that such vermin were not to ruffle him, “to see a thief

accompanying my carriage, and not open that great mouth of

yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur Gabelle!”

Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing

functionary united; he had come out with great obsequiousness to

assist at this examination, and had held the examined by the

drapery of his arm in an official manner.

“Bah! Go aside!” said Monsieur Gabelle.

“Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village

tonight, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.”

“Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders.”

“Did he run away, fellow?Where is that Accursed?”

The accursed was already under the carriage with some halfdozen

particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap.

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Some half-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled him

out, and presented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.

“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?”

“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hillside, head

first, as a person plunges into the river.”

“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!”

The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among

the wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they

were lucky to save their skins and bones; they had very little else

to save, or they might not have been so fortunate.

The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and

up the rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill.

Gradually, it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering

upward among the many sweet scents of a summer night. The

postilions, with a thousand gossamer gnats circling about them in

lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the points to the lashes of their

whips; the valet walked by the horses; the courier was audible,

trotting on ahead into the dim distance.

At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground,

with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a

poor figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver,

but he had studied the figure from the lifehis own life, maybe

for it was dreadfully spare and thin.

To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been

growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling.

She turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly,

and presented herself at the carriage-door.

“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.”

With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable

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face, Monseigneur looked out.

“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!”

“Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the

forester.”

“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you