light down at the corners of 
 her mouth, were so many certain indications of an ener- 
 getic will and a devoted, disinterested, courageous char- 
 acter. At first sight she pleased without dazzling ; after- 
 wards she dazzled more and more, without ceasing to 
 please ; and they who scarcely thought her pretty at the 
 first meeting, were soon unable to disengage their eyes or 
 thoughts from her. 
 
 Love had wrought a second transformation in her. 
 Busy and cheerful at the convent, she was never pensive 
 or melancholy before she met Lemor ; and even since she 
 loved him, she was still prompt and decided even in the 
 smallest things. But a deep attachment, by directing all 
 the strength of her will towards one single aim, had given 
 a firmer cast to her features, and a new and mysterious 
 charm to all her manners. No one knew that she loved ; 
 every one felt that she was capable of passionate affec- 
 tion, and no man approached her without desiring to in- 
 spire her either with love or friendship. There had been 
 a time when women, jealous of her on account of this 
 powerful attraction, had accused her of coquetry, but 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 159 
 
 never was reproach less deserved. Marcelle had no time 
 to lose in so childish and indelicate an amusement. She 
 never even thought of it ; and when she suddenly retired 
 from society, she had not to reproach herself with having 
 wilfully marked her passage through it with scars. 
 
 Rose Bricolin, undeniably more beautiful, but whose 
 childlike emotions were less mysterious to trace and di- 
 vine, had heard the young baroness of Blanchemont men- 
 tioned as one of the beauties of the Parisian world, and 
 she could not easily comprehend how this delicate blonde, 
 so simply dressed, and with such natural manners, could 
 have acquired such a reputation. Rose did not know 
 that in highly civilized, and consequently highly hlase 
 society, animation from within lends a magic charm to a 
 woman's exterior, which always effaces the classic maj- 
 esty of colder beauty. Still Rose felt that she already 
 loved Marcelle fondly ; she could not yet account to her- 
 self for the attraction exerted by her bright, frank look, 
 the winning tones of her voice, her quick and kindly 
 smile, and the decided and generous tone of her whole 
 being. " She is not as handsome as I thought !" mused 
 she; "how is it, then, that I wish to be like her?" 
 Rose, in fact, caught herself dressing her hair as she did, 
 involuntarily imitating her walk, her quick and graceful 
 way of turning her head, and even the inflexions of her 
 voice. She succeeded so well as to lose in a few days 
 some of her remaining rustic awkwardness, which, how- 
 ever, had not been without its charm ; but it may be 
 truly said that this new vivacity was rather inspired than 
 borrowed, and that she had soon made it so entirely her 
 own as much to enhance her natural gifts. Neither was 
 Rose destitute of courage and frankness ; Marcelle was 
 rather destined to develop her true character, which had 
 been stifled by outward circumstances, than to suggest to 
 her a new one purely imitative and factitious. 
 
l6o THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 LOVE AND MONET. 
 
 T^TTHILE moving about the chamber, Marcelle heard 
 ' '^ a strange voice in the next room, deep, and yet 
 shrill as an old woman's. It seemed to be strained from 
 cavernous lungs, which could neither release nor contain 
 it, and frequently repeated : 
 
 " For they took all from me — everything, even my 
 clothes ! " 
 
 And a firmer voice, recognizable for that of the grand- 
 mother, replied : 
 
 " Be quiet now, my master.* I was not talking to you 
 of that." 
 
 Seeing her companion's astonishment. Rose undertook 
 to explain this dialogue to her. " There has always been 
 misfortune in our house," said she, " and even before my 
 poor sister or I were born, there was ill-luck in the family. 
 You saw my grandfather, who looks so very old? It is 
 he whom you heard just now. He seldom speaks, but he 
 is so deaf, that when he does, you can hear him all over 
 the house. He almost always repeats nearly the same 
 thing, ' They have taken all from me, pillaged all, stolen 
 all I ' He never goes beyond that, and if my grand- 
 mother, who has great control over him, had not made 
 him keep still, he would have said it as a greeting to you 
 yesterday." 
 
 "And what does it mean?" asked Marcelle. 
 
 *' Can it be that you have not heard of that story?" 
 said Rose. " It made enough noise, nevertheless ; but it 
 
 • In speaking of their husbands, aged women in the country 
 still follow the old custom of saying my master. In our gen- 
 eration thej say my man. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. i6l 
 
 IS true that you have never been in this part of the coun- 
 try, and that you have never minded what might be going 
 on here. I v^ill warrant that you do not know that for 
 more than fifty years the Bricolins have been the farmers 
 of Blanchemont ? '* 
 
 " I knew that, and even that your grandfather, before 
 settling here, held a considerable farm at Blanc, belong- 
 ing to my grandfather." 
 
 " Ah, well ! if so, you have heard of the story of the 
 chauffeurs ? " 
 
 " Yes, but longer ago than I can remember, for it was 
 an old story when I was but a child." 
 
 " It happened more than forty years ago, as far as I 
 know myself, for we do not willingly talk of it here. It 
 is too shocking and too fearful. My lord, your grand- 
 father, at the time of the troubles, intrusted to my grand- 
 papa Bricolin the sum of fifty thousand francs in gold, 
 desiring him to hide it in some of the old castle walls, 
 while he lay concealed in Paris, where he escaped being 
 denounced. You know that better than I. Now, then, 
 my grandpapa had this gold secreted with his own in the 
 old castle of Beaufort, where he was farmer, twenty 
 leagues from here. I have never been there. Your 
 grandfather was in no haste to reclaim his deposit from 
 him, and unfortunately, in writing him a letter to that 
 effect, took a scoundrel of a notary into his confidence. 
 The night following the chauffeurs came, and subjected 
 my poor grandfather to a thousand tortures, till he told 
 where the money was hidden. They carried off* all, both 
 his and yours, and even my grandmother's house-linen 
 and wedding jewels. My father, who was then a child, 
 was bound and thrown on a bed. He saw it all, and 
 nearly died with fright. My grandmother was shut up 
 in the cellar. The working-men also were beaten and 
 tied, and pistols were held to their throats to hinder them 
 from crying out. At last, when the robbers had laid 
 hands on all that they could carry away, they withdrew 
 without any great mystery, and remained unpunished, 
 nobody knows why. And from that trouble my poor 
 grandpapa, who was then young, became suddenly old« 
 
l62 TUB MILLER OF ANGIBAULT- 
 
 He has never recovered his mind, his brain is weakened, 
 he has lost the memory of almost everything, save this 
 dreadful business, and he never opens his mouth without 
 alluding to it. Always, since that night, he has trembled 
 as you see ; and his legs, which were withered by the 
 fire, have continued so slender and weak that he has never 
 been able to work since. Your grandfather, who was a 
 worthy lord, by what is said of him, never reclaimed his 
 money, and even granted all the rents which he had not 
 taken up for five years to my grandmother, who then, by 
 her courage and clear head, had become the man of the 
 family. This restored our affairs ; and when my father 
 was old enough to take the farm of Blanchemont, he had 
 already some credit. This is our history ; joined to that 
 of my poor sister, you see that it is not very cheerful." 
 
 Marcelle was much impressed by this recital, and the 
 Bricolin home appeared still more gloomy to her than the 
 day before. These people, in the midst of their prosper- 
 ity, seemed doomed to something tragic and disastrous. 
 Between the maniac and the idiot, Mme. de Blanche- 
 mont felt struck with instinctive terror and deep melan- 
 choly. She was amazed that the careless and luxuriant 
 beauty of Rose could have been developed in such an at- 
 mosphere of catastrophes and violent contests, in which 
 money had borne so fatal a part. 
 
 Seven rang from the cuckoo-clock, affectionately pre- 
 served by Mother Bricolin in her chamber, which was 
 lumbered up with all the old rustic furniture cast aside in 
 the rearrangement of the new chateau, and was contig- 
 uous to that occupied by Rose and Marcelle, when the 
 small Fanchon came joyfully to announce that her mas- 
 ter had just come. 
 
 " She means Grand-Louis," said Rose. " But why 
 must she needs proclaim it as great news to us ? " 
 
 And notwithstanding her little scornful tone, Rose be- 
 came crimson as the fullest blown of the flowers whose 
 name she proudly bore. 
 
 " But he is full of business, and asked to speak with 
 you," said Fanchon, disconcerted. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 163 
 
 '* With me ? " said Rose, shrugging her shoulders, but 
 blushing more and more. 
 
 " No, with Madame Marcelle," said the girl. 
 
 Marcelle went toward the door which Fanchon was 
 holding wide open as possible, but was obliged to draw 
 back for the entrance of a farm-boy carrying a trunk, 
 and of Grand-Louis, himself carrying one still heavier, 
 which he placed on the floor with much ease. 
 
 " All your errands are done," said he, laying also a 
 bag of money on the bureau. 
 
 Then, without waiting for Marcelle's thanks, he cast 
 his eyes upon Edward, who, beautiful as an angel, lay 
 asleep in the bed his mother had left. Drawn by his 
 love for children, and especially for this one, who was ir- 
 resistibly charming, Grand-Louis approached the bed to 
 see him nearer, and Edward, opening his eyes, stretched 
 out his arms to him, calling him by the name of alochon, 
 which he persisted in giving him. 
 
 " See how well he looks already, since he has come to 
 our country ! " said the miller, taking one of the little 
 hands to kiss. But there was a sudden movement of the 
 curtains behind him, and turning, Grand-Louis saw the 
 pretty arm of Rose, who, thoroughly vexed and ashamed 
 at this invasion of her apartment, closed her embroidered 
 hangings with a loud noise. Grand-Louis, who did not 
 know that Rose had shared her chamber with Marcelle, 
 and did not expect to find her there, stood confounded, 
 repentant, ashamed, and yet unable to take his eyes from 
 the white hand so awkwardly holding the curtain fringes. 
 
 Marcelle then perceived the impropriety that she had 
 permitted, and reproached herself with the aristocratic 
 habits by which she had unconsciously been governed at 
 the moment. Aecustomed to consider a porter as in no 
 respect a man, she had not thought of protecting Rose's 
 apartment against the miller, and the boy who brought 
 her baggage. Ashamed and repentant in her turn, she 
 was about to tell Grand-Louis, who seemed petrified 
 in his place, to withdraw with all speed, when Mme. 
 Bricolin appeared bristling at the chamber door, and stood 
 mute with horror at seeing the miller, her mortal foe, 
 
164 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 standing, distressed, between the two beds of the young 
 ladies. 
 
 Slie said not a word, and went out hastily, like one 
 who finds a thief in the house, and runs to call the po- 
 lice. She ran, in fact, to find M. Bricolin, who was in 
 the kitchen taking his third morning draught, each being 
 a pint of white wine. 
 
 " M. Bricolin ! " said she, in a choked voice, " conio 
 quick ! quick ! dost thou hear ? " 
 
 " What is to pay now ? " said the farmer, not liking to 
 be disturbed in what he called his refreshment, " Is the 
 house on fire ? " 
 
 " Come, I tell thee, and see what is going on ! " an- 
 swered his wife, almost speechless with anger. 
 
 " Ah ! faith ! if there is anything to fret about," 
 said Bricolin, accustomed to his moiety's temper, " thou 
 canst manage it very well without me. I am easy about 
 it." 
 
 Seeing that he did not stir, Mme. Bricolin came up to 
 him, and swallowing with an effort, for she was actually 
 strangling with rage : 
 
 "Wilt thou stir?" said she, at last, but cautiously, 
 that she might not be heard by the servants ; " I tell 
 thee that thy clod-hopper of a miller is in Rose's cham- 
 ber, while Rose is still in bed." 
 
 " Ah ! so, that is improper, very improper," said M. 
 Bricolin, rising, " and I will give him a piece of my 
 mind. But no noise, wife, dost thou hear? on account 
 of the child ! " 
 
 " Go along, and make no noise thyself! Ah ! I hope 
 thou wilt believe me now, and wilt treat him like an un- 
 mannerly, impudent fellow as he is ! " 
 
 Just as M. Bricolin was leaving the kitchen, he came 
 full upon Grand-Louis. 
 
 '* By my faith, M. Bricolin," said he, with an irre- 
 sistibly candid manner, " you see a man shocked at the 
 stupidity he has just been guilty of." 
 
 And he simply related the facts. 
 
 ''Thou seest that he did not do it on purpose?" said 
 M. Bricolin, turning to his wife. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 165 
 
 " Aud is that the way thou takest things?" cried 
 the dame, giving free course to her fury. Then rushing to 
 both the doors, and slamming them, she came back be- 
 tween the miller and M. Bricolin, who was already offering 
 some refreshment to the culprit. " No, M. Bricolin," 
 screamed she, "I cannot comprehend thy imbecility! 
 Thou dost not see that this good-for-nothing fellow treats 
 our daughter in a way not suitable for people like him, 
 and which we cannot longer endure? Then I must let 
 him know myself, and tell him — " 
 
 " Tell nothing yet, Mme. Bricolin," said the farmer, 
 raising his voice in his turn, " and give me a little 
 chance at my business as head of the family. Ah ! to 
 hear thee, I know I might fasten my breeches with pins, 
 and thou shouldst put suspenders to thy petticoat ! 
 Come, come, don't make a din in my ears so early. I 
 know what I have to say to this boy, and I wish nobody 
 else to meddle with it. Come, wife, tell Chounette to 
 bring us a fresh stoup of wine, and go tend thy 
 chickens." 
 
 Mme. Bricolin would have answered. Her husband 
 took a great crab-tree stick which always stood by his 
 chair while he drank, and began to beat time on the 
 table with all his might, and the tremendous din so com- 
 pletely drowned her voice, that she was forced to retreat, 
 which she did, banging the door after her. 
 
 "What would you be pleased to want, master?" said 
 Chounette, running in at the noise. 
 
 M. Bricolin took the empty flagon and handed it ma- 
 jestically to her, rolling his eyes the while in a terrific 
 manner. The fat Chounette became lighter than a bird 
 to execute the orders of the potentate of Blanchemont. 
 
 " My poor Grand-Louis," said the great man when 
 they were alone, with the wine stoup between their 
 glasses, "thou must know that my wife is angered with 
 thee ; she bears thee a mortal grudge, and, but for me, 
 she would have turned thee out of the house. But we 
 are old friends, we need one another, and we will not 
 quarrel. Thou wilt tell me the truth. I am sure that 
 mv wife is mistaken. But what wouldst thou have ? all 
 
l66 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 women are fools or mad. Let us see, now, canst thou 
 lay thy hand on thy heart and answer me?" 
 
 *' Speak ! speak ! " said Grand-Louis in a tone which 
 sounded like reckless promise, and making a strong effort 
 to compose his face to an air of ease and indifference, 
 very remote from his real feelings at the moment. 
 
 *'Well, then! I will not beat about the bush," said 
 the farmer. " Art thou or art thou not in love with 
 my daughter ? " 
 
 " What an odd question ! " answered the miller, brazen- 
 ing it out. '* What would you have me answer? If I 
 say yes, it looks like defying you ; if I say no, it looks 
 like rudeness to Mile. Rose, for indeed she deserves that 
 I should be in love with her, as you deserve that I should 
 pay you respect." 
 
 "Thou art merry! that is a good sign. I see that 
 thou art not in love." 
 
 " Stay, stay ! " returned Grand-Louis. '' I did not say 
 that. I say, on the contrary, that every one is of neces- 
 sity in love with her, because she is beautiful as the 
 morning ; because she is your image ; because, in short, 
 all who look upon her, old or young, rich or poor, feel 
 something for her, without well knowing whether it be 
 the pleasure of loving her or the mortification of not 
 being able to feel free to do so." 
 
 " He has wit enough for thirty thousand ! " said the 
 farmer, falling back in his chair with a laugh which 
 nearly broke his well-filled waistcoat. " Thunder crush 
 me if I do not wish thou wert worth one hundred thou- 
 sand crowns ! I would give thee my daughter in prefer- 
 ence to any other ! " 
 
 "I believe so ! but as I have them not, you would not 
 think of giving her to me, would you?" 
 
 " No, thunder smash me ! but after all, I am sorry for 
 it, and that shows thee my friendship." 
 
 " Many thanks — you are too kind ! " 
 
 "Ah ! thou seest my jade of a wife has taken it into 
 her head that thou talkebt of it to Rose I " 
 
 " Me I " said the miller, and this time with the accent 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 167 
 
 of truth, "I have never said a word to her that you 
 might not have heard." 
 
 ''I am sure of it. Thou hast too much sense not to 
 see tliat thou canst not think of my daughter, and that I 
 cannot give her to a man like thee. Not that I despise 
 thee, fie ! I am not proud, and I know that all men are 
 equal in the sight of the law. I have not forgotten that 
 I come from a peasant family, and that when my father 
 began his fortune, which he so unhappily lost, as thou 
 knowest, he was no greater a gentleman than thou, for 
 he, too, was a miller ! but in these, days of ours, old fellow, 
 money does everything, as they say, and since I have 
 some, and thou none, we cannot deal together." 
 
 " That is conclusive and peremptory," said the miller, 
 with bitter gayety. "It is just, reasonable, veritable, 
 equitable, and salutary, as the curate says in his preface." 
 
 " The deuce ! hear now, Grand-Louis, everybody does 
 just so. Thou Avho art rich for a peasant, thou wouldst 
 not marry little Fanchon, the maid, if she were to take a 
 fancy to thee ? " 
 
 "No ; but if I took a fancy to her, it would make a 
 difference." 
 
 "Dost thou mean by that, thou great rogue, that my 
 daughter might have one for thee?" 
 
 "When did I say such a thing?" 
 
 " I do not say thou didst, though my wife insists that 
 thou art capable of speaking too freely if thou art per- 
 mitted such familiarity at our house." 
 
 " Come now, M. Bricolin," said Grand-Louis, begin- 
 ning to lose patience, and finding his actual sentence cruel 
 enough without the addition of insult, " are you saying 
 all this to me for the last five minutes in fun, for a 
 joke, or are you talking seriously? I have not asked 
 you for your daughter, and I do not see why you should 
 take the pains to refuse her to me. I am not the man to 
 speak of her without respect, and 1 do not see why you 
 should report to me Mme. Bricolin's disagreeable sayings 
 about me. If you mean to tell me to go, I am all ready. 
 If it is to withdraw your custom, I have no objection, I 
 have enough more. But speak out, and let us act like 
 
1 68 THE MILLER OF ANGIDAULT. 
 
 honest people, for I confess to you that all this looks to 
 me like seekin<^ an ugly quarrel with me, as if some peo- 
 ple here wanted to put me in the wrong to cover their 
 own fault." 
 
 So speaking, Grand-Louis rose, and made as if he 
 would depart. It was neither M. Bricolin's desire nor 
 interest to quarrel with him. 
 
 "What art thou talking about, great simpleton?" 
 replied he in a friendly tone, forcing him to reseat him- 
 self. "Art thou mad? What fly hath stung thee? 
 Was I speaking seriously ? Or do I mind my wife's non- 
 sense ? As a general rule, a wasp buzzing in your ear, 
 and a teasing, contradictious woman, are about the same 
 thing. Let us finish our flagon, and remain friends, 
 credit me, Grand-Louis. My custom is a good one, and 
 I congratulate myself on having given it to thee. There 
 are many little services we can mutually render one an- 
 other, and it would be very stupid to quarrel for nothing. 
 I know that thou art a bright, sensible lad, and canst not 
 talk foolishly to my daughter. Besides, I think too well 
 of her not to suppose that she would know how to answer 
 thee if thou wert to fail in respect. So — " 
 
 " So, so 1 " said Grand-Louis, striking his glass on the 
 table with an emphatic impulse of anger, " the long and 
 short of it is, that all your reasons are needless, M. 
 Bricolin, and grow tiresome to me. The devil take your 
 custom, your little services, and my interests, if I must 
 hear it even supposed that I could be wanting in respect 
 to your daughter, and that some day or other she should 
 have to remind me of my place. I am only a peasant, 
 but I am as proud as you, M. Bricolin, with your good 
 leave ; and if you can find no more delicate mode of ex- 
 pressing yourself toward me, let me bid you good-day 
 and go about my business." 
 
 M. Bricolin had much trouble in calming Grand-Louis, 
 who was deeply irritated, not at the suspicions of the 
 farmer's wife, which he knew were in a certain degree 
 merited, nor at Bricolin's coarse manner, to which he 
 was well accustomed, but at the cruelty with which the 
 latter unconsciously tore open his heart's bleeding wounds. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 169 
 
 He was at length appeased by an amende, honorable from 
 the farmer, who had his reasons for showing himself 
 very peaceable, and for not attending to his wife's fears, 
 at least for the moment. 
 
 " So, then !" said he, inviting him to begin upon a new 
 flagon of his white wine, after the cheese, "thou art great 
 friends with our young lady ? " 
 
 " Great friends 1 " replied the miller with some remain- 
 ing vexation, and declining to drink, notwithstanding the 
 urgency of his host ; " that is as reasonable as the love 
 of which you forbid me to speak to your daughter ! " 
 
 " Faith ! if the phrase is unsuitable, it is none of my 
 invention ; she herself said several times yesterday (which 
 made Thibaude furious !), that she had a great friendship 
 for thee. Lord ! Grand-Louis, everybody knows thou 
 art a handsome fellow, and they say that great ladies — 
 What ! art thou going to storm again } " 
 
 " My opinion is that you have a stoup too much in your 
 head this morning, M. Bricolin ! " said the miller, pale 
 with indignation. 
 
 Never had he been so much disgusted with Bricolin's 
 hard vulgarity, which heretofore he had taken as a mat- 
 ter of course. 
 
 " And I believe," returned the former, *' that thou hast 
 turned thy mill race into thy stomach this morning, for 
 thou art as dull and captious as a water-drinker. Is there 
 no fuu to be had with thee just now? That is something 
 new. Well then, let us talk seriously, if thou wilt. It is 
 certain that, in one way or another, thou hast acquired the 
 esteem and confidence of the lady, and that she commissions 
 thee with her errands without speaking of it to anybody." 
 
 " I do not know what you mean." 
 
 " Why, thou goest to * * * for her, thou bringest her 
 her baggage and her money ! — for Chounette saw thee 
 give her a large bag of money ! In short, thou seest to 
 her affairs." 
 
 " As you will. I know that I attend to mine, and that, 
 on the same occasion, I brought her trunks and purse 
 from the inn where she left them ; if that is to see to her 
 affairs, well and good. I am content — " 
 
170 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 "Then what was in the bag? Gold or silver?" 
 
 " How should I know ! I did not look in it." 
 
 " It would have cost thee nothing, and done her no 
 harm." 
 
 " You ought to have told me that you were interested 
 in it ; I did not guess it ! " 
 
 " Listen, Grand-Louis, my lad ! Be frank ! This lady 
 has talked with thee about her business ? " 
 
 "Where do you learn that?" 
 
 " I learn it there I " said the farmer, pointing with his 
 forefinger to his narrow and sunburned forehead. " I 
 smell an odor of secrecies and concealments in the air. 
 The lady seems to distrust me and consult thee ! " 
 
 " And if she did ? " replied Grand-Louis, looking fix- 
 edly at Bricolin, with some intention of braving him. 
 
 " If it were so, Grand-Louis, I do not think thou 
 would st be unfavorable to me ? " 
 
 " How do you understand that? " 
 
 " As thou very well understandest it thyself. I have 
 always placed confidence in thee, and thou wouldst not 
 abuse it. Thou knowest that I have a desire for the es- 
 *-ate, and that I do not wish to pay too dear for it?" 
 
 " I know that you do not wish to pay her price." 
 
 " Her price ! her price ! that depends on the position 
 of the parties. What would be ill sold for another, will 
 be happily sold for her, for she had best get quickly out 
 of the trough in which her husband has left her." 
 
 " I know that, Monsieur Bricolin, I have your notions 
 about it, and your ambition, all at my fingers' ends. You 
 wish to beat down the dame venderesse, as the lawyers 
 would say, by fifty thousand francs." 
 
 " No, not beat her down at all ! I have been fair and 
 above board with her. I told her what her property was 
 worth. Only, I told her that I would not pay all its 
 value, and ten thousand million thunders crush me if I 
 will, or can offer a farthing more." 
 
 " You spoke differently to me, not so very long ago ! 
 You told me that you could pay her price, and that if it 
 wei-e absolutely necessary to go beyond — " 
 
 " Thou ravest ! I never said so 1 " 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 17] 
 
 " Pardon me ! just remember ! It was at the Cluis 
 Fair, by token that M. Gronard, the mayor, was there/* 
 
 "He cannot testify, he is dead ! " 
 
 "But I, I could swear to it ! " 
 
 "Thou wilt not do it?" 
 
 " That depends." 
 
 "On what?" 
 
 " On you." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " The treatment that I receive in your house will reg- 
 ulate my conduct, M. Bricolin. I am tired of your 
 dame's rudeness, and of the affronts she puts upon me. 
 I know that more are in reserve, that your daughter is 
 forbidden to speak to me, to dance with me, to come to 
 my mill to see her nurse, and I have all sorts of vexations 
 of which I would not complain if I had deserved them, 
 but which are insulting, as I have not." 
 
 " How, is that all, Grand-Louis? and a pretty present, 
 a note of five hundred francs, for instance, would not be 
 more agreeable to thee ? " 
 
 " No, sir ! " dryly answered the miller. 
 
 "Thou art a simpleton, my lad; five hundred francs 
 iu an honest man's pocket is worth more than a bourree 
 in the dust. Thou makest a point, then, of dancing with 
 my daughter ? " 
 
 "It concerns my honor, M. Bricolin. I have always 
 danced the bourree with her before everybody. No one 
 thought it amiss, and if I should now receive the affront 
 of a refusal from her, everybody would think your wife's 
 stories about my rudeness and ill manners true. I will 
 not be so treated. It is for you to decide whether you 
 choose to provoke me or no." 
 
 " Dance with Rose, my boy, dance away !" cried the 
 farmer with joy, mingled with deep roguery ; " dance as 
 much as thou wilt ! if it needs but that to please thee ! " 
 
 " Well, we shall see," thought the miller, satisfied with 
 his revenge. " The lady of Blanchemont is coming this 
 way," said he. " Your wife, with her uproar, gave me 
 no time to render account of my errands to her. If she 
 speaks to me of her affairs. I will tell you her intentions." 
 
172 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 "I leave thee with her," said M. Bricolin, risiug, 
 " Do not forget that thou canst influence her intentions ! 
 Business annoys her, and she is in haste to conclude it. 
 Make her understand that I am immovable — I will go to 
 Thibaude, and lesson her in what concerns thee." 
 
 " Double rascal ! " said Grand-Louis to himself, as the 
 farmer heavily hastened away. "Reckoning on me for 
 an accomplice ! Oh ho ! just for having thought me cap- 
 able of it, I hope it may cost thee fifty thousand franca 
 and twenty thousand to boot 1 " 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 173 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE MILL-BOY. 
 
 IV/TY dear lady," said the miller hastily, as he heard 
 -^'-*- Rose following Marcelle, " I have a hundred things 
 to say to you, but I cannot say them all in a minute ! 
 Here, besides (I do not speak of Mile. Rose), the walls 
 have very long ears, and if I go to walk alone with you, 
 that will raise suspicion upon certain affairs — In short, I 
 must speak with you ; how can it be done ? " 
 
 " There is a very simple way," answered Mme. de 
 Blanchemont. " I will go to walk to-day, and I can 
 easily find the way to Angibault." 
 
 " Besides, if Mademoiselle Rose would show it to you," 
 said Grand-Louis, at the moment that Rose entered, and 
 heard Marcelle's last words — " If so be," he added, 
 *' that she is not too augry with me — " 
 
 " Oh ! you great blunderer ! you have earned me a fine 
 scolding from my mother!" replied Rose. "She has 
 said nothing to me yet, but with her what is delayed is 
 not lost." 
 
 " No, Mademoiselle Rose ; no, fear nothing. Your 
 mamma will not say a word this time, thank heaven ! I 
 have justified myself; your papa has forgiven me, and un- 
 dertaken to pacify Mme. Bricolin ; and provided that you 
 bear me no grudge for my stupidity — " 
 
 "Do not let us speak of that," said Rose, blushing- 
 " I am not angry with you, Grand-Louis. Only you need 
 not have shouted your explanation so loud as you went 
 out. You waked me in a fright J'^ 
 
 " You were asleep, then? I did not think so." 
 
 " Come, you were not asleep, little cheat," said Mar- 
 celle, " for you drew your curtains furiously." 
 
74 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 *' I was half asleep," said Rose, trying to hide her em- 
 barrassment under an air of vexation. 
 
 *' The plainest thing about it," said the miller, with 
 honest distress, *'is, that she is angry with me." 
 
 *' No, Louis, I pardon thee, since thou didst not know 
 I was there," said Rose, who had been too long in the 
 habit of saying thee and thou to Grand-Louis, her old 
 playmate, not to relapse into it, either through forgetful- 
 ness or of purpose. She well knew that a single word 
 from her lips, accompanied by this delicious thou^ would 
 change all the melancholy of her lover into overflowing 
 joy. 
 
 "' And yet," said the miller, whose eyes shone with 
 pleasure, ''you will not come to the mill to-day with 
 Mme. Marcelle ? " 
 
 " How can I, Grand-Louis, when mamma has forbidden 
 me — I know not why ? " 
 
 " Your papa will permit you. I complained to him of 
 Mme. Bricolin's harshness ; he disapproves it, and has 
 promised me to remove the prejudices she has against me 
 — I do not know why, either." 
 
 "Ah ! so much the better, if that is the case," cried 
 Rose, openly ; " we will go on horseback, will we not, 
 Madame Marcelle ? You shall ride my little mare, and 
 1 will take papa's nag ; he is very gentle, and goes very 
 quick, too." 
 
 " And me," said Edward ; " I want to ride on ahorse 
 too." 
 
 " That is more difficult," replied Marcelle. " I should 
 not dare to take thee behind me, my darling." i^ 
 
 " Nor I neither," said Rose ; " our horses are rather 
 too lively." 
 
 " Oh ! I want to go to Angibault too ! " cried the child. 
 " Mamma, take me to the mill ! " 
 
 "It is too far for your little legs," said the miller ; 
 " but I will take charge of you, if your mamma is will- 
 ing. We will go first in my cart, and we will go and see 
 the cows milked, so that these ladies may find cream when 
 they come." 
 
 " You may safely trust him with him," said Rose to 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 ^1S 
 
 Marcelle. " He is so good with children ! I know 
 something of that myself." 
 
 " Oh, you ! you were so pretty ! " said the miller, quite 
 melted ; " you should always have stayed as you were 
 then." 
 
 " Much obliged for the compliment, Grand-Louis ! " 
 
 " I do not mean that you are no longer pretty, but 
 that you should never have grown up. You loved me so 
 well in those days ! You could not leave me — always 
 hanging round my neck ! " 
 
 " That would have been a pleasant habit to preserve ! " 
 said Rose, half annoyed, half amused. 
 
 " Well," resumed the miller, turning to Marcelle, 
 " then may I take the little one ? " 
 
 " I trust him to you with entire security," said Mme. 
 de Blanchemont, giving her boy into his arms. 
 
 "■ Ah ! how good ! " cried the child. " Alochon, thou 
 wilt hold me up in thy arms, and let me pick the black 
 plums from the trees along the road ? " 
 
 " Yes, my lord," said the miller, laughing, "if you will 
 promise not to let them fall upon my nose." 
 
 Grand-Louis was approaching his mill, jogging on, and 
 playing in his cart with Edward, who made his heart throb 
 by recalling to him the childish charms, caresses, and freaks 
 of Rose, when he spied Henri Lemor coming to meet him 
 through the meadow. The latter, however, on recogniz- 
 ing Edward beside the miller, turned instantly, and rushed 
 into the house to conceal himself. 
 
 '" Take Sophie to the field," said Grand-Louis to his 
 mill-boy, 'stopping at some distance from the door. "And 
 you, mother, amuse this child for me. Keep him like the 
 apple of your eye ; as for me, I have a word to say at the 
 mill." 
 
 He then hurried to Lemor, who had shut himself up in 
 his chamber, and who opened the door cautiously, saying ; 
 " This child knows me. I was obliged to keep out of his 
 sight." 
 
 " And who the devil could have guessed you were still 
 here?" said the miller, scarcely able to recover from 
 his surprise. " I bade you farewell this morning, and 
 
176 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 thought you already setting sail for Africa I What wan- 
 dering kuight, or troubled spirit, are you, then ? " 
 
 " I am indeed a troubled spirit, my friend. Have com- 
 passion on me. I went a league ; I sat down on the brink 
 of a fountain ; I dreamed, I wept, and I returned. I 
 cannot go ! " 
 
 " Come, now, that makes me love you ! " cried the 
 miller, heartily shaking his hand. " That is the way I 
 have been more than an hundred times. Yes, more than 
 an hundred times I have left Blancheroont, swearing that I 
 would never set foot there again, and there was always 
 some fountain by the way, where I sat down to weep, and 
 which had the virtue of sending me back whence I came. 
 But hearken, my lad, you must be on your guard ! I am 
 glad to have you stay with us as long as you cannot de- 
 cide to be off. I foresee that it will be some time. All 
 the better — I like you ; I wanted to keep you this morn- 
 ing ; you return — I am glad of it, and thank you. But 
 you must go away for a few hours. They are coming 
 here." 
 
 "Both?" cried Lemor, understanding Grand-Louis at 
 half a word. 
 
 " Yes, both. I have not been able to say a word about 
 you to Mme. de Blanchemont. She is coming to give mo 
 an opportunity to speak to her of her business affairs, not 
 knowing that I have heart affairs, too, to speak of. I do 
 not wish that she should know you are here, till I am 
 quite sure she will not scold me for having brought you. 
 Besides, I do not wish to surprise her, especially before 
 Rose, who doubtless knows nothing of all this. So hide 
 yourself. They asked for their horses as I came away. 
 They will have breakfasted as fair ladies breakfast, that 
 is, like linnets ; their beasts are not slow-limbed ; they 
 may be here at any moment.'* 
 
 " I go — I fly ! " said Lemor, all pale and trembling ; 
 *' ah ! my friend, she will be here ! " 
 
 " I understand ! your heart bleeds not to see her ! It 
 is hard, I confess! If one could be sure of you — if 
 you could swear not to show yourself, not to stir hand or 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 ^n 
 
 foot all the while they are here — I could secrete you in 
 a place where you could see her without being observed.'* 
 
 " Oh ! dear Grand-Louis, my excellent friend, I prom- 
 ise ! I swear ! Hide me, were it beneath your mill- 
 stone ! '* 
 
 ''• The deuce ! that would hardly do ! Grand'-Louise's 
 bones are harder than yours. I will stow you more 
 softly. You shall climb into my hay-loft, and through 
 the hole in the skylight you can see the ladies pass to 
 and fro. I am not sorry to have you see Rose Bricolin 
 — you shall tell me if you have known many prettier 
 duchesses at Paris. But stay till I go and see what is 
 going on." 
 
 Grand-Louis went to a spot at a little distance which 
 commanded a view of the towers of Blanchemont, and 
 of nearly all the road leading there, and when assured 
 that the two equestrians were not yet in sight, he re- 
 turned to his prisoner. 
 
 " Now, comrade," said he, " here is a sixpenny look- 
 ing-glass and a real miller's razor, and you will please 
 part with that goat's beard of yours. It is out of place 
 in a mill. It is a mere flour-nest. And then, if you 
 should unluckily show the end of your nose, the change 
 would make it less easy to recognize you." 
 
 "You are right," replied Leoior, "and I hasten to 
 obey." 
 
 " Do you know," resumed the miller, " that I have an 
 idea in making you shear that black fleece ? " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " I have just thought of it, and this is what I have de- 
 cided : you shall stay with me till you have determined 
 to cause no more pain to my dear lady, and to change 
 your foolish notions about fortune. Even if you should 
 stay only a few days, no one need know who you are, 
 and your beard gives you a city look, which draws atten- 
 tion. I told my good mother at random last night that 
 you were a surveyor. It was the first lie that occurred 
 to me, and it was nonsense. However, she never won- 
 ders, and will think it very natural that you should have 
 
178 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 loft surveying for mechanics. So you shall be a miller, 
 my dear fellow ; that suits you better. You will busy 
 yourself, or pretend to busy yourself, with the mill. You 
 certainly know something about part of it, and you will 
 be considered as advising me about setting a new mill- 
 stone. You will be a useful person whom I met in 
 town. In this way, nobody will be astonished at your 
 presence here. I am clerk ; I answer for you ; no one 
 will ask to see your passport. The garde-champetre is 
 rather inquisitive and prating. But a pint or two of 
 wine silences his tongue. This is my plan. You must 
 conform to it, or I abandon you." 
 
 '* I submit, I will be your mill-boy, I will hide my- 
 self, provided I do not go without seeing her again, were 
 it only from here and for an instant — " 
 
 ''Hush! I hear iron on the flints — trie trie, that is 
 Mile. Rose's black mare — trac trac^ that is M. Bric- 
 olin's gray nag. You have shaved enough, washed 
 enough, and I assure you you look an hundred times 
 better for it. Run to the loft and turn the shutter of the 
 skylight upon yourself. You can look through the 
 crack. If my boy comes up, make believe sleep. The 
 country people often give themselves the easement of a 
 siesta in the hay, and it seems to them a more Christian 
 occupation than solitary reflection with arms folded and 
 eyes open. Adieu ! there is Mile. Rose. See, the fore- 
 most one ! See how lightly she trots, and with such a 
 decided air ! " 
 
 "Beautiful as an angel I " said Lemor, who had 
 looked only at Marcelle. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 179 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 BY THE WATER-SIDE. 
 
 GRAND-LOUIS, who was full of the thoughtful atten- 
 tions inspired by true affection, had given orders, in 
 passing, that the collation of milk and fruit should be 
 served under a trellis in front of his door, just opposite 
 and very near the mill, whence Lemor, crouched in his 
 loft, could see and even hear Marcelle. 
 
 The rustic repast was very merry, thanks to Edward's 
 frolicsome familiarity with the miller, and Rose's charm- 
 ing coquetry towards him. "Take care, Rose ! " whis- 
 pered Mme. de Blanchemont to the young girl. "You 
 are making yourself enchanting to-day, and you must 
 see that you are turning his head. It seems to me either 
 that you make light of my lectures, or that you are going 
 too far." 
 
 Rose was disturbed, remained a moment thoughtful, 
 but soon renewed her lively enticements, as if internally 
 resolved to accept the love she provoked. There had 
 always been at the bottom of her heart a strong friend- 
 ship for Grand-Louis, which made it very improbable 
 that she would amuse herself by laughing at him, unless 
 she felt the secret possibility of a great advance in this 
 fraternal affection. The miller, without wishing to flat- 
 ter himself, still felt an instinctive confidence in her, and 
 his loyal soul told him that she was too good and pure 
 coldly to torture him. 
 
 Thus he was happy in seeing her so cheerful and ani- 
 mated at his side, and it was with regret that he left her 
 with his mother, the last at table. But he had seen 
 Marcelle slip away and make him a private signal to fol- 
 low her to the other side of the river. 
 
i8o THB MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 "Well, dear Grand-Louis," said Mme. de Blanche* 
 mont, " it seems to me that you are no longer so sad as 
 you were the other day, and that I have guessed the 
 reason ! " 
 
 " Ah ! Mme. Marcelle, you know all, I see plainly, 
 and have nothing to learn from me. It is you, rather, 
 who can tell me more than I know ; for it appears to 
 me that great confidence should be and is placed in you." 
 
 " I will not compromise Rose," said Mme. de Blanche- 
 mont, smiling. " Women ought not to betray one 
 another. Still, I think I may hope, with you, that you 
 will not find it impossible to make yourself beloved." 
 
 " Ah ! if I were loved, I should be satisfied, and I 
 think I should ask no more ; for the day that she told me 
 so, I should be ready to die with joy ! " 
 
 " My friend, your love is noble and sincere, and for 
 that reason you must not too much desire to have it rC" 
 turned before thinking how to remove the obstacles on 
 the part of the family. I presume it is that of which 
 you wished to talk with me, and that is why I eagerly 
 accepted your invitation. Let us see — time is precious ; 
 they will doubtless soon join us — How can I influence 
 her father's mind, as Rose gave me to understand that I 
 might?" 
 
 "Rose gave you to understand that?" cried the miller, 
 with transport. "Then she thinks of it? She loves 
 me ? Ah ! Mme. Marcelle ! And you did not tell me 
 that at once ! Ah ! What care I for the rest, if she 
 loves me, if she desires to marry me ! " 
 
 "Softly, my friend. Rose has not gone so far. She 
 has a sisterly affection for you, she desired the revocation 
 of the sentence which prohibited her from speaking to 
 you, or coming to your house, or treating you, in short, 
 as a friend, as she has always done till now. This is 
 why she has begged me to stand your friend with her 
 parents, and to take your part, while showing some firm- 
 ness in my dealings with them. And this beside, I have 
 understood, Grand-Louis ; M. Bricolin wants my estate 
 cheap, and it might be that if Rose loved you, I could 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. i8l 
 
 insure her happiness and yours by imposing your mar- 
 riage as a condition of my consent. It' you think so, do 
 not doubt that I shall be very glad to make the slight 
 sacrifice." 
 
 " Slight sacrifice ! You do not consider it, Mme. Mar- 
 celle ! you think yourself still rich ; you talk of fifty 
 thousand francs as of nothing. You forget that it is 
 henceforth a good part of your living. And do you be- 
 lieve I would accept such a sacrifice ? Oh ! I had rather 
 renounce Rose at once." 
 
 " You do not comprehend the true value of money, my 
 friend : it is only a means of happiness ; and the happi- 
 ness one can procure for others is the purest and most 
 certain that one can procure for one's self." 
 
 " You are good as God, poor lady ! but there is in 
 this case a happiness still purer, and more certain than 
 your own. It is that which you must provide for your 
 son. And what would you say if some day — great God ! 
 — for want of the fifty thousand francs you had sacrificed 
 for your friends, your dear Edward were forced in his 
 turn to renounce a woman whom he loved, and whose 
 hand you could not obtain for him ? " 
 
 " Your arguments are good, and touch my heart ; but 
 on the subject of worldly interests we can make no abso- 
 lute calculations for the future. My situation is not so 
 rigidly defined as you make it ; by persisting in selling at 
 a high price I shall lose time, and you know each day of 
 hesitation precipitates my ruin. By closing the bargain 
 quickly I free myself from these gnawing debts, and cer- 
 tainly I may some day find it clear profit to have taken 
 my course without puerile regret or misplaced parsimony. 
 Thus you see that I am not so very generous, and that I 
 act for my own interest while serving your love." 
 
 "A poor head for business ! " cried the miller, with a 
 sad and tender smile. "A saint of Paradise could not 
 talk better. But it is not common sense, permit me to 
 say, my dear lady. You will find purchasers for your 
 property within a fortnight, who will be well pleased to 
 pay no more than its price for it." 
 
 " But who will not be solvent, like M. Bricolin? " 
 
lS2 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 " Ah, yes ! that is his pride ! bein^ solvent. Solvent! 
 a great word ! He thinks himself the only man in the 
 world who can say, ' I am solvent !* That is, he knows 
 very well that there are others, but he dazzles you with 
 the word. Do not heed him ; he is a cunning sharper. 
 Only pretend to make a bargain with another, should you 
 even go so far as to make proposals and mock contracts. 
 I should not be too precise, in your place. Do at Rome 
 as the Romans do ; and all stratagems are fair in war I 
 Will you empower me to act? I swear to you that, as 
 sure as you see this water, in a fortnight M. Bricolin 
 shall give you your three hundred thousand francs, fairly 
 counted, and a good stoup of wine to boot." 
 
 " I should never have the skill to follow your advice, 
 and it seems to me much the quicker plan to make each 
 of us happy in our own way — you. Rose, me, M. Bric- 
 oliu, and my son, who will some day be glad of what I 
 have done." 
 
 " Romance ! romance ! " said the miller. " You do 
 not know what your son will think fifteen years hence, 
 about love and money. Do not commit this folly ; I will 
 not lend myself to it, Mme. Marcelle — no, no, do not 
 think it. I am as proud as anybody, and obstinate — as 
 a sheep, and wliat is more, one of our Berry sheep. Be- 
 sides, hark you ! it would be sheer loss. M. Bricolin 
 would promise everything and perform nothing. Con- 
 sidering your position, it is necessary that your contract 
 of sale be signed before the end of the month, and cer- 
 tainly I could not hope to marry Rose within a month. 
 To bring that about, she would need to be madly in love 
 with me, which she is not. And then I could never 
 bring myself to expose her to the tumult and scandal it 
 would cause. How furious her mother would be I 
 What amazement and what slander would meet her from 
 her neighbors and acquaintances ! What would not be 
 said ? Who would understand that you had demanded it 
 of M. Bricolin through pure greatness of soul, and holy 
 friendship for us? You do not know how malicious men 
 are ; and as to women — if you only knew how they talk ! 
 Your kindness toward me — no, you cannot imagine, 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. i8- 
 
 and I should not dure tell you how it would be inter- 
 preted, and by M. Bricolin first of all. Or else they would 
 say that Rose — sweet, innocent creature ! — had com- 
 mitted an error, and confided it to you, and that you, to 
 save her honor, had undertaken to dower the culprit. In 
 short, it cannot be ; and I have given you more reasons 
 than I hope you need, to be convinced of it. Oh, that is 
 not the way that I would obtain Rose ! It must come 
 naturally, and without bringing evil tongues upon her. I 
 know very well that a miracle is needed to make me rich, 
 or a misfortune to render her poor. God will come to my 
 help, if she love me, and she may, perhaps, come to love 
 me — may she not ? '* 
 
 "But, my friend, I cannot try to warm her heart 
 towards you, if you take from me the means of governing 
 her mercenary father. I would not have undertaken it 
 without this thought, for it would be criminal in me to 
 hurry this young and lovely girl into an unhappy passion." 
 
 "Ah! that is true!" said Grand-Louis, suddenly 
 overcome; " and I see that I am mad — and indeed it 
 was neither of myself nor of Rose that I wished to speak 
 when I asked you to come here, Mme. Marcelle ; you 
 deceived yourself in your excellent goodness. I meant 
 to speak to you of yourself alone, when you forestalled 
 me by speaking of me ; I let myself listen to you, like a 
 great baby, and then must needs reply ; but I return to 
 my object, which is to oblige you to busy yourself with 
 your affairs. I know M. Bricolin's concerns, his inten- 
 tions, and his eagerness to buy your estate. He will not 
 let it go into other hands, but to get three hundred thou- 
 sand francs for it, you must ask him three hundred and 
 fifty thousand. Only hold out, and you will have it ; 
 but, at any rate, he must not pay less for the property 
 than it is worth. Fear nothing, he wants it too much ! " 
 
 " I repeat to you, my friend, that I could not sustain 
 this contest. It has lasted now but two days, and is al- 
 ready beyond my strength." 
 
 " Therefore you must have nothing to do with it. You 
 can put your business into the hands of an honest and 
 able notary. I know such an one. I will speak with 
 
184 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 him this evening, and you shall see him to-morrow, with- 
 out any trouble. To-morrow is the festival of the patron 
 saint of Blanchemont, There will be a great assembling 
 on the terrace in front of the church. The notary will be 
 there to walk about and talk, as is his custom, with his 
 country clients ; you shall go as by accident into a house 
 where he will wait for you. You will sign a power of 
 attorney, say two words to him, and I will say four, and 
 you will only have to send M. Bricolin to battle it out 
 with him. If he does not surrender, during this time 
 your notary will find you another purchaser. Only a 
 little prudence is needed to prevent Bricolin from sus- 
 pecting that it is I who have recommended this man of 
 business to you instead of his own, whom he has doubt- 
 less proposed, and whom you may have had the rashijess 
 to accept ! '* 
 
 " No, I had promised you to do nothing without your 
 advice." 
 
 "That is very fortunate ! Go, then, to-morrow at two 
 o'clock, to walk on the bank of the Vauvre, as if to see 
 the pretty spectacle of the fete from the foot of the ter- 
 race. I will be there, and will show the way to a sure 
 and discreet person's house." 
 
 " But, my friend, if M. Bricolin discovers that you 
 guide me in this matter contrary to his interest, he will 
 dismiss you from his house, and you can never see Rose 
 again." 
 
 "He will be very sharp if he discovers it! But if 
 that misfortune should happen — I have told you, Mme. 
 Marcelle, God would come to my help by a miracle, so 
 much the more that I should have done my duty." 
 
 " Loyal and courageous friend, I cannot be induced 
 thus to expose you ! " 
 
 " And do I not owe it to you, when you wished to ruin 
 yourself for me ? Come, no childishness, my dear lady, 
 we are quits — " 
 
 " There is Rose coming toward us," said Marcelle. 
 *' I have scarcely time to thank you — " 
 
 " No ! Mile. Rose is turning down the avenue with 
 my mother, who has a hint to keep her awhile, for I have 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 185 
 
 not finished, Mme. Marcelle ; I have quite another thing 
 to tell you ! But you must be tired with walking so 
 long. Since the court is free and the mill quiet, come 
 and sit on this bench by the door. Mile. Rose thinks us on 
 the other side, and will not return till she has been round 
 the field. What I have to say to you is more interesting 
 than your business, and requires even more secrecy." 
 
 Astonished at this preamble, Marcelle followed the 
 miller, and sat down with him on the bench, just beneath 
 the door of the hay-loft, where Lemor could see and hear 
 her. 
 
 "Well, then, Mme. Marcelle," stammered the miller, 
 somewhat at a loss how to enter upon the subject, '* you 
 know the letter you intrusted to me?" 
 
 " Well, dear Grand-Louis ! " answered Mme. de 
 Blanchemont, her calm and rather wearied face suddenly 
 flushing ; " did you not tell me this morning that you had 
 sent it?" 
 
 " Pardon — I did not put it in the post." 
 
 "You forgot it?" 
 
 " Oh, no, indeed." 
 
 "Lost it, perhaps?" 
 
 " Still less. I did better than put it in the box, I 
 gave it directly to its address." 
 
 " What do you mean ? It was addressed to Paris I " 
 
 " Yes, but finding the person for whom it was destined 
 upon my road, I thought I should do better to hand it to 
 him." 
 
 "Oh, heaven! you make me tremble, Louis," said 
 Marcelle, turning pale. " You have made some mis- 
 take." 
 
 "No such fool! Perhaps I know M. Henri Lemor 
 very well ! " 
 
 "You know him? and he is in this part of the 
 country?" said Marcelle, without endeavoring to dissem- 
 ble her emotion. 
 
 In a few words Grand-Louis explained the manner in 
 which he had recognized Lemor for the traveller who had 
 already been to his mill, and for the intended recipient of 
 the letter confided to him. 
 
1 86 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 "And where was he going? and what was he doing 
 at ♦ * *?" asked Mareelle, with anxiety. 
 
 " He was going to Africa. He was passing through," 
 replied the miller, who wished to see what she would 
 say. "It is the direct road to Toulouse. He had taken 
 the breakfast hour of the diligence to go to the post." 
 
 " And where is he now ? " 
 
 "I cannot easily tell you where he may be ; but he is 
 Qo longer at ♦ * *." 
 
 " He was going to Africa, you say ? And why so 
 far?" 
 
 " Precisely on account of the distance. That was his 
 answer to my question." 
 
 " The answer is plainer than you think ! " said Mar- 
 eelle, with increasing agitation, and not even attempting 
 to render it less evident. " My friend, you are not so 
 unfortunate as you think ! There are hearts more 
 •rushed than yours." 
 
 "Yours, for instance, my poor dear lady?" 
 
 " Yes, my friend, mine." 
 
 " But is it not a little your fault? Why did you com* 
 mand this poor young man to remain a year without 
 hearing of you ? " 
 
 " How ! did he show you my letter? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! he was suspicious and mysterious enough — 
 go to ! But I so questioned him, and besieged him, and 
 guessed so much, that he was forced to confess that I 
 was not deceived. Ah, faith ! do you see, Mme. Mar- 
 eelle, I am very inquisitive into the secrets of those I 
 love, because, while one does not know what they think, 
 one does not know how to serve them. Am I wrong?" 
 
 " No, friend, I am very willing that you should have 
 my secrets as I have yours. But, alas ! whatever be 
 your good will and good heart, you can do nothing for 
 me. Yet answer me. Did this young man send no an- 
 swer, verbal or in writing ? " 
 
 " He wrote you this morning a pile of trash, which I 
 would not bring you." 
 
 " You have done me an ill service. So, I cannot 
 know his intentions ? " 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 187 
 
 " All he could say was this — 'I love her, hut I am 
 courageous.' " 
 
 "He said 'hut?'*' 
 
 " He may have said ' and !' " 
 
 " That would be so different ! Think, Grand-Louis.*' 
 
 " He said now one, and then the other, for he repeated 
 it often." 
 
 "This morning, you say? Did you leave the town 
 only this morning ? " 
 
 " I meant to say last evening. It was late, and we 
 here call it morning from midnight." 
 
 " Heaveus ! what does it mean.? Why no letter? 
 Then you saw that he wrote one ? " 
 
 " A little ! he tore up four ! " 
 
 "But what was in those letters? Was he, then, very 
 irresolute ? " 
 
 " First he said that he could never see you again, then 
 that he would go and see you at once." 
 
 "And he resisted this last temptation? He was, in- 
 deed, courageous ! " 
 
 " Ah ! listen now ! He was worse tempted than St. 
 Anthony ! but on the one hand, I deterred him ; on the 
 other, he feared to disobey you." 
 
 "And what think you of a lover who knows not how 
 to disobey ? " 
 
 " I think that he loves too much, and will get small 
 thanks for it." 
 
 "I am unjust, am I not, dear Grand-Louis? I am 
 too much moved ; I know not what I say. But why did 
 you, friend, deter him from following you ? For he did 
 think of it?" 
 
 " I should think he did ! He even came a part of the 
 way upon my cart. But I, pardon — I was too much 
 afraid of displeasing you." 
 
 " You love, and you think others so severe? " 
 
 " Faith ! what would you have said if I had brought 
 him into the Black Valley? For instance — at this mo- 
 ment — if I told you that I had hidden him in my mill ! 
 Ah ! for once, you would treat me as I deserved 1 " 
 
l88 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 " Louis ! " said Marcelle, rising with an air of high 
 resolve, *' he is here. You confess it ! " 
 
 " Not I, madam ; it is you who make me say so." 
 
 " My friend," returned she, taking his hand cordially, 
 ** tell me where he is, and I forgive you." 
 
 "And if it were so," said the miller, a little fright- 
 ened by Marcelle's impulsiveness, but enchanted by her 
 frankness, " you would not dread gossiping tongues?" 
 
 *' When he left me voluntarily, and my spirit was de- 
 pressed, I could think of the world, foresee danger, cre- 
 ate rigid and perhaps exaggerated duties for myself; 
 but when he returns to me, when he is so near, what do 
 you wish me to think of, and what would you have me 
 fear?" 
 
 " Still it must be feared lest some imprudence on your 
 part render your projects more difficult to carry into ex- 
 ecution," said Grand-Louis, indicating to Marcelle, by a 
 gesture, the window above her head. 
 
 Marcelle raised her eyes and met those of Lemor, who, 
 quivering, and leaning towards her, was ready to shorten 
 the distance by springing from the height of the roof. 
 
 But the miller coughed with all his might, and indi- 
 cated to the two lovers by another gesture that Rose was 
 approacliing, with his mother and little Edward. 
 
 "Yes, madam," said he, raising his voice, "a mill 
 like this brings in little ; but if I could only set up a 
 great millstone that I have in my mind, it would bring 
 me easily — eight hundred francs a year I " 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. i8q 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 CADOCHE. 
 
 nPHE glance of the two lovers had been rapid and 
 ■*- burning. A sovereign calm succeeded this excite- 
 ment. They loved, they were sure of each other. All 
 was said, explained, entreated between them in the elec- 
 tric passage of this look. Lemor threw himself back on 
 the floor of the loft, and Marcelle, mistress of herself 
 through her great happiness, greeted Rose without an- 
 noyance or regret. She allowed herself to be taken into 
 the delightful neighboring coppice, and, after an hour's 
 walk, she remounted her horse with her companion, and 
 took the road to Blanchemont, after saying in a low voice 
 to the miller — 
 
 " Conceal him well, I will return." 
 
 " No, no, not too soon," Grand-Louis had replied. " I 
 will arrange an interview without danger, but let me take 
 my measures. I will bring back your boy this evening, 
 and will speak with you again if I can." 
 
 When Marcelle was gone, Lemor came out of his hid- 
 ing-place, where he began to feel dizzy, not so much from 
 the intoxicating fragrance of the hay, as from joy and 
 emotion. 
 
 " Friend," said he gayly, to the miller, " I am your 
 mill-boy, and I do not propose to live at your expense 
 without working for you. Give me something to do, and 
 you shall see that the Parisian's arms are tolerably good, 
 notwithstanding his slight looks." 
 
 " Yes," replied Grand-Louis, " when the heart is sat- 
 isfied the arms are supple enough. Your affairs are go- 
 ing on better than mine, my lad, and when we have a 
 talk this evening it will be your turn to give me courage. 
 
I90 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 But now, you say rightly, we must be busy. I cannot 
 spend my time in talking of love, and you might go mad 
 with happiness if you were idle. Labor is wholesome 
 for all; it sustains joy and diverts sorrow, which, per- 
 haps, means that the good God made it for us all. Come, 
 you shall help me raise my gate and set Grand'-Louise 
 dancing. Her song has a virtue to restore my spirits 
 when I am out of order." 
 
 " Ah I heavens ! this child will recognize me ! " said 
 Lemor, perceiving Edward, who had escaped from the old 
 woman's arms, and was climbing the steep staircase of 
 the mill on his hands and knees. 
 
 " He has seen you already," replied the miller ; *' do 
 not hide yourself, and seem to take no notice of him. It 
 is not certain that he will know you, dressed as you are." 
 
 Edward, in fact, stopped, puzzled and silent. It was a 
 month since Marcelle had abruptly left Montmorency to 
 go to her dying husband. The boy had not seen Lemor 
 since, and a month is an age in such a young child's 
 memory. It is true this boy was precocious in the de- 
 velopment of his faculties, but Lemor without a beard, 
 his face dusty with flour, and wrapped in a peasant's 
 blouse, was not very recognizable. Edward stood petri- 
 fied before him for a minute, but meeting the grave and 
 indifferent look of the friend who usually caught him in 
 his arms, he cast down his eyes with a sort of embarrass- 
 ment, and even of fear — a feeling which, in children, 
 almost always mingles with astonishment ; then he ap- 
 proached the miller, and said to him with the serious and 
 meditative air he often wore : 
 
 " Who is that man there? " 
 
 " That? that is my mill-boy, Antoine." 
 
 " Thou hast two, then? " 
 
 "Boys? Good! I have them by dozens. That is 
 Alochon No. 2." 
 
 " And Jean is Alochon No. 3 ? " 
 
 *' As you say. General." 
 
 "Is thy Antoine cross? " 
 
 " No, no ! but he is rather stupid, rather deaf, and 
 does not play with children." 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 191 
 
 " In that case I will go play with Jean," said Edward, 
 going carelessly away. At four years old the heart 
 knows not what it is to be deceived, and the word of a 
 beloved person has more power over the mind than the 
 testimony of the senses. 
 
 The grain which the miller was that evening to make 
 into flour was brought to the hopper. It was M. Bric- 
 olin's, contained in two sacks, each marked with two 
 enormous initials. 
 
 " See," said Grand-Louis, this time with a laugh of 
 some bitterness, " Bricolin of Blanchemont, as if to say, 
 Bricolhi living at Blanchemont. But when he buys the 
 estate he will have to put another little h between the 
 two great ones. That will read, Bricolin, Baron of 
 Blanchemont." 
 
 " How ! " said Lemor, occupied with another idea ; " is 
 this the Blanchemont grain? " 
 
 '' Yes," replied the miller, who divined his meaning 
 before he spoke, ''it is the grain which will make the 
 flour — of which will be made the bread — that will be 
 eaten by Mme. Marcelle and Mile. Rose. They say that 
 Rose is too rich to marry a man like me ; it is I, never- 
 theless, who furnish her with the bread which she eats ! " 
 
 " So, we labor for iliQm ! " resumed Lemor. 
 
 " Yes, yes, boy. Attention to the word of command ! 
 This is no time to slight duty. The deuce ! I might work 
 for the king, and not put half so much heart into it ! " 
 
 This every-day circumstance in the customs of the mill 
 took a romantic and almost poetic coloring in the brain 
 of the young Parisian, and he set himself to help the 
 miller with such zeal and attention, that in the course of 
 two hours he was perfectly acquainted with the trade. 
 He found no difficulty in accustoming himself to the ele- 
 mentary and almost barbarous mechanism of the estab- 
 lishment. He comprehended the improvements which, 
 with a little ready money (the forbidden fruit to the 
 peasant), might be made in the rustic machine. He soon 
 learned in patois the technical names of each part and 
 each motion. Jean was a little disturbed and jealous at 
 seeing him so active, and in such favor with his master. 
 
193 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 But when Grand-Louis took pains to explain to liim that 
 the Parisian was there only temporarily, and that hia 
 
 (Jean's) place was not threatened with invasion, he waa 
 reassured, and even determined, like a good Berrichon 
 as he was, to yield a portion of his work for some days to 
 his officious companion. He made use of his liberty to 
 go to Blanchemont, and carry back Edward, who began 
 to be tired, and troubled at being so long parted from hia 
 mother. Grand'-Marie could no longer succeed in amus- 
 ing him, and as Fanchon had come for him, Jean waa 
 not sorry to accompany his young fellow-servant to the 
 chateau. 
 
 - When the task was finished, Lemor, his forehead bathed 
 with sweat and his face animated, felt more supple in 
 body and more vigorous in will than for many months 
 before. The long reveries which preyed upon his youth 
 gave place to the healthy vitality, physical and moral, 
 which Providence has attached to the accomplishment of 
 human labor when the object is well defined, and the 
 fatigue proportioned to the strength. 
 
 " Friend," cried he, " labor is beautiful and holy in 
 itself ; you were right in saying so as we began ! God 
 imposes and blesses it. It seemed sweet to me to work 
 for my mistress's food ; oh ! how much sweeter still to 
 work at the same time to nourish the life of a family of 
 equals and brothers ! When each shall labor for all, and 
 all for each, how light will be the toil, how fair our life ! " 
 " Yes, my profession, in that case, would be one of the 
 most elegant ! " said the miller, with a smile of quick in- 
 telligence. " Grain is the noblest of plants ; bread the 
 purest of food. My function might well deserve some es- 
 teem, and on holidays a crown of wheat-ears and blue- 
 bells might be wreathed around poor Grande-Louise^ to 
 whom no one pays any attention now ; but what would 
 you have? In these days of ours, as M. Bricolin says, 
 I am only a mercenary in his employ, and he says of me ; 
 * A man like him think of my daughter ! A wretch who 
 grinds the grain, when it is I who sow the seed and pos- 
 sess the earth ! ' A fine difference, nevertheless ! My 
 hands are cleaner than his are with turning over manure ; 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 193 
 
 that is all. So now, my boy, the work is done, let us 
 make haste with the soup. I will warrant you will think 
 it better than in the morning, though it should be ten 
 times as salt ; and then I will take myself to Blanche- 
 mont, to carry these two sacks." 
 
 "Without me?" 
 
 " Doubtless ! Have you a fancy to be seen at the farm ? " 
 
 " Nobody there knows me." 
 
 "That is true. But what would you do there?" 
 
 " Nothing ; I will help you unload your sacks." 
 
 *' And what good will that do you ? " 
 
 " I may see somebody pass through the court." 
 
 "And ii somebody should not pass?" 
 
 " I shall see the house that she inhabits. Perhaps I 
 shall hear her name spoken." 
 
 " In my opinion we might give ourselves that pleasure 
 without going so far." 
 
 " It is two steps from here? " 
 
 " You have an answer for everything. Will you com- 
 mit no imprudence ? " 
 
 " You think I do not love her, then ? Would you com- 
 mit any in my place ? " 
 
 " I might, — if I were beloved ! Let us see ! you will 
 not gaze at her as you did from the loft door? Do you 
 know I thought you would set my hay on fire? " 
 
 "I will not look at her at all." 
 
 " And you will not speak to her?" 
 
 "What pretext could I have to speak to her? " 
 
 " You will seek none? " 
 
 " I will not even enter the court, if you forbid me. 1 
 will look at the walls from a distance." 
 
 " That will be wisest. I will permit you to scent, 
 from the gate, the wind that blows over the chateau — 
 that is all." 
 
 The two friends started at fall of day, Sophie, loaded 
 with the two sacks, walking magisterially before them. 
 Grand-Louis, sad at heart, spoke little, and gave vent to 
 his gloomy thoughts only by heavy strokes with his whip, 
 right and left, upon the hedges filled with wild mulberries 
 13 
 
194 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 and pale honeysuckles, more fragrant than those we col* 
 tivate in our gardens. 
 
 Tliey had passed a cluster of cabins called Le Cortioux, 
 when Lemor stopped, as he was walking by the side of 
 the ditch, surprised to see a man lying at full length under 
 the hedge, his head supported upon a plump wallet. 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! " said the miller, without expressing any 
 wonder, *' you came near walking on my uncle." 
 
 The sleeper awoke with a start, at the sonorous voice 
 of Grand-Louis. He rose briskly, seized with both hands 
 a great staff that lay by his side, and enunciated an en- 
 ergetic oath. 
 
 *' Don't be vexed, uncle ! " said the miller, laughing. 
 *' It is only friends who pass, by your leave ; for though 
 the roads are yours, as you say, you don't forbid any one 
 to use them, do you?" 
 
 " Oh I ho ! " said the man, rising entirely, and display- 
 ing a gigantic form and a repulsive appearance ; " I am 
 the best of proprietors, thou knowest, my little fellow. 
 But it is rather an abuse of my goodness to walk over 
 my face. Who may this bad Christian be, that does 
 not see an honest man stretched on his bed? I do not 
 know him, and I know everybody here and elsewhere." 
 
 So speaking, the beggar disdainfully measured Lemor 
 with his eye, while the latter, on his side, observed him 
 with repugnance. He was a bony old man, covered with 
 filthy rags, and with a stiff beard of mingled black and 
 white, that resembled the panoply of a hedgehog. His 
 high-crowned hat, partly falling in shreds, was sur- 
 mounted — as if in derision — by a bow of white ribbon, 
 and a bunch of sadly faded artificial flowers. 
 
 *' Make yourself easy, uncle," said the miller ; *' this 
 is a good Christian — go to ! " 
 
 "And how is one to know him?" resumed uncle d 
 doche, taking off his hat and reaching it to Henri. 
 
 " Come," said the miller to Lemor, " don't you under 
 stand ? My uncle asks you for a sou.'* 
 
 Lemor threw his alms into the hat of the uncle, wh< 
 took it immediately out, and 1 urned it over in his long ' 
 fingers with a sort of rapture. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 195 
 
 "It is a great sou ! " said he, with a sordid smile. 
 ** Perhaps ten revolutionary decimes ! No ! God be 
 praised ! It is a Louis XV. ! it is my king ! a king 
 whose reign I have seen ! It will bring good luck to me, 
 and to thee too, my nephew," added he, laying his large 
 angular hand upon Lemor's shoulder. "Thou mayst 
 now say that thou art one of my family, and I will recog- 
 nize thee, even if disguised from head to foot." 
 
 "Come, come, good-evening, uncle," said Grand- 
 Louis, joining his offering to Lemor's. " Are we friends ?" 
 
 " Always ! " answered the beggar, in a solemn voice. 
 "Thou hast always been a good relation — the best of 
 all my family. Therefore it is to thee, Grand-Louis, 
 that I shall leave all my wealth. I have told thee so for 
 a long time, and thou shalt see if I keep my word." 
 
 " Keep it ! parbleu, I reckon upon it ! " said the miller, 
 gayly. " Will the bouquet be part of it?" 
 
 " The hat will, but the bouquet and the ribbons are for 
 my last mistress." 
 
 " The deuce ! But I thought a great deal of the 
 bouquet ! " 
 
 " I believe you did," said the beggar, who was walk- 
 ing behind the two young men, and followed them with 
 an alert step, notwithstanding his great age. " The 
 bouquet is the most precious thing in the inheritance. It 
 is blessed, seest thou? It came from Saint Solange's 
 chapel." -— -~- ^^. 
 
 " How can so devout a man as you call yourself talk 
 of his mistresses?" said Henri, who felt only a strong 
 disgust for this absurd personage. 
 
 "Hold thy tongue, nephew!" replied uncle Cadoche, 
 with a side glance at him ; " thou speakest like a fool ! " 
 
 " Excuse him, he is only a child," said the miller, who 
 habitually jested with the tall uncle. " He has no beard 
 on his chin yet, and thinks he must talk ! But where 
 are you going so late, uncle ? Do you expect to sleep in 
 your own house to-night ? It is very far." 
 
 " Oh, no ; I am going directly to Blanchemont, for the 
 fete to-morrow." 
 
196 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 " Ah, true ! it is a good day for you. You will col- 
 lect at least forty sous." 
 
 *' No, but still enough to have a mass said to the good 
 saint of the parish." 
 
 " Then you still like masses ? " 
 
 " The mass, and brandy, nephew, and a little tobacco, 
 are the salvation of soul and body." 
 
 " Ido not deny it, but brandy is not warming enough 
 to allow one to sleep in such a way, in a ditch, at your 
 age, uncle." 
 
 " One sleeps where one happens to be, nephew. If 
 you are tired, you stop and take a nap on a stone, or 
 your wallet — when it is not too empty." 
 
 " It is my opinion that yours is pretty full this 
 evening." 
 
 "Yes, nephew, thou oughtest to let me put it on thy 
 horse ; it tires me a little." 
 
 " No, Sophie has enough of a load. But give it to me, 
 I will carry it for you to Blanchemont." 
 
 " That is right ! Thou art young, and shouldst wait 
 upon thy uncle. See, here it is. Is thy blouse clean ? " 
 he added, with an air of disgust. 
 
 "Oh, it is only flour," said the miller, taking the beg- 
 gar's satchel; "it will not quarrel with bread. Thou- 
 sand thunders ! there is something inside — old crusts ? " 
 
 "Crusts! I take no crusts. I should like to see any- 
 body offer them to me ! I would fling them in their 
 faces, as I did once to the Bricolin woman." 
 
 " Is that what has made her afraid of you? " 
 
 "Yes. She says that I might set fire to her barns," 
 said the beggar, with a sinister look. Then he added, in 
 a wheedling tone, " Poor dear woman of the good God ! 
 as if I were wicked ! Whom did I ever injure?" 
 
 " Nobody that I know," answered the miller. "If 
 you had, you would not be where you are now." 
 
 " Never, never did I harm any one," returned uncle 
 Cadoche, lifting his hand towards heaven, " since I have 
 never been taken up by justice for anything whatsoever. 
 Have I been in prison a single day of my life ? I have 
 always served the good God, and the good God haa 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 97 
 
 always protected me, these forty years that I gain my 
 poor living." 
 
 '' About how old are you, uncle? " 
 
 " I do not know, my child, for the register of my bap- 
 tism has been mislaid in the course of time, like many 
 others ; but I must be more than eighty. I am about ten 
 years older than Father Bricolin, who seems, nevertheless, 
 older than I." 
 
 "It is true enough, you are in fine preservation, and 
 he — but he indeed met with accidents which do not 
 happen to everybody." 
 
 " Yes," said the beggar, with a deep sigh of compunc- 
 tion. " He has had misfortunes ! — " 
 
 "Is it a story of youc time? Are you not of that 
 country ? " 
 
 *' Yes, I was born in Buffec, near Beaufort, where the 
 accident happened." 
 
 " And you were then in the country? " 
 
 " Oh ! I should think I was. Sweet holy Virgin ! I 
 cannot think of it without trembling ! Were we afraid 
 in those days ! " 
 
 "Can you be afraid of anything — you, who are 
 always alone at all hours on the roads ? " 
 
 " Oh ! now, my good son, what is there to fear for a 
 poor man like me, who possesses only the three rags 
 that cover him ? But in those times I had a little prop- 
 erty, and lost it by the robbers." 
 
 " How ! Were the chauffeurs with you too ? " 
 
 " Oh ! not at all ! I had not enough to tempt them ; 
 but I had a little house that I let to journeymen. When 
 the country was full of fear of the robbers, nobody would 
 live in it. I could not sell it, and I had not enough to 
 repair it. It fell into ruin. I was obliged to incur 
 ^ebts that I could not pay. Then my field, the house, 
 and a pretty hemp-field that I had, were sold by forced 
 sale. So I was compelled to take up the wallet ; I left 
 the country, and since that time I always journey like 
 the children of the good God." 
 
 " But you never quit this district? " 
 
198 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 " Surely not ; I am known here- I have my patrons 
 and all my family here." 
 
 " I thought you were all alone ? " 
 
 *' And all my nephews, then ? " 
 
 " True, I forgot ; me, for instance, my comrade here, 
 and all those who never refuse you their sous to buy your 
 tobacco. But say now, uncle, who were these chauffeurs 
 of whom we were speaking?" 
 
 " Ask the good God, my poor child, for He alone 
 knows." 
 
 "I have heard that there were rich people among 
 them, who were in good standing." 
 
 " They say there are some still living who are full and 
 fat, have good estates, good houses, make a figure in the 
 country, and would not give so much as half a sou to a 
 poor man. Ah ! if they had been people like me, they 
 would all have been hung ! " 
 
 " True enough. Father Cadoche ! " 
 
 " I was still very fortunate in not being accused, for 
 everybody was suspected in those times, and justice fell 
 only on the poor. Those were imprisoned who were 
 white as snow, and when the true culprits were in hand, 
 orders came from higher powers to release them." 
 
 "Why was that?" 
 
 " Because they were rich, doubtless. When didst thou 
 ever see, nephew, that the rich were not pardoned ? " 
 
 " That is true again. Come, uncle, here we are at 
 Blanchemont. Where will you have me carry your 
 bread bag ? " 
 
 " Give it back to me, nephew. I will go sleep in the 
 curate's stable ; he is a holy man, and never sends me 
 away. He is like thee, Grand-Louis ; thou hast never 
 shown me the cold shoulder. Therefore thou shalt be 
 recompensed ; thou shalt be my heir, as I have always 
 promised thee. Except the bouquet, which I shall give 
 to little Borgnotte, thou shalt have all — my house, my 
 clothes, my wallet, and my pig." 
 
 " Good, good ! " said the miller ; "I see that I shall be 
 too rich at last, and that all the girls will want to marry 
 me." 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 199 
 
 "I admire your heart, Grand-Louis," said Lemor, 
 when the beggar had disappeared behind the hedges of 
 the enclosure, which he plunged straight through without 
 troubling himself to find a gap or seek a path. " You 
 treat this beggar as if he were really your uncle." 
 
 " Why not, since he takes pleasure in playing the great 
 relation, and promising his inlieritance to everybody.? 
 A fine inheritance, by my faith ! His mud-cabin, where 
 he sleeps with his pig, neither better nor worse than St. 
 Anthony, and his cast-off rags, which turn one's stomach ! 
 If that were all I needed to satisfy M. Bricolin, my af- 
 fairs are in fine order ! " 
 
 " Yet, in spite of the disgust with which his person in- 
 spires you, you took his wallet on your shoulders to ease 
 him. Louis, your spirit is truly evangelic." 
 
 " A mighty wonder ! Could I refuse so slight a ser- 
 vice to a poor devil who, at the age of eighty, still begs 
 his bread ? After all, he is an honest fellow. Every- 
 body feels an interest in him, because he is trusty, though 
 a little hypocritical and libertine." 
 
 " So it seemed to me." 
 
 "Bah! What virtues do you think such people can 
 have ? It is much when they have only vices, and do 
 not commit crimes. Did he not talk sensibly, notwith- 
 standing all ? " 
 
 " Towards the last I was struck with it. But why 
 does he think himself everybody's uncle .f* Is it a trace 
 of insanity ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! it is a way he has. Many of his trade 
 affect some peculiarity to make themselves amusing, 
 draw attention, and divert people who would give alms 
 neither from prudence nor charity. It is unhappily the 
 custom among us for the poor to play the part of buf- 
 foons at the gates of the rich. But here we are at the 
 farm of Blanchcmont, comrade. Stay, take my advice ! 
 do not go in. I do not doubt that you would control 
 yourself; but she, unprepared, might give a scream, or 
 utter a word — let me at least warn her." 
 
 " But everybody is still up in the village ; will not the 
 
200 THE MILLER OF ANGIDAULT. 
 
 presence of an unknown person be remarked, if I wait 
 for you here ? " 
 
 " Then you will do me the kindness to step into the 
 warren. No one walks there at this hour. Sit down 
 rationally in a corner. As I come back, I will whistle 
 as if I called a dog, saving your presence, and you will 
 rejoin me." 
 
 Lemor yielded, hoping that the ingenious miller would 
 find some means to bring Marcelle in this direction. He 
 slowly followed the shaded path through the warren, 
 stopping every instant to listen, holding his breath and 
 retracing his steps, not to lose a moment of so thrice 
 happy a meeting. 
 
 It was not long before he heard light steps brush the 
 turf, and a rustling in the foliage which convinced him 
 that some one was approaching. He slipped into the bushes 
 to be sure that he was not mistaken, and saw dimly 
 through the leaves the slender form of a woman coming 
 towards him. We easily believe what we desire, and 
 Henri, not doubting that it was Marcelle, sent by the 
 miller, came forward and hastened to meet the figure. 
 But he stopped on hearing an unknown voice call cau- 
 tiously, '^ Paul ! Paul ! art thou there, Paul? " 
 
 Perceiving that he was mistaken, and thinking that he 
 had fallen upon the appointed rendezvous of another, 
 Henri would have escaped. But he made some noise in 
 stepping on the dry branches, and the maniac, seeing him 
 in the midst of her dream of love, darted upon his track 
 with the speed of an arrow, crying in a plaintive voice : 
 " Paul ! Paul ! I am here ! Paul ! it is I ! — do not go I 
 Paul ! Paul ! thou always fliest me I " 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 201 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE MANIAC. 
 
 T EMOR was not much troubled at first by this adven- 
 ■*— ' lure. He thought that under favor of the night he 
 could easily avoid this woman. He had not distin- 
 guished her sufficiently to suspect her insanity, and nat- 
 urally flattered himself that he could run much better 
 than she. But he soon found that he was mistaken, and 
 that all his agility was not too much merely to maintain 
 the distance between them. He was obliged to cross the 
 entire warren, and soon came to the avenue at its foot, 
 where Bricoline was accustomed to walk for whole hours, 
 and where, in certain places, the grass was worn by her 
 feet. The fugitive, till now somewhat impeded by the 
 roughness of the path and the roots entangled above the 
 earth, exerted all his strength in the avenue to reach the 
 terrace. But the maniac, when under the influence of 
 one burning idea, became light as a dry leaf driven by 
 storms, and she followed him so rapidly that Lemor, lost 
 in surprise, and thinking it of great importance that he 
 should not be seen near enough for future recognition, 
 plunged anew into the wood, and tried to lose himself in 
 the shade. But the maniac knew every tree, every 
 thicket, and — so to speak — every branch in the 
 warren. During the twelve years that she had passed 
 her life there, there was not a nook into which her body 
 was not mechanically accustomed to penetrate, although 
 the state of her mind prevented her from forming any ra- 
 tional plan of action. Yet more, the height of her frenzy 
 made her completely insensible to physical suflfering. 
 She would have left fragments of her flesh upon the 
 
202 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 thorns without perceiving it, and this sort of cataleptic 
 condition gave her no little advantage over him she 
 wished to reac-h. She was, besides, so small, her atten- 
 uated body occupied so little space, that she slid like a 
 lizard between serried stems, where Lemor was obliged 
 laboriously to force himself a passage, or, more fre- 
 quently, to retrace his steps. 
 
 Finding himself more embarrassed than before, he re- 
 gained the avenue, still closely pursued, and determined 
 to leap the ditch, although unable to estimate its width, 
 on account of the thick bushes that covered it. He 
 sprang, and fell on his knees among the brambles. But 
 he had scarcely time to rise, when the phantom, crossing 
 this obstacle without a leap, and heeding neither stones 
 nor briars, was at his side, and clinging to his garments. 
 Lemor's imagination was vivid as an artist's or poet's ; 
 and seeing himself seized by this truly fearful being, he 
 believed that he was in the power of a dream, and, strug- 
 gling as if with nightmare, succeeded in freeing himself 
 from the madwoman, who uttered inarticulate shrieks, 
 and in resuming his race across the fields. 
 
 But she was upon his track, as agile in the bristling 
 furrows of a newly reaped wheat-field, where the stubble 
 was hard and prickly, as she had been in the windings of 
 the park. At the end of the field Lemor cleared another 
 fence, and found himself in a hollow way of rapid de- 
 scent. He had not taken ten steps when he heard the 
 spectre behind him, still crying in a stifled voice, "Paul I 
 Paul ! why dost thou fly from me ? " 
 
 Lemor's imagination was more and more wrought upon 
 by the fantastic nature of this race. . While disengaging 
 himself from the maniac's grasp, the clear starlight had 
 permitted him vaguely to discern the cadaverous face, the 
 lean and torn arms, and the long black locks floating over 
 the bloody rags of this singular apparition. That the 
 unhappy creature was insane, had not crossed his mind. 
 He thought himself pursued by a jealous woman, crazy 
 perhaps for the moment, since she persisted in taking him 
 for another. He doubted whether he should not stop to 
 speak to and undeceive her ; but how, then, should he ex- 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 203 
 
 plain his presence in the warren? Unknown, and gliding 
 like a thief through the darkness, would not such a debut 
 awaken strange suspicions at the farm, and ought he not, 
 above all, to avoid signalizing his appearance in the coun- 
 try by a scandalous or absurd adventure ? 
 
 He tlius resolved to run on, and this extraqi'dinary 
 exercise lasted nearly half an hour without interruption. 
 Lemor's brain grew heated in spite of himself, and at 
 moments he felt himself becoming frantic, in seeing the 
 inconceivable persistence and the supernatural speed of 
 the relentless phantom on his track. It was like the 
 legends told of goblins weird, and malignant spirits of 
 night. 
 
 At last Lemor found the Vauvre at the bottom of the 
 valley, and, though bathed in sweat, he was about to throw 
 himself in and swim across, conceiving that this obstacle 
 placed between him and the spectre would finally deliver 
 him, when he heard behind him a horrible, agonized 
 scream, which sent a sudden chill through his whole 
 being. He turned and saw nothing. The maniac had 
 vanished. 
 
 Henri's first impulse was to profit by what might be 
 only a moment's respite to fly still farther, and entirely 
 conceal his course. But this fearful scream left too 
 painful an impression on him. Had it really proceeded 
 from this woman ? The sound was scarcely human ; and 
 yet what grief, what terrible despair it seemed to express ! 
 *' Could she have fallen and severely wounded herself?" 
 thought Lemor ; "or, when she lost sight of me behind the 
 willows, did she think I was drowned? Was it a cry of 
 agony, or terror? Or was it but rage at not being able 
 to follow me into the water, where she might suppose I 
 had thrown myself? But if she should have fallen into 
 some ditch, or down some precipice which I did not see 
 as 1 ran ? If this unhappy chance-encounter should cost 
 the unfortunate creature her life ! No, whatever be the 
 result, it is impossible for me to abandon her in the hor- 
 rors of the last agony." 
 
 Lemor retraced his steps, and sought the unknown 
 
to4 ^^^ MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 without finding her. The steep road by which he had 
 come skirted the extremity of the warren ; it was en- 
 closed by lofty hedges and no ditch ; there was no bog, no 
 pool where she could have been drowned. The sandy 
 soil showed no sign, as far as Lemor could distinguish, 
 of the fall of a body. He was still seeking, lost in con- 
 jecture, when he heard some one repeatedly whistle, as if 
 calling a dog. At first he was so preoccupied and ex- 
 cited with his adventure, as to pay little attention to it. 
 But, finally, he remembered that this was the signal 
 agreed upon with the miller, and, in despair of finding his 
 pursuer, he answered Grand-Louis's call by another 
 whistle. 
 
 " I think the devil is in you," said the latter to him, in 
 a low voice, when they met in the warren, "to go and 
 walk so far when I advised you not to stir ! It is a 
 quarter of an hour here that I have been hunting for you 
 in the wood, not daring to call too loud, and losing pa- 
 tience — But how you look ! all panting and torn ! 
 The deuce take me, my blouse has had a poor time of it 
 on your back, by what I can see. But speak ! you look 
 like a hunted rabbit, or rather like a man chased by a 
 will-o'-the-wisp." 
 
 "You have hit it, my friend. Either Jean's stories 
 of the nocturnal goblins of the Black Valley have an 
 inexplicable groundwork of reality, or I have had a hal- 
 lucination. But I think it is an hour (perhaps an age, 
 for aught I know !) that I have been fighting against the 
 devil." 
 
 " If you did not obstinately drink cold water at all 
 your meals," replied the miller, "I should think that you 
 had simply been in the necessary condition for meeting 
 the Wild Hunter, the white leveret^ or Georgeon the wolf' 
 leader. But you are too learned and rational a man to 
 believe in such stories. Something must, indeed, have 
 happened to you. A mad dog, perhaps ? " 
 
 "Worse than that," said Lemor, gradually recovering 
 his spirits ; "a mad woman, my friend ! a sorceress, who 
 ran quicker than I, and who vanished, I know not how, 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 205 
 
 at the moment that I was about to fling myself into the 
 water to get clear of her." 
 
 "A woman? oh ! oh ! and what did she say?" 
 
 " She took me for one Paul, who seems to be very 
 near her heart." 
 
 "I guessed as much — it was she ! it was the crazy girl 
 from the chateau. How could I be so stupid as not to 
 foresee that you might meet her here ! Truly, it went 
 out of my head ! We are so used to seeing her trotting 
 about in the evening like an old weasel, that we pay no 
 more attention to her. And yet it is a heart-rending 
 story when one thinks of it ! But what the devil set her 
 upon you ? She generally flies when any one comes her 
 way. Her trouble must be worse of late ; yet the dose 
 was strong enough before, poor girl ! " 
 
 ^' Who is this unfortunate creature ? " 
 
 " You shall know by and by. Let us walk faster, if 
 you please. You look half dead with fatigue." 
 
 " I believe that I broke my knees in my fall." 
 
 " Nevertheless, there is somebody at the end of the 
 path there, who is tired with waiting for you," said the 
 miller, lowering his voice still more. 
 
 "Oh!" cried Lemor, "I feel lighter than the night 
 wind ! " 
 
 And he began to run. 
 
 " Gently ! " said the miller, holding him back. " Run 
 only on the grass. No noise ! She is there under that 
 great tree. Do not leave the spot. I will keep watch 
 around in case of surprise." 
 
 " Does she run any risk in coming here, then? " said 
 Lemor, alarmed. 
 
 " If I had thought so, I would have prevented her 
 from coming ! They are all busy at the new chateau 
 with to-morrow's fete. But at least I could keep off" the 
 crazy girl, if she were to take a fancy to return and tor- 
 ment you." 
 
 Henri, lost in his happiness, forgot all else, and hurried 
 to the feet of Marcelle, who was waiting for him beneath 
 ii clump of oaks, in the most unfrequented part of the 
 wood. 
 
2o6 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 There was no room for explanation in their first rap- 
 ture. Diffident and reserved as they had always been, 
 still they felt a transport which no human words could 
 have fitly expressed. They were bewildered at meeting 
 so soon, after having almost believed in an eternal separ- 
 ation, and yet they sought not to explain to each other the 
 processes by which their minds had been brought to such 
 speedy retraction of all their courageous projects of sacri- 
 fice. They mutually divined the bitter pain and the irre- 
 sistible impulse that had forced them together at the very 
 moment when they had vowed to part. 
 
 " Madman ! who would have left me forever ! " said 
 Murcelle, yielding her beautiful hand to Lemor. 
 
 '* Cruel ! who would have banished me for a year ! " 
 replied Henri, covering that fair hand with burning 
 kisses. 
 
 And Marcelle clearly understood that her resolution of 
 a year of courage had been more sincere in her own eyes 
 than the eternal exile to which Lemor had tried to con- 
 demn himself. 
 
 Thus, when they could speak, an effort of which they 
 were incapable till they had long gazed at each other in 
 the silence of ecstasy, Marcelle was the first to recur to 
 this truly laudable design. 
 
 " Lemor," said she, " this is but a sunbeam between 
 two clouds. The law of duty must be obeyed. Even if 
 here we should meet with no obstacle to the security of 
 our relation, there would be something deeply irreligious 
 in so quick an union, and this hour ought to be our last 
 meeting before the expiration of my mourning. Tell me 
 that you love me, and that I shall be your wife, and I 
 shall have all the strength necessary to wait for you." 
 
 " Do not speak to me now of separation ! " said Lemor, 
 impetuously. ""Oh! let me taste the full sweetness of 
 this fairest moment of my life. Let me forget what was 
 yesterday, and what will be to-morrow. See what a soft 
 night, what a beautiful heaven ! How quiet and balmy 
 is this spot ! You are here ! It is indeed you, Marcelle ! 
 It is not your shadow ! We are both here ! We have 
 found each other again by chance, and involuntarily I 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 207 
 
 God willed it, and we were hoih so happy to obey ! — you, 
 too, Marcelle, as well as I ? Is it possible ? No, I do 
 not dream, for you are here, near me, with me ! alone ! 
 happy ! we love one another so well ! We could not 
 part, we cannot, we never can ! " 
 
 " And yet, my friend — " 
 
 " I know — I know what you would say. To-morrow, 
 some day, you shall write to me, and give me your com- 
 mands. You well know that I shall obey ! Why speak 
 to me of it this evening ? Why mar this moment, which 
 has not its equal in my whole life ? Let me persuade my- 
 self that it will never end. Marcelle, I see you ! Oh ! 
 how clearly I see you, in spite of the darkness ! How 
 beautiful you have grown within three days — since this 
 morning, when you were already so beautiful ! Oh ! tell 
 me that your hand shall never again leave mine ! How 
 firmly I hold it ! " 
 
 " Ah, you are right, Lemor ! Let us rejoice in meet- 
 ing again, and not remember yet that we must part — to- 
 morrow — some day." 
 
 " Yes, some day — another day ! " cried Henri. 
 
 " Do me the favor to speak lower," said the miller, 
 drawing near. " I cannot help hearing all that you say, 
 Monsieur Henri ! " 
 
 The two lovers remained for nearly an hour lost in a 
 pure ecstasy, making sweet dreams for the future, and 
 speaking of their happiness as if it were not to be broken, 
 but begun with the morrow. The perfumes of the night 
 were borne to them by the breeze, and the serene stars 
 passed over their heads, without inducing them to remark 
 the inevitable passage of Time, who lingers only in the 
 hearts of happy lovers. 
 
 But the miller, after having given more than one sig- 
 nal of impatience from a distance, came and interrupted 
 them when the declination of the polar stars marked ten 
 o'clock on the celestial dial. 
 
 " My friends," said he, " it is impossible for me to 
 leave you here, and impossible to wait for you an instant 
 longer. I no longer hear the cow-herds singing in the 
 farm-yard, and the lights are gone from the windows of 
 
2o8 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 the new chateau. Mile. Rose's is the only one burn- 
 ing ; she is waiting for Mme. Marcelle to go to bed. 
 M. Bricolin will soon make his rounds with his dogs, 
 as he always does on the eve of a fete day. We must 
 part quickly." 
 
 Lemor remonstrated ; he had, he said, but just come. 
 
 " That may be," said the miller ; " but for me, do you 
 know I must go to La Chatre this evening ? " 
 
 " How ! on my business? " said Marcelle. 
 
 " So please you ! I want to see your notary before he 
 goes to bed, for I do not care to speak to him to-morrow 
 in open day, lest M. Bricolin should think me conspiring 
 against him.'* 
 
 " But, Grand-Louis," said Marcelle, "I do not wish 
 that you should risk, for me — " 
 
 " Enough, enough ! " replied the miller. " I am going 
 to do just as I please. And hark ! 1 hear the barking 
 of those yellow dogs ! Go back through the field, Mme. 
 Marcelle, and we, my Parisian, will take the upper way, 
 if you please. Come ! let us scamper I " 
 
 The lovers parted without exchanging another word. 
 They feared to be reminded that they must look upon this 
 interview as their last. Marcelle had not the courage to 
 fix a day for Henri's departure, and he, dreading lest she 
 should fix it, hastened away, after repeatedly kissing her 
 hand in silence. 
 
 " Well, what have you determined? " asked the miller, 
 when they reached the edge of the park. 
 
 " Nothing, my friend," said Lemor. " We spoke only 
 of our happiness — " 
 
 " For the future ; but now? " 
 
 " There is no present, no future. All is alike when 
 one loves." 
 
 " Here is where you scoured the country. I hope now 
 that you will keep yourself quiet, and not make me race 
 through the woods at night in a panic. Come, my lad, 
 you are on your road. Can you easily find Angibault 
 alone?" 
 
 " Perfectly well. But do you not wish me to accom- 
 pany you to the town where you are going ? " 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 209 
 
 " No, it is too far. One of us would be on foot and 
 delay the other, unless we were to do as is the fashion 
 here, and both mount Sophie ; but the poor beast is too 
 old, and, besides, she has not had her supper yet. I am 
 going to look for her by a tree down there, where I fast- 
 ened her after I made believe go back to the mill. Do 
 you know I have been really anxious about leaving poor 
 Sophie so in God's keeping ! I hid her well in the 
 branches ; but if some of the vagabonds who always 
 come for the assembly should have taken a fancy to trick 
 her away from me I While you were billing and cooing 
 down there, Sophie ran in my head ! — " 
 
 " Let us go together and find her ! " 
 
 " No, no, not so ! You are always ready enough to 
 turn back towards the chateau, I see that well enough ! 
 Go on, and tell my mother to go to bed without troubling 
 herself; I may come home rather late. M. Tailland, 
 the notary, will keep me to sup. He loves his ease, is a 
 bit of a gourmand and a kind man. Thus I shall have 
 time to talk to him about the Blanchemont affairs, and 
 Sophie will eat her measure without asking his advice." 
 
 Lemor did not insist upon accompanying his friend. 
 Whatever affection and gratitude he felt towards the good 
 miller, he preferred to be alone, after the evening's emo- 
 tions. He longed to think of Marcelle without disturb- 
 ance, and to retrace the sweet dream he had just enjoyed 
 at her feet, and he took the way to Angibault very much 
 as a somnambulist takes that to his bed. I know not 
 whether he followed the direct road, whether he crossed 
 the river by the bridge, whether he doubled his distance, 
 or often forgot himself by the fountain margins. The 
 night was full of transport ; and from the cock that 
 roused the cabin echoes with his trumpet cry to the 
 cricket mysteriously chirping in the grass, everything 
 seemed to him to repeat, in tones of triumph or secrecy, 
 the cherished name of Marcelle. 
 
 But when he arrived at the mill, he felt so worn with 
 
 fatigue, that, as soon as he had told the miller's good 
 
 mother not to wait for her son, he threw himself on the 
 
 little bed that Louis had had prepared for him in his own 
 
 14 
 
210 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 chamber. Grand'-Marie, having warned Jean to wake 
 quickly and not make his master wait, when he wanted 
 him to put Sophie in the stable, went, also, to rest. But 
 maternal tenderness sleeps with but one eye shut ; and as 
 a storm came up, the good woman waked with a start 
 at every peal of thunder that passed over the valley, 
 thinking that she heard her son knocking at Jean's door 
 in the mill. When the day broke, she rose softly and 
 went to advise him not to make too much noise, because 
 Grand-Louis, who had doubtless returned late, would 
 need to sleep longer than usual. She was much sur- 
 prised, and almost alarmed, when Jean answered that his 
 master had not yet returned. 
 
 " Impossible ! " said she. " He never sleeps out when 
 he goes only to Blanchemont." 
 
 " Ah ! bah ! mistress, it is the eve of the fete. No- 
 body sleeps over there. The wine-shops are open all 
 night. The bag-pipers come in playing their finest 
 marches, enough to set one's heart a-dancing ; they wish 
 it were already the morrow ; nobody goes to bed, for 
 fear of oversleeping, and losing ever so little of the fun. 
 The master has been amused, and has made a whiit 
 night of it." 
 
 '' The master does not spend his nights in wine-shops,' 
 answered the mother, shaking her head, after opening tho 
 stable-door to see if Sophie were not at the manger. " I 
 thought," she added, " that he had come back without 
 choosing to wake thee, Jean. It is hard to him ; he had 
 rather wait on himself than disturb a child like thee, 
 who sleepest like a log. But he cannot have slept ! He 
 was very tired, too ; day before yesterday he had a long 
 journey. He went to bed late that night, and now this, 
 not at all ! — " 
 
 Grand'-Marie began her holiday toilet with a deep 
 sigh. " This wretched love ! '* thought she, " it is that 
 which torments him, and keeps him on foot day and 
 night. How will it all end with him ? " 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 211 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 SOPHIE. 
 
 ' I ^HE good old woman was lost in her sad thoughts ; 
 ■^ and, after the custom of some old people, she ex- 
 pressed them aloud, as she went from her closet to her 
 dressing-table, mechanically busied with preparing her 
 antique corsage, with basque skirts, and the plaid chintz 
 apron which she had fondly preserved from her youth, 
 holding it in high esteem, because it had cost then four 
 times as much as would now buy a much handsomer 
 stuff. 
 
 " Do not grieve about it, mother," said Grand-Louis, 
 who had heard her from the threshold of the door, where 
 he had just come without her perceiving him ; " all this will 
 end as it best can ; but your son will always try to make 
 you happy." 
 
 "Eh! my poor child, I did not see thee!" said the 
 mother, a little ashamed, even at her age, at being sur- 
 prised by her son with her long gray hair fallen over her 
 shoulders ; for in her time the peasant women of the 
 Black Valley held the concealment of their hair as an ex- 
 treme point of modesty. But Grand'-Marie soon forgot 
 this impulse of superannuated prudery, on seeing the 
 miller's paleness and disorder. 
 
 "Jesus! my God!" said she, clasping her hands; 
 " how tired thou art ! One would say that all the night's 
 rain had poured on thee ! And truly, thou art yet damp. 
 Go quick, and change thy clothes. Couldst thou not find 
 a house to shelter thee? And how wretchedly thou 
 lookest this morning ! Ah, my poor boy, one' would 
 say thou wert trying to make thyself sick ! " 
 
 "Eh! mother, do not worry yourself so!" said the 
 miller, forcing his habitual air of cheerfulness. " I 
 
212 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 passed the night under shelter with friends — people with 
 whom I had business, and who made me stay to supper. 
 1 only got a little wet because I came home on foot." 
 
 ** On foot? and what hast thou done with Sophie?" 
 
 "I — lent her to — something — down there — " 
 
 "To whom? something down there? " 
 
 '' Don't you know ? Bah ! I will tell you by and by. 
 If you want to go to the Assembly, I will take the little 
 black mare, and you shall ride on a pillion." 
 
 " Thou wert wrong to lend Sophie, my child. She has 
 not her equal, and should be spared. I had rather see 
 thee lend both the others." 
 
 " So had I. But what would you have? It so hap- 
 pened. Come, mother, I will go and dress, and you will 
 call me when you are ready to go." 
 
 " No, no, I see that thou hast not tasted sleep this 
 night, and thou must take a nap. There is still plenty of 
 time before the hour for mass. Ah ! Grand-Louis, how 
 thou dost look ! it is not worth while to run such a 
 race ! " ' 
 
 " Be easy, mother ; I do not feel sick, and I shall not 
 do so often. One must be a little crack-brained some- 
 times ! " 
 
 And the miller, still more dejected at having troubled 
 his mother, whose uneasiness and displeasure were never 
 expressed without extreme gentleness and wise reserve, 
 went and flung himself on his bed with an angry move- 
 ment, which awakened Lemor. 
 
 '"Are you getting up already?" said the latter, rub- 
 bing his eyes. 
 
 " Not at all ; I am going to bed, so please you," an- 
 swered the miller, beating up his bed with his fist. 
 
 "Friend, you are unhappy!" returned Lemor, thor- 
 oughly awakened by the unequivocal signs of Grand- 
 Louis's inward rage. 
 
 "Unhappy? Yes, sir, I confess it; perhaps more so 
 than the thing is worth ; but, in short, it gives me more 
 pain than I could wish. I cannot help it." 
 
 And large tears rolled from the miller's weary eyes. 
 
 " My friend ! " cried Lemor, leaping from his bed, and 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGILAULT. 213 
 
 beginning rapidly to dress himself, " I plainly see that 
 some misfortune has happened to you this night ! And 
 I sleeping here so quietly ! My God ! what can I do ? 
 where shall I run ? " 
 
 " Ah ! do not start, it is useless," said Grand-Louis, 
 shrugging his shoulders, as if ashamed of his weakness ; 
 " I have run enough to-night for nothing, and here I am at 
 my wits' end — and for a piece of nonsense, after all ! 
 But what would you have ! one is as fond of an animal as 
 of a person, and regrets an old horse like an old friend. 
 You do not understand this, you city people, but we good 
 country folks, we live with our beasts, and there is no 
 great difference between us ! " 
 
 " And you have lost Sophie, I understand? " 
 
 "Lost? yes, that is to say somebody has stolen her 
 from me." 
 
 "Yesterday, perhaps, in the warren?" 
 
 " Exactly. You remember that I had a sort of pre- 
 sentiment of evil? When you left me, I went back to the 
 place where I had snugly hidden her, and from which the 
 poor beast, as patient as a lamb, would not certainly have 
 loosened herself — she never broke rein or halter in her 
 life. Well, sir, horse and bridle, all had disappeared ! 
 I searched, I ran — nothing ! Then, too, I dared not 
 ask much about her, especially at the farm ; what would 
 they have thought? They would have asked me how I 
 could have lost my beast on the way, when I started on 
 her back. They would have believed me drunk, and 
 Mme. Bricoliu would not have failed to represent to 
 Mile. Rose that I had met with some ugly adventure, 
 unworthy of a man who thinks of nothing in the world 
 but her. I thought at first that some one wanted to play 
 me a trick. I went into all the houses. All the town 
 was still on foot. I dropped in at one place and another, 
 without seeming to have any purpose. I entered every 
 stable, even that of the chateau, without being seen ; no 
 Sophie ! Blanchemont is filled at this time with people 
 of every flour ^ and there is certainly some cunning rogue 
 in the number who came on foot, and has gone back on 
 horseback, thinking that he need see no more of the fete, 
 
214 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 as it has been good enough for liim before its com- 
 mencement. Come, we must not think of it any longer. 
 Luckily, I did not lose my wits in the midst of all this, 
 I went on Shank's mare to La Chatre. I saw my notary ; 
 it was rather late ; he had done supper, and was rather 
 heavy while digesting it ; but he promised me to be at the 
 fete. When I left him, I still searched and beat the 
 thickets like a night hunter. I ran through the rain and 
 thunder till daylight, still hoping that I should find my 
 thief hidden somewhere. In vain ! I do not wish to 
 make a noise about my misfortune, for it would create 
 gossip ; and if inquiry should be instituted, it would be a 
 nice story for us, of a horse hidden in the warren and left 
 there for an hour, without my being able to explain why 
 and how. I had put her at some distance from your ren- 
 dezvous, so that if she should move a little, the noise 
 would not draw attention toward you. Poor Sophie ! I 
 ought to have trusted to her good sense. She would not 
 have stirred ! " 
 
 " Thus I am the cause of this misfortune ! Grand- 
 Louis, I am more sorry for it than you, and you will 
 certainly permit me to indemnify you as much as is in my 
 power." 
 
 " Silence, sir ! I care nothing for the slight sum that 
 the old creature might have brought at a fair I Do you 
 think I should feel this anxiety about a hundred or so of 
 francs ? Oh, no, indeed ! it is she that I regret, and not 
 her price ; she had none in my eyes. She was so cour- 
 ageous, so intelligent, she knew me so well ! I am sure 
 that at this moment she is thinking of me, and looking 
 askan(;e upon whoever is taking care of her ! If 
 he would but take good care of her ! If I were 
 sure of that, I should be almost consoled. But he will 
 rub her down with his whip-handle, and feed her on 
 chestnut burrs ! For it must be some knave from La 
 Marche who will take her to his mountains to feed in a 
 field of stones, instead of her pretty little meadow by the 
 water-side, where she lived so well, and where she would 
 still play with the young fillies, when the sight of the 
 green grass put her in fine good humor ! And my 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 215 
 
 mother ! how she will grieve ! Besides, I can never tell 
 her how the misfortune happened. I have not had 
 courage yet to tell her at all. Do not mention it to her 
 till I have contrived some story to make the news less 
 bitter to her." 
 
 There was something at once comic and touching in 
 the simple lamentation of the miller ; and Lemor, grieved 
 at being the cause of his sorrow, was so much moved by 
 it, that the kind-hearted Louis undertook to comfort him. 
 
 " Come, come," said he, " here is enough nonsense 
 about a four-legged creature. I know very well that it is 
 not your fault, and I did not for an instant think of re- 
 proaching you with it. Let it not spoil the remembrance 
 of your happiness, friend ! it is but a small price to pay 
 for so sweet an hour as you spent during that time ! 
 And if I ever had a rendezvous with Rose myself, I 
 should not mind riding horseback on a broomstick all my 
 life ! Now, do not tell Mme. Marcelle about it. It 
 would be like her to give me a horse worth 1,000 francs, 
 and that would really hurt me. I do not want to attach 
 myself again to animals. There is enough trouble in 
 life with people ! Do you, I say, think of your love, and 
 of making yourself fine, but still in peasant fashion, to 
 go to the fete, for you must let your face begin to be 
 known in the country. That will be better than hiding 
 yourself, which would start suspicion at once. You will 
 see Mme. Marcelle. You will not speak to her, indeed ! 
 Besides, you will have no opportunity, she will not dance ; 
 she is in deep mourning ! but Rose is not, faith ! and I 
 count upon dancing with her till night, now that the dear 
 papa gives consent. And that makes me think that I 
 must sleep a couple of hours, so as not to look like one 
 dug up from the grave. Do not vex yourself any more ; 
 you will hear me snore in five minutes." 
 
 The miller kept his word ; and when towards ten 
 o'clock his black mare, much handsomer but less beloved 
 than Sophie, was brought him, when dressed in his Sun- 
 day garb of fine cloth, his chin well shaved, his color 
 fresh and his eye bright, he pressed his powerful steed 
 between his long legs, his mother, seating herself behind 
 
2i6 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 him by the help of a chair and Lemor's arm, felt a sensa- 
 tion of pride at being the mother of the handsome miller. 
 
 They had slept no better at the farm than at the mill ; 
 and we are obliged to retrace our steps, to put the reader 
 in possession of the events that took place there on the 
 night preceding the fete. 
 
 Lemor, divided between the painful agitation caused 
 him by his strange rencontre with the maniac, and the de- 
 lirious joy of seeing Marcelle again, had not remarked, 
 while in the warren, that the miller was not much calmei 
 than himself. Grand-Louis had found the farm-yard full 
 of noise and stir. Two pataches and three cabriolets, 
 which had brought within their solid walls all the rela- 
 tions of the Bricolius, were reposing upon their weary 
 shafts along the stables and manure heaps. All the poor 
 neighbors, eager to earn a scanty pittance, had been put 
 in requisition to help in preparing the supper of the 
 guests, who were more numerous and more hungry than 
 had been expected at the new chateau. M. Bricolin, 
 more vain of showing his opulence than annoyed at the 
 expense involved, was in the best possible humor. His 
 daughters, his sons, his cousins, nephews, and sons-in- 
 law, each in turn privately inquired how soon the old 
 chateau would be repaired and re-stuccoed, with the Bric- 
 olin cypher as an escutcheon over the door. 
 
 " For thou wilt soon be lord and master of Blanche- 
 mont," said they in common chorus, " and thou wilt man- 
 age tliy fortune somewhat better than all those counts and 
 barons to whom thou wilt succeed, to the greater glory of 
 the new aristocracy, the nobility of hard money." Bric- 
 olin was quite intoxicated with pride ; and while replying 
 with a sly smile to his dear relatives, " Not yet, not yet I 
 never, perhaps ! " he delightedly assumed all the impor- 
 tance of a lord chatelain. He paid no further regard to 
 expense, and, swelling his portly person like a turkey- 
 cock, thundered his orders to his servants, his mother, 
 daughter, and wife. The whole house was in confusion. 
 Mother Bricolin was plucking scarcely-dead chickens by 
 the dozen, and Mme. Bricolin, who had been at first ex- 
 tremely cross and peevish amidst the tumult of the kitchen, 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 217 
 
 began also, in her way, to be merry, on seeing the ample 
 repast, the ready chambers, and the gratifying admira- 
 tion of her guests. It was under favor of all this dis- 
 order that the miller was able easily to speak with 
 Marcelle, and that she, excusing herself on account of a 
 headache, had withdrawn from the supper, and, during 
 the festival, joined Lemor at the foot of the warren. 
 
 Rose herself, while the table was setting, had found 
 more than one excellent pretext for straying into the 
 court, and saying a friendly word or so in passing Grand- 
 Louis, as she was used to do. But her mother, who 
 scarcely lost sight of her, soon discovered the means of 
 ridding herself quickly of the miller. Obliged to sub- 
 mit to the commands of her husband, who had impera- 
 tively enjoined upon her not to be rude to Grand-Louis, 
 she conceived the idea of satisfying her own hatred, and 
 making Rose ashamed of her friendship for him, by rid- 
 iculing him in concert with her other daughters, and her 
 female relations, who were all, young and old, sufficiently 
 malicious and insolent to assist her. She hastily and con- 
 fidentially told each one that this village wit fancied him- 
 self agreeable to her daughter ; that Rose knew nothing 
 of it, and paid no attention to it ; that M. Bricolin, not 
 wishing to believe it, treated him with far too much kind- 
 ness ; but that she had from good authority learned a 
 curious fact, to wit, that the handsome miller^ the pet of all 
 the abandoned girls in the country, had often boasted that 
 he could please the richest bourgeoise whom it might suit 
 him to court, one as well as anotlier, — and hereupon 
 Mme. Bricolin named those present, laughing, meanwhile, 
 sharply and scornfully, tucking up her apron, and setting 
 her arms akimbo. 
 
 From the female part of the family, the confidence was 
 rapidly passed in whispers to all the Bricolins of the other 
 sex, so that Grand-Louis, who thought of nothing but go- 
 ing to join Lemor, found himself suddenly assailed by 
 epigrams so flat as to be incomprehensible, and his retreat 
 accompanied by half-stifled laughter, and whisperings of 
 extreme impertinence. Not comprehending the mirth 
 which he excited, he left the farm uneasy, anxious, and 
 
2i8 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 full of contempt for the coarse wit of the country bour- 
 geois whom this eveninf^ had gathered at Blanchemont. 
 
 According to Mme. Bricolin's advice, care was taken 
 that M. Bricolin should not perceive the conspiracy, and 
 all engaged to persecute the miller in Rose's presence the 
 next day. " It was necessary," said her mother, " to hu- 
 miliate this workman before her eyes, to teach her not to 
 follow her good heart too far, but keep peasants at a dis- 
 tance." 
 
 After supper the fiddlers were sent for, and there was 
 dancing in the court in anticipation of the morrow. It 
 was in an interval of quiet that the miller, uneasy, and in 
 haste to go to La Chatre, had asserted that the evening's 
 amusement was over at the new chateau, and had forced 
 the lovers to part much sooner than they wished. 
 
 When Marcelle returned to the farm, the diversion was 
 resumed ; and feeling the same need of solitude and thought 
 that had carried Lemor into the windings of the Black 
 Valley, she returned to the warren, and walked there 
 slowly till midnight. The sound of the bagpipe, joined 
 to that of the hurdy-gurdy, is rather agonizing to the ears, 
 when near ; but, from a distance, there is a charm in 
 their rustic tones, and in the barbaric harmony which 
 gives originality to their frequently charming melodies, 
 that penetrates simple natures, and sends a peculiar thrill 
 to the hearts of those who remember the sound in their 
 happy childhood. The strong vibration of the bagpipe, 
 although harsh and nasal, and the piercing cry and ener- 
 getic staccato of the hurdy-gurdy, are made for one an- 
 other, and mutually correct each other. Marcelle listened 
 to them with pleasure for some time, and observing that 
 distance increased their charm, she strolled to the extrem- 
 ity of the warren, lost in visions of a pastoral life, in 
 wliich, it may easily be conceived, her love made all bur- 
 dens light. 
 
 But she suddenly stopped on seeing, almost under her 
 feet, the maniac stretched on the ground, motionless, and 
 apparently dead. Notwithstanding the disgust which she 
 felt at the shocking uncleanliness of the unfortunate crea- 
 ture, she determined, after vainly attempting to rouse her, 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 219 
 
 to lift her in her arms, and succeeded in dragging her for 
 some distance. She leaned her against a tree, and not 
 feeling strength to carry her further, was about to go and 
 call help from the farm, when Bricoline began to recover 
 from her torpor, and to push away with her bony hand 
 the long hair, rough with grass and sand, that hung over 
 her face. Marcelle helped her remove this thick veil, 
 which stifled her breath, and daring for the first time to 
 speak to her, asked if she were in pain. 
 
 " Certainly 1 am in pain ! " answered the maniac, with 
 shocking indifference, and in the same tone with which 
 she might have said — "I am still alive ;" then she added, 
 in a brief and imperious voice: "Hast thou seen him? 
 He has returned. He will not speak to me. Did he tell 
 thee why?" 
 
 ••' He told me that he would come back," said Marcelle, 
 trying to indulge her lunacy. 
 
 " Oh, he will not come back !" cried the madwoman, 
 impetuously rising ; " he will never come back ! He is 
 afraid of me. Everybody is afraid of me, because I am 
 very rich, very rich ! So rich that I am forbidden to live ! 
 But I will be rich no longer ; to-morrow I will be poor. 
 It is time the end came. To-morrow everybody shall be 
 poor. Thou shalt be poor too. Rose, and thou shalt no 
 longer frighten people. I will punish the wretches who 
 would kill me, shut me up, poison me — " 
 
 " But there are some people who pity you, and only 
 wish you well," said Marcelle. 
 
 " No, there are none ! " replied the maniac, angrily, and 
 fearfully excited. " They are all my enemies. They 
 have tortured me, they have driven red-hot iron into my 
 brain. They have nailed me to trees. They have 
 thrown me more than a thousand times from the top of 
 the towers upon the stones. They have pierced my heart 
 with long steel needles. They have flayed me alive ; 
 that is "vvhy I cannot now dress myself without feeling 
 horrible pain. They would have torn off my hair because 
 it gave me some defence from their blows. But I will 
 be avenged ! I have drawn up a complaint ; fifty-four 
 years 1 have been writing it in every language, that it may 
 
220 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 reach every sovereign in the universe. I will have them 
 restore me Paul, whom they have hidden in their cellar, 
 and abuse as they do me. I hear him scream every night 
 when they torture him — I know his voice. Hark ! 
 hark! do you hear him?" she continued, in an agonized 
 voice, listening to the merry notes of the bagpipe. 
 " You see that they are making him suffer a thousand 
 deaths ! They will devour him, but they shall be pun- 
 ished, punished ! To-morrow, I, too, will make them 
 suffer ! They shall suffer so that I shall take pity my- 
 self— " 
 
 Thus speaking with frantic volubility, the unhappy 
 creature darted through the thickets, and rushed towards 
 the farm, while it was impossible for Marcelle to follow 
 her rapid course and impetuous leaps. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 22 1 
 
 CHAPTEK XXVI. 
 
 THE EVE OF THE FETE. 
 
 A T the farm the dance was kept up more pertinaciously 
 "*■■ ^ than ever. The servants entered into the pleasure, 
 and a thick dust rose from under their feet, but neither that 
 inconvenience, nor stones, sun, rain, or the fatigue of 
 harvest or mowing, ever yet prevented the Berrichon 
 peasant from dancing with enthusiasm. No people dance 
 with more mingled sobriety and passion. To see them 
 advance and retreat in the bourree, so gently and reg- 
 ularly that their crowded ranks resemble the pendulum of 
 a clock, one would never guess the pleasure they derive 
 from this monotonous exercise, and would still less sus- 
 pect the difficulty of seizing its elementary rhythm, which 
 must be marked with rigorous precision by every step 
 and every attitude of the body, while, to attain perfec- 
 tion, the labor must be entirely concealed by great gravity 
 of movement and an apparent languor. But after watch- 
 ing them some time, one is astonished at their indefat- 
 igable endurance, and appreciates the kind of soft and 
 simple grace which preserves them from lassitude ; and 
 certainly an observation of the same persons dancing 
 ten or twelve hours together without weariness, would 
 make one believe that they were bit by a tarantula, or 
 prove that they are passionately fond of dancing. Now 
 and then the inward joy of the young men is revealed by a 
 peculiar cry which they give without losing the imperturb- 
 able composure of their faces, and, at times, with a for- 
 cible stamp of the foot, they bound like young bulls, falling 
 back with careless flexibility and resuming their phleg- 
 matic, swinging motion. The Berrichon character is com- 
 pletely portrayed in this dance. As for the women, they 
 
222 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 must iuvariably glide along the ground so as to graze the 
 soil, which demands more lightness than might be thought, 
 and their graces are marked by a rigid propriety. 
 
 Rose danced the bourree as well as a peasant girl, 
 which is no little praise, and her father watched her with 
 pride. Everybody was gay and lively, and the musi- 
 cians, their thirst well satisfied, spared neither their arms 
 nor lungs. The dancers looked more graceful in the half 
 obscurity of a fine night, and, above all, the charming 
 Eose, who seemed to glide like a white sea-bird over 
 calm waters, and to be borne along on the evening 
 breeze. The melancholy which was cast over all her 
 movements this evening, made her more beautiful than 
 usual. 
 
 Still Rose was at heart a true peasant girl of the Black 
 Valley in all her native simplicity, and took pleasure in 
 the dance, were it only to be in practice to answer the 
 numerous invitations which Grand-Louis would not fail 
 to give her the next day. But suddenly the bagpiper 
 lost his footing upon the cask which served him as pedes- 
 tal, and tlie wind contained in his instrument escaped in 
 a strange and plaintive tone, that caused all the astonished 
 dancers to stop and turn towards him. At the same mo- 
 ment, the hurdy-gurdy, rudely snatched from the hands 
 of the other musician, rolled at the feet of Rose, and the 
 maniac leaped from the rustic orchestra upon which she 
 had sprung with a bound like a v/ild-cat's, and threw her- 
 self into the midst of the bourree, crying, " Woe, woe to 
 the assassins ! Woe to the executioners ! " Then she 
 flung herself upon her mother, who had advanced to re- 
 strain her, seized her throat with her claws, and would 
 inevitably have strangled her if the old Mother Bricolia 
 had not prevented her, by taking hold of her round the 
 waist. The maniac had never committed any act of vio- 
 lence towards her grandmother, whether it were that, 
 without knowing her, she retained a sort of instinctive 
 love for her, or that she knew her alone among the others, 
 and remembered the good woman's efforts in favor of her 
 love. She made no resistance, and suffered herself to be 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 223 
 
 drawn into the house, 
 
 filled every one with dismay and horror. 
 
 When Marcelle, wdio had followed the elder Mile. Bric- 
 olin as closely as she could, arrived at the house, she 
 found the dance interrupted, everybody frightened, and 
 Rose nearly fainting. Mme. Bricolin doubtless suffered 
 inwardly, were it only at the exposure of this household 
 wound to all eyes ; but in her activity in restraining the 
 lunatic, and stifling the noise of her screams, thei^e was 
 something violent and energetic, more like the firmness 
 of a policeman incarcerating a disturber of the peace, 
 than the solicitude of a despairing mother. The grand- 
 mother showed as much grief, and more sensibility. It 
 was a sad sight to see the poor old woman, with her 
 harsh voice and masculine manners, caressing the maniac, 
 and talking to her as to a child, coaxing and flattering by 
 turns. " Come, ray darling," she said, " tliou always 
 behavest so well, thou wilt not make thy grandmother 
 unhappy? Thou must go quietly to bed, or else I shall 
 be vexed, and will not love thee any more." The maniac 
 understood nothing of what she said, and did not even 
 hear it. Clinging to the foot of her bed, she gave vent 
 to fearful howls and cries, and her diseased imagination 
 persuaded her that she was at this instant enduring the 
 punishments and tortures which she had fantastically de- 
 picted to Marcelle. 
 
 The latter, after assuring herself, first of all, that her 
 child was sleeping quietly in Fanchon's care, busied her- 
 self with Rose, who was distracted with fright and grief. 
 It was the first time that Bricoline had given vent to the 
 hatred accumulated during twelve years in her crushed 
 heart. Once a week, at most, she cried and wept when 
 her grandmother persisted in changing her garments. 
 But those were the cries of a child, and these were the 
 shrieks of a fury. She had never addressed a word to 
 any one, and now, for the first time in twelve years, she 
 had uttered threats. She had never struck any one, and 
 she had just attempted to kill her mother. In short, for 
 twelve years this mute victim of her parents' avarice 
 had kept her inexpressible suffering to herself, and they 
 
224 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 had accustomed themselves, with a sort of brutal indiffer- 
 ence, to the deplorable spectacle. They were no longer 
 afraid of her, they were tired of pitying her, they en* 
 dured her presence as an inevitable misfortune ; and, if 
 there were remorse in their hearts, it was not avowed, 
 perhaps even to themselves. But there were necessary 
 recurrent phases in the terrible disease which preyed upon 
 her, and the time had come when her misery was dan- 
 gerous to others. It was, at last, necessary to attend to 
 it. M. Bricolin sat before his door, listening with a stu- 
 pefied look to the coarse condolence of his family. 
 
 *'It is a great misfortune for you," said one, " and we 
 have seen you bear it already too long. Such patience is 
 beyond human strength, and you must finally decide to 
 put this unfortunate girl in a mad-house.'* 
 
 " She cannot be cured," replied he, shaking his head. 
 *' I have tried everything. It is impossible. Her disease 
 is too severe ; she must die of it ! " 
 
 " That might be the happiest thing for her. You see 
 that she is in too pitiful a state here. But even if they 
 could not cure her, you would be spared the pain of see- 
 ing her, and taking care of her. She would be prevented 
 from injuring you. If you do not take care, she will end 
 by killing somebody, or her own self, before your eyes." 
 
 "That would be shocking! But what will you have? 
 I have told her mother so an hundred times, and yet 
 she will not part from her. Trust me, she loves her 
 still in her heart, and that may well be ; mothers always 
 feel something for their children, as it seems." 
 
 " But, you may depend on it, she will be better off there 
 than here. They are taken very good care of now. There 
 are handsome establishments where they want for nothing. 
 They are kept clean, allowed to work and be busy, and it 
 is even said that they are amused, taken to mass, and per- 
 mitted to hear music." 
 
 " In that case they are happier than at home," said M. 
 Bricolin. After a moment's reflection, he added, " and 
 does all this cost a great deal ? " 
 
 Rose was deeply affected. She was the only one, with 
 the exception of her grandmother, who had not become 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 225 
 
 insensible to the grief of poor Bricoline. If she avoided 
 speaking of it, it was because she could not do so without 
 accusing her parents of this moral filicide committed by 
 them ; but twenty times a day she caught herself shudder- 
 ing with indignation at hearing from her mother's lips the 
 selfish and avaricious maxims to which her sister had been 
 sacrificed before her eyes. As soon as she recovered from 
 her faintness, she wished to assist her grandmother in quiet- 
 ing the maniac ; but Mme. Bricolin, fearing lest the spec- 
 tacle should make too deep an impression, and having a 
 vague instinct that excessive grief might prove contagious, 
 even in its physical results, sent her away with the harsh- 
 ness whicli belonged even to her best and kindest inten- 
 tions. Rose was incensed at this refusal, and returned 
 to her chamber, whicli she paced, for part of the night, 
 in a state of great excitement, but abstaining from speech, 
 for fear of expressing herself too strongly with regard to 
 her parents, before Marcelle. 
 
 Tlius the night, which had opened with such exquisite 
 delight, proved extremely painful to Mme. de Blanche- 
 mont. The cries of the maniac ceased at intervals, and 
 were then renewed more terribly, more fearfully. When 
 they stopped, it was not by degrees and a gradual dim- 
 inution, but, on the contrary, abruptly, In the midst of their 
 greatest Intensity, and as If a violent death had suddenly 
 interrupted them, 
 
 "Would not one say they were murdering her?" cried 
 Rose, pale, and hardly able to support herself as she 
 walked the room. "Yes, it seems like an execution ! " 
 
 Marcelle would not tell her what frightful torments the 
 maniac really believed herself enduring, and did endure, 
 in her thoughts, at that moment. She concealed from her 
 the interview she had had with her in the park. From 
 time to time she went to see the sufferer. She found her 
 stretched on the floor, her arms tightly clasped round the 
 foot of her bed, and almost suffocated with exhaustion 
 from screaming, but her eyes open, fixed, and her mind 
 evidently in perpetual activity. Her grandmother knelt 
 beside her, trying In vain to slip a pillow under her head, 
 IS 
 
236 THE MILLER OF ANGJBAULT. 
 
 or introduce a spoonful of a soothing potion into her con- 
 tracted mouth. Mme. Bricolin, pale and motionless, sat 
 opposite in an arm-chair, and her resolute and strongly 
 furrowed countenance bore the traces of deep sorrow, 
 which would not confess its sin, even to God. Chounette, 
 standing in a corner, sobbed mechanically, without offer- 
 ing her services, and without any one's thinking of de- 
 manding them. There was deep despondency in these 
 three faces. The maniac alone, when not howling, 
 seemed to revolve dark thoughts of hatred in her brain. 
 There was a sound of snoring in the next room ; but M. 
 Bricolin's heavy sleep was not undisturbed, and from time 
 to time appeared to be broken by bad dreams. Farther 
 still, beyond the opposite partition. Father Bricolin was 
 heard coughing and moaning ; ignorant of the sufferings 
 of others, the little strength that remained to him was 
 not enough to support his own. 
 
 At length, towards three in the morning, the violence 
 of the storm seemed to overpower the maniac's exhausted 
 organs. She fell asleep on the ground, and they succeeded 
 in putting her into bed without her perceiving it. It was 
 doubtless long since she had known a moment's repose, 
 for her sleep was deep and heavy ; and everybody was 
 enabled to rest, even Rose, to whom Mme. de Blauche- 
 mont hastened with the favorable news. 
 
 If Marcelle had not found this occasion to devote her- 
 self to poor Rose, she would have repented the unlucky 
 inspiration which had brought her to this habitation of 
 avarice and misfortune. She would have hastened to 
 seek another shelter than this, so totally un-beautiful, so 
 disagreeable in prosperity, so forlorn in adversity. But 
 to whatever new discomfort she might still be exposed, 
 she resolved to stay while she could be of assistance to 
 her young companion. Happily the morning was calm. 
 Everybody slept till late, and Rose had not waked when 
 Mme. de Blanchemont, scarcely awake herself, received 
 from Paris, thanks to the rapidity of our present com- 
 munications, the following answer to the letter which she 
 had written to her mother-in-law three days before : 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 227 
 
 Letter of the Countess of Blanchemont to her daughter-in-law ^ 
 Marcelle, Baroness of Blanchemont. 
 
 "My Daughter, — May Providence, who sends you all 
 this courage, mercifully preserve it to you ! Great as it 
 is, I am not astonished at it from you. Do not praise 
 mine. At my age one has not long to suffer ! At yours 
 — happily there is no clear idea of the length and the 
 difficulty of existence. My daughter, your plans are 
 praiseworthy, excellent, and so much the wiser that they 
 are necessary, — still more necessary than you imagine. 
 We, too, my dear Marcelle, are ruined ! and it may be 
 that we can leave nothing as an inheritance to our beloved 
 grandson. My unhappy son's debts exceed all that you 
 know, all that could have been foreseen. We shall tem- 
 porize with the creditors ; but we accept the responsi- 
 bility, and thereby deprive Edward of the easy fortune 
 which he might have expected at our decease. Bring 
 him up, then, simply. Teach him to create his own re- 
 sources by his talents, and to maintain his independence 
 by the dignity with which he will support misfortune. 
 When he is a man, we shall be no longer living. Let 
 him respect the memory of the old grandparents who pre- 
 ferred the honor of a gentleman to his pleasures, and 
 whose only legacy to him will be a pure and unreproached 
 name. The son of a bankrupt could have had none but 
 dishonest luxury — the son of a guilty father will be, at 
 least, under some obligation to those who have sheltered 
 his life from public condemnation. 
 
 " To-morrow, I will give you details ; to-day, I am 
 stricken by the discovery of this new abyss. I tell you 
 in few words. I know that you can understand and en- 
 dure everything. Adieu, my daughter ; I admire and love 
 you." 
 
 *' Edward ! " said Marcelle, covering her sleeping boy 
 with kisses, " it was then written in heaven that thou 
 shouldst have the glory, and perhaps the happiness, of not 
 succeeding to the wealth and rank of thy fathers ! So 
 perish great fortunes, the work of ages, in one day ! 
 Thus the ancient masters of the world, drawn on by fa- 
 
228 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 tality yet more than by their own passions, are laden with 
 the accomph'shment of the decrees of that Divine wisdom 
 which labors imperceptibly for the levelling of all mortal 
 power ! Mayst thou some day comprehend, oh, my 
 child, that this law of Providence is kind to thee, since it 
 throws thee among the sheep at Christ's right hand, and 
 separates thee from the goats at his left ! My God, give 
 me the wisdom and strength necessary to make of this 
 child a man ! To make him a patrician, I should have 
 had only to fold my arms, and let riches do their w^ork. 
 Now I need enlightenment and inspiration ! My God, 
 my God ! Thou hast appointed me this task ! Thou wilt 
 not abandon me ! " 
 
 '' Lemor," she wrote an instant later, " my son is 
 ruined, his family is ruined. My child is poor. He 
 might have been unworthy and contemptible as a rich 
 man. He must now be made courageous and noble as a 
 poor one. Providence has reserved this mission for you. 
 Now will you ever speak of abandoning me ? Is not this 
 child, who was an obstacle between us, a dear and sacred 
 bond? Unless you should lose your love for me in a 
 year, who now can oppose our happiness? Take courage, 
 my friend, and go ! A year hence, you will find me in 
 some cabin in the Black Valley, not far from the mill of 
 Angibault." 
 
 Marcelle wrote these few lines with lofty emotion ; and 
 when her pen traced the words, " Unless you should lose 
 your love for me in a year," an imperceptible smile gave 
 an ineffable expression to her features. She enclosed her 
 mother-in-law's letter as explanation, and sealing the 
 whole, put it in her pocket, thinking that it would not be 
 long before she saw the miller, and perhaps Lemor him- 
 self, in the peasant costume so becoming to him. 
 
 The maniac slept all the day. She was feverish, but 
 she had been so every day for twelve years, and her 
 present exhaustion, which was an entirely new symptom, 
 augured a favorable crisis. The physician who had been 
 called from the town, and who was accustomed to seeing 
 her, did not think her ill in comparison with her ordinary 
 state. Rose, much reassured, and restored to the sweet 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 229 
 
 instincts of youth, slowly and very coquettishly dressed 
 herself. She wished to be simple, not to startle her 
 friend by making a display of her wealth before him — 
 she wished to look well, to please him. So she sought 
 out the most ingenious combinations, and succeeded in 
 being modest as a rustic maiden, and beautiful as an 
 angel of Paradise. In the midst of all her grief, she 
 had trembled a little, without being willing to recognize 
 the feeling, at the idea of losing this whole bright day. 
 The pleasure of enrapturing for a whole day the man by 
 whom one is beloved is not to be renounced without 
 regret, at eighteen ; and this fear, unknown to herself, 
 had mingled with the deep and sincere sorrow that she 
 had felt for her sister. When she appeared at high mass, 
 Louis had been long watching for her entrance. He was 
 so placed as not to lose her an instant from his sight. 
 She found herself accideutally by Grand'-Marie, and he 
 was deeply touched by seeing her put her pretty shawl 
 under his mother's knees, in spite of the good woman's 
 refusal. 
 
 After the service. Rose skilfully took the arm of her 
 grandmother, who was accustomed to stay by her old 
 friend Grand'-Marie, whenever she had the pleasure of 
 meeting her. This pleasure became more unfrequent 
 every year, as age rendered the distance between Blanche- 
 mont and Angibault more difhcult for the two matrons to 
 pass over. Mother Bricolin loved to talk. Continually 
 *' snubbed," as she said, by her daughter-in-law, she had 
 a torrent of restrained words to pour into the bosom of 
 the mill-dame, who, less communicative, but sincerely at- 
 tached to the companion of her childhood, patiently heard 
 and discriminately replied. 
 
 In this way Rose hoped that she should escape Mme. 
 Bricolin's surveillance, and even the society of her other 
 relations, all day, as her grandmother much preferred in- 
 tercourse with the peasants, her equals, to that with the 
 parvenus of her family. 
 
 Beneath the old trees on the terrace, opposite a charm- 
 ing view, the crowd of pretty girls pressed around the 
 
230 THE MILLER OF ANGIDAULT. 
 
 musicians, who, placed in pairs upon their scaffolds, very 
 near one another, did battle with arms and lungs, in 
 jealous competition, each one playing in his own key, and 
 according to his own price, without any concern for the 
 horrible discordance produced by this assemblage of ob- 
 streperous instruments, each straining to be the one to 
 overpower his neighbors in tune and measure. Amidst 
 this musical chaos, each set of dancers remained inflexibly 
 at its post, never confounding the music for which it had 
 paid with that shrieking two steps off, and never striking 
 the foot to a false measure ; a wonderful training of ear 
 and habit. The arbors resounded with no less heteroge- 
 neous noises, some singing at the top of their voices, 
 some earnestly talking over their affairs — these drinking 
 friendship, and those threatening to fling their cups at 
 each other's heads, the whole enhanced by two indigenous 
 policemen, passing with a fatherly air through the midst 
 of the tumult, and sufficing, by their pressure, to restrain 
 a population so peaceable as rarely to go from words to 
 blows. 
 
 The close circle formed around the first bourrees be- 
 came yet more dense when the lovely Rose opened the 
 dance with the tall miller. They were the handsomest 
 couple of the fete, and their firm, light steps electrified 
 all the others. The dame of the mill could not help re- 
 marking this to Mother Bricolin, and she even added 
 that it was a pity that two such good and handsome 
 young people were not intended for one another. 
 
 " As for me," unhesitatingly replied the old grand- 
 mother, " I would make neither one nor two of it, if I 
 were mistress, for I am sure that thy boy would make my 
 granddaughter happier than she will ever be with another. 
 I know very well that Grand-Louis loves her ; that may 
 easily be seen, though he has the sense not to speak of it. 
 But what wilt thou have, my poor Marie ? Our people 
 think of nothing but money. I was foolish enough to 
 yield all my property to my son, and since that, they do 
 not listen to me any more than if I were dead. If I had 
 done differently, I could now dower Rose and marry her 
 
■I 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 2^1 
 
 as I pleased. But I have nothing left but feelings, and 
 that kind of coin has no great currency in our house." 
 
 Notwithstanding all Rose's address in passing from one 
 group to another to avoid her mother, and always find 
 herself either beside or opposite to her friend, Mme. Bric- 
 olin and her party succeeded in joining her, and establish- 
 ing themselves around her. Her cousins made her dance 
 till she was tired, and Grand-Louis prudently withdrew, 
 feeling that at tlie least quarrel he should be excited be- 
 yond reason. They had tried to arouse him by saucy 
 jests ; but the clear, bold glance of his large blue eyes, 
 his disdainful composure, and great stature, easily re- 
 strained the bravery of the Bricolins. When he was 
 gone, they took their fill of abuse, and Rose was amazed 
 to hear her sisters, her sisters-in-law, and her numerous 
 cousins assert that this tall fellow looked like a fool, that 
 he danced absurdly, that he appeared puffed up with pre-' 
 tension, and that none of them would dance with him/o/ 
 the world. Rose had self-love. This defect in her had 
 been too assiduously cultivated not to conquer her some- 
 times. Everything had been done to corrupt and repress 
 her good, frank nature ; and if there had not been entire 
 success, it was because there are incorruptible souls on 
 which the spirit of evil has little hold. Nevertheless, she 
 was pained at hearing her lover so obstinately and bitterly 
 defamed. It vexed her ; she dared not promise herself to 
 dance with him again, and declaring that she had a head- 
 ache, she returned to the farm, after vainly looking for 
 Marcelle, whose influence would, she felt, have restored 
 her courage and calmness. 
 
232 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE CABIN. 
 
 ATARCELLE had been waiting for the miller at the 
 -'■'-*• foot of the terrace, as he had expressly advised her. 
 At the end of two hours, she saw him enter a closely 
 shaded enclosure, and make a sign to her to follow him. 
 After crossing one of the little peasant gardens, so ill 
 kept, and consequently so pretty, green, and tufted, she 
 entered, by slipping under the hedge, the court of one of 
 the poorest cabins in the Black Valley. This court was 
 twenty feet by six, shut in on one side by the low house, 
 on the other by the garden, and at each end by straw- 
 covered sheds, which served to shelter a few hens, two 
 sheep, and a goat, which comprise all the wealth of the 
 rustic day-laborer, the man who earns his bread from day 
 to day, and owns nothing, not even the wretched house 
 that he inhabits, and the narrow enclosure that he tills. 
 The interior of the house was as miserable as the en- 
 trance, and Marcelle was touched at seeing by what ex- 
 treme neatness womanly courage held the ground against 
 the horrors of destitution. There was not a speck of dust 
 on the uneven and stony soil which formed the floor ; the 
 two or three poor pieces of furniture were bright and shin- 
 ing, as if just varnished, and the few articles of earthen- 
 ware, set up on boards against the wall, were carefully 
 v/ashed and arranged. With most of the peasants of the 
 Black Valley, real and serious want is wisely and nobly 
 concealed under these conscientious habits of order and 
 neatness. Their rustic poverty is touching and pathetic. 
 One would willingly live with these people. They in- 
 spire no disgust, but interest, and a sort of respect. How 
 
THE MILLER OF AN GIB AULT. 333 
 
 little of the superfluity of the rich would be needed to 
 extract from their lives all the bitterness hidden beneath 
 tliis appearance of poetic calm ! 
 
 This reflection struck Marcelle to the heart when Pau- 
 line came to meet her, with one child in her arms and 
 three more clinging to her apron, all fresh and clean, in 
 their Sunday clothes. Pauline was still young and hand- 
 some, although faded by the fatigues of maternity and 
 abstinence from things most necessary to life. No wine, 
 no meat, nor even vegetables, for a laboring and nursing 
 woman ! Nevertheless, the children could have spared 
 health to Marcelle's, and a smile of kindness and confi- 
 dence was upon the pale, thin lips of the mother. 
 
 " Come in and take a seat, madam," said she, offering 
 a straw chair covered with a coarse but clean napkin of 
 tow-cloth. " The gentleman whom you expect has been 
 here already, and not finding you, has gone to take a 
 turn in the assembly, but he will be back directly. If I 
 could offer you something meanwhile ! Here are some 
 freshly-gathered plums and some nuts. Come, Grand- 
 Louis, do thou take some fruit from my garden too. I 
 wish I could offer thee a glass of wine ! but we make 
 none, thou knowest ; and if it were not for thee, we 
 should not always have bread." 
 
 "You are very poor?" said Marcelle, slipping a piece 
 of gold into the pocket of the little girl, who was touch- 
 ing, with astonishment, her black silk dress ; " and Grand- 
 Louis, who is not very rich himself, helps you?" 
 
 "He?" answered Pauline; "he is the best-hearted 
 man that the good God has made ! Without him we. 
 should have died of cold and hunger these three win- 
 ters past ; but he gives us grain and wood ; he lends us 
 his horses to go on pilgrimage when any of us are sick ; 
 he — " 
 
 " There is quite enough to make me out a saint, Paul- 
 ine," said the miller, interrupting her. " Truly, it is a 
 great thing in me not to have deserted a good workman 
 like thy husband ! " 
 
 " A good workman ! " said Pauline, shaking her head. 
 
234 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 *' Poor dear man ! M. Bricolin tells everybody that he 
 is lazy, because he is not strong." 
 
 *' But he does what he can. Now I like good will in 
 people, so I always employ him." 
 
 " That is what makes M. Bricolin say that thou wilt 
 never be rich, and showest poor judgment in employing 
 sickly people." 
 
 " Well, and if nobody employs them, must they then 
 die of hunger? Fine reasoning ! " 
 
 " But, you know," said Marcelle, sadly, " the moral 
 that M. Bricolin draws from it — the worse for them ! " 
 
 " Mile. Rose is very good," resumed Pauline. " She 
 would help the unfortunate, if she could. But the poor 
 young lady can do nothing but secretly bring a piece of 
 white bread to make broth for my little one. And that 
 is against my will, for if her mother saw her ! oh ! the 
 rude woman ! But so goes the world. There are both 
 bad and good people. Ah ! there comes M. Tailland. 
 You will not wait long." 
 
 " Pauline, thou knowest what I said to thee," said the 
 miller, putting his finger on his lips. 
 
 *'0h!" answered she, "I would sooner cut out my 
 tongue than say a word." 
 
 "Because, thou seest — " 
 
 "Thou needst not explain the why and how, Grand- 
 Louis ; it is enough that thou bidst me be silent. Come, 
 children ! " said she to her three young ones who were 
 playing by the door ; "let us go see the assembly a little." 
 
 "The lady has put a gold piece in thy little girl's 
 pocket," whispered Grand-Louis to her. " It was not to 
 purchase thy discretion, she well knows that thou dost not 
 sell it ; but it was because she saw thy need. Put it up, 
 the child would lose it, aud do not thank her ; the lady 
 does not like compliments, since she gave thee this charity 
 in secret." 
 
 M. Tailland was an honest man, very active for a Ber- 
 fichon, capable enough in business, only rather too fond 
 of his ease. He loved good easy-chairs, nice little colla- 
 tions, long repasts, very hot coffee, and smooth roads for 
 his cabriolet. He found none of these at the fete of 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 235 
 
 Blanchemont. Meanwhile, though swearing a little 
 against country amusements, he willingly stayed all day 
 to be of service to some, and to transact business with 
 others. In fifteen minutes' conversation he demonstrated 
 to Marcelle the possibility, and even the probability, of 
 selling her estate at a high price. But as to selling 
 quickly, and receiving ready money, he was not of the 
 miller's opinion. " Nothing is done quickly with us," he 
 said. " Still it would be madness not to try to rise fifty 
 thousand francs upon Bricolin's offer. I will make every 
 effort. If I do not succeed in a month, I may counsel 
 you, in your peculiar situation, to yield. But it is an 
 hundred to one that before then, Bricolin, who has set 
 his heart on being lord of Blanchemont, will compromise 
 with you, if you can feign the rough but necessary qual- 
 ity of great sharpness, with which I plainly see, madam, 
 you are not too well provided. Now, sign this power of 
 attorney I have brought you, and 1 am off", for I do not 
 wish to seem as if I were interfering in an underhand 
 way with my legal brother Varin, whom your tenant 
 would have had you choose." 
 
 Grand-Louis accompanied the notary to the entrance, 
 and they disappeared in diii'erent directions. It had been 
 agreed that Marcelle should leave last and alone, after 
 waiting a few minutes with the doors closed, so that if 
 any inquisitive person observed their movements, the 
 house might be thought deserted. 
 
 The door of the cabin was divided transversely into 
 two parts, the upper of which served as a window for 
 the entrance of light and air. Glazed windows separate 
 from the door, were unknown in the older buildings of 
 our peasants. Pauline's was built fifty years since, for 
 people who w^ere well off"; while now, the poorest, if they 
 live in a new house, have sash windows, and locks on 
 their doors. Both parts of Pauline's door were fastened 
 inside and out by means of a wooden peg, fitting into a 
 hole in the wall. 
 
 When Marcelle was thus shut up, she found herself in 
 perfect darkness, and asked herself what could be the in- 
 tellectual life of people who, too poor to have candles, 
 
236 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 were compelled to go to bed at nightfall, and in winter 
 to remain in darkness during the day to keep themselves 
 from the cold. " I said and believed that I was ruined,'* 
 thought she, " because I was obliged to leave my gilded 
 and silken rooms ; but how many steps are there yet 
 upon the ladder of social existence before coming to such 
 poverty-stricken life as this, which scarcely differs from 
 that of the animals ! No choice between enduring at all 
 hours the intemperance of the seasons, and burying them- 
 selves in the void nothingness of idleness, like the sheep 
 in their fold ! How can this wretched family occupy 
 themselves in the long winter evenings? In talking? 
 And of what but their misery can they talk ? Ah ! 
 Lemor is right, I am still too rich to dare to say before 
 God that I have nothing with which to reproach myself." 
 
 Meanwhile, her eyes became accustomed to the obscu- 
 rity. Through the ill-jointed door came a vague glim- 
 mer, which grew brighter every instant. Suddenly, 
 Marcelle started on perceiving that she was not alone in 
 the cabin, but her next emotion was not fear — Lcmor 
 was beside her. He had hidden, unknown to every one, 
 behind the serge curtains of the hearse-shaped bed. He 
 had gathered courage to seek an interview with Marcelle, 
 telling himself that it was the last, and that he must go 
 afterwards. 
 
 " Since you are here," said she, dissembling, with ten- 
 der coquetry, the joy and emotion of her surprise, " I 
 will tell you of what I was thinking. If we were re- 
 duced to living in this cabin, would your love bear up 
 against the troubles of the day and the inaction of the 
 evening? Could you live deprived of books, or unable 
 to make use of them for want of a drop of oil in the 
 lamp, and of time in the hours of manual labor ? After 
 years of every sort of trial and privation, should yoii 
 think this dwelling picturesque in its dilapidation, and 
 the life of the poor poetic in its simplicity ? " 
 
 " I had precisely the same thoughts, Marcelle, and 
 thought of asking you the same thing. Would you love 
 me if I had drawn you into such poverty by my Utopian 
 dreams? " 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 ^Zl 
 
 " It seems to me that I should, Lemor." 
 
 "And why do you doubt me? Ah ! you are not sin- 
 cere in your reply ! " 
 
 "I am not sincere?" said Marcelle, putting both her 
 hands within those of Lemor. " My friend, I desire to 
 be worthy of you, and this is why I restrain in myself 
 the romantic extravagance which might lead even a 
 woman of the world to affirm and promise everything, 
 without holding to anything, and saying to herself the 
 next day, ' That was a pretty romance of mine yester- 
 day ! ' For myself, not a day passes that I do not strictly 
 question my conscience, and I believe that I am sincere 
 in answering you that I cannot imagine the situation, 
 were it amid the horrors of a dungeon, where affliction 
 could make me cease to love you ! " 
 
 " O Marcelle ! dear and noble Marcelle ! But why, 
 then, did you doubt me ? " 
 
 " Because a man's mind is different from ours. It is 
 accustomed to other aliment than tenderness and solitude. 
 A man must have activity, labor, and the hope of being 
 useful, not only to his family, but to humanity." 
 
 "• Is it not also a duty freely to cast one's self into this 
 impotence of poverty?" 
 
 "Are there, then, contradictory duties in our times .-* 
 For power of mind is acquired only by the help of instruc- 
 tion, and instruction is obtained only through the power 
 of money, and yet all that is so enjoyed, acquired, or 
 possessed, is to the detriment of him who can neither 
 acquire nor possess celestial or material wealth." 
 
 "You attack me with my own weapons, Marcelle. 
 Alas ! how shall I answer you, unless by saying that we 
 do indeed live in an age of enormous and inevitable in- 
 consequence, where kind hearts desire the right, and are 
 forced to accept the wrong ? Reasons are not wanting to 
 prove, as all the happy do, that it is a duty to guard, 
 instruct, and idealize one's own existence, so as to render 
 one's self an active and powerful instrument in the service 
 of mankind, and that to sacrifice, humble, and annihilate 
 one's self like the early Christians of the wilderness, is 
 to neutralize a power, to quench a light that God has 
 
238 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 sent to men to teach and save them. But how arrofyant 
 is this reasoning, ahhough, from the lips of certain en- 
 lightened and sincere men, itapgears just ! It is the rea- 
 soning of the aristocracy. fLetus preserve our riches to 
 give in alms, say also the devotees of your caste. It is 
 we, say the princes of the Church, whom God has ap- 
 pointed to enlighten men. It is we, cry the democratic 
 bourgeois, and we alone, who should instruct the people 
 in liberty. Yet what alms, what education, and what 
 liberty have these, from their strength, given to the 
 wretched ! No ! private charity has no power, the 
 Church no will, modern liberalism no wisdom. I feel ray 
 spirit faint, and my heart sink in my bosom, when I think 
 of the issue of the labyrinth in which we are involved ; 
 we who seek for truth, and find falsehood and threats in 
 the response o f society^ Marcelle, Marcelle, let us love 
 one another, that the spirit of God abandon us not ! " 
 
 " Let us love I " cried Marcelle, throwing herself into 
 her lover's arms, " and do not leave me, do not abandon 
 me to my ignorance, Lemor, for thou hast lifted me from 
 the narrow Catholic horizon where I tranquilly sought 
 my salvation, placing my confessor's decision above that 
 of Christ, and consoling myself for the impossibility of 
 being a true Christian woman on this earth, by the say- 
 ing of a priest — There, are arrangements with heaven! 
 Thou hast shown me a vaster sphere, and now I should 
 not have an instant of repose if thou wert to desert me 
 in this pale twilight dawn of truth." 
 
 " But I know nothing myself," answered Lemor, sor- 
 rowfully. '" I am the offspring of the age. I do not 
 possess the science of the future. I can only understand 
 and comment upon the past. Floods of light passed 
 before me, and like all the young and pure of the time, 
 I rushed toward the the broad beams which revealed to 
 us error, without giving us truth. I hate the wrong, I 
 know not the right. I suffer, oli ! I suffer, Marcelle, and 
 find only in thee the beautiful ideal which I would fain 
 see rule the earth. Oh ! I love thee with all the love which 
 men repulse from their midst, with all the devotion which 
 society paralyzes and refuses to enlighten, with all the 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 239 
 
 fenderness which I cannot communicate to others, with 
 all the charity given me by God for thee and for them, 
 but which thou alone understandest and feelest like my- 
 self, when all others are insensible or disdainful. Let us 
 love, then, without corrupting ourselves by mingling with 
 those who triumph, and without degrading ourselves with 
 those who submit. Let us love as two wanderers cross- 
 ing the seas to conquer a new world, but knowing not 
 whether they shall ever reach it. Let us love, not to be 
 happy in a twofold selfishness^ as love is called, but to 
 suffer together, to pray together, together to seek what 
 Ave two, poor birds lost in the storm, may do, day by day, 
 to remove the plague which scatters our race, and to 
 gather under our wings some fugitives crushed like our- 
 selves beneath terror and sadness ! " 
 
 Lemor wept like a child as he pressed Marcelle to his 
 heart. Marcelle, carried away by burning sympathy and 
 enthusiastic respect, knelt before him as a daughter be- 
 fore her father, saying : 
 
 " Save me, let me not perish ! Thou wert here just 
 now, thou heardst me consult a man of money upon af- 
 fairs of money. I have been persuaded to struggle 
 against poverty to save my son from ignorance and moral 
 feebleness ; if thou condemnest me, if thou provest to 
 me that my sou will be better and greater through pov- 
 erty, I shall perhaps have the prodigious courage to let 
 his body suffer to fortify his soul ! " 
 
 " O, Marcelle ! " said Lemor, obliging her to reseat 
 herself, and kneeling in his turn before her, " thou hast the 
 strength and the resolution of the greatest saints and 
 proudest martyrs of the past. But where are the bap- 
 tismal waters, to which we may bear thy child? the 
 church of the poor is not yet builded ; they live dispersed, 
 following various inspirations in the absence of all doc- 
 trine ; some resigned through habit, some idolatrous 
 through stupidity, here ferocious through vengeance, 
 there still degraded by every abandoned and brutish vice. 
 We cannot ask the first passing beggar to lay his hands 
 on thy son and bless him. The beggar has suffered too 
 much to be loving, and is, perhaps, a robber ! Let us 
 
240 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 shelter thy boy from evil as far as possible, let us teach 
 him the love of rij^ht and the need of insight. This 
 generation may acquire that insight, and some day, per- 
 haps, instruct us in it. Keep thy wealth ; how should I 
 reproach thee with it, when I see that thy heart is en- 
 tirely indifferent to it, and that thou regardest it but as a 
 trust to be accounted for to heaven? Keep the little gold 
 which remains to thee. As the good miller said the other 
 day, it is purified in some hands, as it is soiled and cor- 
 rupted in others. Let us love, let us love ! and trust 
 that God will enlighten us in His own time. And now, 
 farewell, Marcelle ! I see that thou desirest this effort of 
 courage from me. I will make it. To-morrow I will 
 leave this sweet and lovely valley where, notwithstanding 
 everything, I have lived two such happy days ! In a 
 year I will return ; whether thou art in a palace or a hut, 
 I see that I must bow at thy door, and there hang up for- 
 ever my pilgrim's staff." 
 
 Lemor departed, and, after a few moments, Marcelle 
 quitted the cabin in her turn. But, careful as she was 
 to conceal her retreat, she met face to face at the edge 
 of the enclosure, an ill-looking boy, who, crouched behind 
 the hedge, seemed awaiting her passage. He stared 
 boldly at her, and then, as if delighted at having sur- 
 prised and recognized her, ran off in the direction of a 
 mUl on the Vauvre at the other side of the way. Mar- 
 celle did not think his ugly face quite unknown to her, 
 and remembered, after some effort, that it was that of 
 the patachon who had lately led her astray in the Black 
 Valley, and deserted her in a swamp. His red head 
 and ill-omened green eye gave her some uneasiness, al- 
 though she could not imagine what interest this lad could 
 take in watching her proceedings. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 24.I 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE FETE. 
 
 'T^HE miller had returned to the dance, hoping to find 
 •^ Rose free from what he disdainfully called her raft 
 of cousins. But Rose was in a pet with her kinsfolk, 
 with the dance, and somewhat with herself. She was 
 remorseful for not feeling the courage to defy the taunts 
 of her family. 
 
 Her father had taken her aside that morning. 
 
 "Rose," said he, "thy mother has forbidden thee to 
 dance with Grand-Louis of Angibault ; now I forbid thee 
 to affront him so. He is a respectable man, incapable 
 of compromising thee ; and besides, who could think of 
 coupling your names together? It would be too unsuit- 
 able ; and, in these days^ it is not to be supposed that a 
 peasant could think of a girl of thy rank. So dance 
 with him : we should not humiliate our inferiors ; some 
 day or other one is sure to have need of them, and they 
 should be attached when it costs nothing." 
 
 " But if mamma scold me?" said Rose, at once happy 
 in this permission, and hurt by the motive which dic- 
 tated it. 
 
 " Thy mother will not say anything. I have been lec- 
 turing her," replied M. Bricolin. And, in fact, Mme. 
 Bricolin did not say anything. She dared not disobey 
 her lord and master, who connived at her hardness 
 towards others, on the single condition that she should be 
 pliant to him. But as he had not thought proper to initi- 
 ate her into his views, and she was ignorant of the impor- 
 tance which he attached to preserving the miller's alliance 
 in the diplomatic affair of acquiring the manor of Blanche- 
 mont, she had contrived to elude his commands, and her 
 16 
 
242 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 ironical condescension was more vexatious to Grand- 
 Loiiis tlian open war. 
 
 Annoyed at not seeing Rose, and depending upon the 
 protection of her father, whom he had seen return to the 
 iarm, Grand-Louis went there, seeking some pretext to 
 talk with her, and discover the object of her thoughts. 
 But he was much surprised to find in the court M. Brie- 
 olin in deep conference with the miller of Blanchemont, 
 whose mill was situated at the foot of the terrace, just 
 opposite Pauline's house. Now, a few days before, M. 
 Bricolin had irrevocably quarrelled with this miller, who 
 had for some time had his custom, and had, according 
 to him, abominably reduced his measure of grain. 
 Whether innocent or guilty, the said miller greatly re- 
 gretted the loss of the custom of the farm, and swore ha- 
 tred and revenge upon Grand-Louis. He waited only for 
 an occasion to injure him, aud one had just presented it- 
 self. The proprietor of his mill was the very M. Rave- 
 lard to whom the Miller of Augibault had sold Marcelle's 
 carriage. Proud and pleased to try his new acquisition, 
 and to display it to his retainers, M. Ravelard deter'- 
 mined to inspect his property at Blanchemont ; but having 
 no servant who knew how to drive two-in-hand, he en- 
 gaged the talents of the red-headed patachon, who was a 
 hack-driver by trade, and boasted a perfect acquaintance 
 with the roads of the Black Valley. M. Ravelard had 
 arrived, not without trouble, but at least without acci- 
 dent, on the morning of the fete. Pie sent his horses to 
 his mill, but did not have his carriage put up, that every- 
 body might observe it, and know to whom it belonged. 
 
 The sight of this fine carriage was already very dis- 
 agreeable to M. Bricolin, who detested M. Ravelard, his 
 rival in the territorial wealth of the district. He went down 
 to the road by the Vauvre to examine and criticise it. 
 Granchon, the miller, Grand-Louis's rival, entered into 
 conversation with him without seeming to remember their 
 quarrel, and did not fail to worry and taunt him with hints 
 that his master was better able than he to set up his car- 
 riage. Thereupon M. Bricolin began to abuse the carriage, 
 to say that it was an old prefect's coach made over, a crazy 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 243 
 
 wa<^on of a thing, and might not, perhaps, leave the Black 
 Valley in as spruce condition as it had entered it. Gran- 
 chon defended his landlord's discernment and the quality 
 of his purchase, and finally said that it had been Mme. 
 de Blanchemont's, and that Grand-Louis had been the 
 agent in the sale. M. Bricolin, surprised and scanda- 
 lized, listened to the details of the affair, and learned that 
 the Miller of Angibault had decided M. Ravelard to se- 
 cure this luxury, by telling him that it would enrage M. 
 Bricolin. The fact was unhappily too true. M. Rav- 
 elard had talked with the patachon all the way in coming. 
 The latter, skilled in eliciting a good gratuity for himself, 
 and seeing the bourgeois intoxicated with pride in his new 
 vehicle, had spoken to him of nothing else. Nothing 
 could be handsomer, lighter, more pleasant to drive, than 
 this carriage. It must have cost at least four thousand 
 francs, and was worth twice as much in the country. M. 
 Ravelard, delicately flattered by this artless admiration, 
 had confided all the circumstances of the bargain to his 
 driver, and he had gossiped about them with Granchon 
 the miller, while breakfasting at the mill of Blanche- 
 mont. Perceiving the hatred and envy felt there towards 
 Grand-Louis, he set things in their worst light, as much 
 for the pleasure of prating and being listened to as on 
 account of his irritation against Grand-Louis for his un- 
 merciful raillery the day of his adventure in the marsh. 
 
 A few moments after M. Bricolin liad left Granchon 
 with a bent brow and haughty air, this same Granchon 
 saw Grand-Louis and Marcelle enter Pauline's cabin. He 
 was struck by this seemingly mysterious rendezvous, and 
 racked his brain to find therein a new occasion of injury 
 to his enemy. He placed the patachon in ambush, and 
 after an hour he learned that Grand-Louis, an unknown, 
 who seemed to be a new mill-boy engaged in his service, 
 the young lady of Blanchemont, and M. Tailland, the 
 notary, had been shut up in deep conference at Pauline's ; 
 that each had left separately, and taking useless precau- 
 tions against observation ; finally, that some conspiracy 
 was hatching there, some money affair, doubtless, since 
 the notary was concerned in it. Granchon was not un- 
 
244 ^^^ MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 aware that this honest notary was a bugbear and terror 
 to Bricolin. Half guessing the truth, he hastened oblig- 
 ingly to inform Bricolin of all these details, and to com- 
 plimeut him upon the manner in which his favorite, the 
 Miller of Angibault, served his interests. This was the 
 narration which Grand-Louis interrupted on entering the 
 court of the farm. 
 
 Under any other circumstances our honest miller would 
 have gone right up to his accuser, and forced him to an 
 explanation. But seeing Bricolin abruptly turn his back 
 upon him, and Granchon slyly watch him with a taunting 
 look, he uneasily wondered what serious business could 
 have brought together two men, who, the evening before, 
 ne se seraient pas donne un coup de bonnet derriere Veg- 
 Use, that is to say, would not have bowed had they met 
 face to face in the narrowest street in the town. Grand- 
 Louis did not know the subject of their conversation, nor 
 even whether he were the object of this alfccted aside ; 
 but his conscience pricked him. He had tried to outwit 
 M. Bricolin. Instead of scornfully repulsing him when 
 he had offered him money to serve his interest to the in- 
 jury of Marcelle's, he had pretended to bargain with 
 him for one or two bourrecs with Rose ; he had given him 
 hope, and to avenge himself for his insulting offers, he 
 had deceived him. 
 
 " I deserve no better," thought he, " than to have my 
 fine mine countermined. This is what comes of tricking ! 
 My mother always told me it was a country custom which 
 would bring bad luck, and I have not had sense enough 
 to keep from it. If I had shown myself an honest man, 
 as I am at heart, to this cursed farmer, he would have 
 hated, but respected, and perhaps feared, me, more than 
 he will now, if he discover that I have used cunning 
 words with him. Grand-Louis, my friend, thou hast 
 been a fool ! All bad actions are stupid — mayst thou 
 not drink thine ! " 
 
 Tormented, intimidated, and displeased with himself, 
 he went to the terrace to join his mother, and propose to 
 take her back to Angibault. Vespers were over, and she 
 had already gone with some neighbors, leaving word with 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 245 
 
 Jean for his master to amuse himself awhile longer, but 
 not stay too late. 
 
 Grand-Louis could not avail himself of this permis- 
 sion. A prey to a thousand anxieties, he wandered about 
 till sunset without any enjoyment, waiting till Rose should 
 reappear, or till her father should come to inform him of 
 his intentions. 
 
 The chief amusement of the villagers on a fete day is 
 towards night. The gendarmes, tired of doing nothing, 
 begin to mount their horses ; the people from the town 
 and suburbs climb into their various vehicles and depart, 
 to avoid passing the bad roads by night. The pedlers 
 buckle up their packs, and the curate goes to sup merrily 
 with some brother come to see the dancing, perhaps with 
 a sigh at not being able to take part in the sinful pleas- 
 ure. The natives thus remain in possession of the ground 
 with such of the musicians as have not made a good day, 
 and recompense themselves by prolonging it. Now all 
 are acquainted, and once in action, they repay themselves 
 for having been scattered, criticised, and perhaps laughed 
 at, by the foreigners ; for in the Black Valley all are 
 called foreigners beyond the distance of a league round. 
 Then all the little population of the place begins to dance, 
 even old kinsfolk and friends, who had been timidly with- 
 held by broad daylight ; even the fat bar-maid of the 
 cabaret, who has been hard at work since morning serv- 
 ing her customers, and who tucks up her smoky apron, 
 and frisks with superannuated charms ; even the little 
 hunch-backed tailor, at whose embrace the girls would 
 have blushed in the daylight, and who says, grinning 
 from ear to ear, that all cats are gray at night. 
 
 Rose, tired of pouting, felt a new desire for amuse- 
 ment when all her relations had gone. Before return- 
 ing to the fete, she wished to see the maniac, who had 
 slept all day in Chounette's care. She softly entered the 
 room, and found her awake, sitting upon her bed, her 
 manner pensive, and almost calm. For the first time in 
 a long while Rose dared to touch her hand, and ask her 
 how she did, and for the first time in twelve years the 
 
^C THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 maniac did not withdraw her hand and turn away dis- 
 diflplcased. 
 
 " My dear sister, my sweet Bricoline," repeated Rose, 
 emboldened and rejoiced, " dost thou feel better? " 
 
 " I feel well," replied the maniac, shortly. " I have 
 found, on awaking, what I have been looking for these 
 fifty-four years." 
 
 "And what wast thou looking for, my darling?" 
 
 " I was looking for tenderness I " answered Bricolinc, 
 in a strange voice, and mysteriously putting her finger to 
 her lips. " I have sought it everywhere : in the old cha- 
 teau, in the garden, by the fountain, in the hollow way ; 
 above all, in the warren I But it is not there. Rose, and 
 thou scekest it in vain thyself. They have hidden it in a 
 great subterranean place, which is under this house, and 
 it will be found under its ruins. This came to me in 
 Bleep, for while I sleep I always think and seek. Bo 
 easy. Rose, and let me alone 1 To-night, no later than 
 to-night, I shall find tenderness, and will share it with 
 thee. Then we shall be rich I In these days of ours, as 
 the gendarme, who is placed here to guard us, says, we 
 are so poor that nobody will have us. But to-morrow. 
 Rose, no later than to-morrow, we will both be married ; 
 I to Paul, who has become Jting of Algiers, and thou to 
 that man who brings the sacks of grain, and always looks 
 at thee. I will make him my first minister, and it shall 
 be his business to have this gendarme, who is always 
 saying the same thing, and has made us suffer so much, 
 burnt at a slow fire. But hush ! speak to no one of this. 
 It is a great secret, and the fate of the African war de- 
 pends upon it." 
 
 Rose was much frightened at this fantastic address, and 
 dared say no more to her sister, for fear of exciting her 
 yet further. She would not leave her till the physician, 
 who was expected at this hour, should come, and she 
 even forgot her desire to dance, and remained pensively 
 near the maniac's bed, her head drooping, her hands 
 folded in her lap, and her heart filled with deep sadness. 
 The contrast was striking between the two sisters, one so 
 horribly wrecked by suffering, so repulsive in her self- 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 247 
 
 neglect, the other so carefully adorned, so brilliant with 
 freshness and beauty. And yet there was a resemblance 
 in their features, and in the bosom of each smouldered, 
 in different degree, a thwarted love, as they call it in 
 this country — both were sad and grave. The least de- 
 pressed of the two was the madwoman, who revolved 
 wild projects and hopes in her distracted brain. 
 
 Tiie physician came punctually. He examined the pa- 
 tient with the kind of apathy felt by a man who sees noth- 
 ing to hope, and nothing to attempt in a case long since 
 desperate. 
 
 '' The pulse is the same," said he ; " there is no change." 
 " Pardon me, doctor," said Rose, drawing him to one 
 side. " There is a change since yesterday evening. She 
 screams, sleeps, speaks differently from usual. I assure 
 you that there is a revolution in her system. This 
 evening, she endeavors to collect her ideas and to ex- 
 press them, although they are the ideas of delirium ; is 
 this worse or better than her ordinary depression ? What 
 do you think of it?" 
 
 "I think nothing," answered the doctor. "Every- 
 thing may be expected in such a disease, and nothing can 
 be foreseen. Your family has been wrong in not making 
 the sacrifices necessary to send her to one of the estab- 
 lishments where the faculty are particularly occupied 
 with exceptional cases. For myself, I never boasted of 
 being able to cure her, and I think that the greatest skill 
 could not answer for it now. It is too late. I only do- 
 sire that her mania of silence and solitude may not alter 
 into fury. Avoid contradicting her, and do not make her 
 talk, lest her thoughts fix themselves upon one object." 
 
 " Alas !" said Rose, *' I dare not gainsay you, and yet 
 it is so dreadful to live always alone, a horror to every- 
 body I When at last she seems to seek some sympathy, 
 some pity, must this need of affection bo met by frozen 
 silence? Do you know what she just told me? She said 
 that ever since she became crazy (she thinks it is fifty- 
 four years) she has been seeking for tenderness. l*oor 
 girl, she has certainly ne\ er foiuid it ! " 
 
 *' And did she say this in reasonable terms? " 
 
248 ^^^ MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 " Alas, no I She uttered shocking ideas and frightful 
 menaces at the same time." 
 
 " You see that these outpourings of delirium are more 
 dangerous than salutary. Trust me, let her alone, and 
 if she wishes to go out, prevent any constraint being put 
 upon her habits. It is the only way to avoid a return 
 of yesterday evening's crisis." 
 
 Rose sorrowfully obeyed ; but Marcelle, who desired 
 the retirement of her chamber to write, and saw her 
 companion sad and listless, besought her to go and amuse 
 herself, promising that at the first cry, or symptom of 
 agitation in her sister, she would send little Fanchon to 
 inform her. Besides, Mme. Bricolin was also busied in 
 the house, and her grandmother urged Rose to come and 
 dance one bourree more in her presence before the close 
 of the assembly. 
 
 " Remember," said she, " that I count every fete day 
 now, thinking each year that I may not see the next. 
 Let me see thee dance and amuse thyself to-day, or I shall 
 have a sad thought left in my mind, and I shall fancy 
 that will bring me bad luck." 
 
 Rose had not taken three steps on the terrace before 
 Grand-Louis was at her side. 
 
 " Mile. Rose," said he, " has your father said anything 
 to you against me ? " 
 
 "No. On the contrary, he almost commanded me this 
 morning to dance with you." 
 
 " But — since this morning?" 
 
 " I have scarcely seen him ; he has not spoken to me. 
 He seems much occupied with his business." 
 
 " Come, Louis," said the grandmother, " thou dost not 
 ask Rose to dance ! Dost thou not see that she would 
 like to?" 
 
 " Is it true. Mile. Rose ? " said the miller, taking the 
 young girl's hand ; " should you fancy dancing again this 
 evening with me ? '* 
 
 " I should like to dance," answered she, with piquant 
 nonchalance. 
 
 " If with any other than me," said Grand-Louis, press* 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 249 
 
 ing Rose's arm against his agitated heart, '' speak : I will 
 go aud find him ! " 
 
 " That means, perhaps, that you could wish it were not 
 you ? " replied the roguish girl, stopping. 
 
 "You think so?" cried the miller, transported with love. 
 " Ah well ! you shall see if my joints are stiffened ! " 
 
 And he drew, almost carried her to the midst of the 
 dance, where in another moment, both forgetful of their 
 uneasiness and their troubles, they lightly grazed the turf, 
 holding each the other's hand in a little closer pressure 
 than the bourree absolutely required. 
 
 But this rapturous bourree was not finished when M. 
 Bricolin, who had waited for this moment to render the 
 affront more cutting before all the village, rushed into the 
 very midst of the dancers, and with a gesture interrupt- 
 ing the bagpipe, which would have drowned his voice — 
 
 " My daughter ! " cried he, taking Rose by the arm, 
 " you are a modest and respectable girl. Never dance 
 again with people whom you do not know ! '* 
 
 '' Mile. Rose is dancing with me, M. Bricolin," replied 
 Grand-Louis, much excited. 
 
 " That is the reason that I forbid her, as I forbid 
 you, yourself, ever to take the liberty of asking her, or 
 of addressing a word to her, or ever crossing my thresh- 
 old, or — " 
 
 The farmer's thundering voice was choked by this ex- 
 cess of eloquence, and as he stammered in his rage, 
 Grand-Louis interrupted him. 
 
 " M. Bi icolin," said he, " you have the right, as a father, 
 to control your daughter ; you have the right to forbid me 
 your house ; but you have no right to affront me in public 
 before giving me an explanation in private." 
 
 " I have a right to do everything I please," retorted 
 Bricolin, exasperated, " and to tell a rascal just what I 
 think of him ! " 
 
 "To whom do you say that, M. Bricolin?" asked 
 Grand-Louis, his eyes flashing fire ; for although he had 
 said to himself, at the beginning of this scene, " Now for 
 it ! I have my deserts, to a certain point ! " it was impos- 
 sible for him patiently to submit to insult. 
 
250 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 ** I say it to whomsoever I think proper," answered 
 Bricolin, with a majestic air, but in reality suddenly in- 
 timidated. 
 
 ** If you are talking to your cap, it matters little to 
 mo," returned Grand-Louis, endeavoring to compose 
 himself. 
 
 '^ Just look at this madman ! " replied Bricolin, shelter- 
 ing himself in the inquisitive group that crowded around 
 him ; " would not you say that he was about to insult 
 me, because I forbid him to speak to my daughter? Have 
 I not the right to do so ? " 
 
 "Yes, yes, you have the entire right," said the miller, 
 forcing himself to turn away, " but not without giving 
 me a reason ; and I will come to ask you for one when 
 you are cool, and I too." 
 
 ''Dost thou threaten me, wretch?" cried Bricolin, 
 alarmed, and calling the assembly to witness ; '' he threat- 
 ens me ! " added he, in an emphatic tone, and as if 
 to claim the assistance of his friends and servants against 
 a dangerous man. 
 
 *'God forbid, M. Bricolin ! " said Grand-Louis, shrug- 
 ging his shoulders ; " you do not hear me — " 
 
 " And I will not hear thee. I have nothing to hear 
 from an ungrateful and false friend. Yes," added he, 
 seeing that the miller felt more sorrow than anger at this 
 speech, *' I tell thee that thou art a false friend — a Judas ! " 
 
 " A Judas? no, for I am not a Jew, M. Bricolin." 
 
 " I know nothing of that ! " returned the farmer, becom- 
 ing bolder as his adversary seemed to give way. 
 
 " Ah ! gently, if you please," replied Grand-Louis, in 
 a tone which closed his mouth. " No big words ; I re- 
 spect your age, I respect your mother, and your daugh- 
 ter too, perhaps, more than yourself; but I will not 
 answer for myself if you go too far. I might reply, and 
 show that if I have done a little wrong, you have done a 
 great one. Trust me, let us be silent, M. Bricolin, this 
 might lead us further than we should like. I will come 
 to talk with you, and you will hear me." 
 
 " Thou shalt not come ! If thou comest I will turn 
 thee out with shame," cried M. Bricolin, when he saw 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 251 
 
 the miller, who was striding away, out of hearing. 
 " Thou art nothing but a wretch, a deceiver, a con- 
 spirator." 
 
 Rose, who, pale and frozen with terror, had remained 
 till now motionless on her father's arm, was seized with 
 an energetic impulse of which she would not have believed 
 herself capable an instant before. 
 
 "■Papa," said she, drawing him forcibly from the 
 crowd, " you are angry, and do not think what you are 
 saying. Explanations should be made at home, and not 
 before everybody. You are treating me very inconsider- 
 ately, and are not very careful of my reputation." 
 
 " Thou, thou ! " said the farmer, astonished, and ap- 
 parently conquered by his daughter's courage. "There 
 is nothing against thee in all this, nothing to hurt thy rep- 
 utation. I permitted thee to dance with this wretch, it 
 seemed all fair and natural to me, and to everybody else. 
 I did not know that this fellow was a villain, a traitor, 
 a — " 
 
 " All you will, father, but this is quite enough," said 
 Rose, shaking his arm with the force of a spoiled child. 
 And she succeeded in drawing him towards the farm. 
 
35a THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE TWO SISTERS. 
 
 A^ME. BRICOLIN did not expect to see hier family 
 ^^ return so soon. Her husband had left her at home 
 without telling her the outrage which he purposed. He 
 would not have the majesty of his public performance 
 injured by her shrill outcries. So that when she saw him 
 enter, scarlet with anger, panting, growling between his 
 teeth, and dragging on his arm Rose, also much excited 
 and distressed, and her eyes swollen with irrepressible 
 tears, while her grandmother pattered after them, her 
 hands clasped in consternation, she drew back with sur- 
 prise ; then, raising her candle to their faces — 
 
 *'What is to pay?" said she; "what has happened 
 now? 
 
 ** That my son is much in the wrong, and talks un- 
 reasonably," answered Mother Bricolin, letting herself 
 fall into a chair. 
 
 " Yes, yes, it is the same story as yesterday evening," 
 said the farmer, recovering part of his anger with the 
 sight of his wife. "Enough said! Is supper ready? 
 Come, Rose, art thou hungry?" 
 
 " No, father," said Rose, dryly. 
 
 " Is it I who have taken away thy appetite?" 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 "Is that a reproach?" 
 
 " Yes, father, I own that it is." 
 
 "Come now. Rose," said the farmer, who was ready 
 to treat his daughter with all possible condescension, but 
 saw her for the first time somewhat rebellious towards 
 him, " thy behavior does not quite suit me. Dost thou 
 know what thy ill-humor might make me think ? Thou 
 wouldst not hoar, I hope ? " 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 253 
 
 " Speak, speak, father ! Say what you think ; if you 
 are mistaken, it is my duty to justify myself." 
 
 " I say, my daughter, that it would be ill done for thee 
 to take the part of this workman of a miller, on whose 
 back I will break my rattan some one of these fine morn- 
 ings, if he prowls around my house." 
 
 " Father," replied Rose with warmth, " I will venture 
 to tell you, should you break your stick over my own 
 back, that all this is cruel and unjust, that I am mortified 
 by being instrumental to your public vengeance, as if I 
 were responsible for all the wrongs that have or have not 
 been committed towards you ; that, in short, it all pains 
 me, and wounds my grandmother, as you plainly see." 
 
 " Yes, yes, it troubles me and vexes me," said Mother 
 Bricolin, in the quick, short tone which nevertheless con- 
 cealed great gentleness and kindness (and it was in this 
 quickness of speech and tenderness of heart that Rose re- 
 sembled her). "My heart bleeds," continued the old 
 woman, "to hear such hard words given to an honest 
 lad, whom I love like one of my own children, and the 
 more that for sixty years I have been friends with his 
 mother and all his family — ay, and a family of fine peo- 
 ple ! And Grand-Louis will bring no dishonor upon 
 them ! " 
 
 "Oho ! so it is on this fine gentleman's account," said 
 Mme. Bricolin to her husband, " that your mother is scold- 
 ing, and your daughter in tears? Look at her there, all 
 weeping ! Yes, indeed ! You have brought things to a 
 pretty pass, M. Bricolin, with your friendship for this 
 great booby ! You are well paid for it ! See if it be not 
 a shame to have your mother and daughter take his part 
 against you, and cry about it as if — as if — Blessed 
 saints ! I will not say what, I should blush ! " 
 
 " Say anything, mother ! Speak ! " cried Rose, completely 
 irritated. " Since you have so well begun to mortify me 
 to-day, refuse yourselves nothing ! I am quite ready se- 
 riously and sincerely to answer any questions upon my 
 sentiments toward Grand-Louis." 
 
 "And what are your sentiments, mademoiselle.'*" said 
 
354 ^^^ MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 the enraged farmer, in his roughest voice ; " tell us at 
 once, 80 please you, since your tongue itches." 
 
 " My sentiments are those of a sister and a friend ! " 
 answered Rose ; " and no one shall make me change 
 them." 
 
 " A sister ! a miller's sister ! " said M. Bricolin, chuck- 
 ling, and imitating Rose's tone ; "a friend ! a peasant's 
 friend I Fine language, and very suitable for a girl like 
 you 1 Thunder crush me if the young girls are not all 
 crazy, nowadays. Rose, you talk as one of the people 
 might in a mad-house ! " 
 
 At this moment, piercing shrieks were heard from the 
 maniac's apartment ; Mme. Bricolin started, and Rosa 
 turned pale as death. 
 
 '* Listen, father ! " said she, seizing M. Bricolin's arm ; 
 *' hear that, and then dare to laugh at the insanity of 
 young girls I Jest upon mad-houses, you who seem to 
 forget that a girl of our rank may love a man without 
 fortune, enough to fall into a state worse than death ! " 
 
 " Then she confesses it, she proclaims it ! " cried Mme. 
 Bricolin, divided between rage and despair ; " she loves 
 this laborer, and threatens us to be like her sister ! " 
 
 " Rose ! Rose ! " cried M. Bricolin, shocked, " be si- 
 lent ! and you, Thibaude," he added imperiously, " go 
 and see Bricoline." 
 
 Mme. Bricolin left the room. Rose remained stand- 
 ing, her face convulsed, frightened at what she had just 
 said to her father. 
 
 " My daughter, thou art ill," said M. Bricolin, much 
 moved. " Thou must recover thy senses." 
 
 "Yes, you are right, father, I am ill," said Rose, 
 bursting into tears, and throwing herself into her father's 
 arms. 
 
 M. Bricolin had been alarmed, but it was impossible 
 to melt him. He embraced Rose as one would coax a 
 child, not soothe an adored daughter. He was proud of her 
 beauty, her wit, and still more of the wealth with which 
 he would fain crown her. He would have preferred 
 bringing her into the world ugly and stupid, but exciting 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 255 
 
 envy by her riches, than perfect aud poor, and inspiring 
 pity. 
 
 "Little one," said he to her, "thou hast not com- 
 mon sense this evening. Go to thy bed, and do not 
 tliink of this miller and your fine friendships. His sister 
 nursed thee, to be sure ; but, zounds ! she was well paid. 
 This lad was thy playmate when you were children, to be 
 sure again ; but he was our servant, and only did his 
 duty in amusing tlicc. It is my pleasure to dismiss him 
 to-day because he has played me a vile trick ; it is thy 
 duty to think me right." 
 
 " Oh, father ! " said Rose, still weeping in the farmer's 
 arms, " you will revoke that command. You will permit 
 Lim to justify himself, for he is not guilty, it is impossible, 
 and you will not compel me to mortify my old friend, the 
 son of the good mill-dame who loves me so ! " 
 
 " Rose, all this begins to be very disagreeable to me," 
 replied Bricolin, extricating himself from his daughter's 
 caresses. " It is too absurd that a family affair should be 
 made of the expulsion of such a vagabond. Come, prithee, 
 grant me peace ! Hear how thy poor sister screams, and 
 do not concern thyself so much with a stranger, when dis- 
 tress is in our household." 
 
 "• Oh, if you think I do not hear my sister's voice," said 
 Rose, with a fearful expression, " if you think that her cries 
 speak nothing to my soul, you are mistaken, father ! I do 
 indeed hear them, and think of them only too much ! " 
 
 Rose went out tottering, but as she turned towards her 
 sister's chamber, they heard her fall upon the corridor 
 floor. The two women, terrified, ran to her. She had 
 fainted, and lay like one dead. 
 
 They hastily carried her into her chamber, where Mar- 
 celle was wi-iting, and waiting for her, little suspecting the 
 storm that her poor friend had passed through. She lav- 
 ished the tenderest cares upon her, aud was the only one 
 who liad the presence of mind to send to the village and 
 see if the physician were yet there. He came, and found 
 the young girl in a violent nervous paroxysm. Her limbs 
 were stifi'ened, her teeth clenched, and her lips livid. She 
 was restored to consciousness through his exertions, but 
 
,56 THB MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 her pulse passed from its fearful pause to a buruing energy. 
 Her large black eyes shone with fever, and she talked hur- 
 riedly without knowing to whom she spoke. Struck by 
 hearing her several times successively pronounce the name 
 of Grand-Louis, Marcelle contrived to send away her friglit- 
 ened parents, and to remain alone with her, while the phy- 
 sician went to the elder sister, who began to exhibit the 
 same symptoms of fury as the evening before. 
 
 "Dear Rose," said Marcelle, pressing her companion 
 to her heart, '' you have some trouble that causes your 
 illness. Be calm, to-morrow you shall tell me all about 
 it, and I will do anything in the world to relieve your 
 suffering. Who knows but I may find some way ? *' 
 
 "Ah! you are an angel!" answered Rose, falling 
 upon her neck. "But you can do nothing for me. All 
 is lost, all is broken. Louis is driven from the house ; 
 my father protected him this morning, and hates and 
 curses him this evening. I am, indeed, too wretched ! " 
 
 " You really love him, then ? " said Marcelle, astonished. 
 
 "Do I love him?" cried Rose. " Can I help loving 
 him? And when did you doubt it?" 
 
 " Even yesterday, Rose, you would not confess it." 
 
 " It is possible I might never have confessed it if they 
 had not persecuted me, driven me to extremity, as they 
 have to-day. Conceive it," said she, speaking rapidly, 
 and holding her burning brow with both hands, " they 
 tried to humiliate him before me, to degrade him in my 
 eyes because he is poor, and dares love me ! This morn- 
 ing, when they overpowered him with their mockeries, I 
 was cowardly ; I was angry, arid dared not show it. I 
 let them belie him without venturing to defend him ; I al- 
 most blushed for him. And then I came home with a 
 violent headache, asking myself if I could ever have the 
 strength to brave such insults for his sake. I imagined 
 that I would love him no more, and then it seemed to me 
 that I was going to die, and that this house, which al- 
 ways looked beautiful to me, because I was brought up 
 here and was happy in it, became dark, dirty, forlorn and 
 ugly, as it doubtless looks to you. I thought myself in a 
 prison ; and this evening, when my poor sister told me in 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 257 
 
 her madness that our father was a gendarme who kept 
 us in sight to inflict suffering on us, for an instant I, too, 
 was as if mad, and seemed to see all that ray sister saw. 
 Oh ! how that pained me ! And when I recovered my 
 reason, I felt indeed that without my poor Louis, life 
 would have nothing agreeable or endurable for me. It 
 is through my love for him that I have met all my troubles 
 gayly till to-day : my mother's dreadful temper, my father's 
 insensibility,- the burden of our wealth, which creates only 
 miserj^and jealousy around us^and the spectacle of the 
 terrible calamities by which my sister and my grand- 
 father have been long stricken under my eyes. All this 
 was hideous to me when I saw myself alone, not daring 
 to love, and forced to endure it all without the consola- 
 tion of being beloved by a noble, beautiful, excellent 
 being, whose attachment indemnified me for everything. 
 Oh ! it is impossible ! I love him ; I will try no longer 
 to overcome it. But it will kill me, see you, Mme. Mar- 
 celle ; for they have driven him away, and, much as I 
 may suffer, they will be pitiless. I can never see him 
 more ; if I speak with him secretly, they will scold me 
 and mock me till my brain will turn — My poor head 
 that I thought so well and strong, and that aches now so 
 that it seems as if it would break — Oh, I will not let 
 myself become like my lister, do not fear for me, my dear 
 Mme. Marcelle ! I will sooner kill myself if I feel that 
 her malady gains on me — but it will not gain, will it ? — 
 Yet when I hear her cry, it rends my heart, it runs like 
 ice and fire through my veins. A sister, a poor sister ! 
 her blood is the same as mine, and her anguish is felt in 
 my body as in ray soul ! Oh, heaven ! madam ! O 
 my God ! do you hear her ? Hark ! though they may 
 shut the doors, I hear her still, I hear her always ! — how 
 she suffers, how she loves, how she calls ! my sister, oh ! 
 my poor darling, who was so beautiful, so sensible, gen- 
 tle and gay, and now she howls like a wild beast — " 
 
 The poor girl's voice was lost in sobs, and her weep- 
 ing, long repressed by a violent effort of her will, grad- 
 ually became inarticulate cries, then piercing shrieks. 
 Her face changed, her wandering eyes grew sunken and 
 
 17 
 
353 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 dim, her clenched hands grasped Marcelle's arms so as 
 to bruise them, and she finally hid her face in the pillow, 
 uttering heart-rending cries, and imitating, by a fatal and 
 irresistible instinct, the screams of her unfortunate sister. 
 
 Startled by this lamentable echo, the family left the 
 elder for the younger sister. The physician came, and 
 learning what had taken place, did not attribute tiiis vio- 
 lent nervous attack simply to the eflfect produced upon 
 Rose's imagination by tiie insanity of her sister. He 
 succeeded in soothing her, but when he was again alone 
 with the Bricolins, he spoke to them with some severity 
 on the subject. ''You have been long imprudent," said 
 he to them, " to bring up this young girl in the presence 
 of so melancholy a spectacle. It would be judicious to 
 withdraw her from it, to send the elder to an asylum for 
 the insane, and to marry the younger, in order to dissi- 
 pate the melancholy which might easily grow upon her." 
 
 *' How now, M. Lavergne ! " said Mme. Bricolin ; 
 *' certainly, we only desire to marry her. She has had 
 plenty of chances, and, only to-day, here was her cousin 
 Honore, who is an excellent match ; he is sure to have a 
 Imndred thousand crowns. If she were willing, he and 
 we would ask no better ; but she will not hear it spoken 
 of; she refuses all whom we propose to her ! " 
 
 " Perhaps because you do not propose the one who 
 pleases her," replied the doctor. " I know nothing about 
 it, and do not interfere in your affairs ; but you are well 
 aware of the cause of the other's misfortune, and I strongly 
 advise you to take a diflferent course with this one." 
 
 "Oh! this one!" said M. Bricolin, "it would be too 
 great a pity, such a handsome girl, eh ! doctor?" 
 
 " The other was handsome too ; you do not remember 
 it ! " 
 
 " But in short, sir," said Mme. Bricolin, more irritated 
 than impressed by the doctor's frankness, " do you really 
 think that my daughter's brain is diseased ? Her sister's 
 misfortune was an accident, arising from her grief at the 
 death of her lover — " 
 
 " Whom you did not allow hereto marry ! " 
 
 " Sir, you know nothing about it. Perhaps we might 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 259 
 
 have allowed her, if we had known it would turn out so 
 badly. But Rose, sir, is a girl of good constitution, and 
 very rational, and, thank God, this is not a hereditary 
 disease with us. There never was anybody mad that I 
 knew of in the Bricolin or Thibault families ! My own 
 head is always cool and clear ; my other daughters are 
 like me ; I cannot conceive why Rose should not be as 
 well made as the rest." 
 
 " You will think as you please," returned the physi- 
 cian, " but I declare to you that you play a bold game if 
 ever you thwart your youngest daughter's inclinations. 
 She has a fine temperament, but nervous, and very sim- 
 ilar to her sister's. Besides, insanity, if not hereditary, 
 is contagious — " 
 
 " Oh ! we will send the other to an asylum, we will 
 decide upon that at any cost," said Mme. Bricolin. 
 
 " And Rose must not be vexed, dost hear, wife?" said 
 the farmer, pouring down glass after glass of wine to dull 
 the sense of his domestic troubles. '* There are actors 
 at La Chatre, we must take her to see the play. We 
 wall buy her a new gown ; two, if need be. Zounds ! we 
 have enough to refuse her nothing !' — " 
 
 M. Bricolin was interrupted by Mme. de BlanchemoL 
 who desired a private interview with him. 
 
a6o THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE CONTRACT. 
 
 AT BRICOLIN," said Marcelle, following the farmer 
 ^^* into a sort of dark and disorderly closet, where he 
 kept his papers heaped up pell-mell, with various agricul- 
 tural implements and specimens of seeds, " are you pre- 
 pared to listen to me calmly and gently ? " 
 
 The farmer had drunk deeply, to fortify himself before 
 going to insult Grand-Louis on the terrace. On return- 
 ing, he had drunk still more to compose and refresh him- 
 self. In the third place he had drunk to dissipate the 
 melancholy that hung over the house, and drive away the 
 dark thoughts that beset him. His blue-flowered china 
 mug, which always stood on the kitchen table, usually 
 served him as support or stimulus against the first weight 
 of intoxication. When he found himself alone with the 
 lady of Bhmchemont, and deprived of the assistance of 
 his white wine, he was ill at ease, mechanically felt upon 
 his writing-table for the glass which was not there, and, 
 endeavoring to offer a chair, threw down two. Marcelle 
 then perceived that his legs, his red face, his tongue and 
 his brain were all under the influence of wine, and not- 
 withstanding the disgust with which this new feature in 
 his character inspired her, she resolved to enter into an 
 open explanation with him, remembering the proverb in 
 vino Veritas. 
 
 Seeing that he had scarcely heard her first words, she 
 returned to the attack. 
 
 *' M. Bricolin,** said she, " I had the pleasure of ask- 
 ing you whether you were prepared to listen with com- 
 posure and kindness to a rather delicate question I have 
 to put to you." 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 261 
 
 " What is it, madam ? " replied the farmer, in an un- 
 gracious, but inefficient tone. Much as he was vexed 
 with Marcelle, he was too much stupefied to testify it. 
 
 " It is this, M. Bricolin," returned she ; " that you have 
 forbidden the Miller of Angibault your house, and I 
 should like to know the cause of your displeasure with 
 him." 
 
 Bricolin was confounded at this frank manner of broach- 
 ing the subject. There was a bold sincerity in Marcelle's 
 bearing which always constrained him, and especially 
 now, when he had not the free exercise of his faculties. 
 Controlled by a will superior to his own, he did the con- 
 trary of what he would have done if sober — he told the 
 truth. 
 
 "You know, madam," he answered, "the cause of 
 my displeasure. I have no need to tell you." 
 
 " It is I, then ? " said Mme. de Blanchemont. 
 
 " You? no. I do not accuse you. You simply attend 
 to your own interests, as I do to mine — but I call it a 
 rascally trick to pretend to be my friend, and to go at the 
 same time and give you advice against me. Hear it, 
 use it, pay well for it, you will not fail to get it. But as 
 for me, I turn out the enemy who injures me with you. 
 There now ! And so much the worse for those who do not 
 like it ! I am master in my own house ; for in short, see 
 you, Mme. de Blanchemont, I tell you, each one for him- 
 self. Your interests are your own, my interests are my 
 own. . A rascal is a rascal. In these days of ours, every 
 one thinks of himself. I am master in my house and in 
 my family, you have your interests as I have mine ; as 
 for advice against me, it will not be missing, I tell you — " 
 
 And M. Bricolin thus went on during ten minutes, 
 tediously repeating himself without perceiving it, and 
 losing at each word the remembrance of having said the 
 same thing an hundred times before. 
 
 Marcelle, who had rarely been near a drunken person, 
 and never talked with one, listened to him with astonish- 
 ment, questioning within herself whether he had not sud- 
 denly become idiotic, and thinking with terror that the 
 fate of Rose and her lover depended on a man who was 
 
263 THE MILLER OF ANGIDAULT. 
 
 hard and obstinate when sober, and deaf and stupid when 
 his rudeness was softened by wine. She let him maun- 
 der through the same ignoble commonplaces for some 
 time, then, seeing that this might last till he fell asleep in 
 his chair, she attempted to sober him by abruptly striking 
 the most tender chord. 
 
 " Let us see, M. Bricolin," said she, interrupting him, 
 ** you positively wish to buy Blanchemont ? And if I 
 should accept the price you offer me, would you still be 
 angry ? " 
 
 Bricolin made an effort to raise his bloodshot lids, and 
 look steadily at Marcelle, who, on her part, looked firmly 
 and attentively at him. Gradually the farmer's eye 
 brightened, his heavy and swollen face appeared to gather 
 solidity, and it seemed as if a veil fell from before his 
 features. He rose and took two or three turns through 
 the room, as if to prove his legs and collect his ideas. 
 He feared it was all a dream. When he again sat down 
 opposite Marcelle, his attitude was firm, and his com- 
 plexion almost pale. 
 
 "Pardon me, my lady baroness," said he, '' what did 
 you do me the honor to say to me ? " 
 
 " I say," resumed Marcelle, " that I am disposed to 
 give you my estate for 250,000 francs, if — " 
 
 " If what?" asked Bricolin, in a hasty voice, and with 
 a lynx glance. 
 
 " If you will promise me not to make your daughter 
 unhappy." 
 
 " My daughter ! What has my daughter to do with 
 all this?" 
 
 " Your daughter loves the Miller of Angibault ; she 
 is very sick ; she may lose her reason by it, like her sis- 
 ter. Do you hear, do you understand, M. Bricolin ? " 
 
 " I hear, but I understand nothing. I see that my 
 daughter has taken some love fancy into her head. It 
 will pass off in a day or two, as it has come. But what 
 great interest do you take in my daughter ? " 
 
 "What matters it to you? Since you do not under- 
 stand how one may feel friendship and compassion for a 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 363 
 
 lovely and suffering girl, at least you comprehend tlie ad- 
 vantages of being proprietor of Blanchemont ? " 
 
 " This is a jest, my lady baroness. You are mocking 
 me. You have spoken to-day with my greatest enemy, 
 Tailland the notary, who would certainly have counselled 
 you to keep me up to the mark." 
 
 " Without any animosity toward you, he gave me the 
 information necessary in my position. Now, I know that 
 I could very soon find a purchaser, and, as you say, keep 
 you up to the mark." 
 
 "And it was the Miller of Angibault who procured 
 you this good counsellor all in secret from me ! " 
 
 " What do you know about it ? You may be mistaken. 
 Besides, all explanation on this subject is useless ; if I am 
 satisfied with your offer, what matters the rest to you?" 
 
 "But the rest — the rest — must my daughter marry a 
 miller?" 
 
 " Your father was one before taking the place of far 
 mer with my family." 
 
 "But he made money, and in these days I am in a sit- 
 uation to have a son-in-law who would assist me in buy- 
 ing your estate." 
 
 " In buymg it at 300,000 francs, and perhaps more? " 
 
 "Is it, then, an absolute condition? You wish this 
 miller to marry my daughter? What interest have you 
 in it?" 
 
 " I told you — friendship, the pleasure of making oth- 
 ers happy : things which appear fanciful to you ; but 
 each one according to his character." 
 
 " I know very well that your husband, the late baron, 
 would have given ten thousand francs for a bad horse, 
 or forty thousand for a bad girl, when the fancy took 
 him — the nobility have such caprices — and one can con- 
 ceive it, it was for himself, and gave him pleasure ; but 
 making a sacrifice purely for the pleasure of others, of 
 people who have no claim on you, whom you scarcely 
 know — " 
 
 " Then you advise me not to do it?" 
 
 " I advise you," said Bricolin, hastily, frightened at 
 
264 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT 
 
 his awkwardness, "to do what you please ! There is no 
 disputing tastes and ideas ; but yet ! — " 
 
 ** But yet you distrust me, it is plain. Do you not 
 believe me sincere in my proposition 'i " 
 
 "Faith, madam ! what security should I have? This 
 is a queenly fancy, which might leave you at any mo- 
 ment." 
 
 " For that reason you ought to be speedy in taking me 
 at my word." 
 
 " Zounds I she is right ! *' said Bricolin to himself; " in 
 her madness she is cooler than I. Let us see, my lady 
 baroness," said he aloud, " what security would you give 
 me?" 
 
 " A written engagement." 
 
 "Signed?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " And I must promise to give my daughter in marriagft 
 to your protege ? " 
 
 " You will give me first your word of honor." 
 
 "My word of honor? And then? " 
 
 " And then you will go immediately, in presence of 
 your mother, your wife and me, to give it to Rose." 
 
 "My word of honor? Is Rose, then, desperately in 
 love?" 
 
 "Do you finally consent?" 
 
 "If it needs only that to please the child I " 
 
 " It needs more." 
 
 "Wiiatthen?" 
 
 " You must keep your word." 
 
 The farmer changed countenance. 
 
 "Keep my word — keep my word!" said he; "do 
 you doubt it, then ? " 
 
 " No more than you doubt mine ; but as you require a 
 written bond from me, so do I require one jfrom you." 
 
 "What sort of bond?" 
 
 " A promise of marriage, which I will myself draw 
 up, and whi»*,h shall be signed by Rose and yourself." 
 
 " And if, after all this. Rose should claim a dowry 
 from me ? " 
 
 " She shall renounce it by the bond." 
 
TH^ MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 265 
 
 " This would be famously economical," thought the 
 farmer. " That devilish dowry which I might any day 
 have been called upon for, might have hindered my buy- 
 ing Blanchemont. To give no dowry, and have Blanche- 
 mont for 250,000 francs, is a profit of 100,000 francs. 
 Come, it is not worth while to haggle. Then, too, if 
 Rose went crazy, we must give up all thought of a son- 
 in-law — and pay a doctor, too, by the year. — And 
 then again, it is too sad ; it would give me too much pain 
 to see her growing ugly and dirty like her sister. Two 
 crazy daughters would be a disgrace to us. The girl 
 will have a queer establishment, but the manor of 
 Blanchemont will gild over many things. We shall be 
 laughed at on one side, but envied on the other. Come ! 
 I will be a kind father. It is not a bad business." 
 
 " My lady baroness," said he, aloud, " suppose we see 
 how such a writing could be turned ! It is an odd bar- 
 gain, however, and I have never seen anything to pat- 
 tern it by." 
 
 " Nor I," answered Mme. de Blanchemont, " and I do 
 not know whether such are to be found in modern legis- 
 lation. But what matter ? With good sense and integ- 
 rity, you know a deed may be drawn up more valid than 
 any lawyer's." 
 
 " That is daily seen : a wiU, for example. Even the 
 stamped paper is unnecessary. But I have some here. I 
 always keep some. One should always have it at hand." 
 
 "Let me make a rough draft upon common paper, M. 
 Bricolin, and do you make another. Then we can com- 
 pare them, discuss them if necessary, and copy upon 
 stamped paper." 
 
 " Do so, do so, madam ! " replied Bricolin, who scarcely 
 knew how to write. " You are quicker than I, you will 
 turn it better than I could, and then we will see." 
 
 While Marcelle was writing, M. Bricolin went to a 
 jug of water in a corner, and, without being observed, 
 rested it upon a shelf, stooped and swallowed a large 
 quantity. " One needs his brains in such a case," 
 thought he ; " it seems to me that mine are all right 
 
266 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 again, but it is a good thing in business to have cold 
 water in one's blood, it makes one prudent and cautious.*' 
 
 Marcelle, inspired by feeling, and gifted, besides, with 
 great precision of thought in her generous resolutions, 
 drew up a writing which a lawyer might have confessed 
 a masterpiece of clearness, although it was written in 
 good French, did not contain a word of consecrated 
 slang, and bore the impress of the most admirable good 
 faith. When Bricolin heard it read, he was struck with 
 the precision of a deed which, although not of his own 
 dictation, had a value and consequences which he fully 
 comprehended. 
 
 " The devil is in the women ! " thought he. " It may 
 well be said, that when they chance to understand busi- 
 ness, they go far beyond the sharpest of us ! I know 
 that when I consult my wife, she always perceives every- 
 thing that can leave open a door to my advantage or det- 
 riment. I wish she were here ! But she would delay 
 us with her objections. We will see about it when 
 it comes to signing. Yet who could have believed that 
 this young lady, who is a novel reader, a republican, and 
 an enthusiast, was capable of carrying out her mad freak 
 so wisely? My brain turns with amazement. Let us 
 have another glass of water. Pah ! how bad it is ! 
 How much good wine I must drink after the bargain, to 
 settle my stomach I " 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 267 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 AN AFTER-THOUGHT. 
 
 nPHAT appears to me unobjectionable," said M. Bric- 
 -*■ olin, after attentively listening to a second and third 
 reading of the deed, and following with his eyes, which 
 grew wider and brighter at every line, the text which Mar- 
 celle held before them. " There is only one little thing 
 that I would wish to correct : the price. Mine. Marcelle ; 
 it is truly too dear by 20,000 francs. I did not reflect at 
 first how much injury my daughter's marriage with this 
 miller might do me. People will say that I am ruined, 
 since I establish her so miserably. It will destroy my 
 credit. And then the lad has nothing to buy her wedding 
 presents with. There is another outlay of 8,000 or 
 10,000 francs, which will come upon me. Rose cannot 
 do without a handsome trousseau — I am sure she de- 
 pends upon it I " 
 
 " And I am sure she does not depend on it," said Mar- 
 celle. " Listen, M. Bricolin, she is crying ! Do you 
 hear her ? " 
 
 " I do not hear her, madam ; I think you are mis- 
 taken." 
 
 "I am not mistaken," said Marcelle, opening the door ; 
 " she suffers, she sobs, and her sister screams ! How, 
 sir, do you hesitate ? You are offered the means of en- 
 riching yourself, and, at the same time, of restoring her 
 health, her reason, perhaps her life ; and at such a mo- 
 ment, you think of bettering your bargain ! Verily ! " 
 added she, with indignation, " you are not a man ; you 
 have no feeling ! Beware, lest I retract, and abandon 
 you to the calamities which weigh upon your family as a 
 punishment for your avarice ! " 
 
363 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 The only thing in this vehement sally that the farmer 
 clearly understood, was the threat of breaking off the 
 bargain. 
 
 "Come, madam," said he, "give me 10,000 francs, 
 and all is settled." 
 
 "Adieu ! " said Marcelle. " I am going to see Eose. 
 Make your reflections, mine are made ; I will make no 
 change in my conditions. I have a son ; and I do not 
 forget that, while thinking of others, I must not sacrifice 
 him ! " 
 
 " Pray sit down again, Mme. Marcelle, and let us leave 
 poor Rose to sleep. She is so ill ! " 
 
 " Then go yourself to see her ! " said Marcelle, warmly, 
 " and convince yourself that she is not asleep. Perhaps 
 the sight of her suffering will make you remember that 
 you are her father." 
 
 "I do remember it," said Bricolin, alarmed by the 
 thought that Marcelle might change her mind if he gave 
 her time for reflection. " Come, madam, let us finish up 
 this deed, that we may cure Rose with the news ! " 
 
 " I hope, sir, that you will plainly and simply give her 
 your consent, and that she may never know that I bought 
 it from you." 
 
 "You do not wish her to know that it is a condition 
 between us ? I am content ! Then it is unnecessary for 
 her to sign the writing." 
 
 " Pardon me ; she shall sign it without well under- 
 standing it. It shall be a sort of dower that I give to 
 her betrothed." 
 
 " That comes to the same thing. But it is all one to 
 me ; Rose has sense enough to understand that I would 
 not marry her so poorly without making sure of some fu- 
 ture advantage from it. But the payment, Mme. Mar- 
 celle ; do you insist upon having it cash ? " 
 
 " You told me that you were prepared." 
 
 " Doubtless I am ! I have just sold a large farm, 
 which was too far from my eye, and I received a week 
 ago the entire payment for it, which is a rare thing with 
 us ; but it was a great lord who bought it, and such peo- 
 
THR MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 369 
 
 pie always have full coffers. It was a peer of France, 
 mj lord duke of * * *, who wanted to make a park of 
 a certain shape, and as my land precisely suited him, I 
 sold it dear, as was just ! " 
 
 " No matter ; you have the money? " 
 
 " I have it in my pocket-book, in fine bank-notes," said 
 Bricoliu, lowering his voice. "" I will show them to ycu, 
 to make you quite easy." 
 
 And after having bolted the doors, he drew from his 
 girdle a huge pocket-book of greasy, shining leather, in 
 which were stuffed a quantity of notes upon the Bank of 
 France. Astonished at the indifference with which Mar- 
 celle counted them, " Oh ! " said he, " it is frightful to 
 have so much money at once ! Happily there are no 
 more chauffeurs^ and one can venture to keep it unin- 
 vested for a few days. I carry it upon my person all 
 day, and at night I put it under my pillow, and sleep upon 
 it. I am so anxious to be rid of it ! If I had not had 
 immediate business with you, I should have bought an 
 iron box to keep it in, for I am no such fool as to confide 
 it to notaries or bankers ! So I wish we might conclude 
 our bargain this evening, that I need no longer guard this 
 treasure." 
 
 " I hope, indeed, that we may conclude it at once," 
 .said Marcelle. 
 
 " How, then, without any consultation.? and my wife? 
 and my notary ? " 
 
 " Your wife is here ; as for your notary, if you send 
 for him, I must also summon mine." 
 
 '^ Trust me, madam, these devilish notaries will ruin 
 everything ! I am as wise as they, and you also, for our 
 deed is good, and if we have it registered, it will be dev- 
 ilishly expensive." 
 
 " Then let us do without this form. I will sell to you, 
 as they say, from hand to hand." 
 
 " Such an important bargain! it makes one tremble ! 
 But this is only a promise, after all ; suppose we sign it? " 
 
 " This promise is as good as a deed. I am ready to 
 sign it. Go and find your wife." 
 
 " It must be so," said Bricolin to himself. " If only 
 
270 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 we do not lose time, and the wind does not change dur- 
 ing the hour's dispute that Tliibaude will perhaps keep 
 up. You are going to see Rose, Mme. Marceller Do 
 not tell her anything yet." 
 
 " I shall take good care not to do so ! But you permit 
 me to give her some hope of your consent?" 
 
 *' As things stand now, that may be," answered Bric- 
 olin, sagaciously, considering that the sight of Rose and 
 her tears was the best means of holding Marcelle firm to 
 her generous inleutions. 
 
 M. Bricolin found his wife in a very different disposi- 
 tion from what he had foreseen. Mme. Bricolin was 
 liarsli and shrewish ; but although more grasping than 
 licr husband in the details of life, she was perhaps less 
 avaricious as to the whole ; sharper in words, more un- 
 feeling in appearance, yet a good occasional impulse was 
 less foreign to her character than to his. Besides, she 
 was a woman ; and the maternal sentiment, though hid- 
 den under rude forms, was still living in her bosom. 
 
 *' M. Bricolin," said she, coming to meet him, and 
 irawing him into the kitchen, where a wretched candle 
 was faintly burning, " thou fmdest me in trouble. Rose 
 IS worse than thou thinkest. She does nothing but cry 
 And sob, as if she were distracted. She is in love with 
 this miller ; it is a punishment from Heaven for our sins 
 (iut the mischief is done, her heart is losi, and she is just 
 AS her sister was when she began to break up. Then 
 ftgain, the state of the other grows worse, and threatens 
 to become intolerable. She has tried to break the doors, 
 and the doctor has just ordered us to let her go out and 
 wander about the old chateau and the warren, as usual. 
 He says that she is used to being alone, and in constant 
 motion, and that if we keep her shut up with people about 
 her, she will become furious. But I tremble lest she 
 should kill herself ! She seems so evil-minded to-night ! 
 She, who never speaks, has been telling us every horrible 
 thing in the world. My stomach actually turned to hear 
 her. It is abominable to live so ! And then to think 
 that a cross in love was the cause of all ! Yet we brought 
 up all our daughters equally well. The others have mar- 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 27 1 
 
 ried as we wished ; they do us honor ; they are rich, and 
 have sense enough to think themselves happy, although 
 their husbands are not so very sentimental. But the eld- 
 est and youngest are iron-headed ; and since we have been 
 so unlucky as not to understand what would ruin the one, 
 we ought to have the prudence not to thwart the other. 
 I had rather she had never been born than to have her 
 marry this miller ! But she will have him, and as I had 
 rather see her dead than crazed, we must do the best we 
 can. So I tell thee, Monsieur Bricolin, I give my con- 
 sent, and thou must needs give thine. I have just told 
 Rose that if she absolutely desires to marry the man, I 
 would not prevent her. That seemed to calm her, though 
 she did not look as if she understood or believed me. 
 Thou must go, too, and tell her the same thing." 
 
 " How things happen ! " cried Bricolin, delighted. 
 " Here, wife, read this bit of writing, and tell me if any- 
 thing is wanting." 
 
 " I fall from the clouds ! " said the dame, when she 
 had perused the paper. And, after various exclama- 
 tions, she collected all the energies of her will to read it 
 again with the keen attention of an attorney. " This 
 writing is good for thee," said she, " good as a decision 
 in court. Thou hast no need of consultation, M. Bric- 
 olin ; thou hast only to sign. It is clear profit, clear good 
 fortune ! Our business is settled, and Rose will be con- 
 tent. They may well say that the good God always re- 
 wards a good intention. I had decided to give her to her 
 lover for nothing, and here we are well paid ! Sign, sign, 
 my old man, and pay. That will be carrying the deed 
 into execution, and there can be no drawing back." 
 
 " Pay already? so on a sudden ! upon a scrap of paper 
 which is not even witnessed ? " 
 
 " Pay, I tell thee ! and have the banns published to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 " But if the child should listen to reason ! Perhaps 
 she will be well to-morrow, and will consent to marry 
 somebody else, if we talk to her, and if thou knowest 
 how to coax her. Then people might say that such a 
 
273 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 deed was folly in me, a piece of stupidity which could not 
 bind my daughter — " 
 
 " Well ! then the sale would be annulled." 
 
 " Not so sure ! one can always go to law." 
 
 " Thou wouldst lose ! " 
 
 " Not so sure again ! Besides, what matter is it? The 
 sale would be suspended. A lawsuit may be made very 
 long. Thou knowest that Mme. de Blanchemont cannot 
 wait. She will be forced to compromise." 
 
 " Bah 1 such stories make one ill-spoken of. Monsieur 
 Bricolin. One loses honor and credit. It is always 
 profitable to act squarely." 
 
 " Well, well, we shall see, Thibaude ! Go and tell thy 
 daughter that it is settled. Perhaps when she feels her- 
 self no longer thwarted, she will not care so much for her 
 Grand-Louis ; for it seemed to me that it was simply the 
 miff between her and me which troubled her head so. 
 But say, now ! the miller has not ill-manceuvred in this 
 affair ! He has found means to secure the friendship and 
 protection of this lady, I don't know how — the lad is no 
 fool ! " 
 
 " I shall detest him all my life ! " replied the farmer's 
 wife ; *' but it is all one. Provided that Rose will not 
 become like her sister, I will hold my tongue, and 
 content myself with turning a cold shoulder to her hus- 
 band." 
 
 " Oh ! her husband, her husband ! He is not so yet ! " 
 
 " All the same, Bricolin. It is a settled thing. Gro 
 sign." 
 
 " And thou? thou must sign too ! " 
 
 " I am ready." 
 
 Mme. Bricolin deliberately entered her daughter's 
 room, where Marcelle was awaiting her, and signed, with 
 her husband, upon a corner of the bureau. 
 
 When this was done, Bricolin, with a look of savage 
 triumph, said in a low voice to his wife : 
 
 " Thibaude ! the sale is good, and the condition is null \ 
 Thou didst not know that, thou who thinkest thou know- 
 est everything ! " 
 
 Rose was still feverish, and suffering from violent 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 273 
 
 headache ; but her nerves were more calm since the ma- 
 niac was out of the house and her cries were no longer 
 heard. When Marcelle had signed, she gave the pen to 
 her young friend, who was with difficulty made to under- 
 stand what was going on ; but when she comprehended 
 it, she burst into tears, and threw herself affectionately 
 into the arms of her father, her mother, and her friend, 
 whispering to the latter — • 
 
 "Divine Marcelle, I accept it as a loan. Some day I 
 shall be rich enough to repay it to your son." 
 
 The grandmother was the only one of the family who 
 appreciated the nobleness of Marcelle's conduct. She 
 knelt before her, and embraced her knees in silence. 
 
 " And now," said Marcelle, in an under voice, to the 
 old woman, " it is not very late, only ten o'clock ! 
 Grand-Louis may be even now upon the terrace, and 
 besides, it is not so very far from here to Angibault. 
 Suppose that some one were sent for him? I dare not 
 propose it, but he might be brought here, as if by chance ; 
 and once here, he could easily be informed of his happi- 
 ness." 
 
 " I will see to it ! " cried the old woman, "if I should 
 have to go myself to the mill ! I shall be as active as at 
 fifteen, for that ! " 
 
 She went, in fact, to the village, but did not find the 
 miller. She would have despatched one of the farm- 
 boys for him, but they were all incapable of stirring from 
 their drunken sleep in their beds, or at the cabaret. Lit- 
 tle Fanchon was too much of a coward to go alone at 
 night, and, besides, it would have been inhuman to expose 
 the child on a fete-day evening, to encounters with all 
 sorts of people. Mother Bricolin went to and fro upon 
 the almost deserted terrace, seeking some one sufficiently 
 sober and prudent to intrust with her commission, when 
 her eyes fell upon Uncle Cadoche, coming out of the 
 church porch, where he had been muttering a final 
 prayer. 
 
 18 
 
274 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE PATACHON. 
 
 "VrOU are walking late, Mme. Bricolin," said the meii- 
 ■^ dicant; "you seem to be looking for some one? 
 Your granddaughter went home some time ago. Her 
 papa vexed her preciously to-day ! " 
 
 " All good, all good, Cadoche," answered the old wo- 
 man ; "I have no money with me. But I believe they 
 gave thee some to-day, at our house." 
 
 "I ask nothing of you, my day is completed. I have 
 drank three glasses to-night, and walk only the straighter. 
 Look you. Mother Bricolin, neither your husband, nor the 
 big gentleman, your son, can carry drink as I do at my 
 age. I wish you good-evening. I am going over to Angi- 
 bault to sleep." 
 
 " To Angibault? My old Cadoche, art thou going to 
 Angibault?" 
 
 " Do you wonder at that? My house is two long 
 leagues from here, towards Jeu-les-Bois. There is no 
 need of my tiring myself. I am going to pass the night 
 with my nephew the miller ; they always receive me 
 well there, and do not put me in the straw, as at other 
 houses ; yours, for example, where you nevertheless are 
 rich enough still, notwithstanding the chauffeurs ! At 
 my nephew's there is a bed for me in the mill, and they 
 are not afraid of my setting it on fire, — as at your 
 house, where there is always fire in the head, if not at 
 the feet ! " 
 
 These allusions to the catastrophe of which her hus- 
 band had been the victim, sent a shudder through Mother 
 Bricolin's old blood ; but she made an effort to think only 
 of her ^anddaughter, and of better days. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 275 
 
 " So thou art going to Grand-Louis's, then? " said she 
 to the old man. 
 
 "To be sure, to the best of my nephews, mjr true 
 nephew, my future heir ! " 
 
 " See here, then, Cadoche ; since thou hast thy senses 
 about thee, and art such a friend to Grand-Louis, thou 
 canst render him a famous service. I have some press- 
 ing business with him, and he must come immediately to 
 speak with me. Tell him so, and that I will wait for 
 him at the great yard gate. Let him take his mare, he 
 will come the quicker." 
 
 "His mare? he has none. She has been stolen." 
 
 " Let him come all the same, no matter how ! the 
 business is very important to him." 
 
 "And what is this business?" 
 
 " Good, now ! he would have it explained this minute ! 
 Cadoche, there shall be a new twenty-sous piece for thee, 
 if thou comest for it to-morrow morning." 
 
 "At what hour?" 
 
 " When thou wilt." 
 
 " I will come at seven. Be ready, because I do not 
 like to wait." 
 
 " Go, then ! " 
 
 " I am going. I shall not be three-quarters of an hour. 
 Ah, my legs are better than your husband's. Mother Bric- 
 olin, and yet I am ten years the oldest." 
 
 The beggar started, indeed, with a firm step. He was 
 near Angibault, when, in a narrow part of the road, he 
 was overtaken by M. Ravelard's carriage, driven in full 
 splendor by the red-headed and evil-minded patachon, 
 who scorned to cry " take care ! " and urged his horses 
 upon him. 
 
 It is beneath the dignity of the peasant of Berri ever 
 to turn aside for a vehicle, whatever warning he receive, 
 or whatever difficulty there may be in turning out for 
 him. Uncle Cadoche was prouder than any other man 
 whomsoever in the country. Accustomed, with droll 
 gravity, to treat all those to whom he extended a suppli- 
 cating hand as his unquestioned inferiors, he now affected 
 to slacken his pace, and to keep the middle of the road, 
 
276 THE MILLER OF ANGJBAULT, 
 
 altliough he felt the hot breath of the horses upon his 
 shoulder. " Make way, stupid ! " at length cried the 
 patachon, accompanying his words with a heavy swing 
 of his whip around the old man's head. 
 
 The mendicant turned, and, seizing the heads of the 
 horses, made them recoil so suddenly, that the carriage 
 was nearly overturned in the ditch. Then began a 
 desperate struggle between him and the furious pat- 
 achon, the latter striking with his whip, and uttering 
 a thousand imprecations, the former guarding himself 
 from his attempts by stooping under the horses' heads, 
 and continually pressing them by forcibly shaking the 
 bits, now forcing them back, now obliged to fall back be- 
 fore them. M. Ravelard assumed, at first, the air of a 
 grandee, as became a man driving for the first time in 
 his own carriage. He himself swore at the insolence 
 of the interruption ; but his good Berrichon heart soon 
 overpowering the pride of the parvenu, when he saw 
 that the old man was madly braving real danger, he 
 leant from the carriage and said to the patachon, " Take 
 care, take care not to hurt this poor man ! " 
 
 It was too late ; the horses, maddened by being beaten 
 on the one side and restrained on the other, made a furi- 
 ous bound, and overthrew Cadoche. Thanks to the won- 
 derful instinct of these generous animals, they cleared 
 his body without touching it, but the two wheels of the 
 vehicle passed over his breast. 
 
 The road was lonely and dark ; too dark for M. Rav- 
 elard to distinguish their wearer among the dingy rags 
 piled on the earth behind his rapidly retreating carriage. 
 The patachon himself had lost all control over the horses, 
 and, at first, the bourgeois thought of nothing but the 
 danger of an overturn ; when the animals were quieted, 
 the beggar was left far behind. 
 
 " I hope that you did not knock him down?" said M. 
 Ravelard to his driver, who was still trembling with fear 
 and anger. 
 
 " No, no," said the patachon, whether sure of what he 
 affirmed or not. " He fell to one side. It was his fault, 
 the old rascal ! but the horses never touched him, and he 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 277 
 
 was not hurt, for he made no noise. He will get off 
 with the fright, and it will be a good lesson to him." 
 
 "But suppose we went back to see?" said M. Rav- 
 elard. 
 
 *' Oh ! no, no, sir, these people will make you a law- 
 suit for a scratch. He would think nothing of pretend- 
 ing that his head was broken, to make you give him 
 plenty of money. I came across such a fellow once who 
 had the patience to stay forty days in bed to make my 
 citizen indemnify him for forty days' loss of work. And 
 he was no more sick than I." 
 
 " Such people are very cunning ! " said M. Ravelard. 
 " Nevertheless, I had rather never have a carriage than 
 to run over any one whosoever. Another time, my boy, 
 you must stop short rather than have such a dispute ; it 
 is dangerous." 
 
 The patachon, who wished to get rid of the conse- 
 quences of the affair, whipped up his horses to get the 
 quicker away. He was not free from terror and re- 
 morse, and swore between his teeth till the end of the 
 journey. 
 
 The miller, with Lemor, Grand'-Marie, and M. Tail- 
 land the notary, came at this moment out of the mill. 
 Lemor was resolved to leave the next morning, and on 
 this his last evening, lost in a tender melancholy, and in- 
 attentive to what was said around him, he was contem- 
 plating the beauty of the heavens, and the reflection of 
 the stars in the water. The miller, gloomy and de- 
 pressed, exerted himself to be polite to the notary, who 
 had been drawing up a will for a farmer of the neighbor- 
 hood, and had stopped on his way past the mill, to light 
 his cigar and the lanterns of his cabriolet. Grand'-Marie 
 was just explaining to him how, by taking another direc- 
 tion, he might avoid a long piece of stony road, and 
 Grand-Louis was assuring him that by driving slowly 
 over this same place, or walking and leading the horse, 
 he would find the rest of the way better. The notary, 
 when his comfort was concerned, was what is called in 
 that part of the country extremely fafiot; an untranslat- 
 able word, which implies a man at once very dawdling 
 
27^ 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 and very precise. He had just lost a quarter of an hour 
 which he might have spent in repose at home, in learning 
 how he might avoid fifteen minutes* slight fatigue. 
 
 He thought that walking and leading his horse would 
 be still more fatiguing than enduring the jolts in his cab- 
 riolet, but that of the two the best was bad, and promotive 
 of indigestion. 
 
 "Come," said the miller, who would not allow his 
 melancholy to overpower his natural kindness and oblig- 
 ing temper, " follow me slowly up the hill on foot, and I 
 will drive your equipage to the top. When we have 
 passed the vineyards, you will have firm sand the rest 
 of the way." 
 
 While good-naturedly fulfilling the office of groom, 
 Grand-Louis was soon obliged to turn the cabriolet al- 
 most into the ditch, to make way for M. Ravelard's car- 
 riage, which dashed by at full speed. M. Ravelard, 
 preoccupied with his encounter with the mendicant, neg- 
 lected to answer the miller's friendly " good-evening." 
 
 " And so he does not know me because he is in his 
 carriage?" said the latter to Lemor, who had fol- 
 lowed him ; " money, money ! thou turnest the world as 
 the water does my mill-wheel. This cursed patachon 
 will smash everything, if he goes at this rate over our 
 flints. No doubt his head is full of wine and his pouch 
 of money. I know not which intoxicates most. Ah ! 
 Rose ! Rose ! they will give thee the poison of vanity to 
 drink, and soon, perhaps, thou also wilt forget me. Yet 
 she seemed almost to love me this evening ! Her eyes were 
 full of tears when they parted her from me. I shall 
 speak to her no more — perhaps she will regret me — 
 Ah ! how happy I might be were I not so unhappy ! " 
 
 The miller's reflections were interrupted by a start 
 of the horse whom he drove. He leaned forwards, 
 and saw some light-colored object in the road. The horse 
 obstinately refused to advance, and the shadows were so 
 heavy just there, that Grand-Louis was forced to alight, 
 to see whether he had stumbled upon a pile of stones or 
 a drunken man. 
 
 *' Oh, the devil, good uncle ! " said he, on recognizing 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGISAULT. 279 
 
 the tall stature and the wallet of the mendicant. " Last 
 night it was on the edge of a ditch, which may do, but 
 to-night it is right across the ruts ! You seem to have a 
 fancy for this place, but it makes you a poor bed. Come, 
 wake up, and come and sleep at the mill ; you will be bet- 
 ter off there than under the horses* hoofs." 
 
 " This man is dead ! " said Henri, raising the beggar in 
 his arms. 
 
 " Oh ! don't be afraid ; he has often gone through this 
 death ; it is a common thing. Nevertheless, our gossip 
 has a strong head for drink, but on a fete day one is apt 
 to take more than is wise ; and as they say of wine, there 
 is no friend so faithful who will not betray you at last. 
 Come, let us leave him at the foot of this tree, we will 
 take him up again as we go back." 
 
 Lemor touched the mendicant's wrist. 
 
 "If I did not feel a faint motion of the pulse," said he, 
 *' I would swear that he was dead. How ! are not pov- 
 erty, old age, and desolation enough, but a degrading vice 
 must drag this wretch beneath the very feet of men ! And 
 yet he, too, is a man ! " 
 
 " Bah ! you are severe, like a true water-drinker ! 
 Who was it that said the poor had need to drink away 
 the remembrance of their woes ? I have certainly heard 
 it somewhere." 
 
 Just as Lemor and the miller were about to leave Ca- 
 doche for a time, he gave a deep groan. 
 
 *' Ah ! well now, uncle," said the miller, with a smile, 
 *' are you better now? " 
 
 " I am dead ! " feebly answered the mendicant. " Take 
 pity on me — finish me ! I am in too much pain ! " 
 
 " It will go off, uncle. Some cold water and a good 
 bed — " 
 
 " They have crushed me, they drove over my body," 
 resumed the old man. 
 
 " That is not so impossible ! " said Lemor. 
 
 " Oh, he always talks in this way," returned tho 
 miller, who had witnessed the painful vagaries of intoxi- 
 cation too often to be much troubled by them. " Let us 
 
28o THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 see, Father Cadoche ; have you really met with any acci- 
 dent?" 
 
 " Yes, the carriage, the carriage — on my chest, my 
 stomach, my arms ! " 
 
 " Unfasten one of the lanterns from the cabriolet, and 
 bring it here," said the miller to Lemor. " Now, it 
 lightens one corner and makes another darker ; when we 
 have it close under his nose, we shall soon see whether 
 sickness or wine ails him." 
 
 " No, not wine, not wine," murmured the mendicant. 
 "They have killed me, crushed me like a poor dog — I 
 shall die of it. May the good God, and the Holy Vir- 
 gin, and all good Christians take pity on me, and avenge 
 my death ! " 
 
 Lemor brought the lantern. The beggar's face was 
 livid ; his garments were too old and dirty to show a rent 
 or a stain, more or less ; but on removing the rags which 
 covered his breast, there appeared on his gaunt side 
 marks of burning red, where the iron-banded wheels had 
 passed over him. Yet the skin was unbroken, the ribs 
 did not seem fractured, and his breathing was still free. 
 He could even describe his accident, and had sufficient 
 strength to pour forth all the imprecations and oaths of 
 vengeance that rage and despair could suggest to him, 
 against the rich man in his carriage, and the vile merce- 
 nary who outdid the insolence and cruelty of his master. 
 
 '"Thanks to God ! " said the miller, "you are not dead 
 yet, poor Cadoche ; and we will hope that you may not 
 die this time. See, the right wheel went into the ditch ; 
 here is the track of it. It was that saved you ; the car- 
 riage, by tipping that way, bore as little as possible upon 
 you. It was a miracle that it did not turn over en- 
 tirely." 
 
 " I did my best to make it ! " said the beggar. 
 
 "Ah, well, your malice served you a good turn, uncle. 
 They could not crush you, and we will make them pay 
 well fior this ; not poor M. Ravelard, who will be even 
 more sorry than you, but that cursed boy ! " 
 
 " And the days that I shall lose ! " whined the mendi- 
 cant. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 281 
 
 " Ah ! faith ! you gained more money, perhaps, in 
 strolling about, than the rest of us by our labor. But 
 you shall be assisted, Father Cadoche ; we will make a 
 collection for you, and I will give you, myself, your 
 weight in grain ; don't be worried. When there is 
 trouble we must not let fear make it worse." 
 
 So speaking, the good miller, with Lemor's help, 
 placed the mendicant in the cabriolet, and brought him 
 back at a foot pace, avoiding the flints with the utmost 
 care. M. Tailhind, who was climbing the hill very 
 slowly, for fear of losing his breath, was amazed to see 
 them return ; and, on being acquainted with the cause, 
 readily lent his cabriolet, yet not without some concern 
 on account of the delay that the accident would occasion 
 him, and the fatigue that he should have in going up the 
 hill again, when he was already near the top. He turned 
 back, nevertheless, to see if he could aid his friends at 
 the mill in succoring poor Cadoche. 
 
 The old man fainted when they laid him on the miller's 
 own bed. They held vinegar to his nose. 
 
 " I should like the smell of brandy better," said he, 
 when he began to recover ; " it is more wholesome." 
 
 They brought him some. 
 
 " I should rather drink it than smell it," said he, " it 
 is more strengthening." 
 
 Lemor opposed this. After such an accident, this 
 burnino; drauiiht misht and would create a terrible access 
 of fever. The mendicant insisted. The miller would 
 have dissuaded him, but the notary, who had been too 
 studious of his own health not to have some medical 
 prejudices, pronounced that water, under such circum- 
 stances, would be fatal to a man who, perhaps, had not 
 swallowed a drop for fifty years ; and that alcohol, being 
 his ordinary drink, would only do him good ; that fright 
 w^as his only serious injury, and that he would recover his 
 senses with the excitement of a dram. The mill-wife 
 and Jean, like all peasants, believed in the infallible vir- 
 tues of wine and brandy in all cases, and declared, with 
 the notary, that the poor man must be satisfied. The 
 opinion of the majority prevailed ; and while they were 
 
382 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 gone to get him a glass, Cadoche, really parched with 
 the thirst excited by his great suffering, carried the bot- 
 tle hastily to his lips, and swallowed at one draught more 
 than half the contents. 
 
 " Too much, that is too much ! " said the miller, stop- 
 ping him. 
 
 " How, nephew ! " answered the beggar, with the dig- 
 nity of a patriarch assuming the legitimate exercise of 
 his authority ; *' thou measurest my portion in thy house ? 
 Thou art niggardly of the succor necessary in my condi- 
 tion?" 
 
 This unjust reproach overcame the prudence of the 
 good and simple-hearted miller. He left the bottle beside 
 the old man, saying : 
 
 " Keep it for another time, but that is enough for the 
 present." 
 
 " Thou art a good kinsman and a worthy nephew ! " 
 said Cadoche, who appeared suddenly resuscitated by the 
 brandy ; " and if I must die, I had rather it should be at 
 thy house, because thou wilt give me a suitable funeral. 
 I always liked a fine funeral ! Hearken, nephew, mill- 
 boys, notary ! I take you all to witness, that I direct 
 my nephew and heir, Grand-Louis of Angibault, to have 
 me carried to the grave neither more nor less honorably 
 than they will soon doubtless carry old Bricolin of 
 Blanchemont — who will survive me but short time, al- 
 though he be the younger — but who got his legs burned 
 when — Ah ! ah ! now then, say, must he not have been 
 a fool to have had his pins roasted for the sake of money 
 that had been left with him? To be sure, there was 
 some of his own with it, in the iron pot ! " 
 
 "What is he talking about?" asked the notary, who 
 had seated himself by a table, and was not sorry to see 
 the mill-wife preparing tea for the sick man, intending to 
 take a hot cup himself, as protection against the evening 
 mists of the Vauvre. " What old stories is he telling 
 of his roasted pins and his iron pot ? " 
 
 *' I believe he is out of his head," replied the miller. 
 " At any rate, were he neither sick nor fuddled, he is old 
 enough to dote, and the adventures of his youth are more 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 2 S3 
 
 on his mind than those of the present. It is the way of 
 age. How do you feel, uncle?" 
 
 "I feel much better since that little drop, though thy 
 brandy is devilish weak ! Could any one have played 
 me such a trick as to mix water with it for economy ? 
 Hearken, nephew ! if thou refusest me anything during 
 my sickness, I will disinherit thee ! " 
 
 " Ah, yes, to be sure, by way of talking sense !" said 
 the miller, shrugging his shoulders. " You had better 
 try to sleep. Father Cadocbe." 
 
 "Sleep, I? I have no wish to," replied the mendi- 
 cant, raising himself on his elbow, and glancing around 
 with sparkling eyes. "I know very well that I am done 
 for, but I will not die on my side, like an ox. Ugh ! I 
 feel something heavy in my stomach, there on my heart, 
 as if there were a stone in its place. It itches — it 
 hurts ! Grand'-Marie ! make me some bandages. No- 
 body here takes any notice of me, as if I were not a rich 
 old uncle ! " 
 
 " May not his ribs be crushed in .^ " said Lemor. " It 
 may be that which oppresses his heart." 
 
 " I know nothing about it, nor does any one here," 
 said the miller ; " but we could easily send for the doctor, 
 who is doubtless still at Blanchemont." 
 
 "And who will pay for the doctor?" said the beggar, 
 who was as miserly as vain of his pretended wealth. 
 
 " I will," answered Grand-Louis, " unless he will 
 come for humanity's sake. It shall never be said that a 
 poor devil perished at my house for want of all the help 
 that could be given to a rich man. Jean, take Sophie 
 and go quick for M. Lavergne." 
 
 " Take Sophie ? " chuckled Cadoche. "Thou sayest 
 that from habit, nephew ! Thou hast forgotten that So- 
 phie is stolen." 
 
 " Sophie stolen ? " said the mill-wife, turning hastily 
 round. 
 
 " He is wandering," replied the miller. " Don't mind 
 him, mother. Say, Father Cadoche," added he, turning 
 to the mendicant, and lowering his voice, " how did you 
 
2S4 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 know that ? Cannot you give me some news of my beast 
 and the thief? " 
 
 *' Who can know such things ? " returned Cadocho, 
 with a cunning look. '*Who discovers thieves? Not 
 the police, they are not bright enough ! Who could 
 ever say who they were that burned Father Bricolin's 
 legs, and carried off his iron pot ? " 
 
 "Ah! say now, uncle," replied the miller, "you are 
 always speaking to us about those legs ; you must think 
 of them a great deal. For some time, whenever I meet 
 you, you return to it ; and to-night there is an iron pot 
 added to your story. You never told me about that." 
 
 "Do not make him talk!" said his mother ; "thou 
 wilt increase his fever." 
 
 The mendicant had really a high fever. Every time 
 that his hosts' backs were turned, he swallowed furtively 
 a mouthful of brandy, and adroitly replaced the bottle 
 beneath his bolster on the further side of the bed. Each 
 instant he appeared stronger, and it was wonderful to see 
 how, at his advanced age, his iron frame supported the 
 effects of an injury which would have crushed any other 
 person. 
 
 " The iron pot ! " said he, gazing at Grand-Louis with 
 strange eyes, which alFected him with a sort of inexpli- 
 cable terror. " The iron pot ! that is the best of the 
 story, and I will tell it you." 
 
 "Tell us, tell us. Father Cadoche, this interests me ! " 
 said the notary, who was attentively watching him. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 2S5 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIIl. 
 
 THE WILL. 
 
 'T^HERE was," resumed the beggar, " an iron pot, an 
 ■^ old ugly iron pot, which did not look like any thing 
 at all — but one must not judge by looks ! In this pot — 
 close sealed it was, and heavy, oh, how heavy ! — there 
 were 50,000 francs belonging to the old lord of Blanche- 
 mont, whose granddaughter is now at the Bricolin farm. 
 And besides, old Father Bricolin, who was a young man 
 then — it is now just forty years ago ! — had laid away 
 in this pot 50,000 francs of his own, which he made by 
 a good speculation in wool — that was the time ! — on 
 account of the army contracts. The lord's deposit and 
 the farmer's profits were all in fine, handsome louis d'ors 
 of twenty-four francs each, with the head of our good / 
 king Louis XVI. — we called them toad's e?/es, ^'^^^^^^^I^J 
 of the round shield — I always loved that coin ! They 
 say it loses in exchange, but I say it gains. 23 francs 
 11 sous are always worth more than a wretched Napo- 
 leon of 20 francs. All this was pell mell. Only, as the 
 farmer loved his louis for themselves, (that is the way to 
 love money, children !) he had marked all his with a 
 cross, to distinguish them from his lord's, when he should 
 have to restore them. He followed the example of his 
 master, who had marked his with a plain bar, to amuse 
 himself, so they said, and to see if any were changed. 
 The mark was there — it is there still — not one is miss- 
 ing — on the contrary, some are added ! — " 
 
 " What the deuce is he prating to us about.? " said the 
 miller, looking at the notary. 
 
 " Hush ! " answered the latter. " Let him talk. It 
 seems to me that I begin to understand. So that," said 
 he to the beggar — 
 
2S6 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 " So that," resumed Cadoche, " he had put the iron 
 pot in a hole in the wall, at the chateau of Beaufort, and 
 had it plastered up. When the chauffeurs came after him, 
 — you are not to think that these people were all vag- 
 abonds ! Some were poor, but some were rich ; faith I I 
 know them very well ! Some are yet living, and honored 
 by men. There were among us — ■ " 
 
 " Among you ? " cried the miller. 
 
 " Hold your tongue ! " said the notary, forcibly pressing 
 his arm. 
 
 " 1 mean to say that there were among them," re- 
 sumed the mendicant, " an advocate, a mayor, a curate, 
 a miller — perhaps a notary also — eh ! eh I M. Tailland, 
 I do not say that for you ; you were hardly born then ; 
 nor for thee, nephew ; thou wouldst have been too simple 
 to have done such a thing — " 
 
 *' In short, the chauffeurs took the money ? " said the 
 notary. 
 
 " They did not take it, that was the queerest of it. 
 They broiled and frizzled that poor goose of a Bricolin's 
 feet — that was horrid, superb to see ! *' 
 
 " You saw it, then? " said the miller, quite unable to 
 contain himself. 
 
 " Oh no ! " returned Cadoche, " I did not see it ; but 
 one of my friends, that is, a man who chanced to be there, 
 told me all this." 
 
 " Very well," said the miller, tranquillized. 
 
 " Now take your cup of tea. Father Cadoche," said 
 Grand'-Marie, '' and do not chatter so much ; you will 
 hurt yourself." 
 
 " Go to the devil with your hot water ! " replied the 
 mendicant, pushing back the cup ; " I detest your slops ! 
 Let me tell ray story ; I have had it long enough at 
 heart ; I want to tell the whole of it once before I die, 
 and I am always interrupted ! " 
 
 " True enough," said the notary ; " this morning you 
 wanted to tell it in the arbors, and everybody turned 
 away, saying ' Let us be off ! Here is Father Cadoche 
 beginning his story of the chauffeurs ! * But it amused 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 287 
 
 me, and I would willingly have heard the rest. So aro 
 on." 
 
 " You are to understand," said Cadoche, " that this 
 man of whom I speak to you, and who was there, some- 
 what against his will, was a poor peasant, whom they had 
 led away ; and then, when fear took him, and he showed 
 signs of drawing back, they threatened to blow his brains 
 out if he did not mount the horse they brought him, and 
 which was shod with shoes turned backwards like those 
 of the others, so as to leave a false trail on their retreat 
 
 — and when my man was there, and saw that he must 
 do like the rest, he began to hunt and rummage everywhere 
 to find the money. He had rather do that than help to 
 roast poor Bricolin, for he was not a bad man, this fellow 
 I am talking about. Fact ! this job did not please him, 
 and was horrible for him to see — it was ugly — the pa- 
 tient howling loud enough to split one's ears, the wife 
 fainting, those cursed legs struggling in the fire that I 
 think 1 always see — there has not been a night since that 
 I have not dreamed of them ! Bricolin was a very strong 
 man then ; he stiffened himself so that an iron bar, which 
 was in the midst of the fire, was twisted by his feet — ah ! 
 I had no hand in it, I swear before God ! When they 
 forced me to hold the towel over his mouth, the sweat raa 
 down my face, cold as hoar-frost — " 
 
 " Your face?" said the amazed miller. 
 
 " The man's who told me all this. Then our man took 
 a good chance to slip one side, and began to search, search, 
 from the top of the house to the bottom, striking with a 
 pickaxe against all the walls, to see if they sounded hol- 
 low, and smashing everything right and left as the others 
 did. But now what should happen but that he stepped 
 into a little stable for pigs, saving your presence, and 
 found himself all alone ! Ever since that time I have loved 
 pigs, and raised one every year. He knocked, listened, 
 
 — it sounded hollow. He looked round him. I was 
 all alone ! He worked at the wall, tore it away, and 
 found — guess what ? The iron pot ! We knew that 
 this was Father Bricolin's strong box. The locksmith 
 who had fastened it had blabbed, and I knew at ouce 
 
288 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 that this was our flower-pot ! And it was so heary ! All 
 one I My man found the strength of an ox in his arms 
 and his heart. He got off safe and sound with his iron 
 pot, and left the country by daybreak, without saying 
 good-by to the others. He was never seen again in that 
 district. He played a high game, you see ! The chauf- 
 feurs would have made an end of him mighty quick, if 
 they had caught him. He walked day and night without 
 stopping to eat or drink till he came to a great wood, 
 where he buried his pot, and slept, I don't know how 
 many hours. I was so tired with carrying such a load ! 
 When I grew hungry, I was greatly puzzled. I had not 
 a single sous, and 1 knew that in my 100,000 francs every 
 louis was marked ! I had looked at them ; I could not 
 keep myself from doing so ! I saw that this cursed mark 
 would be recognized, as the police were already informed 
 of the money. To scratch it out would have been worse. 
 And then, if a poor devil like the one I speak of had 
 offered to change a louis d'or for a loaf of bread at a 
 baker's, that would have aroused suspicion. There was 
 only one thing to do : he turned beggar. The police were 
 not so efficient in those times as now, for none of the chauf- 
 feurs left the country, or were punished. Beggary is a 
 good trade when one knows how to set about it. I have 
 picked up something, without ever depriviug myself of 
 anything. My man was not the fool to call in a lock- 
 smith to seal up the iron pot ; he buried it right in the 
 middle of a wretched cabin of straw and mud, which 
 served him for a house, and which he built for himself 
 in the heart of the wood. For forty years nobody has 
 tormented him, because nobody envied his fate, and ho 
 has had the pleasure of being richer and prouder than all 
 those who despised him." 
 
 " And of what use was his gold to him? " said Henri. 
 
 " He looked at it once a week when he returned to his 
 cabin, where he kept all the money that he received in 
 alms. He kept on his person only wliat he chose to 
 spend in tobacco and brandy. He had h mass said from 
 time to time, to acquit liimself towards the good God, ibr 
 the service he had received, and so he drew hinisclf out 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 289 
 
 of the scrape with much order and wisdom. He is not 
 foolish enough to let go a single piece of his treasure. 
 It Avould not excite suspicion now that the story is for- 
 gotten and the prosecution abandoned, but it would make 
 people think him rich, and then they would give him 
 nothing. There, children, that is the story of the iron 
 pot. TV hat do you think of it ? " 
 
 "It is superb!" said the notary; " and well worth 
 knowing ! " 
 
 The narration was followed by a deep silence. Each 
 one looked at the others, divided between surprise, terror, 
 contempt, and a sort of odd desire to laugh mingled with 
 all these emotions. Cadoche, exhausted by his garrulity, 
 had fallen back on his pillow. His pale face took a 
 greenish tinge, and his long, stiff beard, still black enough 
 to darken his clay-colored countenance, made him abso- 
 lutely frightful. His hollow eyes, which lately darted 
 flames, while delirium and intoxication loosened his 
 tongue, seemed to sink in their sockets, and take the 
 glassy shine of death. His strongly-marked face, large, 
 thin, aquiline nose, and compressed lips, might have 
 been handsome in his youth, and were indicative, not of 
 a ferocious nature, but of a singular mixture of avarice, 
 cunning, timidity, sensuality, and even of good-nature. 
 
 "Uf!" said the miller, at last, "has he had the 
 nightmare, or have we just been hearing a confession .? 
 Must we call upon the doctor or the priest? " 
 
 "Upon the mercy of God!" said Lemor, who had 
 watched with more attention than the otliers the change 
 in the face of the beggar, and the difficulty of his res- 
 piration. " I am much deceived, or this man has but a 
 few moments to live." 
 
 "I have few moments to live?" said Cadoche, mak- 
 ing an effort to rise. " Who says so? the doctor? I do 
 not believe in doctors. To the devil with them all ! " 
 
 He leaned toward the bedside, and finished the bottle 
 of brandy ; then turning back, he was seized with a 
 sharp pain, and gave a cry. 
 
 " My heart is thrust in," said he, struggling energet- 
 ically against his suffering. " Very likely 1 shall not get 
 
 19 
 
290 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAUL7\ 
 
 over it. And if I should never return to my house, what 
 will become of everything? And who will take care of 
 my poor pig? He is used to live on the bread that is 
 given me, and which I carry to him every week. I have 
 a little neighbor-girl who takes him out to the pastures. 
 The coquette ! She casts sweet eyes on me — she hopes 
 to inherit my estate. But she hopes in vain. Behold 
 my inheritor ! " 
 
 Aud Cadoche, with a solemn air, extended his hand 
 towards Grand-Louis. 
 
 " He has always been better to me than anybody else ; 
 he is the only one who has treated me as I deserve ; who 
 has given me a bed to sleep on, and wine, and tobacco, 
 and brandy, and meat, instead of their crusts — which I 
 never touched ! I have always practised one virtue — 
 gratitude ! I have always loved Grand-Louis and the 
 good God, because they have been good to me. So now 
 I will make my will in his favor, as 1 have always prom- 
 ised him. Grand'-Marie, do you believe I am so sick 
 that it is time to make my will ? " 
 
 '' No, no, my poor man ! " said the mill-wife, who, in 
 her angelic trustfulness, had taken the mendicant's story 
 as a sort of dream. " Do not make your will ; they say 
 it is unlucky, and makes one die." 
 
 "On the contrary," said M. Tailland, "it does one 
 good ; it is a comfort ; it is enough to restore one from 
 death." 
 
 " In that case, notary," said the beggar, " I will try 
 the remedy. I love what I own, and I want to be sure 
 that it will pass into good hands, and not into those of 
 the little jades who pay their court to mc, and who shall 
 have nothing of me but the bouquet and ribbon from ray 
 hat, to make themselves fine o' Sundays. Notary, take 
 your pen and scribble me down this in good terms, and 
 without omitting anything : 
 
 " I give and bequeath to my friend Grand-Louis, of 
 Angibault, all that I possess : my house, situated in Jeu- 
 les-bois, my little potato-plot, my pig, my horse — " 
 
 "Your horse?" said the miller. "Since when have 
 you had a Lorse ? " 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 291 
 
 " Since yesterday evening. It is a horse I found as I 
 was walking." 
 
 " May it not, perhaps, be mine?" 
 
 " Thou hast said the word. It is thy old Sophie, who 
 is not worth her shoes." 
 
 " Your pardon, uncle ! " said the miller, half pleased, 
 half vexed. " I think a great deal of Sophie ; she is 
 worth more than — many people ! The devil ! you were 
 not over particular when you robbed me of Sophie ! and 
 me, who would have trusted you with the key of my mill ! 
 Do you see this old hypocrite ? " 
 
 " Be silent, my nephew, you speak foolishly," returned 
 Cadoche gravely ; "it would be a pretty thing if an uncle 
 might not have the use of his nephew's mare ! What is 
 yours is mine, since, by my intentions and my will, what 
 is mine is yours." 
 
 " Oh ! ah, to be sure ! " replied the miller ; " hequeath 
 me Sophie, uncle, bequeath away, I accept that much. 
 It is lucky, all the same, that you had not time to sell 
 her. Old rogue ! " he muttered between his teeth. 
 
 " What dost thou say? " asked the beggar. 
 
 "Nothing, uncle," said the miller, who perceived a 
 sort of convulsive rattle about the old man. " I say you 
 did very well, if it was your pleasure to ask charity on 
 horseback ! " 
 
 "Have you done, notary?" resumed Cadoche, with a 
 failing voice. " You write very slowly. I feel myself 
 sinking. Hurry yourself, lazy scrivener ! " 
 
 " It is done," said the notary. " Do you know how to 
 sign ? " 
 
 " Better than you ! " retorted Cadoche. " But I do 
 not see. I must have my spectacles and a pinch of snuff." 
 
 " Here they are," said the mill-dame. 
 
 " That is good," resumed he, after having inhaled a 
 pinch of snuff with great relish, " that revives me. Come, 
 I am not dead yet, though I suffer like one possessed." 
 
 He cast his eyes over the will, and said, "Ah! you 
 have not forgotten the iron pot and its contents ? " 
 
 " Certainly not," answered M. Tailland. 
 
 replied Cadoche, with a mocking ex- 
 
292 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 pressioD, '' though all that I told you about it was a story 
 to make fools of you ! " 
 
 "I was sure of it!" said the miller, joyously. "If 
 you had found that money, you would have restored it to 
 the owners. You have always been an honest man, undo 
 — though you did steal my mare. But that was one of 
 your jokes ; you would have brought her back to mo I 
 Come, do not sign this nonsense ; I have no need of your 
 little things, and they might give pleasure to some poor 
 body ; besides, you may have some relation, whom I 
 would not wrong of your last sous." 
 
 " I have no relations, I have buried them all, thank 
 God ! " answered the mendicant ; " and as to the poor — 
 I despise them ! Give me the pen, or I curse thee ! " 
 
 "Well, well, amuse yourself!" said the miller, hand- 
 ing him the pen. 
 
 The beggar signed ; then pushing away the paper with 
 apparent horror — 
 
 " Take it away," cried he," take it away ! it seems to 
 me it will kill me ! " 
 
 " Shall I tear it?" asked Grand-Louis, quite ready to 
 do so. 
 
 " No ! no ! " replied the mendicant, with a last effort 
 of will ; " put it in thy pocket, my boy, maybe thou wilt 
 not be sorry for it. Ah, so ! where is the doctor? I want 
 him to come and make a quicker end of me, if I must 
 feuffer long in this way ! " 
 
 " He is coming," said the miller's mother, " and the 
 curate with him ; for I sent for them both." 
 
 " The curate? " said Cadoche ; " what for? " 
 
 " To give you some consoling words, my old man. 
 You have always had some religion, and your soul is as 
 precious as anybody's else. I am sure the curate will 
 not refuse to take the trouble to bring you the sacra- 
 ments." 
 
 " So that is my state?" replied the dying man with a 
 deep sigh. " If that is the case — no nonsense ! and the 
 curate may go to all the five hundred devils, although he 
 is a good man after all — when he is sober. But I don't 
 believe in curates. I love the good God, and not tho 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 293 
 
 priests. The good God gave me money, the priest would 
 have made me return it. Let me die in peace ! Nephew, 
 thou promisest me that this wretched patachon shall die 
 under the stick ? " 
 
 " No ! but to thrash him soundly.*' 
 
 " Enough talk," said the mendicant, stretching out kis 
 livid hand. " I wished to die talking, but I can no more 
 — Ah ! I am not so sick as you think, I am going to 
 sleep, and perhaps thou wilt not inherit so soon, my 
 nephew ! " 
 
 He let himself fall back, and after an instant, there 
 was a sound as of boiling water in his chest. His face 
 flushed, then turned ashy pale ; he groaned for some min- 
 utes, opened his eyes with a frightened look, as if death 
 had appeared to him in perceptible form, and suddenly, 
 half smiling as if he had recovered hope of life, he gave 
 up the ghost. 
 
 In the death of even the worst of men there is always 
 something solemn and mysterious which impresses the 
 religious soul with respect and silence. There was a 
 moment of awe, and even of melancholy, at the mill, when 
 the mendicant Cadoche had expired. Notwithstanding 
 his vices and absurdities, notwithstanding even the ex- 
 traordinary confession they had just heard, and which 
 the notary alone really believed, the miller and his 
 mother had a sort of friendship for the old man, arising 
 from the good they were accustomed to do him ; for if it 
 is a true saying that we hate people in proportion to the 
 wrong we do them, the opposite maxim should be also 
 received. 
 
 The mill-dame knelt by the bed in prayer. Lemor and 
 the miller also prayed in their hearts the Dispenser of all 
 miercy not to abandon the immortal and divine soul 
 which had made its earthly passage under the abject 
 form of this wretch. 
 
 The notary alone went quietly back to his cup of tea, 
 after coolly pronouncing, " lie^ missa est, Dominus vohis* 
 
 " Gra?id-Louis," said he afterwards, calling him out of 
 the room, " thou must go at once to Jeu-les-bois, beforo 
 
294 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 the news of this death reaches there. Some vagabond 
 Uke himself might overturn his hovel, and steal the egg." 
 
 " "What ^ZZ^' '* ^^^^ ^^® miller. " His pig, his change 
 of rags ? " 
 
 " No, but the iron pot." 
 
 " Fantasy, M. Tailland ! " 
 
 " Go and see, nevertheless ! And then thy mare?" 
 
 "Ah, my old servant ! I forgot — you are right. She 
 IS well worth the journey, for her good heart and our old 
 friendship. We are nearly of an age, slie and I. I will 
 go, but what if he only jested with me about that too ? 
 He was an old rogue ! " 
 
 " Go, go, I tell thee — no laziness ! T believe in this 
 iron pot. I believe in it firm as iron, as they say here." 
 
 " But tell me then, M. Tailland, is it really of any 
 Talue, that bit of paper that you scribbled over for your 
 amusement ? " 
 
 " I answer for its being in good form, and it may ren- 
 der thee possessor of one hundred thousand francs." 
 
 " Me? but you forget that if the story is true, half of 
 it belongs to Mme. de Blanchemont, and the rest to 
 Bricolin." 
 
 " Still another reason for haste. Thy heart has ac- 
 cepted the charge of restitution. Go and seek it. When 
 thou hast rendered this service to M. Bricolin, it will go 
 hard but he gives thee his daughter." 
 
 " His daughter ! Do I pretend to his daughter? Can 
 his daughter think of me ? " said the miller, blushing. 
 
 " Good, good ! Discretion is a virtue, but I saw you 
 dancing together to-day, and I know why the father 
 parted you so roughly." 
 
 " M. Tailland, put all that out of your mind. I am 
 going. If there is really a treasure, what shall I do with 
 it ? Is not a declaration before a magistrate necessary ? " 
 
 "To what purpose? The formalities of justice were 
 invented for those who have no justice in their hearts. 
 What good would it do to dishonor the memory of an 
 old rogue who has succeeded for eighty years in passing 
 for an honest man? And thou hast no need to prove 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 295 
 
 that thou art not a thief, everybody knows it. Thou 
 wilt restore the money and all will be right." 
 
 "But if the old man has relations?'* 
 
 "He has none; and if he had, wouldst thou make 
 them inherit what does not belong to them ? " 
 
 " True, true, I am all confused by what has just taken 
 place. I will go mount my horse." 
 
 " That will not be convenient for brinsins: back this 
 famous iron pot, which is so heavy, so heavy ! Are the 
 roads tolerable down there ? " 
 
 " Certainly. From here you go to Transault, thence 
 to Lys-St.-George, and then to Jeu. It is all cross-road, 
 and newly repaired." 
 
 " In that case, take my carriage, Grand-Louis, and be 
 quick." 
 
 "Well, and you?" 
 
 " I will sleep here, and wait for you." 
 
 " The devil take me but you are a fine fellow ! And 
 what if the beds are poor, for you are rather delicate ? " 
 
 " So much the worse ! One night is soon over. Be- 
 sides, we cannot leave thy mother alone with the corpse, 
 it is too dismal. For thou must take thy mill-boy. Two 
 are none too many to carry money. Thou wilt find 
 loaded pistols in the pockets of my cabriolet, I often have 
 things of value to carry, and never travel without my 
 arms. Come, be off! Tell thy mother to make me some 
 more tea. We will talk as long as we can, for this corpse 
 annoys me." 
 
 Five minutes later, Lemor and the miller were on the 
 road to Jeu-les-bois, through the dark night. We will 
 give them time to arrive there, and return to see how 
 matters went on at the farm during the time of their 
 journey. 
 
2q6 the miller of angidault. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 DISASTEB. 
 
 /GRANDMOTHER BRICOLIN was very impatient 
 ^^ at the delay of the miller. She was far from think- 
 ing that her messenger would never return to claim his 
 promised reward, and the reader will easily understand 
 that the mendicant forgot, at the moment of his death, 
 to give the message which had been intrusted to him. 
 At last, weary and discouraged with waiting, she re- 
 turned to her old spouse, after having assured herself 
 that the maniac was still roaming in the warren, ab- 
 sorbed, as usual, in rumination, and that the quiet echoes 
 of the valley were no longer awakened by her ill-boding 
 cries. It was about midnight. A few unsteady voices 
 still rose as their owners left the cabarets, and the dogs 
 at the farm, as if recognizing familiar tones, disdained 
 to bark. 
 
 M. Bricolin, urged on by his wife, who desired the in- 
 stant execution of the deed drawn up by Marcelle, had, 
 not without pain and terror, delivered to the latter the 
 pocket-book containing two hundred and fifty thousand 
 francs. Marcelle was quite unmoved on receiving this 
 venerable object. It was so dirty that she took it with 
 her finger ends, and, tired of thinking of an affair in 
 which she had been so much disgusted by the cupidity of 
 others, she threw it into a corner of Rose's secretary. 
 She had accepted this prompt payment for the same 
 reason that had impelled the purchaser to make it, 
 namely, to bind him, and secure the destiny of the 
 young girl by preventing any possibility of retraction. 
 
 She desired Fanchon, at whatever hour Grand-Louis 
 should present himself, to take him into the kitchen, and 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 297 
 
 come to call her. Then she threw herself — dressed as 
 she was — upon her bed to rest, without sleeping, for 
 Rose was still much excited, and seemed never weary of 
 blessing her, and talking to her of her happiness. Mean- 
 while, the miller not arriving, and every one's strength 
 being exhausted by the emotions of the day, towards two 
 in the morning all at the farm were in deep sleep. One 
 of the family must be excepted — the maniac, whose 
 brain was wrought to a paroxysm of intolerable fever. 
 
 M. and Mme. Bricolin had talked long together in the 
 kitchen. The former having nothing more to fear, and 
 feeling chilled by all the water he had drank, had re- 
 turned to his mug, which he filled from hour to hour by 
 tipping with an unsteady hand an enormous jug that 
 stood beside him, filled with purple, foaming wine. It 
 was unpressed wine, the most heady of his vintage, a de- 
 testable beverage, but preferred by a Berrichon to any 
 wine in the world. 
 
 His wife, seeing that neither the satisfaction of being 
 proprietor of Blanchemont, nor the smiling projects of 
 his opulence, could brighten his dull eye, or loosen his 
 fixed jaw, had repeatedly advised him to go to bed. He 
 always replied, " Directly. I am just going," but with- 
 out quitting his chair. At last, after having been to see 
 that Rose as well as Marcelle was sleeping, Mme. Bric- 
 olin could endure it no longer, and went to bed and to 
 sleep, calling vainly to her husband, who had not force 
 enough left to stir, and did not now even hear her. 
 Completely intoxicated and prostrated — as a man always 
 is who has made an effort to sober himself suddenly, and 
 has amply repaid himself afterwards — the farmer, his 
 hand on his mug, and his head sunk on the table, made 
 a lullaby of portentous snores for the wearied sleep of 
 his wife, who was in bed in the next room, with the door 
 open. 
 
 An hour had scarcely passed away, when M. Bricolin 
 felt himself suffocating, and ready to sink with faintness. 
 He could hardly rise. It seemed to him that there was 
 no air to breathe, that his sharp eyes could discern 
 nothing, and that he was struck with apoplexy. Fear 
 
398 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 of death lent him strength to grope to the door, which 
 opened on the court ; the candle had burned out in its 
 tin socket. Having succeeded in opening the door, and 
 descending the steps without falling, the farmer stared 
 vacantly around him, without comprehending anything 
 of what he saw. An extraordinary blaze of light which 
 filled the court forced him to cover his eyes with his 
 hand, for the passage from darkness to this burning 
 glare gave him a new vertigo. At length, when the air 
 had dissipated the fumes of wine, the species of asphyxia 
 which had overpowered him gave way to a convulsive 
 shudder — at first mechanical and merely physical, but 
 soon produced by inexpressible terror. Two high jets of 
 fire, flashing through clouds of smoke, rose from the roof 
 of the barn. 
 
 Bricolin thought himself in a bad dream ; he rubbed 
 his eyes, he shook his whole body ; still these spires of 
 flame leaped towards the skies, and increased with fright- 
 ful rapidity. He would have cried "Fire!" but his 
 tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. He tried to re- 
 turn to the house from which he had wandered a few 
 steps, without knowing where he went. He saw on his 
 right torrents of flame pour from the stables, upon his 
 left another jet of fire crowning the turrets of the old 
 chateau; and before him — before him his own house, 
 illumined within by a terrible glare, and the door which 
 he had left open behind him vomiting black volumes of 
 smoke, like the mouth of a forge. All the buildings of 
 Blanchemont were the prey of a magnificently-arranged 
 conflagration. They had been set on fire in more than 
 ten or twelve different places, and what was most omi- 
 nous in the first act of this strange drama was, that the 
 silence of death brooded over all. No one as yet per- 
 ceived the disaster which Bricolin, bereft of strength 
 and will, contemplated in fearful solitude. All the in- 
 habitants of the new chateau and of the farm had passed 
 from the sleep of fatigue or intoxication to the asphyxia 
 produced by the smoke. The crackling of the fire alone 
 began to be heard, and the brittle noise of the falling 
 tiles upon the pavement. Not a cry, not a wail, re- 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 299 
 
 sponded to these sinister monitions. It seemed as if the 
 conflagration had found no food save deserted buildings 
 or corpses. M. Bricolin wrung his hands, and stood 
 mute and motionless, as if oppressed with nightmare, and 
 making vain internal efforts to awaken himself. 
 
 At last a piercing scream, a woman's scream was 
 heard, and Bricolin, as though delivered from the spell 
 that weighed upon him, replied, by a wild outcry, to this 
 appeal of the human voice. Marcelle had been the first 
 to perceive the danger, and now darted out, with her 
 child in her arms. Without seeing Bricolin or the rest 
 of the fire, she placed the boy upon a pile of hay in the 
 middle of the court, and saying to him, in a firm voice, 
 *' Stay there, do not be afraid ! '* she hastily reentered 
 the house, notwithstanding the suffocating smoke which 
 filled it, and ran to the bed of Rose, who had remained 
 as if paralyzed, incapable of following her. 
 
 Then, endowed by her courage with the strength of a 
 man, the slender little blonde took her young friend in 
 her arms, and heroically carried a body, much heavier 
 and larger than her own, to the place where she had left 
 her child. 
 
 Bricolin had thought at first of nothing but his crops 
 and his cattle, and had run towards the barns ; but at the 
 sight of his daughter, he remembered that he had a fam- 
 ily, and, sobered for the second time that night, and 
 more thoroughly now than before, he flew to the assist- 
 ance of his mother and wife. 
 
 Happily the fire had caught only the roofs, and the 
 lower story, inhabited by the Bricolins, was still un- 
 touched, with the exception of Rose's wing, which, being 
 very low, and in the neighborhood of a heap of dry fag- 
 gots, burned rapidly. 
 
 Mme. Bricolin, springing from bed, was in instant pos- 
 session of her bodily powers and her presence of mind. 
 With the assistance of her husband and Marcelle, she 
 carried out her father-in-law, who, imagining himself in 
 the hands of the chauffeurs, cried with all his might, " I 
 have nothing more ! Do not kill me ! Do not burn me 1 
 I will give you everything ! " 
 
300 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 Little Fanchon resolutely helped Mother Bricoliu, who 
 was soon ready to help others. The servants and work- 
 men were aroused, and none perished ; but all this took 
 considerable time, and when help came from the village, 
 and a line was at length formed, it was too late ; the 
 water seemed to increase the intensity of the fire, by rais- 
 ing burning fragments and throwing them to a distance. 
 The enormous quantity of grain and fodder heaped in 
 the out-houses, blazed with the rapidity of thought. The 
 ancient wood-work of the old buildings seemed to ask 
 nothing better than to burn. Nearly all the larger 
 animals refused to come out, and were stifled or burned. 
 Nothing was preserved but the body of the new chateau, 
 from which the tiles fell off, and whose new wood-work 
 was left naked, charred, and raising its black skeleton 
 over the yet white walls of the apartments. 
 
 Fire-engines in the country are a tardy and useless re- 
 source, often ill-contrived and ill-managed, and when they 
 arrived on this occasion, their hose burst at the first trial, 
 for want of use or good keeping. The firemen and 
 villagers, nevertheless, succeeded in subduing the fire, 
 and saving the habitation and furniture of the Bricolius. 
 But the loss of everything else was immense and com- 
 plete. The entire wing which Rose and Marcelle had 
 inhabited, all the barns and out-houses, all the cattle and 
 all the agricultural implements, were destroyed. The 
 roof of the old chateau was still burning, but unheeded, 
 because its strong, bare walls could defend themselves. 
 One only of its towers was cracked from top to bottom 
 by the heat. The others were preserved from final ruin 
 by the huge ivy which clasped them round.^ 
 
 The day began to dawn as the miller and Lemor came 
 out from the mendicant's wretched cabin. Lemor carried 
 the iron pot, and Grand-Louis held the bridle of his dear 
 Sophie, who had greeted his approach with a friendly 
 whinnying. "I have read Don Quixote," said he, *'and 
 I am now in the condition of Sancho recovering his ass. 
 A little more, and I should follow his example, embrace 
 my old Sophie, and make her a fine speech." 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 301 
 
 "Grand-Louis,'* said Lemor, "if you can resist this 
 temptation, do you feel none to look and see whether this 
 iron pot contains gold or pebbles ? " 
 
 "1 did lift the cover," said the miller; "something 
 shines inside, but I am in great haste to quit before day- 
 light, before the inhabitants, if any there be in this 
 desert, observe my motions, and take me for a thief. I 
 tremble with emotion and pleasure, like a man who has 
 well conducted another's business ; but I am cool, never- 
 theless, as one who inherits nothing for himself. File 
 off, file off. Master Henri ! Did you put my pickaxe 
 back into the carriage? Wait while I take one more 
 look. The hole is well filled up, nothing shows ; let us 
 be gone ! We will rest in some wood, if our beasts are 
 too tired to go on." 
 
 The notary's horse had been three mortal leagues on 
 the full trot, and often galloping over rough and hilly 
 roads, and was indeed so tired on their return, that when 
 our travellers arrived at the height of Lys-St.-Gcorge, 
 they were obliged to stop to breathe him. Sophie, whom 
 they had fastened behind the cabriolet, and who was not 
 accustomed to move at so mad a rate, was covered with 
 sweat. The miller's heart was touched. '"We should 
 be merciful to the beasts," said he ; "and then I should 
 be sorry to have our good notary lose a valuable horse 
 for his probity and wisdom in this business. As to 
 Sophie, no iron pot is worth her ; this old servant ought 
 not to play the part of the earthen vessel. Here is a 
 pretty shady spot, where neither man nor beast are stir- 
 ring. Let us stop here. I am sure there is a bag of 
 oats in the carriage-box, for M. Tailland thinks of every- 
 thing, and is not the man to go to sea without biscuit. 
 We will breathe here for a quarter of an hour, and we 
 shall all be the fresher to start again. Unluckily, when 
 giving the Uey of the fields to my uncle's pig, (inherit him 
 who will !) I forgot to steal some of his crusts of bread, 
 and my stomach feels so hollow, that, but for wronging 
 Sophie, I would willingly share her oats. It seems to 
 me that my part as a miser's heir is well begun. 1 am 
 starving beside my treasure." 
 
303 
 
 THE MILLER OF AT^GIBAULT. 
 
 While chatting thus according to his custom, the miller 
 unbridled the horses, and gave them their breakfast — 
 the notary's in the bag that held the oats, and Sophie's in 
 his own long blue cotton cap, which he very facetiously 
 tied round her nose. 
 
 '' It is odd how light my heart feels now," said he, 
 bringing out the iron pot from under the bushes. ''Do 
 you know, M. Lemor, that my happiness lies in here, 
 within this pot, if the gold is not all on top, and the 
 bottom filled with copper? I am afraid it is too heavy 
 to be all gold. Come now, help me count it." 
 
 It was soon counted. The pieces of old gold were 
 rolled up in dirty scraps of paper, in sums of one thou- 
 sand francs each. On opening them, Lemor and the 
 miller saw the marks of which the mendicant had spoken. 
 There was a cross upon each louis of Father Bricolin's 
 fortune, while those belonging to the deposit of the lord 
 of Blanchemont bore a simple bar. At the bottom they 
 fouud about three thousand francs in various silver coins, 
 and even a handful of copper, the mendicant's last col- 
 lection. 
 
 '* This," said the miller, throwing it back into the pot, 
 " is my uncle's fortune, your humble servant's inherit- 
 ance, the widow's mite which this old dotard did not 
 scruple to collect, and which shall return to the widow 
 and the orphan, I promise you. Who knows if some of 
 this be not the fruit of theft? Seeing how my uncle 
 (peace to his soul !) filched Sophie from me, I am not 
 over confident in the purity of his bequest. Ah, what 
 pleasure I shall have in giving alms — I, who am so 
 often deprived of this satisfaction ! I shall have a 
 princely pleasure ! Do you know that in this country 
 one can save the lives and secure the comfort of three 
 families with three thousand francs ? " 
 
 " But you forget the rest of the deposit, Grand-Louis. 
 Think that with this large sum, of which Mme. de 
 Blanchemont has surely no personal need, you enable 
 her also to confer much happiness." 
 
 " Oh ! trust her for making it fly in that direction ! 
 But there is something besides that pleases me ! Thia 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 303 
 
 little hoard which M. Bricoliu will be so glad to receive 
 from me ! It will not find a very Christian use in his 
 hands, but it will mend up my affairs, which were nearly 
 ruined last night." 
 
 "That is to say, my dear Louis, that you can now 
 aspire to the hand of Rose ? " 
 
 " Oh, never think it ! If the fifty thousand francs be- 
 longed to me, that could be splendidly arranged ! But 
 Bricolin knows how to calculate better than you. He 
 will say, ' Here are five hundred pistoles of mine, which 
 Grand-Louis has done only his duty in bringing me. 
 What is mine is not his ; so I have fifty thousand francs 
 the more in my pocket, and he remains with his mill as 
 before.' " 
 
 " And will he not be astonished and touched by an in- 
 tegrity of which he would doubtless have been incapable ? " 
 
 " Astonished, yes ; touched, no. But he will say, 
 ' This lad may be useful to me.' Honest people are very 
 necessary to those who are not so. And he will pardon 
 me my sins, and restore me his custom, of which I think 
 a great deal, since it enables me to see Rose, and speak 
 to her every day. So you see that without deluding my- 
 self, I have good reason to be happy. I felt so proud 
 and so happy yesterday evening when I was dancing with 
 Rose, when she seemed to love me ! Well ! I recover 
 that happiness, without troubling myself as to the mor- 
 row. That is much : go to, fine Uncle Cadoche ! thou 
 didst not guess what consolation lay for me in thy iron 
 pot ! Thou thoughtest to make me rich, and thou makest 
 me happy ! " 
 
 " But, my dear Louis, since you take to Marcelle a 
 sum equal to that she wished to sacrifice for you, you 
 may now accept the concessions that she offered to 
 Bricolin?" 
 
 "Me? Never! Do not speak of such a thing. It 
 wounds me. I shall be no longer banished from the 
 farm, and that is all I want. See how bright and hand- 
 some this treasure is ! how much comfort for distress, 
 and ease for pain, lie in it ! Money is good, after all, 
 
304 I'HE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 M. Lemor, confess it ! Here, in the hollow of my hand, 
 are the lives of five or six poor children !" 
 
 "Friend, I see only what is really there — old Brics 
 olin*s tears, and cries, and torture ; and the beggar's 
 avarice, and stupid, degraded life entirely consumed in 
 the trembling contemplation of his theft ! " 
 
 " Ugh ! you are right," said the miller, shocked, and 
 casting back his handful of gold into the iron pot. 
 " What crimes, anxieties, and lies, what cowardice, and 
 fear, and suffering are here ! You are right, money is a 
 vile thing ; and we here, who are secretly looking at it, 
 and counting it, we are like two robbers armed with 
 pistols, and in fear of being surprised by other robbers, 
 or collared by the police. Out of my sight, accursed ! '* 
 cried he, replacing the cover, " and l^t us go, friend 1 
 Joy to us, this is not ours ! " 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 305 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 A RUPTURE. 
 
 A S they approached the valley of the Vauvre, our trav- 
 •^ ^ ellers remarked, in looking towards Blanchemont, 
 an immense sheet of heavy smoke, whitened by the rising 
 sun. 
 
 " Look, now ! " said the miller ; "see what a fog there 
 is over the Vauvre this morning, especially on the side 
 where we both always want to look ! It troubles me ; I 
 do not see the pointed roofs of my good old little chateau, 
 which, from every side, as I am riding about, serve as 
 guiding-points to my thoughts." 
 
 In about ten minutes the smoke, which had been held 
 down by the weight of the morning mists, suddenly broke 
 away at the foot of the valley, and Grand-Louis, abruptly 
 stopping the notary's horse, said to his companion : 
 
 "It is singular, M. Lemor, — I don't know whether 
 my eyes are blurred this morning, but, look my best, I 
 cannot see the red roof of the new building below the tur- 
 rets of the old chateau ! Yet I am very sure it can be 
 seen from here ; I have stopped here moie than an hun- 
 dred times, and I distinguish the trees arouud it. Ah, 
 but look ! the old chateau is all changed ! The turrets 
 look lower to me. Where the devil is the roof ? Thun- 
 der crush me ! there is nothing left but the gables ! Stay, 
 stay ! What is that red spot beside the farm-house ? It is 
 fire ! yes, fire ! and all those black things? — M. Lemor, 
 you know I told you, when we were at Jeu-les-bois, that 
 the sky was reddened, and that there was a fire some- 
 where. You persisted that it was the burning of pas- 
 tures, but I knew there was no furze in that direction. 
 Look ! I am not dreaming ! the chateau, the farm, all ia 
 burned!— But Rose! Rose!— Ah, my God! And 
 20 
 
3o6 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 Madame Marcelle ! and my little Edward ! and Mother 
 Bricolin I my God ! my God ! " 
 
 And the miller, whipping his horse furiously, galloped 
 on towards Blanchemont, without stopping to think 
 whether his old Sophie could follow or not. 
 
 As they approached, the signs of the disaster became 
 only too certain. Soon they heard of it from those they 
 met on the road, and although they were assured that no 
 one had perished, both, pale and agitated, urged to the ut- 
 most their horse, who seemed to them to creep. 
 
 When they reached the foot of the terrace, as the 
 poor animal, panting, and covered with foam, could only 
 walk up the ascent, they stopped before Pauline's, and 
 sprang from the cabriolet to run faster. At this moment 
 Marcelle appeared before their eyes, at the door of the 
 cabin. She was pale, but calm, and there were no ves- 
 tiges of fire on her garments, for she had been occupied 
 through the night in attending upon others, without use- 
 lessly endeavoring to extinguish the flames. Lemor was 
 near fainting with joy at seeing her ; he took her hand 
 without the power of speech. 
 
 " My boy is here, and Rose is at the curate's," said 
 Marcelle. " She has met with no accident, she is scarcely 
 ill, she is happy in spite of her parents' consternation. 
 Nothing is lost in all this but money. It is a slight thing 
 compared to the joy that awaits her — " 
 
 "What? how?" said the miller; "I do not under- 
 stand." 
 
 '"• Go and see her, my friend, nothing prevents you, 
 and learn from herself what I will not be the first to 
 tell you." 
 
 Grand-Louis remained a moment stupefied, then ran. 
 Lemor entered the cabin with Marcelle, and while Paul- 
 ine and her husband looked to the horses, he went to the 
 bed where Edward was sleeping. The last of the 
 Blanchemonts was sweetly reposing upon the pallet of 
 the poorest peasant of his domains. He possessed not 
 even a shelter, and the hospitality of indigence was all he 
 could now claim. 
 
 "Then he ran no danger?" said Lemor, kissing his 
 little hands, moist with gentle warmth. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 307 
 
 " This little creature has good stamina," said Marcelle, 
 with some pride. " He has not been ill, he woie in the 
 midst of suffocating smoke, and was not afraid. He has 
 passed the night with me, helping and comforting others ; 
 and, notwithstanding his weakness and ignorance of mis- 
 fortune, his cares, his caresses, and simple words, have 
 been like an angel's to me, and to all the timorous souls 
 who were trembling and crying around us. And I 
 dreaded emotion and fright, for his health ! An heroic 
 spirit animates this delicate frame. Lemor ! he is a 
 blessed child, whom God marked, at his birth, for noble 
 poverty ! " 
 
 The child awoke at Lemor's caresses, and recognizing 
 him this time more by his tenderness than his features, — 
 
 " Ah, Henri ! " said he, " why wouldst thou not speak 
 to me when thou madest believe Antoine ? " 
 
 Marcelle was beginning, with quiet fortitude, to ex- 
 plain to her lover the new catastrophe in which the fire 
 had involved the remainder of her fortune, when M. 
 Bricolin, his face convulsed, his clothes in rags, and his 
 hands severely burned, rushed into the cabin. 
 
 On recovering from his first terror, the farmer had 
 worked, with desperate energy and courage, to save his 
 cattle and his crops. An hundred times he had nearly 
 been a victim to his frantic eagerness ; and he had aban- 
 doned his vain hopes only on finding himself in the midst 
 of a heap of ashes. Then discouragement, despair, and 
 a sort of fury seized upon his feeble brain. He was 
 almost raving ; and rushed distractedly towards Marcelle, 
 with confused ideas and embarrassed words. 
 
 "Ah, here you are at last, madam!" said he, in a 
 broken voice. " I have been looking for you through all 
 the village, and I did not know what had become of you. 
 Hark you, Mme. Marcelle ! — I have something very 
 important to say to you — you may look calm, but all 
 this misfortune falls upon you ; all this damage is at your 
 cost ! " 
 
 ''I know it, M. Bricolin!" answered Marcelle, with 
 some impatience ; for the sight of this avaricious man 
 was not consoling to her just now. 
 
 "You know it?" replied Bricolin, in a sort of rage, 
 
3o8 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 "and I know it, too ! It is your business to rebuild the 
 houses and replace the stock at Blanchemont." 
 
 "And with what, if you please, M. Bricolin?" 
 
 "With your money! Have you not money? Did I 
 not give you enough ? " 
 
 "I have none now, M. Bricolin. The pocket-book 
 was burned." 
 
 "You let my pocket-book burn? the pocket-book 
 that I intrusted to you?" cried Bricolin, exasperated, 
 and striking his forehead with his fists. "How could 
 you be so silly, so stupid, as not to save the pocket-book, 
 since you had plenty of time to save your son ? " 
 
 "I saved Rose, too, M. Bricolin. I carried her out 
 of the house in my own arms. Meanwhile, the pocket- 
 book was burned. I am not sorry for it." 
 
 "It is not true —you have it ! " 
 
 " I swear to you solemnly that I have not. The sec- 
 retary where it was, all the furniture of that chamber, 
 was burned while the people were being saved. You 
 know this very well ; I have told you before, for you 
 asked me about it ; but you did not hear me, or you do 
 not remember." 
 
 "Ah, yes, I remember," said the dismayed farmer, 
 "but I thought you were deceiving me." 
 
 " And why should I deceive you ? Was not the money 
 mine .'' " 
 
 "Yours? Then you do not deny that I bought your 
 estate from you yesterday evening, that I paid you for it, 
 and that it belongs to me } " 
 
 "What should make you think that I was capable of 
 denying it ? " 
 
 "Ah! pardon me, pardon me, madam! I have not 
 my right head ! " said the farmer, subdued and calmed. 
 
 "So I see," said Marcelle, in a contemptuous tone, to 
 which he paid no attention. 
 
 "It is all the same, the repairs of the buildings and 
 the stock are at your cost," resumed he, after a short 
 silence, in which his ideas became confused anew. 
 
 " One of two things, M. Bricolin," said Marcelle, 
 shrugging her shoulders. "Either you have not bought 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 309 
 
 the estate, and it is my business to repair the damage, or 
 I have sold it to you, and have nothing to do with it ; 
 choose ! " 
 
 "True!" said Bricolin, again sinking into a new 
 stupor. Then he resumed quickly, "Oh, yes! I have 
 fairly and fully bought and paid ; you cannot deny that. 
 I have your deed and receipt, which I took good care to 
 save ! My wife has it in her pocket." 
 
 "Then you are easy, and I too ; for I have also the 
 duplicate copy of our deed in my pocket." 
 
 " But you ought to pay for the damage !" cried Bric- 
 olin, with dull fury ; "I did not buy your estate without 
 buildings and stock. The loss is at least fifty thousand 
 francs ! " 
 
 "I know nothing of that, but the disaster took place 
 after the sale." 
 
 " It was you who set fire to it ! " 
 
 "Very probably!" said Marcelle, with cool disdain, 
 " and I threw in the price of my estate to amuse 
 myself!" 
 
 " Pardon, pardon me, I am ill ! " said the farmer ; "to 
 lose so much money in one night! — But it is all one, 
 Mme. Marcelle, you owe me an indemnity for my mis- 
 fortune. I have always had misfortune with your family. 
 My father was tortured by the chauffeurs, and robbed of 
 fifty thousand francs of his own, for a deposit which 
 your grandfather left in his charge." 
 
 "The consequences of that misfortune are irreparable, 
 since your father lost his health, both of mind and body, 
 by it. But my family is perfectly innocent of the crime 
 of tlie robbers, and as to the loss of your money, it was 
 largely made up by my grandfather." 
 
 "True, he was an excellent master! You should do 
 the same ; you ought to compensate me ! " 
 
 " You think so much of money, and I so little, M. 
 Bricolin, that I would satisfy you if I were able. But 
 you forget that I have lost everything, even to the pitiful 
 sum of two thousand francs which I received from the 
 sale of my carriage, and my very clothes. My boy can- 
 not even say at this moment that he owns so much in the 
 world as the garments which cover him, for I carried 
 
3IO THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 him naked from your house ; and if this woman whom 
 you see had not taken him in with holy charity, and 
 clothed him with tlie poor garments of one of her own 
 children, I should be forced to beg from you a blouse and 
 a pair of wooden shoes for him. Leave rae then quiet, 
 I beseech you ; I have strength to bear my own mis- 
 fortunes, but your rapacity disgusts and wearies me.'* 
 
 "Enough, sir ! " said Lemor, who could no longer re- 
 strain himself. "Go — leave this lady in peace !" 
 
 Bricolin did not hear this apostrophe. He had sunk 
 upon a chair, only so far alive to Marcelle's utter destitu- 
 tion as it deprived him of all hope of extorting anything 
 from her. "S o," cr iad.he despairingly, striking his fists 
 upon th e table, 4 1 thought I had made a good bargain last 
 night ;}I had bought Blancliemont for two hundred and 
 fifty thousand francs ; and now this morning I have lost J 
 fifty thousand francs, in buildings and cattle ! That j'" ' 
 makes the estate," said he, sobbing, "cost me three (^^ 
 hundred thousand francs, as yrfll wnnld havfl hnd it!" ] 
 
 " It does not seem to rae to be my fault, or that I 
 profit by it," coldly answered Marcelle, whose indigna- 
 tion fell on seeing Lemor's, and who controlled herself to 
 oblige him to be culm. 
 
 "And that is all your misfortune, M. Bricolin?" 
 simply asked Pauline, astonished at all that she had 
 heard. " Truly, I should think myself well off! This 
 poor lady has lost everything ; you are still rich, as rich 
 as you were yesterday evening, and you ask something 
 of her ? That is queer enough ! If Blanchemont costs 
 you, fire and all, only three hundred thousand francs, it 
 is still mighty cheap. I know many who would have 
 given more." 
 
 "Pray what are you talking about?" replied Bricolin. 
 " Hold your tongue ! you are but a fool and a gossip." 
 
 " Thanks, sir ! " said Pauline ; and turning proudly 
 to Marcelle — "it is all the same, madam," she said; 
 " since you have lost all, you may stay with me as long 
 as you wish, and share my black bread. I will not re- 
 proach you, and will never send you away." 
 
 " Listen, sir ! " said Lemor, " and blush !" 
 
 " You — I don't know who you are ! " returned Brie- 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. xn 
 
 olin^ in a rage. " Nobody here knows you ; you look 
 as much like a miller as I like a bishop. But you shall 
 not go far, my lad ! I will send the police to demand 
 your papers, and if you have none, we shall see ! This 
 fire was plainly kindled on purpose, everybody will swear 
 to that, and the king's attorney is here to make out a 
 warrant. You are friends with a man who owes me a 
 grudge, and that's enough ! " 
 
 " Ah ! this is too much ! " said the indignant Lemor ; 
 " you are the meanest of wretches, and if you do not 
 leave this place instantly, I will find means to make 
 you." 
 
 " Stay ! " said Marcelle, seizing Lemor's arm. " Have 
 pity on this man, he has lost his senses ! Be indulgent 
 to misfortune, however base it show itself; follow my 
 example, Lemor ; my patience is equal to my situation." 
 
 Bricolin did not hear. He held his head between his 
 hands, and groaned like a mother who has lost her child. 
 
 '••And I who would never insure, because it was too 
 dear," cried he, ia a lamentable whine ; " and my oxen, 
 my poor oxen, who were so fat and handsome ! A lot 
 of sheep worth two thousand francs, that I would not sell 
 at the fair of St. Christopher ! " 
 
 Marcelle could not restrain a smile, and her lofty good 
 sense controlled Lemor's indignation. 
 
 "At any rate," said the farmer, suddenly rising, 
 "your miller shall not have my daughter ! " 
 
 " In that case, you shall not have my estate. The 
 deed is clear, and the condition positive." 
 
 " We will go to law ! " 
 
 " As you please." 
 
 " Oh, you cannot go to law ! That needs money, and 
 you have none. And then you would have to restore 
 me the payment, and how would you do that ? Besides, 
 your fine condition is null ; and as for the miller, I am 
 going to begin by having him arrested and put in prison ; 
 for I am sure it is he who set fire to my house, out of 
 revenge for my treatment of him yesterday. All the 
 village will testify to how he threatened me — and this 
 gentleman here — enough! Help! help! the police!*' 
 and he rushed out in absolute frenzy. 
 
312 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 THE CHAPEL. 
 
 A NXIOUS for the miller and for Lemor, who might 
 -^^^^ be disagreeably, if not dangerously, involved by the 
 consequences of Bricolin's blind revenge, Marcelle in- 
 duced her lover to conceal himself, and Pauline was just 
 going to warn Grand-Louis to do the same, when sud- 
 denly all the people on the terrace, who were standing in 
 groups and talking over the late disaster, were seen to re 
 assemble and run towards the farm. 
 
 " I am sure they have done it already ! " cried Pauline, 
 weeping. " They have laid hands already on poor 
 Grand-Louis ! " 
 
 Lemor, hearkening only to his friendship and courage, 
 left the hut and flew towards the terrace. Marcelle, 
 frightened, followed him, leaving Edward to the care of 
 her hostess's eldest daughter. 
 
 When they entered the court of the farm, Marcelle 
 and Lemor were shocked at the sight of the tottering 
 piles of blackened ruins, the ground soaked with water, 
 which looked like ink, and the crowd of weary, wet, 
 burnt, and spectre-like laborers, who were even now pre- 
 paring for new fatigue. The fire had just broken out 
 afresh in a little isolated chapel, situated between the 
 farm-house and the old chateau. 
 
 This new accident seemed incomprehensible ; for this 
 building had remained untouched till now, and if a spark 
 had fallen upon it during the conflagration, the fire would 
 not have smouldered so long among the dried peas con- 
 tained there. Yet the flames broke from the interior, 
 as if an implacable hand had carried its daring so far as 
 to strive before all eyes, and in broad day, to destroy the 
 last building on the estate. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 313 
 
 *' Let the chapel burn ! " cried M. Bricolin, foaming 
 with rage; "run after the incendiary! He must be 
 there, he cannot be far. It is Grand-Louis, I am sure ! 
 I have proof! Look in the warren! Surround the 
 warren ! '* 
 
 M. Bricolin was little aware that while he was thus 
 directing public feeling against the miller, the latter, for- 
 getful and careless of what was passing without, was at 
 the curate's, kneeling beside the large chair in which 
 Rose had been placed, and receiving from her lips the 
 confession of her love, and the news of the engagement 
 entered into by her father. In the general confusion, 
 the curate, and even his housekeeper, had mingled with 
 the busy laborers ; her grandmother alone remained with 
 Rose ; and the young lovers, lost in the purest rapture, 
 had entirely forgotten the agitating events taking place 
 around them. 
 
 A circle was formed about the chapel, and the engines 
 were directed towards it, when M. Bricolin, who had 
 advanced to the door, shrunk back horrified, and fell 
 against one of his farm-boys, who could scarcely support 
 him. This chapel, which had formerly been attached to 
 the old chateau, still, to an antiquarian eye, possessed 
 beautiful remains of G-othic carving. But so old an edi- 
 fice could not long sustain the intensity of the heat. 
 The flames burst through the windows, and their delicate 
 ornaments were beginning to crack off, when the half- 
 open door was abruptly pushed from within, and the ma- 
 niac came out, a small lantern in one hand, and a wisp 
 of burning straw in the other. She was slowly retiring, 
 after having given the finishing touch to her work of de- 
 struction ; she walked gravely on, her eyes bent on the 
 ground, seeing no one, and entirely occupied with the 
 enjoyment of her long-contemplated and coolly-executed 
 vengeance. 
 
 An over-conscientious policeman went straight up to 
 her, and stopped her by taking hold of her arm. Then 
 first perceiving the crowd who surrounded her, she thrust 
 her blazing straw into the face of the officer, who, sur- 
 prised at this unexpected defence, was forced to let her 
 
314 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 go. Instantly recovering her impetuous agility, with a 
 look of hatred and fury, and uttering confused impreca- 
 tions, she darted into the chapel, as if to hide herself. 
 Several attempted, but no one dared to follow her. She 
 crossed the flames with the ease of a salamander, and 
 climbed the little spiral staircase which led to the roof. 
 There she appeared at a skylight, and was seen to urge 
 on the fire, which gained too slowly to satisfy her, and 
 which soon surrounded her on every side. They tried in 
 vain to wet the roof with the engines. It had been 
 lately repaired, and covered with zinc. The water ran 
 off, and scarcely penetrated at all. Thus the fire con- 
 sumed the interior, and the unfortunate Bricoline, slowly 
 burning, must have endured extreme torture. But she 
 appeared not to feel it, and was heard singing a dancing 
 tune, which she had loved in her youth, to which she had 
 doubtless often danced with her lover, and which re- 
 curred to her memory at the moment of death. Not a 
 groan was heard from her ; deaf to the cries and suppli- 
 cations of her mother, who wrung her hands, and was 
 only withheld by force from rushing to her, she sang for 
 a long time ; then appearing at the window once more, 
 she recognized her father. 
 
 "Aha, M. Bricolin!'* cried she to him, "i/«ese <Z«?/s 
 of ours are fine times for you ! " 
 
 These were her last words. When the fire was sub- 
 dued, her whitened bones were found on the pavement of 
 the chapel. 
 
 This fearful death completely distracted Bricolin, and 
 destroyed the courage of his wife. They thought no 
 longer of arresting any one, and during the entire day 
 they were wholly forgetful of Rose, Mother Bricolin, and 
 her old husband. Shut up at the curate's, M. and Mme. 
 Bricolin would see no one, and emerged only when they 
 had exhausted together all the bitterness of their grief. 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 313 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 IVyTARCELLE had enough presence of mind to foresee 
 ^^ that it would be dangerous for Rose, ill and shaken 
 by so many emotions, to hear of the deplorable end of 
 her sister. She suggested to the miller to put her imme- 
 diately into the notary's cabriolet, and take her to his 
 mill, with her grandmother and the infirm old man, from 
 whom the good woman would not be separated. She 
 herself, leaning upon Lemor, who carried Edwiird in his 
 arms, followed them at a little distance. 
 
 For several days Rose had a return of fever every 
 evening. Her friends did not leave her for an instant. 
 They concealed from her the funeral of the beggar 
 Cadoche, who was buried with all the ceremony he de- 
 sired, and they left her in ignorance of the death of the 
 maniac till she was able to endure the intelligence ; but 
 it was long before she knew all the shocking circum- 
 stances attending it. 
 
 Marcelle consulted M. Tailland upon the value of the 
 deed drawn up with Bricolin. 
 
 The notary's opinion was not favorable. Marriage, 
 being a matter of public institution, could not be made a 
 clause in a deed of sale. In the case of illegal clauses, 
 the sale remains good, and the said clauses are reputed 
 unwritten. Such are the terras of the law. M. Bricolin 
 knew them before the signature of the deed. 
 
 At the end of three days the farmer appeared at the 
 mill, pale, haggard, having lost half his flesh, and even 
 the desire to drink himself into better spirits. He seemed 
 incapable of anger ; still, as they did not know what his 
 intentions might be in coming to Angibault, and as Rose 
 
3i6 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT, 
 
 was yet very weak, Marcelle trembled lest he should re- 
 call her with abusive words or manners. Everybody 
 was uneasy, and they all went out to meet him, so as to 
 prevent his entrance unless he announced pacific inten- 
 tions. 
 
 He began by coldly intimating to his mother that she 
 was to bring his daughter home immediately. He had 
 hired a house in the village of Blanchemont, and was 
 about to commence the work of rebuilding. " But my 
 being ill lodged," said he, " is no reason for my being de- 
 prived of the society of my daughter, nor for her re- 
 fusing her services to her mother. Only an unnatural 
 child would do so." So speaking, Bricolin cast surly 
 looks on the miller. It was plain that he wished to 
 withdraw his daughter quietly from his house, feeling 
 that he could afterwards give vent to his rancor, and 
 accuse Grand-Louis, at need, of having carried her off. 
 
 '' That is right, that is right," said Mother Bricolin, 
 who had undertaken to reply. "Rose has several limes 
 asked to return to her father and mother, but as she is 
 yet ill, we have prevented her. I think she may be well 
 enough to-day to go with thee, and I am ready to accom- 
 pany her with my old man, if thou hast a place for us. 
 Only give Mme. Marcelle time to prepare the child for 
 the surprise and pleasure of seeing thee, and do thou 
 come to my chamber, Bricolin ; I have something to say 
 to thee in private." 
 
 The old woman led him to the room which she shared 
 with the mill-dame. Marcelle and Rose had been in- 
 stalled in the miller's. Lemor and Grand-Louis slept, 
 rejoicingly, in the hay-loft. 
 
 "Bricolin," said the good woman, "thou wilt have 
 great expense with these repairs. Where wilt thou get 
 the money ? " 
 
 "What is that to you, mother? you have none to give 
 me," answered Bricolin, roughly ; " I am short, just now, 
 it is true, but I shall borrow. I shall have no trouble in 
 finding credit." 
 
 "Yes, but with heavy interest, as is the custom, and 
 then when you come to repay, you are already involved 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 317 
 
 in new expenses that are necessary and unavoidable. 
 That is a constraint and an incumbrance, and one never 
 knows how to get away from it." 
 
 " Well, what would you have me do? Can I stow my 
 next year's harvest in my shoe, and shelter my cattle uu- 
 der a broom ? " 
 
 " What will all that cost?'* 
 
 " The Lord knows ! " 
 
 "But about — ?" 
 
 " From forty-five to fifty thousand francs, at the least ; 
 fifteen to. eighteen thousand for tlie buildings, as much 
 for the stock, and as much for what I lose of my crops 
 and of the year's profits ! " 
 
 " Yes, that makes about 50,000 francs. That was 
 just my estimate. Well ! Say, Bricolin, if I gave thee 
 that sum, what wouldst thou do for me?" 
 
 ''You?" cried Bricolin, his eyes recovering their ac- 
 customed fire ; " have you, then, savings unbeknown to 
 me, or are you doting? " 
 
 " I am not doting. I have 50,000 francs in gold, 
 which I will give thee, if thou wilt let me marry Rose as 
 I like." 
 
 " Ah ! here it is ! always the miller ! All the women 
 are crazy after that bear ; even old souls of eighty." 
 
 '' Good, very good ! Jest, but accept." 
 
 " And where is this money?" 
 
 " I have given it to Grand-Louis to keep," said the old 
 woman, who knew, that if her son saw it, he was capable 
 of forcibly snatching it from her hands in his ecstacy. 
 
 " And why to Grand-Louis, and not to me or my wife? 
 Then you mean to make him a gift of it, if I do not act 
 according to your will ? " 
 
 '* The money of others is safe in his hands," said the 
 old woman, " for he had this without my knowledge, and 
 brought it to me when I thought it lost forever. It is my 
 husband's, you understand ; but since you have had him 
 set aside in law, and we have sunk our property for the 
 benefit of the survivor, it is at my disposal." 
 
 "But this is a recovery, then ? Lnpossible ! you are 
 
3i8 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 making a fool of me, and it is too good in me to listen to 
 you ! " 
 
 " Listen ! " said his mother ; " it is a queer story." 
 
 And she told her son all the story of Cadoche and his 
 legacy. 
 
 '' And the miller brought you back this money, when 
 he might have said nothing about it?" cried the farmer, 
 quite confounded. " Really, that was very honest, yes, 
 really very handsome^ on his part ! He must have a 
 present.*' 
 
 " There is but one present to make him : Rose*s hand, 
 since she has already gifted him with her heart." 
 
 " But I will give no dowry ! " cried Bricolin. 
 
 "That is understood : who asked thee for it?" 
 
 *' Show me this money ! " 
 
 Mother Bricolin took her son to the miller, who showed 
 him the iron pot and its contents. 
 
 " And by this means," said the farmer, dazzled, and as 
 it were resuscitated, by the sight of so much coined gold, 
 " Mme. de Blanchemont is not absolutely destitute ? " 
 
 "Thanks to God!" 
 
 " And to thee, Grand-Louis ! " 
 
 " Thanks to Father Cadoche's whim." 
 
 " And thoji, what dost thou inherit? " 
 
 " Three thousand francs, of which a third is destined 
 to Pauline, and the rest to the establishment of two other 
 families near me. [We will all work together, and re- 
 ceive the profits in common."] 
 
 " That is stupid ! " "^ 
 
 " No, it is useful and just." 
 
 " But why not keep these thousand crowns for wedding 
 presents for — thy wife ? " 
 
 " They would smell of stolen money ; and even if it were 
 only the produce of charity, would you, who are so proud, 
 like to have Rose wear dresses that were paid for with 
 copper coins, given as alms to a beggar? " 
 
 " There would be no need of telling where they came 
 from ! Well, then, when shall the wedding be, Grand- 
 Louis?" 
 
 " To-morrow, if you will.'* 
 
THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 3^9 
 
 '* Let the banns be published to-morrow, and give me 
 the money to-day ; I have a use for it." 
 
 " No, no ! no, no ! " cried his mother. " Thou shalt 
 have it on the wedding-day. Fair play, fair play, my 
 boy ! " 
 
 The sight of the gold had revived M. Bricolin. He 
 sat down to table, drank with the miller, embraced his 
 daughter, and, when about half-seas over, remounted his 
 nag, to go and set his masons to work. 
 
 " In this way," said he to himself, " I still have 
 Blanchemont for 250,000 francs, and even for 200,000, 
 since I give no dowry with my last daughter I " 
 
 " We too, Lemor, we must build," said Marcelle to her 
 lover, when Bricolin had gone. " We are rich ; we have 
 enough to raise a pretty, rustic cottage, where our child 
 shall have a good education ; for thou wilt be his precep- 
 tor, and the miller will teach him his trade. Why should 
 he not be at once an active workman and an educated 
 man?" 
 
 '' And I depend upon beginning with myself," said 
 Lemor. " I am very ignorant ; I must study evenings. 
 I am mill-boy — I like to be mill-boy — and I will be 
 that in the day-time. What fine health this life will give 
 our Edward ! " 
 
 " Well, Mme. Marcelle," said Grand-Louis, taking 
 Lemor's hand, " you who told me, the first time you came 
 here — eight days ago, nor more nor less — that your 
 happiness would consist in having a little house, neat and 
 clean, with a thatched roof, and climbing vines like mine, 
 a simple, easy life like mine, a son, who should be busy 
 and not over-dull, like me! — And all this here, upon 
 our river Vauvre, which has the honor to please you, and 
 beside us, who are good neighbors ! " 
 
 "And all this in common," said Marcelle, "for I 
 take it no otherwise ! " 
 
 " Oh ! impossible ! your part, at present, is much 
 greater than mine." 
 
 "You calculate ill, miller," said Lemor; "thine and 
 
320 
 
 THE MILLER OF ANGIBAULT. 
 
 mine, between friends, is as great an enormity as to say 
 that two and two make five." 
 
 " Then I am rich and learned ! " returned the miller, 
 "for I have Rose's heart, and you will talk with me 
 every day ! Did not I tell you, M. Lemor, that there 
 would be a miracle for me, and that all would come 
 right ? But I did not reckon the while upon Uncle Ca- 
 doche ! " 
 
 " What makes thee dance so, alochon f " said Edward. 
 
 " My child," answered the miller, lifting him high in 
 his arms, " while throwing my nets, I have caught, in the 
 clearest of the water, a little angel, who has brought me 
 happiness ; and, in the muddiest, an old devil of an un- 
 de, whom I shall perhaps be able to get out of purgatory ! " 
 
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