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Andermatt and Doctor Latonne were walking in front of the Casino on a terrace adorned with vases made of imitation marble.

“He no longer salutes me,” the doctor was saying, referring to his brother-physician Bonnefille. “He is over there in his pit, like a wild-boar. I believe he would poison our springs, if he could!”

Andermatt, with his hands behind his back and his hat — a small round hat of gray felt — thrown back over his neck, so as to let the baldness above his forehead be seen, was deeply plunged in thought. At length he said:

“Oh! in three months the Company will have knuckled under. We might buy it over at ten thousand francs. It is that wretched Bonnefille who is exciting them against me, and who makes them fancy that I will give way. But he is mistaken.”

The new inspector returned: “You are aware that they have shut up their Casino since yesterday. They have no one any longer.”

“Yes, I am aware of it; but we have not enough of people here ourselves. They stick in too much at the hotels; and people get bored in the hotels, my dear fellow. It is necessary to amuse the bathers, to distract them, to make them think the season too short. Those staying at our Mont Oriol hotel come every evening, because they are quite near, but the others hesitate and remain in their abodes. It is a question of routes — nothing else. Success always depends on certain imperceptible causes which we ought to know how to discover. It is necessary that the routes leading to a place of recreation should be a source of recreation in themselves, the commencement of the pleasure which one will be enjoying presently.

“The ways which lead to this place are bad, stony, hard; they cause fatigue. When a route which goes to any place, to which one has a vague desire of paying a visit, is pleasant, wide, and full of shade in the daytime, easy and not too steep at night, one selects it naturally in preference to others. If you knew how the body preserves the recollection of a thousand things which the mind has not taken the trouble to retain! I believe this is how the memory of animals is constructed. Have you felt too hot when repairing to such a place? Have you tired your feet on badly broken stones? Have you found an ascent too rough, even while you were thinking of something else? If so, you will experience invincible repugnance to revisiting that spot. You were chatting with a friend; you took no notice of the slight annoyances of the journey; you were looking at nothing, remarking notice; but your legs, your muscles, your lungs, your whole body have not forgotten, and they say to the mind, when it wants to take them along the same route: ‘No, I won’t go; I have suffered too much there.’ And the mind yields to this refusal without disputing it, submitting to this mute language of the companions who carry it along.

“So then, we want fine pathways, which comes back to saying that I require the bits of ground belonging to that donkey of a Père Oriol. But patience! Ha! with reference to that point, Mas-Roussel has become the proprietor of his own chalet on the same conditions as Remusot. It is a trifling sacrifice for which he will amply indemnify us. Try, therefore, to find out exactly what are Cloche’s intentions.”

“He’ll do just the same thing as the others,” said the physician. “But there is something else, of which I have been thinking for the last few days, and which we have completely forgotten — it is the meteorological bulletin.”

“What meteorological bulletin?”

“In the big Parisian newspapers. It is indispensable, this is! It is necessary that the temperature of a thermal station should be better, less variable, more uniformly mild than that of the neighboring and rival stations. You subscribe to the meteorological bulletin in the leading organs of opinion, and I will send every evening by telegraph the atmospheric situation.

I will do it in such a way that the average arrived at when the year is at an end may be higher than the best mean temperatures of the surrounding stations. The first thing that meets our eyes when we open the big newspapers are the temperatures of Vichy, of Royat, of Mont Doré, of Chatel-Guyon, and other places during the summer season, and, during the winter season, the temperatures of Cannes, Mentone, Nice, Saint Raphael. It is necessary that the weather should always be hot and always fine in these places, in order that the Parisian might say: ‘Christi! how lucky the people are who go down there!’”

Andermatt exclaimed: “Upon my honor, you’re right. Why have I never thought of that? I will attend to it this very day. With regard to useful things, have you written to Professors Larenard and Pascalis? There are two men I would like very much to have here.”

“Unapproachable, my dear President — unless — unless they are satisfied of themselves after many trials that our waters are of a superior character. But, as far as they are concerned, you will accomplish nothing by persuasion — by anticipation.”

They passed by Paul and Gontran, who had come to take coffee after luncheon. Other bathers made their appearance, especially men, for the women, on rising from the table, always went up to their rooms for an hour or two. Petrus Martel was looking after his waiters, and crying out: “A kummel, a nip of brandy, a glass of aniseed cordial,” in the same rolling, deep voice which he would assume an hour later while conducting rehearsals, and giving the keynote to the young première.

Andermatt stopped a few moments for a short chat with the two young men; then he resumed his promenade by the side of the inspector.

Gontran, with legs crossed and folded arms, lolling in his chair, with the nape of his neck against the back of it, and his eyes and his cigar facing the sky, was puffing in a state of absolute contentment.

Suddenly, he asked: “‘Would you mind taking a turn, presently, in the valley of Sans-Souci? The girls will be there.”

Paul hesitated; then, after some reflection: “Yes, I am quite willing.” Then he added: “Is your affair progressing?”

“Egad, it is! Oh! I have a hold of her. She won’t escape me now.”

Gontran had, by this time, taken his friend into his confidence, and told him, day by day, how he was going on and how much ground he had gained. He even got him to be present, as a confederate, at his appointments, for he had managed to obtain appointments with Louise Oriol by a little bit of ingenuity.

After their promenade at the Puy de la Nugère, Christiane put an end to these excursions by not going out at all, and so rendered it more and more difficult for the lovers to meet. Her brother, put out at first by this attitude on her part, bethought him of some means of extricating himself from this predicament. Accustomed to Parisian morals, according to which women are regarded by men of his stamp as game, the chase of which is often no easy one, he had in former days made use of many artifices in order to gain access to those for whom he had conceived a passion. He knew better than anyone else how to make use of pimps, to discover those who were accommodating through interested motives, and to determine with a single glance the men or women who were disposed to aid him in his designs.

The unconscious support of Christiane having suddenly been withdrawn from him, he had looked about him for the requisite connecting link, the “pliant nature,” as he expressed it himself, whereby he could replace his sister; and his choice speedily fixed itself on Doctor Honorat’s wife. Many reasons pointed at her as a suitable person. In the first place, her husband, closely associated with the Oriols, had been for the past twenty years attending this family. He had been present at the birth of the children, had dined with them every Sunday, and had entertained them at his own table every Tuesday. His wife, a fat old woman of the lower-middle class, trying to pass as a lady, full of pretension, easy to overcome through her vanity, was sure to lend both hands to every desire of the Comte de Ravenel, whose brother-in-law owned the establishment of Mont Oriol.

Besides, Gontran, who was a good judge of a go-between, had satisfied himself that this woman was naturally well adapted for the part, by merely seeing her walking through the street.

“She has the physique,” was his reflection, “and when one has the physique for an employment, one has the soul required for it, too!”

Accordingly, he made his way into her abode, one day, after having accompanied her husband to his own door. He sat down, chatted, complimented the lady, and, when the dinner-bell rang, he said, as he rose up: “You have a very savory smell here. You cook better than they do at the hotel.”

Madame Honorat, swelling with pride, faltered: “Good heavens! if I might make so bold — if I might make so bold, Monsieur le Comte, as— “

“If you might make so bold as what, dear Madame?”

“As to ask you to share our humble meal.’’ “Faith — faith, I would say ‘yes.’”

The doctor, ill at ease, muttered: “But we have nothing, nothing — soup, a joint of beef, and a chicken, that’s all!”

Gontran laughed: “Thai’s quite enough for me. I accept the invitation.”

And he dined at the Honorat household. The fat woman rose up, went to take the dishes out of the servant-maid’s hands, in order that the latter might not spill the sauce over the tablecloth, and, in spite of her husband’s impatience, insisted on attending at table herself.

The Comte congratulated her on the excellence of the cooking, on the good house she kept, on her attention to the duties of hospitality, and he left her inflamed with enthusiasm.

He returned to leave his card, accepted a fresh invitation, and thenceforth made his way constantly to Madame Honorat’s house, to which the Oriol girls had paid visits frequently also for many years as neighbors and friends.

So then he spent hours there, in the midst of the three ladies, attentive to both sisters, but accentuating clearly, from day to day, his marked preference for Louise.

The jealousy that had sprung up between the girls since the time when he had begun to make love to Charlotte had assumed an aspect of spiteful hostility on the side of the elder girl and of disdain on the side of the younger. Louise, with her reserved air, imported into her reticences and her demure ways in Gontran’s society much more coquetry and encouragement than the other had formerly shown with all her free and joyous unconstraint. Charlotte, wounded to the quick, concealed through pride the pain that she endured, pretended not to see or hear anything of what was happening around her, and continued her visits to Madame Honorat’s house with a beautiful appearance of indifference to all these lovers’ meetings. She would not remain behind at her own abode lest people might think that her heart was sore, that she was weeping, that she was making way for her sister.

Gontran, too proud of his achievement to throw a veil over it, could not keep himself from talking about it to Paul. And Paul, thinking it amusing, began to laugh. He had, besides, since the first equivocal remarks of his friend, resolved not to interfere in his affairs, and he often asked himself with uneasiness: “Can it be possible that he knows something about Christiane and me?”

He knew Gontran too well not to believe him capable of shutting his eyes to an intrigue on the part of his sister. But then, why did he not let it be understood sooner that he guessed it or was aware of it? Gontran was, in fact, one of those in whose opinion every woman in society ought to have a lover or lovers, one of those for whom the family is merely a society of mutual help, for whom morality is an attitude that is indispensable in order to veil the different appetites which nature has implanted in us, and for whom worldly honor is a front behind which amiable vices should be hidden. Moreover, if he had egged on his dear sister to marry Andermatt was it not with the vague, if not clearly-defined, idea that this Jew might be utilized, in every way, by all the family? — and he would probably have despised Christiane for being faithful to this husband of convenience, of utility, just as much as he would have despised himself for not borrowing freely from his brother-in-law’s purse.

Paul pondered over all this, and it disturbed his modern Don Quixote’s soul, which, in any event, was disposed toward compromise. He had, therefore, become very reserved with this enigmatic friend of his. When, accordingly, Gontran told him the use that he was making of Madame Honorat, Bretigny burst out laughing; and he had even, for some time past, allowed himself to be brought to that lady’s house, and found great pleasure in chatting with Charlotte there.

The doctor’s wife lent herself, with the best grace in the world, to the part she was made to play, and offered them tea about five o’clock, like the Parisian ladies, with little cakes manufactured by her own hands. On the first occasion when Paul made his way into this household, she welcomed him as if he were an old friend, made him sit down, removed his hat herself, in spite of his protests, and placed it beside the clock upon the mantelpiece. Then, eager, bustling, going from one to the other, tremendously big and fat, she asked:

“Do you feel inclined for a little dinner?”

Gontran told funny stories, joked, and laughed quite at his ease. Then, he took Louise into the recess of a window under the troubled eyes of Charlotte.

Madame Honorat, who sat chatting with Paul, said to him in a maternal tone:

“These dear children, they come here to have a few minutes’ conversation with one another. ’Tis very innocent — isn’t it, Monsieur Bretigny?”

“Oh! very innocent, Madame!”

When he came the next time, she familiarly addressed him as “Monsieur Paul,” treating him more or less as a crony.

And from that time forth, Gontran told him, with a sort of teasing liveliness, all about the complaisant behavior of the doctor’s wife, to whom he had said, the evening before: “Why do you never go out for a walk along the Sans-Souci road?”

“But we will go, M. le Comte — we will go.”’‘Say, tomorrow about three o’clock.”

“Tomorrow, about three o’clock, M. le Comte.” And Gontran explained to Paul: “You understand that in this drawingroom, I cannot say anything of a very confidential nature to the elder girl before the younger. But in the wood I can go on before or remain behind with Louise. So then you will come?”

“Yes, I have no objection.”

“Let us go on then.”

And they rose up, and set forth at a leisurely pace along the highroad; then, having passed through La Roche Pradière, they turned to the left and descended into the wooded glen in the midst of tangled brushwood. When they had passed the little river, they sat down at the side of the path and waited.

The three ladies soon arrived, walking in single file, Louise in front, and Madame Honorat in the rear.

They exhibited surprise on both sides at having met in this way. Gontran exclaimed: “Well, now, what a good idea this was of yours to come along here!” The doctor’s wife replied: “Yes, the idea was mine.”

They continued their walk. Louise and Gontran gradually quickened their steps, went on in advance, and rambled so far together that they disappeared from view at a turn of the narrow path.

The fat lady, who was breathing hard, murmured, as she cast an indulgent eye in their direction: “Bah! they’re young — they have legs. As for me, I can’t keep up with them.”

Charlotte exclaimed: “Wait! I’m going to call them back!”

She was rushing away. The doctor’s wife held her back: “Don’t interfere with them, child, if they want to chat! It would not be nice to disturb them. They will come back all right by themselves.”

And she sat down on the grass, under the shade of a pine-tree, fanning herself with her pocket-handkerchief. Charlotte cast a look of distress toward Paul, a look imploring and sorrowful.

He understood, and said: “Well, Mademoiselle, we are going to let Madame take a rest, and we’ll both go and overtake your sister.”

She answered impetuously: “Oh, yes, Monsieur.” Madame Honorat made no objection: “Go, my children, go. As for me, I’ll wait for you here. Don’t be too long.”

And they started off in their turn. They walked quickly at first, as they could see no sign of the two others, and hoped to come up with them; then, after a few minutes, it struck them that Louise and Gontran might have turned off to the right or to the left through the wood, and Charlotte began to call them in a trembling and undecided voice. There was no response. She exclaimed: “Oh! good heavens, where can they be?”

Paul felt himself overcome once more by that profound pity, by that sympathetic tenderness toward her which had previously taken possession of him on the edge of the crater of La Nugère.

He did not know what to say to this afflicted young creature. He felt a longing, a paternal and passionate longing to take her in his arms, to embrace her, to find sweet and consoling words with which to soothe her. But what words?

She looked about on every side, searched the branches with wild glances, listening to the faintest sounds, murmuring: “I think that they are here — No, there — Do you hear nothing?”

“No, Mademoiselle, I don’t hear anything. The best thing we can do is to wait here.”

“Oh! heavens, no. We must find them!”

He hesitated for a few seconds, and then said to her in a low tone: “This, then, causes you much pain?”

She raised toward his her eyes, in which there was a look of wild alarm, while the gathering tears filled them with a transparent watery mist, as yet held back by the lids, over which drooped the long, brown lashes. She strove to speak, but could not, and did not venture to open her lips. But her heart swollen, choked with grief, was yearning to pour itself out.

He went on: “So then you loved him very much. He is not worthy of your love. Take heart!”

She could not restrain herself any longer, and hiding with her hands the tears that now gushed forth from her eyes, she sobbed: “No! — no! — I do not love him — he — it is too base to have acted as he did. He made a fool of me — it is too base — too cowardly — but, all the same, it does pain me — a great deal — for it is hard — very hard — oh! yes. But what grieves me most is that my sister — my sister does not care for me any longer — she who has been even more wicked than he was! I feel that she no longer cares for me — not a bit — that she hates me —— I have only her — I have no one else — and I, I have done nothing!”

He only saw her ear and her neck with its young flesh sinking into the collar of her dress under the light material she wore till it was lost in the curves of her bust. And he felt himself overpowered with compassion, with sympathy, carried away by that impetuous desire of self-devotion which got the better of him every time that a woman touched his heart. And that heart of his, responsive to outbursts of enthusiasm, was excited by this innocent sorrow, agitating, ingenuous, and cruelly charming.

He stretched forth his hand toward her with an unstudied movement such as one might use in order to caress, to calm a child, and he drew it round her waist from behind over her shoulder. Then he felt her heart beating with rapid throbs, as he might have heard the little heart of a bird that he had caught. And this beating, continuous, precipitate, sent a thrill all over his arm into his heart, accelerating its movements. And he felt those quick heart-beats coming from her and penetrating him through his flesh, his muscles, and his nerves, so that between them there was now only one heart wounded by the same pain, agitated by the same palpitation, living the same life, like clocks connected by a string at some distance from one another and made to keep time together second by second.

But suddenly she uncovered her flushed face, still tear-dimmed, quickly wiped it, and said:

“Come, I ought not to have spoken to you about this. I am foolish. Let us go back at once to Madame Honorat, and forget. Do you promise me?”

“I do promise you.”

She gave him her hand. “I have confidence in you. I believe you are very honest!”

They turned back. He lifted her up in crossing the stream, just as he had lifted up Christiane, the year before. How often had he passed along this path with her in the days when he adored her! He reflected, wondering at his own changed feelings: “How short a time this passion lasted!”

Charlotte, laying a finger on his arm, murmured: “Madame Honorat is asleep. Let us sit down without making a noise.”

Madame Honorat was, indeed, slumbering, with her back to a pine-tree, her handkerchief over her face and her hands crossed over her stomach. They seated themselves a few paces away from her, and refrained from speaking in order not to awaken her. Then the stillness of the wood was so profound that it became as painful to them as actual suffering. Nothing could be heard save the water gurgling over the stones, a little lower down, then those imperceptible quiverings of insects passing by, those light buzzings of flies or of other living creatures whose movements made the dead leaves flutter.

Where then were Louise and Gontran? What were they doing? All at once, the sound of their voices reached them from a distance. They were returning. Madame Honorat woke up and looked astonished.

“What! you are here again! I did not notice you coming back. And the others, have you found them?”

Paul replied: “There they are! They are coming.”

They recognized Gontran’s laughter. This laughter relieved Charlotte from a crushing weight, which had oppressed her mind — she could not have explained why.

They were soon able to distinguish the pair. Gontran had almost broken into a running pace, dragging by the arm the young girl, who was quite flushed. And, even before they had come up, so great a hurry was he in to tell his story, he shouted:

“You don’t know what we surprised. I give you a thousand guesses to discover it! The handsome Doctor Mazelli along with the daughter of the illustrious Professor Cloche, as Will would say, the pretty widow with the red hair. Oh! yes, indeed — surprised, you understand? He was embracing her, the scamp. Oh! yes — oh! yes.”

Madame Honorat, at this immoderate display of gaiety, made a dignified movement:

“Oh! M. le Comte, think of these young ladies!”

Gontran made a respectful obeisance.

“You are perfectly right, dear Madame, to recall me to the proprieties. All your inspirations are excellent.”

Then, in order that they might not be all seen going back together, the two young men bowed to the ladies, and returned through the wood to the village.

“Well?” asked Paul.

“Well, I told her that I adored her and that I would be delighted to marry her.”

“And she said?”

“She said, with charming discretion, ‘That concerns my father. It is to him that I will give my answer.’”

“So then you are going to— “

“To intrust my ambassador Andermatt at once with the official application. And if the old boor makes any row about it, I’ll compromise his daughter with a splash.”

And, as Andermatt was again engaged in conversation with Doctor Latonne on the terrace of the Casino, Gontran stopped here, and immediately made his brother-in-law acquainted with the situation.

Paul went off along the road to Riom. He wanted to be alone so much did he find himself invaded by that agitation of the entire mind and body into which every meeting with a woman casts a man who is on the point of falling in love. For some time past he had felt, without quite realizing it, the penetrating and youthful fascination of this forsaken girl. He found her so nice, so good, so simple, so upright, so innocent, that from the first he had been moved by compassion for her, by that tender compassion with which the sorrows of women always inspire us. Then, when he had seen her frequently, he had allowed to bud forth in his heart that grain, that tiny grain, of tenderness which they sow in us so quickly, and which grows to such a height. And now, for the last hour especially, he was beginning to feel himself possessed, to feel within him that constant presence of the absent which is the first sign of love. He proceeded along the road, haunted by the remembrance of her glance, by the sound of her voice, by the way in which she smiled or wept, by the gait with which she walked, even by the color and the flutter of her dress. And he said to himself:

“I believe I am bitten. I know it. It is annoying, this! The best thing, perhaps, would be to go back to Paris. Deuce take it, it is a young girl! However, I can’t make her my mistress.”

Then, he began dreaming about it, just as he had dreamed about Christiane, the year before. How different was this one, too, from all the women he had hitherto known, born and brought up in the city, different even from those young maidens sophisticated from their childhood by the coquetry of their mothers or the coquetry which shows itself in the streets. There was in her none of the artificiality of the woman prepared for seduction, nothing studied in her words, nothing conventional in her actions, nothing deceitful in her looks. Not only was she a being fresh and pure, but she came of a primitive race; she was a true daughter of the soil at the moment when she was about to be transformed into a woman of the city.

And he felt himself stirred up, pleading for her against that vague resistance which still struggled in his breast. The forms of heroines in sentimental novels passed before his mind’s eye — the creations of Walter Scott, of Dickens, and of George Sand, exciting the more his imagination, always goaded by ideal pictures of women.

Gontran passed judgment on him thus: “Paul! he is a pack-horse with a Cupid on his back. When he flings one on the ground, another jumps up in its place.” But Bretigny saw that night was falling. He had been a long time walking. He returned to the village.

As he was passing in front of the new baths, he saw Andermatt and the two Oriols surveying and measuring the vineflelds; and he knew from their gestures that they were disputing in an excited fashion.

An hour afterward, Will, entering the drawingroom, where the entire family had assembled, said to the Marquis: “My dear father-in-law, I have to inform you that your son Gontran is going to marry, in six weeks or two months, Mademoiselle Louise Oriol.”

M. de Ravenel was startled: “Gontran? You ‘say?”

“I say that he is going to marry in six weeks or two months, with your consent, Mademoiselle Louise Oriol, who will be very rich.”

Thereupon the Marquis said simply: “Good heavens! if he likes it, I have no objection.”

And the banker related how he had dealt with the old countryman. As soon as he had learned from the Comte that the young girl would consent, he wanted to obtain, at one interview, the vinedresser’s assent without giving him time to prepare any of his dodges. He accordingly hurried to Oriol’s house, and found him making up his accounts with great difficulty, assisted by Colosse, who was adding figures together with his fingers.

Seating himself: “I would like to drink of your excellent wine,” said he.

When big Colosse had returned with the glasses and the jug brimming over, he asked whether Mademoiselle Louise had come home; then he begged of them to send for her. When she stood facing him, he rose, and, making her a low bow:

“Mademoiselle, will you regard me at this moment as a friend to whom one may say everything? Is it not so? Well, I am charged with a very delicate mission with reference to you. My brother-in-law, Comte Raoul-Olivier-Gontran de Ravenel, is smitten with you — a thing for which I commend him — and he has commissioned me to ask you, in the presence of your family, whether you will consent to become his wife.”

Taken by surprise in this way, she turned toward her father her eyes, which betrayed her confusion. And Père Oriol, scared, looked at his son, his usual counselor, while Colosse looked at Andermatt, who went on, with a certain amount of pomposity:

“You understand, Mademoiselle, that I am only intrusted with this mission on the terms of an immediate reply being given to my brother-in-law. He is quite conscious of the fact that you may not care for him, and in that case he will quit this neighborhood tomorrow, never to come back to it again. I am aware, besides, that you know him sufficiently to say to me, a simple intermediary, ‘I consent,’ or ‘I do not consent.’”

She hung down her head, and, blushing, but resolute, she faltered: “I consent, Monsieur.”

Then she fled so quickly that she knocked herself against the door as she went out.

Thereupon, Andermatt sat down, and, pouring out a glass of wine after the fashion of peasants:

“Now we are going to talk about business,” said he. And, without admitting the possibility even of hesitation, he attacked the question of the dowry, relying on the declarations made to him by the vinedresser three months before. He estimated at three hundred thousand francs, in addition to expectations, the actual fortune of Gontran, and he let it be understood that if a man like the Comte de Ravenel consented to ask for the hand of Oriol’s daughter, a very charming young lady in other respects, it was unquestionable that the girl’s family were bound to show their appreciation of this honor by a sacrifice of money.

Then the countryman, much disconcerted, but flattered — almost disarmed, tried to make a fight for his property. The discussion was a long one. An admission on Andermatt’s part had, however, rendered it easy from the start:

“We don’t ask for ready money nor for bills — nothing but the lands, those which you have already indicated as forming Mademoiselle Louise’s dowry, in addition to some others which I am going to point you.”

The prospect of not having to pay money, that money slowly heaped together, brought into the house franc after franc, sou after sou, that good money, white or yellow, worn by the hands, the purses, the pockets, the tables of cafés, the deep drawers of old presses, that money in whose ring was told the history of so many troubles, cares, fatigues, labors, so sweet to the heart, to the eyes, to the fingers of the peasant, dearer than the cow, than the vine, than the field, than the house, that money harder to part with sometimes than life itself — the prospect of not seeing it go v/ith the girl brought on immediately a great calm, a desire to conciliate, a secret but restrained joy, in the souls of the father and the son.

They continued the discussion, however, in order to keep a few more acres of soil. On the table was spread out a minute plan of Mont Oriol; and they marked one by one with a cross the portions assigned to Louise. It took an hour for Andermatt to secure the last two pieces. Then, in order that there might not be any deceit on one side or the other, they went over all the places on the plan. After that, they identified carefully all the slices designated by crosses, and marked them afresh.

But Andermatt got uneasy, suspecting that the two Oriols were capable of denying, at their next interview, a part of the grants to which they had consented and would seek to take back ends of vinefields, corners useful for his project; and he thought of a practical and certain means of giving definiteness to the agreement.

An idea crossed his mind, made him smile at first, then appeared to him excellent, although singular.

“If you like,” said he, “we’ll write it all out so as not to forget it later on.”

And as they were entering the village, he stopped before a tobacconist’s shop to buy two stamped sheets of paper. He knew that the list of lands drawn up on these leaves with their legal aspect would take an almost inviolable character in the peasant’s eyes, for these leaves would represent the law, always invisible and menacing, vindicated by gendarmes, fines, and imprisonment.

Then he wrote on one sheet and copied on the other:

“In pursuance of the promise of marriage exchanged between Comte Gontran de Ravenel and Mademoiselle Louise Oriol, M. Oriol, Senior, surrenders as a dowry to his daughter the lands designated below— “

And he enumerated them minutely, with the figures attached to them in the register of lands for the district.

Then, having dated and signed the document, he made Père Oriol affix his signature, after the latter had exacted in turn a written statement of the intended husband’s fortune, and he went back to the hotel with the document in his pocket.

Everyone laughed at his narrative and Gontran most of all. Then the Marquis said to his son with a lofty air of dignity: “We shall both go this evening to pay a visit to this family, and I shall myself renew the application previously made by my son-in-law in order that it may be more regular.”