Volume 18 — THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XVIII., No. 106.—JANUARY, 1874.[138]

THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XVIII., No. 106.—JANUARY, 1874.[138]

THE PRINCIPLES OF REAL BEING.

All knowledge which is truly scientific rests on demonstration, and all demonstration depends on principles or axiomatic truths. But, besides the principles of demonstration, there are other principles on which not only the knowledge, but the very existence of things, and their origin and constitution, essentially depend. These latter principles are nowadays less known than the former, as we may argue from the fact that they are scarcely ever alluded to in modern speculations; and yet they undoubtedly have the best claim to the attention of philosophical minds, for it is in such principles that the real germs of all true science are hidden. For this reason, we have determined to offer our readers a short but accurate summary of the philosophical doctrine on principles; which, if presented, as we shall try to do, with becoming perspicuity, will prove to be a kind of popular introduction to metaphysical studies.

I. NOTION OF PRINCIPLE.

By the name of principle philosophers designate that whence anything originally proceeds in any manner whatever: Id, unde aliquid quomodocumque procedit. This definition implies that there are many different manners of proceeding, and consequently many different kinds of principles. And so it is. Aristotle, however, shows that principles of all kinds can be reduced to three classes; that is, to those principles of which a thing consists, those through which or out of which a thing is made, and those by which a thing is known: Primum, unde aliquid est, aut fit, aut cognoscitur.[139]—Arist. Metaph. 5.

The first class comprises the principles through which a thing is, viz., by which the thing is intrinsically constituted. These principles are called constituent or intrinsic principles, and are always present by their own entity in the thing principiated; as the matter in the body, and the soul in the animal.

The second class contains the principles through which a thing is made. These principles serve to account for the origin of the thing, and are called extrinsic principles, because they are not present by their own entity in the thing principiated. Thus, the motive power of the sun is not, by its own entity, in the planets to which it imparts movement, but in the sun only; and the medical art is not in the person who has been cured through it, but in the doctor. There is, however, in the planets something proceeding from the motive power of the sun, and in the person cured something proceeding from the medical art, as every one will acknowledge. Whence it is obvious that the extrinsic principles by their very principiation must leave some mark or vestige of themselves in the thing principiated.

The third class consists of those principles through which any conclusion is made known. These principles are general truths, which are made to serve for the demonstration of some other truth, and are called principles of science.

Among the principles of this third class we do not reckon the principles from which the first apprehension and immediate intuition of things proceeds; to wit, either the power through which the object makes an impression on the cognoscitive faculty, or the faculty itself through which the object is apprehended. Our reason is that these principles, thus considered, do not form a class apart. The power of the object to make its impression on the subject is an extrinsic principle of knowledge, and ranks with the principles of the second class above mentioned; whilst the power of the subject to perceive through the intelligible species is an intrinsic principle of knowledge, as well as the species which it expresses within itself, and, therefore, is to be ranked among the principles of the first class. Accordingly, the third class is exclusively made up of those principles which serve for the scientific demonstration of truth; and this is what Aristotle himself insinuates, at least negatively, as he gives no instance of principles of this third class but the premises by which any conclusion is made known.

Before we advance further, we have to remark that, in metaphysics, the first principles of science are assumed, not as a subject of investigation, but as the fundamental base of scientific demonstration. Thus, the principles, Idem non potest simul esse et non esse,[140] Non datur effectus sine causa,[141] Quæ sunt eadem uni tertio sunt eadem inter se,[142] and such like, though usually styled "metaphysical" principles, are not the subject of metaphysical investigation, but are simply presupposed and admitted on the strength of their immediate and incontrovertible evidence. Such principles are perfectly known before all metaphysical disquisition, and need not be traced to other principles. On the other hand, metaphysics, which is the science of reality, deals only with the principles of real beings; whence it follows that the principles of demonstration, which, like the conclusion deduced therefrom, exist in the intellect alone (and therefore are beings of reason, and principiate nothing but other beings of reason), are not comprised in the object of metaphysical inquiry. Hence, the only principles which metaphysics is bound to investigate are those that belong to the first and second class above mentioned; that is, the intrinsic and the extrinsic principles of things: Primum unde aliquid est, and primum unde aliquid fit.[143]

Principles and causes are often confounded, although it is well known that they are not identical. Hence, our next question is: In what does a cause differ from a principle?

It is commonly admitted that all causes are principles, but not all principles causes; which evidently implies that a cause is something more than a principle. In fact, when we use the word "cause," we wish to designate a being in which we know that there is a principle of causation; whence it is evident that the common notion of cause implies the notion of principle, and something else besides—that is, the notion of a subject to which the principle belongs. Thus, we say that the moon causes the tides by its attractive power; the moon is the cause, and the attractive power is its principle of causation. In like manner, we say that an orator causes great popular emotion by his eloquence; the orator is the cause, and his eloquence is his principle of causation.

From these instances it would be easy to conclude that the difference between a cause and a principle lies in this, that the cause is a complete being, whilst the principle is only an appurtenance of the cause. But as we know from theology that there are principles which cannot be thus related to causes, we cannot consider the above as an adequate and final answer to the question proposed.

Some of the best modern scholastics account for the difference between cause and principle in the following manner: A principle, they say, is conceived to differ from a cause in two things: first, in this, that a cause always precedes its effect by priority of nature,[144] whereas a principle does not require such a priority; secondly, in this, that the cause does not communicate its own identical nature to its effect, whereas the principle can communicate its own identical nature to that which it principiates.[145] From these two differences a third one might be gathered, viz., that the effect has always a real dependence from[146] its cause, whilst the thing principiated does not always really depend from its principles.[147] These grounds of distinction between principles and causes have been thought of, with the avowed object of paving the way to explain how the Eternal Father can be the principle, without being the cause, of his Eternal Son, and how the Father and the Son can be the principle, without being the cause, of the Holy Ghost.

But we must observe that there are four genera of causes and of principles: the efficient, the material, the formal, and the final; and that the two differences alleged by these writers between principle and cause do not apply to principles and causes of the same genus, but are applicable only when some principle belonging to one genus is wrongly compared with some cause pertaining to another genus.

That there are four genera of causes we will take for granted, as it is the universal doctrine of philosophers. That there are also four genera of principles corresponding to the four genera of causes is evident; for every cause must contain within itself the principle of its causality; and, in fact, Aristotle himself clearly affirms that there are as many causes as principles, and that all causes are also principles,[148] in the sense which we have already explained. Lastly, that the two aforesaid differences between principle and cause do not apply to principles and causes of the same genus can be easily verified by a glance at each genus. Let the reader take notice of the following statements, and then judge for himself.

The efficient cause (the agent) and the efficient principle (its active power) are both, by priority of nature, prior to the thing produced or principiated, and both have a nature numerically distinct from that of the thing produced or principiated.

In the same manner the final cause (the object willed) and the finalizing principle (the known goodness and desirability of the object) both are, by priority of nature, prior to the act caused or principiated, and both have a nature numerically distinct from that of the act caused or principiated.

Thus, also, the material cause (actual matter) and the material principle (the passiveness of matter) are both, by priority of nature, prior to the thing effected or principiated, and both identify themselves with the thing effected or principiated.

Accordingly, with regard to these three kinds of causation and principiation, it is quite impossible to admit that the difference between a cause and a principle is to be accounted for by a recourse to the two aforementioned grounds of distinction, so long as the causes and principles, which are compared, belong to one and the same genus.

As to the formal cause and the formal principle, we shall presently see that they are not distinct things; but, even if we were disposed to consider them as distinct, such a distinction could not possibly rest on the two grounds of which we have been speaking; for the formal cause and the formal principle have no priority of nature[149] with respect to the thing caused or principiated, and both identify themselves with the same. We are, therefore, satisfied that the opinion which we have criticised has no foundation in truth.

Let us, then, resume our previous explanation, and see how the difficulty above proposed against its completeness can be solved. We have shown that the notion of cause implies the notion of principle, together with that of a subject to which the principle belongs. We must, therefore, admit that a principle differs from a cause of the same genus, as an incomplete or metaphysical entity differs from a complete or physical being; or, in other terms, that a real cause, rigorously speaking, is a complete being, which gives origin to an effect; whilst a real principle, properly speaking, is only that through which the cause gives origin to its effect. The cause is id quod causat;[150] the principle is id quo causa causat.[151]

The formal principle, however, is an exception to this general doctrine, as formal principles do not differ from formal causes. The form, in fact, not only has within itself something through which it is fit to cause its effect, but also is itself that very something, and through itself brings its effect into existence. Thus the soul, which is the form of the body, through itself, and not through any of its faculties, actuates the body and vivifies it. On this account, then, any form might be indifferently called either a formal cause or a formal principle. But we must further consider that a form, as such, is an incomplete entity, since no formal act can exist apart from its essential term;[152] and on this ground we maintain that the name of principle suits it better than the name of cause.

And this conclusion will be approved even by those philosophers whose opinion concerning the distinction between cause and principle we have just refuted; for the two differences which they allege as characteristic of cause in opposition to principle have no room in formal causation or principiation, since we have seen that the formal act has no priority of nature with respect to its essential term, and identifies itself with the thing of which it is the act. Consequently, the form, even in the opinion of said philosophers, is not a cause, but a principle.

We hope to give a fuller explanation of this point on a later occasion; but what we have just said suffices to show what we at present intend, viz., that the doctrine which considers principles as appurtenances of causes admits of a remarkable exception in the case of formal principles, and by such an exception is competent to account for the existence of other principles importing real principiation without real causation. Now, this is exactly what the theological doctrine on divine processions requires. The fact, therefore, that the procession of one of the divine Persons from another involves no causation, but only principiation, can be accounted for by a simple reference to the nature of formal principiation. The Eternal Father is certainly not the efficient, but the formal, principle of His Eternal Son; and this already suffices to explain how the being of the Son is not a new being made by the Father, but is the very same being of the Father communicated identically to the Son. Thus, also, the Holy Ghost not efficiently, but formally, proceeds from the Father and the Son, through their conspiration into a simple actuality of love; and this suffices to explain how the Holy Ghost is not made by the Father and the Son, but is the very actuality of the one in the other.

To sum up: Formal principiation is not causation; hence, that which immediately proceeds from a formal principle is not caused by it, but only principiated; it is not its effect, but its connatural term; it has not a distinct nature, but the very nature of its formal principle identically communicated; lastly, it has no real dependence from its formal principle, but only real relative opposition; for real dependence has no place where there is identity of nature. This is eminently true of God, and, by imitation, of every primitive contingent being, which is strictly one in its entity, and consequently also of all the ultimate elements into which a physical compound can be resolved; for the ultimate elements of things cannot but be primitive beings.

The preceding remarks regard those formal acts which enter in the essential constitution of being as such, and which are called strictly substantial acts. Of accidental forms we have nothing to say in particular, as it is too evident to need explanation that they are not causes, but mere principles. It is, therefore, to be concluded that the distinction between cause and principle applies only to efficient, material, and final causality and principiativity. Thus, as we have said, the sun is the efficient cause of certain movements, and its attractive power is the efficient principle of those movements; the object is the final cause that moves the will, and the goodness, through which the object moves the will, is the finalizing principle of the volition: the steel is the material cause of the sword, but the material principle of the sword is the passive potency of the steel, which allows it to receive the form of a sword or any other form.

We must not forget, however, that the words cause and principle have been, and are, very frequently used without discrimination by philosophical writers, even of the highest merit. It is by no means uncommon to find, for instance, the premises described as the cause of the conclusion, the rules of the art as the cause of an artificial work, the exemplar as the cause of that in which it is reproduced or imitated. In these examples, the word cause stands for principle. The old Greek theologians even said that God the Father is the cause of his Eternal Son; the word cause being undoubtedly used by them in the sense of principle. We should not be astonished at this. Indeed, while we ourselves persist in giving the name of cause to the formal principle, we should be the last to be surprised at the Greek fathers doing the same.

And now, let us come to another part of our subject. Philosophers, when wishing to give a full account of things, besides principles and causes, point out metaphysical reasons too. We think it our duty to show in what such reasons consist, and in what they differ from principles.

A reason, in general, may be defined as that from which anything immediately results; and since a formal result is not made, but simply follows as a consequence from a conspiration of principles, we can see at once that a reason, or the formal ground of a given result, must consist in a conspiration of given principles. There are logical reasons, which give rise to logical results; and there are metaphysical reasons, which give rise to metaphysical results. We will give an example of each.

In a syllogism, the consequence is the result of a conspiration of two propositions, called premises. The propositions themselves are the principles from which the conclusion is to follow; but the actual following of the conclusion depends on the actual comparison of the two propositions, and on the actual perception of the agreement of two extreme terms with a middle one. It is, in fact, through the middle term that the two premises conspire into a definite conclusion. Hence, when we are asked the reason why a conclusion follows from two premises, we point out not only the fact that the two premises are true, but especially the fact that the extreme terms, which are to be directly united in the conclusion, are already both linked, in the premises, with the same middle term. For it is evident that the whole strength of a legitimate conclusion lies in the universality of the axiom, Quæ sunt eadem uni tertio, sunt eadem inter se. The words, sunt eadem uni tertio,[153] express the formal reason, and the words sunt eadem inter se[154] express the formal result. In scholastic language, the premises would be called the principium formale quod[155] of the conclusion, and the suitable connection of their terms would be called the principium formale quo,[156] or the ratio formalis[157] of the conclusion; whilst the conclusion itself would be called the rationatum.[158]

For an example of the metaphysical order, we will take a known subject, animal life, and ascertain its formal reason. Every one knows that the soul is a principle of life; but animal life, besides the vivifying soul, requires also an organic body as its other principle. These two principles, however, are, with respect to animal life, in the same relation as the two premises with respect to their conclusion. For as the conclusion proximately results from the connection of the premises and their bearing on one another, as we have just explained, so, also, animal life results from the connection of soul and body—that is, from the actuation of the latter by the former, and consequently by the completion of the former in the latter. Hence, the formal reason, or the principium formale quo, of animal life is the very information of the body by the soul, while the soul and the body themselves, taken together, constitute the principium formale quod.

From these two examples, to which it would be easy to add many more, it is manifest that what we call formal reason is a conspiration of correlative principles towards a common actual result. All results are relations between terms, or principles, communicating with one another, either through themselves or through something which is common to them. In the first case, the result, or relation, is transcendental, and is nothing else than the actuality of one principle in the other—of the soul in the body, for instance. In the second case, the result, or relation, is either predicamental or logical (according as its principles and its formal reason are real or not), and is nothing else than the actuality of the terms as correlated.

Let the reader remark that we have pointed out three kinds of so-called formal principles, viz., the form, or act, which is a principium formale properly, and without qualification; then the principium, formale quod of a resultation, consisting of correlated principles conspiring together into a common result; lastly, the principium formale quo, or the proximate reason of the resultation, consisting in the very conspiration of the correlated principles. In English, the better to distinguish the one from the other, it would be well to retain the name of formal principle for the first alone; the second might be called the formal origin, and the third the formal reason, of a resultation. Thus the name of formal principle would be preserved to its rightful owner, without danger of mistaking it for a formal reason, or vice versa.

Before we conclude, we beg to add, though it may appear unnecessary, that the conditions of causation are not principles. We make this remark because nothing, perhaps, is more common in ordinary speech than to confound conditions with principles and causes. It is not uninstructed persons only, but educated people and men of science too, that express themselves as if they believed that conditions have their own active part in producing effects. If a weight be suspended by a thread, the cutting of the thread is popularly said to cause the fall of the weight. He who throws a piece of paper into the fire is said to burn the paper. He who rubs a match is said to light the match. A change of distance between the sun and a planet is said to cause a change of intensity in the central forces. Now, it is scarcely necessary to show that cutting the thread, throwing the paper, rubbing the match, etc., are only conditions of the falling, the burning, the lighting, etc., respectively; and conditions are neither causes nor principles of causation. A condition of causation may be defined to be an accidental relation between principles or causes, inasmuch as they are concerned in the production of an effect. Causes and principles cause and principiate in a different manner, according to the difference of their mutual relations, but do not cause or principiate through such relations, as is evident.

A weight suspended by a thread falls when the thread is cut. But he who cuts the thread is not the real cause of the falling. The true cause is, on the one hand, the earth by its attractive power, and, on the other, the body itself by its receptive potency. Cutting the thread is only to put a condition of the falling. The fall, in fact, depends on the condition that the body be free to obey the action of gravity; and this condition is fulfilled when the thread is cut. In like manner, he who throws a piece of paper into the fire does not burn it, but only puts it in the necessary relation with the fire, that it may be burnt; and he who rubs the match does not light it, but only rubs it, the rubbing being a condition, not a cause, of the lighting. In fact, the lighting of the match is caused by the actions and reactions which take place between the molecules of certain substances on the end of the match; and such actions and reactions depend on the rubbing only inasmuch as the rubbing alters the relations of distance between molecules, disturbs their equilibrium, and places them in a new condition with respect to their acting on one another. Of course, the rubbing is an effect, and he who does the rubbing is a cause; but he causes the rubbing only. So, also, the change of distance between the sun and a planet is neither the cause nor the principle of a change of intensity in the mutual attraction. The action of celestial bodies follows a law. With such or such relation of distance between them, they act with such or such intensity; but distance is evidently not an active principle, and therefore a change of distance is only the change of a condition of causation.

As we have just mentioned the fact that celestial bodies are subject to a law of action, it might be asked whether law itself be a real principle. We must answer in the negative; for law is nothing but the necessity for every agent or patient of conforming to its own nature in the exertion of its powers, and in the subjection of its potency. Such a necessity is permanent, since it arises from the determination of nature itself, and may be divided into moral, physical, and logical, according as it is viewed in connection with different beings or powers; but it is certainly neither an active power nor a passive potency, but only a natural ordination of the same, and accordingly is not a cause nor a principle, but an exponent of the constant manner in which causes and principles bring about the various changes we witness throughout the world.

These few notions may suffice as an introduction to what we intend to say about the principles of things. We have seen that a principle is less than a cause, a reason less than a principle, and a condition less than a reason; and we have determined as exactly as we could the general character of each of them, by ascertaining the grounds of their several distinctions. This was our only object in the present article; and therefore we will stop here, and reserve particulars for future investigation.

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

THE SERIOUS "VIVE LA BAGATELLE."

THE FARM OF MUICERON.

BY MARIE RHEIL.

FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.

VIII.

Jean-Louis, on leaving the curé, went to pray in the church, which remained open all day for the consolation of devout souls. In the presence of God he reviewed the sad history of his life, shed many tears, but soon felt wonderfully strengthened. This fourteen-year-old boy had a more resolute heart than many a man of thirty. What he swore before the altar of God and the statue of Our Blessed Lady was the oath of a Christian, who knows the value of an engagement made in the face of heaven. It was the contract of his whole life that he then signed, and it will be seen if he knew how to keep it. His first weakness on learning the secret of his birth had passed; he determined to be courageous, humble, and docile, should it cost him his heart's blood; and full of these brave resolutions, he retook the road to Muiceron.

Nevertheless, he failed in one, and you as well as I will excuse him for it.

As he had remained rather long in the village, Pierrette, who had heard him reprimanded, and had seen him depart with his books under his arm, became very anxious, fearing that he had been more hurt than he had shown. She was standing on the threshold of the door, watching the path by which he would return; and when she perceived him, she could not conceal her joy, for the child's face was bright and animated, and seemed the mirror of a happy heart.

"Oh! I am so happy to see you, my Jeannet," cried the good woman in a burst of joy.

"Were you alarmed at my absence?" asked Jean-Louis, running to her.

"Alarmed?" said she. "No ... that is to say, yes, I was a little.... Your father sometimes conceals his great kindness under rather too quick a manner. A child like you, who never deserves to be scolded, will be easily hurt at a severe word; and I thought, on seeing you go away so quickly, you were unhappy. But now you are at home again, are you neither hot, nor hungry, nor troubled? Where do you come from? What do you think of doing? Tell all to your mamma, who loves you so dearly."

These gentle questions pierced the soul of the poor child more than the severest words would have done. Gratitude and grief choked him and prevented him from replying, and made his emotion the greater, as these two sentiments seldom go together. He looked at his dear mother, with his great, black eyes filled with tears, and could only take her hand and press it to his bosom.

Thus they entered the house together, and Ragaud, whom they thought in the fields, but who had returned by the door that opened on the bleaching yard, was standing before the hearth, as if awaiting them. You doubtless know, as you must have many times experienced it, that when one suddenly sees somebody, thought to be half a league away, without wishing it, he looks rather taken aback, as we say. You can well believe that Pierrette and the child so looked, as they remained dumb as fish, like poachers hiding from the forest-guard.

"Well," said the good man in a loud voice, "what is the matter with you both? It seems I was not expected. And the supper, wife?"

"Here it is," Pierrette hastened to reply; "only move a little to one side, that I may take off the pot."

And in the twinkling of an eye, the excellent green-cabbage soup was smoking on the table; but Jeannet, who stood like one petrified, did not move.

"You are not hungry, then?" asked Ragaud. "What is the matter? You look as if you had been crying."

"Excuse me," replied Jeannet. "I do not feel like eating this evening."

"None of that," answered Ragaud; "to punish his stomach is the act of a spoiled child. Sit down and eat; be quick about it, do you hear?"

Jeannet obeyed, but only to sit down; eat, he could not.

"See here," said Ragaud in a joking manner, looking at him, "you are of the true modern style. Formerly, my boy, when parents reproved their children, they did it oftener with the hand than the voice, and things were not the worse for it. My father used to give us blows with his cudgel without counting them; in his opinion, it was a language easily understood, and which he preferred to reasoning, as it saved his time. We rubbed our backs, and it was over; none of us thought of losing our appetites, still less of crying. But nowadays children must be handled with gloves; and even with that they think themselves martyrs. The parents must endure everything without a murmur, even to see the house catch fire. Ha! ha!—is what I say true?"

"Oh! yes," said Jean-Louis, "you have always been good and kind to me; and believe me, believe me when I say that I am truly grateful, that I thank you with my whole soul. I was guilty without knowing it; but I am penitent and sorry for having offended you. I have carried back my books, which, in reality, I did not need, and never again will you have to reproach me about them."

"That is right, that is right," said Ragaud. "You are a good child, Jeannet, and now it is ended. What I said, you see, was to your own interest; so now eat and be cheerful. I don't like tears, above all in a boy who will soon be a man; give me your hand without any bad feeling."

"No, no! embrace him," said Pierrette. "His heart is full; isn't it so, my son?"

"Kiss me, if you wish," said Ragaud, extending his honest, bearded face. "Generally I don't like these baby-kisses; but if it is necessary, in order that you may eat your soup, make yourself happy, boy."

Just at this time it was too much for Jean-Louis; nearly fainting, he fell on his knees by the side of Ragaud; he threw his arms around him, pressed him to his breast, and kissed him in the tenderest manner, to the great astonishment of the good farmer, who could not understand such a wonderful display of affection.

"Good, good," said he; "but be easy, Jeannet. Don't I tell you I am no longer angry?"

"O my father! my dear father!" cried the child, "how can I ever repay you?"

And seeing that Ragaud looked at him in amazement, he added, sobbing,

"Father, mother, I know all...."

"Explain yourself," said Ragaud, beginning to understand what he meant. "What do you know, my child?"

"All" he repeated in a tone which expressed everything.

"There," cried good Pierrette, her heart melting with pity, "I understand. I know now what he means. But after fourteen years that the secret has been so well kept, where has the creature been found wicked enough to make this poor child so unhappy?"

"Dear mother," exclaimed Jean-Louis, "he who told it to me did it from true kindness of heart; you must not be displeased with him. It is to him I owe my life, after God and you. Do not mistake my tears; they do not come from grief, but from the gratitude which will last through all eternity."

"My dear, dear child," said Pierrette, "you have already well repaid us by your tender affection and good conduct. Isn't it true, Ragaud?"

"Yes," replied he; "and I will add, my boy, that the Lord God, through love of whom we received you, made joy and prosperity enter into the house at the same time with you. Thus, although I like the gratitude which comes from a truly filial heart, in good conscience I think we are quits."

"Oh! never, never," cried Jeannet. "At the moment of my death I will still thank you."

"On condition that you die before us, which is scarcely probable," said Ragaud, smiling. "Come, child, get up, and let it all be over. Since, from what I can make out, no other than our curé has told you the story, I am happy to think we are all 'big John, as before'—that is to say, that nothing is changed. You will remain our child, the elder brother of Jeannette, and the prop of my old age."

"Your servant and your slave for ever!" cried Jean-Louis.

"Bah! bah! No slave, Jeannet; that is an accursed word to fall from your lips. Let it all remain in the curé's library, which it never should have left. As for me, I am not learned; but, to my mind, a slave is a man changed into a beast of burden. I ask you if I have brought you up in that way? No, my son, you will serve me—it is my wish—but in working as a free man by my side, according to your strength. Is it well understood?"

"I have no other desire but to please you; and I pray to God, my father, that I may prove it to you every day."

"I hope so, my boy. The past, they say, is the guarantee of the future; and never have you caused me serious displeasure. As for the little affair of this morning, I tell you it was nothing. Don't regret it; the only result will be that we will love each other still more."

"I think so, too," said Pierrette, "if it is possible."

"O my dear parents!" cried Jeannet, kissing them both, "if ever the history of your kindness could be written, who would believe it true?"

"Don't let that trouble you," said Ragaud, laughing heartily, "there is no chance of its being written; and, besides, things do not improve by being known to men, as evil is more easily believed than good."

"It is very well," said Pierrette, "that mademoiselle kept Jeannette at the château this evening; she would have been in the way, dear little thing!"

"As regards that," replied Ragaud, "I request you, Jean-Louis, never to breathe a word to Jeannette of what has just been said. Do you understand me? I have my own idea about it."

"I promise you, my father," answered Jeannet.

The name of the little girl, thus pronounced by chance, led to further conversation about the two children. They remembered the infant plays, where she was so lively and wilful, her great romps with the shepherd's dog, and many other little details, which recalled the innocent pleasures of her infancy and gave such zest to their tranquil country life. Jeannet, well consoled, and with lightened heart, told his parents a crowd of little events, which he loved to relate in praise of Jeannette, and which proved the goodness of her heart and mind, to the great delight of the Ragauds. From that to remarking that the little girl had nearly disappeared from the family was but a step, and which, in my opinion, was a leap easily made. In the meantime, Ragaud, who appeared half asleep—I rather think so as not to talk upon the subject—suddenly awakened, and ended by acknowledging that if Jeannet were not at Muiceron, the house would be as destitute of children as it was fifteen years before.

"My dear husband," said Pierrette, "it is not to-day that we are to learn that parents must sacrifice everything to the happiness of their children."

"For their happiness, yes," replied Ragaud; "but it remains to be seen if Jeannette will always be as happy as she is now."

And as he was clear-sighted, when the momentary vanity had passed, he related with earnestness the conversation with Jacques Michou, which he had so unwillingly heard at the time.

"There," said Pierrette, "is something which does not please me. If people already commence to talk about our daughter, it is a sign that we should think about our course in regard to her, and perhaps change it."

"Think about it we should," replied Ragaud; "but to change it is another question. For then we would have to take Jeannette from mademoiselle; and as her regard for our little girl is a great honor for us and a great happiness for her, never will I behave in that manner to the daughter of our lords, seeing that I owe them everything."

"It is very embarrassing," said Pierrette, who spoke rather from the feelings of the heart than of the head.

"Not so very much," replied Ragaud. "By acting with gentleness and respect, without causing pain to mademoiselle, we can, in the end, make her wishes accord with ours."

"Oh! if Jeannette could return," cried Jean-Louis, "what happiness for us all, dear father!"

"You!" said Ragaud. "You may boast of being very brave in her absence; but I can remember seeing you many and many a time racing together over the meadows; the girl would torment you to her heart's content, and you, like a big simpleton, never once stumbled so as to humbug her in return. Thus you accustomed her to think herself the mistress, which she did not hesitate to show."

"She is so sweet," said Jeannet, "and so good-natured; if she had half killed me, I would not have minded it."

"If you only wished to know Latin that you might talk such nonsense," replied Ragaud, "you did very well to give up the study. You, too," added he, turning towards Pierrette, forgetting he should be the first to accuse himself—"you, too, have so completely spoiled Jeannette, I will be obliged to undertake the difficult task of repairing your work. But patience; to-morrow I will take the shovel and the spade. I will do it."

"What are you going to do?" asked Pierrette, alarmed.

"I am going to see," said Ragaud, "if my daughter is of the good and true blood of her father. I will ask mademoiselle to give her to me for the octave of S. Martin; and during that time I will make her resume her peasant-life as though she should never quit it again. If she becomes sullen and cross, I won't say what I will do; but if, as I believe, she will appear happy and contented, we will know that the château does not injure her, and then we will sleep in peace. How do you like that?"

"Oh! that is a capital idea I never would have dreamt of," said Pierrette, clasping her hands in admiration.

Ragaud appeared pleased at being thought so brilliant; he resettled himself in his big linen collar, drank a glass of good cider, and knelt down to say the Our Father and Hail Mary, which he always did before retiring.

Jeannet made no remark; he had too much sense to think that this little trial would be sufficient and satisfy every one; but he would see Jeannette for a whole week, and he decided to amuse her in such a way that she would not regret her life at the château.

Ragaud's plans were fully carried out. Mademoiselle willingly gave up Jeannette, thinking by that means she would have still stronger claims for keeping her afterwards; and the little one, led by her father, returned to Muiceron the eve of S. Martin's day, which is, among us, the feast of the vine-dressers.

If you are anxious to know how she behaved, I will inform you that the very next day, and without any one having to tell her, she tumbled over the things in the chest to find her woollen skirts and coarse linen apron. She had grown so much, she was obliged to rip and remake for a full hour before she could put them on, which caused much talk and laughter that rang through the house. Her wooden shoes, which had remained in a corner during the past fifteen months, were likewise too small; and as that could not be remedied by the needle and thread, it was a real difficulty; but Jeannette, who had not lost her habit of having an answer for everything, declared she would wear Pierrette's. You can imagine the amusement this caused; and, in fact, at her first step she stumbled, and nearly fell down.

Thereupon Jeannet darted off like an arrow, and brought a new pair from the harness-maker at Ordonniers.

Jeannette was equally well pleased with the eating, sleeping, and all the old habits of her country life. Never had she appeared happier, more active, and better disposed to assist her mother in her household labors. It could be well imagined that, having heard of the gossiping about her, she wished to prove by every means the good people were wrong; and Ragaud had only one wish, which was that the busy-bodies of the village could look through the key-hole and see her at work.

This was scarcely possible; but he could, at least, satisfy Jacques Michou, the first grumbler, whom he had so well repulsed, as you may remember.

For that purpose, without mentioning the return of Jeannette to the farm, with a frank and simple air, he asked his old comrade to come and break bread with him on S. Martin's day. M. le Curé was also invited, and on the morning of the feast Ragaud gave Pierrette her lesson:

"Understand well this day I wish you to be quiet. You can tell the child all that must be done, not only for the cooking, but for the table and the serving of it. I don't wish to have the shame of seeing the children seated at table, whilst the mother is going around the hearth, skirts pinned up, doing the servant's work; which is not proper. It is very well to be a good woman, always ready to sacrifice herself; but it is also well every one should know there is but one mistress of Muiceron."

"Jeannette is too little," Pierrette gently objected; "she could not reach up to the stove, and I am afraid the dishes will be too heavy for her arms to carry, little darling!"

"You will make Marion, the dairy-maid, aid her in the heavy work," said Ragaud. "I don't ask impossibilities, and I would be the first to fear if our little girl ran the risk of burning herself. What I wish is that she, and not you, should have all the trouble."

Pierrette yielded to this good argument, although a little afraid that Jeannette would have too much trouble. As for the little girl, she was very proud to give orders to Marion, and commenced immediately to play her part of mistress of the farm.

Then could be seen how bright she was. She came and went, passing from the barn-yard to the wood-house, from the wood-house to the linen-chests; bravely looking on when they bled the chickens and cut up the meat; selecting the beautiful, white table-cloths; superintending, polishing the glasses, dusting, flying about like a will-o'-the-wisp. Big Marion trotted after her on her heels, scarcely able to follow her, stifled half with heat and half with laughter at the sight of such an active young mistress.

Who would have thought, on seeing her thus occupied, that the very evening before she had been seated at the right of mademoiselle in her beautiful carriage, driving around the country? It was really wonderful to see her so quick at everything, young as she was; and you would have been as much surprised as the Ragauds, who gazed at her in astonished admiration—parental vanity easily forgiven in this case—and asked each other where Jeannette could have learned so much that even housekeepers of thirty hardly knew.

The truth was, she had never learned anything from anybody or anywhere; but she was precocious in every respect. It was enough for her to hear or see a thing once always to remember it; so she had only to think an instant to put in practice what she had observed. Add to this she was as sly as a fox, and ardently loved to give satisfaction, and you will easily understand there was nothing very astonishing in her performance.

About twilight, Jacques Michou made his appearance, accompanied by the curé, whom he had overtaken on the road. Jeannette came forward to meet them, and made a low reverence in true peasant style, totally unlike the bows made in M. le Marquis' salon. It was a great surprise for these honest souls, who had been conversing along the way about the blindness of Ragaud in regard to his daughter, and they were both too frank not to show their satisfaction.

"So you have come back, my child?" said the curé, patting her kindly on the head.

"To wait upon you, M. le Curé," she sweetly replied.

"And your beautiful dresses?" asked Jacques Michou.

"They are hanging up in the wardrobe," said Jeannette, laughing.

"Indeed! And do you like to have them there as much as on your back, my little girl?"

"Why not?" she replied. "I am happy here with my father, my mother, and Jeannet."

"It is your best place," said the curé. "I am delighted, Mme. Ragaud, to see your daughter at home. Is it for some time?"

"If mademoiselle does not reclaim her," said Pierrette, blushing, for she never would speak falsely, "it will be for ever."

"Well, I hope it will be so," said he. "And you, Jeannette, do you desire it also?"

"I am always happy with my dear parents," replied the little one; "but mademoiselle is so kind and good, I am always happy with her also. If my mother sends me to the château, I will go; and if she commands me to return, I will come back."

They could not help being pleased with this speech of the good, obedient little girl, and they took their places at table without any further questions or raillery. Jeannette, during the supper, rose more than twenty times to see that all was right; and Ragaud, you can well imagine, did not fail to inform his guests that everything had been prepared under his daughter's eye. It was strictly true, as they clearly saw; and, consequently, the compliments were freely bestowed. Nevertheless, when the dessert was brought on, Ragaud could not resist saying to Michou, with a significant look, as he held up his glass:

"Well, my old fellow, will you now give me credit for knowing how to bring up my children?"

Jacques nodded his head, and, holding up his glass, replied, "I will come to see you eight years from now, comrade, and then I will answer your question."

"Very good," said Ragaud. "M. le Curé, you will be witness. I promise to give a cow to Jacques Michou, if, at that time, Jeannette is not the best housekeeper in the country."

"I take the bet," replied Jacques, laughing; "and I add that I hope to lose it as surely as the good God has no master."

"Come, come," said the curé gravely, "it is not worth such an oath. Between good men, my friends, it is enough to say yes or no. I consent to be witness, and I also say I hope that Jacques will lose the bet."

They stopped as they saw Jeannette, who returned to the table, crimson with pleasure. Behind her came big Marion, carrying, with great care, a large dish, upon which stood, erect on his claws, a beautiful pheasant that seemed ready to crow. As it was at the end of the meal, every one looked at it with amazement, especially Pierrette, who had not been let into the secret. It was a surprise invented by Jeannette, who clapped her hands and laughed heartily, and then wished them to guess what it was. After she had thoroughly enjoyed their astonishment, she rapidly took out the feathers, and then they saw it was a delicious pudding, stuffed with plums, which she had manufactured, with Marion and Jeannet's assistance, after the style of M. le Marquis' cook. Pierrette, it must be acknowledged, wept tears of admiration; for this was a wonder that surpassed her imagination.

This magnificent performance increased Ragaud's good humor; and I verily believe, but for the presence of M. le Curé, he would have emptied more than one bottle in honor of Jeannette and the pheasant. But our good pastor, without being the least in the world opposed to innocent enjoyment, did not like the gaiety which comes from drinking, as we already know. Consequently, they soon rose from the entertainment, and wished each other a cordial good-night. The little pet was so worn out with her extraordinary efforts, she soon after fell asleep in her chair, and they had to carry her off to bed. She was thoroughly tired, and Pierrette observed it was not surprising, after such a day's work, which, perhaps, she herself could not have stood.

IX.

That night something occurred which appeared of small importance at the time, but that had great results, which many persons never understood, and that I will reveal to you at the proper time and place. For many years it was a great mystery; and I remember, when I was young, my honest and pious father was conversing in a whisper one evening, in the dim twilight, with an old friend, and I hid myself under a chair to find out what he was saying; but not one word of the secret could I make out. Nevertheless, one fearful expression I remembered for a long while. When my father was tired with talking, he dismissed his chum, saying:

"Now we will stop; and be silent as the grave. You know you might lose your head!"

And at these terrible words, the friend replied by placing the finger of his left hand on his lips, and with his right pulled down his cap over his ears, as if to make sure that his head was still safe on his shoulders. It was really a gesture which froze one with terror; and as for me, I shook so I thought I would overturn the chair which served me for a hiding-place.

And now, I beg of you not to be as curious as I was, for you would gain nothing by it. I am only going to tell you what happened the night after the dinner on S. Martin's day.

No matter how late it might be, Ragaud, excellent manager as he was, never went to bed without having carefully made the tour of all his buildings with a dark lantern. He remained seated by the fire, while Pierrette carried off the little girl to bed, and Jean-Louis retired to his room. When all was still, he rose and went out softly to commence his round.

It was a beautiful night, rather dark, but mild for November. Ragaud walked through his little orchard, from whence could be seen the stables and barns, behind which rose the tall fir-trees, unruffled by a breath of wind. He passed into the barn-yard, silent likewise; chickens, geese, ducks, and turkeys slept soundly, heads under their wings, on the perches appropriated to them by Pierrette. All was quiet and in good order, and Ragaud, content with himself and the world, prepared to re-enter, when, accidentally raising his head, he saw in the distance something so astonishing he remained as though nailed to the spot, and nearly dropped his lantern in the excitement of the moment.

The château of Val-Saint, which could be seen from a certain point in the garden, like a great, black mass in the horizon, appeared as though lighted up with sparks of fire. A light would be seen first at one window, then at another, and then disappear as quickly as it came. Good Ragaud could not believe his eyes. Surely something extraordinary was taking place at the château; for M. le Marquis and mademoiselle, with all due respect, went to bed with the chickens, and the servants were not allowed to remain up.

"What the devil is the matter with me to-night?" thought Ragaud. "Am I dreaming on my feet, or must I fancy the two or three glasses of white wine more than usual at dessert have turned my brain?"

Not a bit of it; he saw perfectly clear. The light danced about the windows, as though to mock him, and finally went out entirely. But now comes the crowning mystery. A great, blue star appeared on the summit of the high tower, and rose upward until it was hidden by a cloud.

At the same instant, Ragaud felt two heavy hands resting on his shoulders and something breathe heavily on his neck.

Indeed, only put yourself in his place. There was something to fear; and so the brave fellow, who in his youth had fought in our great battles, was all over goose-flesh. But it was only momentary; for, quickly turning, he saw that he had on his back the soft paws of his dog Pataud, who, making the rounds at his side, took this means of caressing him.

"Down, Pataud, old fellow!" said he gently; "it is not daybreak. Go lie down! Be quick! Be off to your kennel! Do you hear me?"

Pataud heard very well, but obedience was not to his taste that night. He wagged his tail, and appeared in splendid humor; one would think he suspected something was going on at the château.

"So you think there is something in the wind up there, do you?" asked Ragaud, snapping his fingers in the air. "Will you come with me, and see what it is all about?"

At these words, he started as though to leave the garden, and Pataud this time seemed to consent.

"This comes from having an animal well brought up," thought Ragaud. "If you could speak, my cunning old fellow, doubtless you would tell me what I wish to know; but as that can't be expected, I must remain very anxious until the morning."

He re-entered the house after this reflection, having obliged Pataud to remain quiet by giving him a friendly kick over the threshold of the kennel.

To sleep was difficult; he had the faithful heart of an old servant, who could not repose when he feared evil was impending over his masters. He remembered that ten years before, on a similar night in November, lights appeared in every window the whole length of the façade of the château, and on the next day, alas! it was known they had been lighted during the agony of our beloved mistress, Mme. la Marquise de Val-Saint. Was it not enough to make him apprehend some misfortune for his dear lord?

Poor mademoiselle's health was not very robust, and she frequently said, in such a mournful tone, that the country air was not good for her.

"To-morrow," said Ragaud to himself, "I will take back Jeannette the first thing in the morning; if mademoiselle is sick, it will do her good to see her again; and perhaps I would have done better if I had let her remain. Who knows but the dear soul was so fondly attached to the child, she has become ill in consequence?"

You must know Ragaud listened to the voice of his conscience as a devotee hears a sermon; and once persuaded that it was his duty to take back to mademoiselle her favorite plaything, twenty-five notaries could not have shaken his decision. Consequently, at the first break of day, he took from the chest his Sunday clothes, and was in holiday trim when Pierrette came down to go out and milk the cows. You can well imagine her astonishment.

"Wife," said Ragaud, "go and make Jeannette get up quickly, and tell her to put on her château dress."

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

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

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

"Light the fire, boy," said Ragaud, "and warm us up something. I must go to the château with your sister, and I will not take her out in the cold, fasting."

"Father," said Jean-Louis, while rapidly breaking up the fagots, "did you see a bright light last night around the big tower of the château?"

"Did you?" asked Ragaud.

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

"Yes, I saw it also," answered Ragaud; "and Pataud did, too. What do you think it could have been, Jeannet?"

"I think," said Jean-Louis, "they illuminated the château and fired off rockets in honor of S. Martin."

"Very probable, child; that is a good idea," said Ragaud laughing. "Perhaps, after all, it is the whole secret; but, any how, I would rather go and find out."

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

"No, stay and help your mother; if I want you, I will tell you. It is enough that I must carry off the little girl."

Jeannette all this time was dressing as fast as possible, without asking why or wherefore. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, not having had her full sleep; but I think the idea of returning to her godmother was not very disagreeable.

However, she was sufficiently wide awake to swallow down a big bowl of sweetened milk; after which, Pierrette wrapped her up in a warm shawl, and kissed her good-by with a full heart.

All this had taken two hours; and Ragaud not wishing to hurry her, the village clock struck eight when they reached the door of the château.

The first person they saw, contrary to the usual custom, was Master Jean Riponin, who was M. le Marquis' man of business. From his imposing manner and the great fuss he was making—ordering every one here and there with a voice as rough as the captain of a fire-brigade—it was difficult to fancy there was any one above him in the château; Ragaud, sharp fellow that he was, took it in at a glance, and, instead of approaching the steward, as he had always done, without ceremony and a good shake of the hand, he remained at a slight distance, and touched his hat.

"It is you, Master Ragaud?" said Jean Riponin with a patronizing air. "Wait a moment; I will speak to you after I have given my orders to these stupid things."

"Don't disturb yourself," replied Ragaud. "I have not come on business to-day; I only wish to see mademoiselle."

"It is I who have received full power from M. le Marquis at his departure," replied Riponin, a little provoked. "Mademoiselle is not up yet; and, if she were, be assured, Ragaud, she would send you back to me. So let me know what you want without further delay, as I am in a hurry."

"Did you not say M. le Marquis had left?" asked the farmer, as much from interest as to cut short the puffed-up superintendent.

"Yes, this morning before the day-dawn," said he; "and it seems it was something very hurried, for he had only time to hand me all the keys of the house, except those of his desk and safe, which were forgotten in his great haste. But he must have already perceived it, and I expect to receive those two keys by express."

"Indeed," thought Ragaud, "it will be time enough to see them when they come—that is to say, if they will ever come." For he knew Master Riponin was not a man who regarded the marquis' crowns as relics once that he saw the heap. Fortunately, M. le Marquis was of the same opinion; therefore, he kept Riponin in his service on account of many other good qualities that he possessed; but as for the desk and safe, he never saw anything but the key-holes.

While Riponin and Ragaud were conversing, mademoiselle, who had just risen, drew aside her curtains to see what caused such a noise in the court; and the cunning little Jeannette, as soon as she perceived her godmother, kissed her hand to her. In less than a minute, Dame Berthe appeared at the door.

"M. Ragaud," said she, "I am sent by mademoiselle to beg that you will go to her immediately; and you, Jeannette, run and kiss your godmother."

"M. Riponin, I wish you good-morning," said Ragaud, carelessly turning his back on the steward.

The steward watched him enter the château with anything but a pleased expression; but he dared not show his displeasure before Dame Berthe, whom he knew was not friendly to him.

Dear mademoiselle's eyes filled with tears when she saw her darling pet. The little one was tender-hearted, and was deeply moved by this proof of affection. Ragaud, likewise, showed great emotion, and Dame Berthe said it would have been a cruel shame to have longer deprived the château of its chief delight.

"Ragaud," said mademoiselle, "my dear Ragaud, if you had not come to-day, I was going myself to bring back Jeannette. You see, I am so unhappy."

"I did not think you loved the child so much," replied Ragaud; "it is a great honor for Jeannette and for us all, dear mademoiselle, and I desire nothing so much as to contribute to your happiness."

"Only think," said mademoiselle, sighing, "I am always alone; and now that my father has left home, ... and perhaps for such a long time!"

"Will M. le Marquis go far?... Excuse my curiosity," said Ragaud; "but you know, mademoiselle, I only ask the question from the great interest I feel in your dear family."

Mademoiselle was about to reply; but Dame Berthe stopped her short by glancing at Jeannette, who was listening with profound attention.

"I will take her with me," said she in a low tone to her governess, "and then tell everything to Ragaud; our family never keeps a secret from this old servant."

When mademoiselle had withdrawn, under the pretext of showing some new article of the toilet to Jeannette, Dame Berthe carefully closed the door, and approached Ragaud.

"Can I rely on your devotion?" she asked in such a solemn manner Ragaud could only bow his head in assent. "And even on your life?" continued Dame Berthe with a still more serious air.

"If I must give it in exchange for that of my master, yes, certainly," replied the faithful old fellow without any hesitation.

"Very well. Sit down, Ragaud; you are going to learn a secret—the greatest secret a Christian can keep."

Ragaud sat down, rather astonished, his heart beating in spite of himself. However, strictly speaking, the words of Dame Berthe appeared a little exaggerated, and he felt so without being able to account for it, except from his own good sense.

"Master Ragaud," said the governess, who was a devoted reader of newspapers, and had learned to talk in their style, "great events are preparing, and, before long, the face of the world will be changed."

"Ah!" said Ragaud. "Excuse me, my good lady, but the face of the world, ... I don't know what that means."

"When I speak of the world," resumed Dame Berthe, "I mean France—France—Ragaud, our country."

"Now I understand better; yes, I know that France is our country. Well, then, what is going to be changed in France?"

"Everything," said she, rising in a frantic manner. "France, my good Ragaud, is tired of the odious yoke that has weighed her down for ten years."

"My oxen are also sometimes tired of the yoke," said Ragaud dryly; "but that does not pay them while the whip is around."

"Yes, but a nation can't be whipped like a beast of burden," replied Dame Berthe. "Come, Ragaud, I see you do not understand what I am aiming at."

"No, not at all," said he. "I am not learned, my good lady; sometimes I hear such expressions as you use when M. le Curé reads aloud from some public journal; but, between ourselves, it always puts me to sleep. You see, the useful things in the newspapers, for a farmer, are the price of grain and the announcement of the fairs; the rest is all twaddle for me."

"So it appears," answered Dame Berthe, a little hurt. "I am now going to talk in a way that you can understand. Well, then, Ragaud, M. le Marquis left home last night. Where do you think he has gone?"

"It is not my custom to inquire into the private affairs of my masters," replied Ragaud. "By chance I walked through my garden late last night, and I saw the château lighted up. I was afraid mademoiselle was ill; so this morning I brought back Jeannette to amuse her. In the court, M. Riponin told me of the departure of M. le Marquis; and now I do not wish to hear anything further, unless you judge it necessary."

"It will certainly be useful," said Dame Berthe, who was longing to tell all she knew, "you will agree with me, M. Ragaud, when you know that M. le Marquis was called off by a letter, which assured him that they were only waiting for him...."

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

"Precisely," replied Berthe seriously. "It appears that the insurrection has broken out near Angers, where there are thousands of armed men. Monsieur, who fought with the Chouans in his youth, will be appointed general, and they will advance to the capture of Paris, where nothing is suspected. The usurper will be driven out, M. Ragaud, and our dear young legitimate prince will ascend the throne. Won't it be magnificent? Dear Eveline will go to court. Poor child! she has been so long tired of the country."

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

"Sure? How can it be doubted, when the friend of M. le Marquis in that province declares, do you understand—declares positively—that it only needs a spark to set fire to the powder?"

"To the powder!" cried Ragaud, this time very much frightened. "Are they dreaming of blowing up the magazine at Angers? That would be a terrible misfortune, my dear lady."

"Be easy," replied Dame Berthe, shrugging her shoulders. "I always forget that you don't read the papers. 'Setting fire to the powder' means to kindle the insurrection, to inflame the minds and hearts of the people; and it is expected that, at the first word, the country will rise as one man."

"They are going to fight?" said Ragaud. "Battles are not gay, and the poor fare badly in time of war."

"Fight? Oh! you are blind, my dear M. Ragaud," replied Dame Berthe, laughing with the most charming simplicity. "Do you expect a few little regiments to withstand millions of men? Before a week, the insurgents will be counted by millions. And now, if you wish to know the real truth, ... well, ... the army itself is with us."

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

"Do you think those gentlemen would be so silly as to commence the work without being assured of this support?" replied the governess, clasping her hands. "My God! Ragaud, for whom do you take M. le Marquis and his friends?"

"For brave men, most assuredly," said the farmer, unable to repress a smile; "and since all is so well arranged, Dame Berthe, allow me, with all due respect, to ask you two questions. In the first place, when will the marriage come off? In the second, what does my dear master wish me to do under the circumstances?"

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

"Just so, my good lady."

"I don't think this great event could possibly take place before a month, or three weeks at soonest. Although this revolution, inspired by God, must, I am fully convinced, spread like lightning, time flies rapidly; and then, we must always think of unforeseen accidents."

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

"As for what M. le Marquis expects of you, my good Ragaud, it is very easy. It would be shameful, you know, when all France is rising in arms for her true sovereign, to see Val-Saint and the neighborhood sleeping in carelessness and indolence. You are, then, designated—you, Jacques Michou, who for forty years has been the head-keeper of the estate, Master Perdreau, the notary of the family, and some other old servants—you are expected to prepare the people for the change about to take place, and make them cry 'Long live the King!' throughout the commune."

"And if they won't do it?" asked Ragaud innocently; "for, in truth, that is to be well considered."

"They will do it; they will all do it," cried Dame Berthe. "France is burning with the desire of uttering this cry of love and gratitude," she added, remembering that she had just read this expression in her morning paper.

"So much the better," said Ragaud; "and it only remains to thank you for your confidence, my dear lady, and I will do my best to fulfil the wishes of M. le Marquis."

The entrance of mademoiselle, who thought there had been time enough for the secret to be told and retold, cut short the conversation, as she brought Jeannette with her. Ragaud bowed politely to the ladies of the château, kissed his daughter, told her to be good and obedient, and closed the door behind him, his head full of all he had just heard.

Dame Berthe overtook him at the head of the staircase.

"Ragaud," said she, "you told me you were up late last night. Did you not see, about midnight, a blue light go up from the summit of the tower?"

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

"It was the given signal to warn several châteaux of the neighborhood of the departure of M. le Marquis. Watch all these nights, for we expect a messenger, who will come to announce the triumph of the holy cause, and then a second light will go up at the same hour. This one will be red, and, when you see it, you will instantly march, with the armed bands you will have assembled, to join the grand army."

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

And he descended the staircase slowly, without appearing the least excited.

"Eveline," said Dame Berthe, pressing mademoiselle to her breast, "thank God, my dear child. I have had the happiness of completely winning over good Ragaud to the holy cause. He is even more ardent than myself, and as well disposed as we could wish. Before long, we will see Val-Saint and Ordonniers rise and march to victory under the command of this brave peasant. Jacques Cathelineau and M. Stofflet should be of the same stamp. What I admire in Ragaud is that cold determination, which would make one fancy he was not enthusiastic; but I am not deceived by appearances."

"Perhaps," said mademoiselle, "all will be over in time for us to go and finish the winter in Paris."

"I have no doubt of it," replied Dame Berthe; "and thus, my dear child, as I have thought the dressmakers might be half crazy with the quantity of court-dresses that would be ordered, I have already decided what your costume is to be on the entrance of the king into Paris; for I expect the daughter of the commander-in-chief to be the first to salute her sovereign; and I will immediately commence to embroider the satin train, so as to be ready."

"How good you are! You think of everything!" said mademoiselle, very much overcome. "I wish I was there now!..."

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

After leaving the château, Ragaud, with his hands in his pockets, went off in search of his old comrade, Jacques Michou, that he might consult with him over Dame Berthe's revelations. Jacques lived alone—being a widower and childless—in a little house close to the edge of the woods that bordered La Range. He had no one about him but a niece of his late wife, whom he fed and clothed; in return for which, she cooked for him and cleaned his hunting-gun. The girl was little trouble to him; she was idiotic and half dumb, and, among other little eccentricities, liked to sleep with the sheep. So, in the summer she camped out on the meadow with the flock, and in winter slept in the sheepfold, which certainly had the advantage of keeping her very warm, but could have had no other charm. From this habit she had acquired the name of Barbette throughout the country; and it was not badly given, as with us a great many shepherd-dogs are called Barbets, on account of the race; and since the poor girl shared their office, she had at least a claim to the name if she so pleased.

Jacques Michou, on his side, had his particular fancies. First of all was the idea (which he would only give up with his life) that, in virtue of his badge and his gun, he was the head-keeper of M. le Marquis de Val-Saint. Now, we must acknowledge it was mere show, there was nothing in it; for our good lord never wished to displease any one, not even the poachers. He said there was always some good in those men; and as in everything he pursued one aim—which was, as you know, to enrol one day or other all our boys in a regiment for the benefit of the king—he preferred to be kind to these bold and cunning rascals, who were not easily hoodwinked. After a while, Jacques Michou became weary of carrying the delinquents before M. le Marquis only to see them graciously dismissed, so it ended by his letting them alone; and at the end of a few years, his principal occupation was to carefully keep to the right of the estate in making his rounds when he knew the poachers were at work on the left. However, he took pride in letting them know that each and every one could be caught at any moment he wished; he knew every path in the woods as well as the bottom of his sauce-pan, and all the thieves as though they belonged to his family. When he met the rascals, he threatened them with loud voice and gesture, and swore tremendous oaths that made heaven and earth tremble. "But," he would shout, "what can I do? Robbers and vagabonds that you are, if M. le Marquis allows himself to be plundered, the servant must obey the master's orders; but for that, you would see!" And the end of the story was—nothing was seen.

You can understand very well that the brave old fellow, having only the title of keeper, and nothing to show for it but the fine silver badge, engraved with the arms of the family of Val-Saint, which he wore on the shoulder-strap of his game-bag, clung all the closer to the empty honor, and allowed no joking on the subject.

When Ragaud entered his friend's house, he found him carving playthings out of cocoanut-shells—something which he did wonderfully well—and in a few words related what had taken place at the château.

"We will find ourselves floundering in the mire," said Ragaud. "As for me, I am ready to promise before the good God that I will give my life to fulfil the commands of our dear master; but it remains to be seen if many around here are of my opinion."

"Many?" exclaimed Jacques, shrugging his shoulders. "Bah! I am very sure you will not find one out of a dozen!"

"If it is true," replied Ragaud, with hesitation; "I wonder if it is really true about the insurrection in Anjou?"

"Nonsense," said Jacques Michou. "That poor M. le Marquis is crazy on one point, which takes him out of the country every five or six years for change of air, and that is good for his health; for every man needs hope to keep him well. That is the truth of the business."

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

"As for that, a good master must always be obeyed, old fellow; we can say a few words here and there quietly. You will find the people as stupid as owls, and they will understand you as well as though you spoke Prussian. We shall have done our duty. As to monsieur, he will return before long, a little cross for the moment, but not at all discouraged—take my word for it."

"It is a great pity," said Ragaud, "that a man of such great good sense couldn't listen to reason!"

"Why so?" replied Jacques. "A great lord like him is bound in honor to be devoted, body and soul, to his king; for you see, Ragaud, the king who is not on the throne is the real one—no doubt about that. But often one tumbles over in running too fast; and since it appears not to be the will of the good God that things should return to the old style, it would have been much better not to have sent off letters, gone off at night, and fired off signals. It is just as if they had played the flute. Men stop a moment, listen, and then, the music ended, each one returns to his plough."

"You speak capitally," said Ragaud; "it is just what I think also; so I will do as you say—neither more nor less. But we will agree on one point, old fellow, which is, to have an eye on the château, so that we can defend the doors if the women are threatened."

"Bah! bah! No fear about that," said Michou, shaking him by the hand. "I will give my life for all that belong to the house of Val-Saint, comrade. I would as willingly fire a pistol in defence of monsieur, mademoiselle, and the old fool of a governess, as for the hares and rabbits on the estate. But for these it would be powder thrown away, as monsieur, we must believe, only likes butcher's meat, and prefers to leave his game for those devils of thieves!"

Thereupon the worthy old souls refreshed themselves with a jug of cider, and conversed together for some time longer, principally repeating the same ideas on the same subject, which was the one we have just related—something which often happens to wiser men than they, and, therefore, I consider it useless to tell you any more of their honest gossip.

They separated about mid-day, and I will inform you what was the result of the great insurrection. At Angers, as with us, it was as Michou had predicted. M. le Marquis returned from his trip rather fatigued and thoroughly disgusted with France, which he called a ruined country. Mademoiselle wept for a week that she could not go to Paris. Dame Berthe commenced Novenas to the Blessed Queen Jeanne, in order that the next enterprise, which would not be long delayed, might succeed better than the last; and the result of all was that Jeannette remained more than ever at the château, as she was the greatest consolation to her dear godmother.

X.

I think we will do well, at this period of our story, to pass over several years, during which time nothing of great importance occurred. In the country, days succeed each other in undisturbed tranquillity, unmarked by many great events. According as the spring is rainy or dry, the villagers commence the season by making predictions about the summer, which, twenty times out of twenty-two, are never fulfilled. It must be acknowledged that we peasants seem afraid to appear too well pleased with the good God; and, though it is a great fault, unfortunately it is not rare. Men grumble and swear, first at the sun, and then at the wind, for burning and parching their fields; and when the rain commences, there is another cause for displeasure; and most of all, at the end of summer, when, after these doleful repinings, the harvests have been plentiful, far from thanking the Lord God, who, instead of punishing them, has sent blessings, they instantly commence to worry about the approaching vintage. And so S. Sylvester's day finds them with well-stacked barns and cellars filled with barrels of wine, but not to make them wiser the year after from such experience, which should teach them faith in divine Providence.

Whence I conclude that men are only incorrigible, gabbling children, and that the good God must have great patience and mercy to tolerate them. Much more could be said on this subject; but, not being a priest, I prefer to leave off moralizing, and return to our friends.

Therefore, we will, if you please, resume our narrative about seven years from where we left off, at which time Jeannette Ragaud had nearly completed her sixteenth year and Jean-Louis his twentieth.

Weeks and months, rapidly passing, had brought them from childhood to youth without their knowing it, and they had each followed their inclinations, as might easily have been foreseen. Jeannette, well educated, coquettish, and extremely pretty, was the most charming little blonde in the province. She scarcely ever came to Muiceron, except on Sundays and festivals, between Mass and Vespers; and if you ask me how this could have happened, so contrary, as you know, to the wishes of father and mother Ragaud, I will reply that I know nothing, unless there is a special wind which blows sometimes over men's desires, and prevents their ripening into facts. To be convinced of this truth needs only a little unreserved frankness. See, now, you who listen to me, you may be more learned than a schoolmaster, and more malicious than a hump-back—that I will not dispute; but if you will swear to me that everything in this life has happened as you desired, without change or contradiction, I will not hesitate to think you, but for the charity which should reign among Christians, the greatest liar in your parish.

If any one spoke to Ragaud about the dangerous road in which he had placed his daughter, and that there was no longer chance to retrace his steps, he did not show displeasure or excuse himself, as heretofore. His serious and rather sorrowful air, joined to a very convenient little cough, showed more than by words that he did not know how to reply, and the poor man was truly sensible of his weakness and error; but what could he do? Something always happened to prevent him from carrying out his intention of taking Jeannette from the château.

Sometimes mademoiselle was sick; sometimes it was a festival of the church that needed a reinforcement of skilled embroiderers to make vestments and flowers for the altars; another day Dame Berthe had gone off for a month's vacation. In winter the pretext was that Jeannette's health would be endangered if she resumed her peasant life, as she could not bear the exposure; and when that was over, the summer days were so long, mademoiselle would have died of ennui without her darling Jeannette; and all this mademoiselle explained with such a gentle, winning air, old Ragaud never could refuse her; so that at last he was so accustomed to ask and be refused each time that he went for Jeannette, he finally abandoned the attempt; and seeing that his visits to the château were mere matters of form, he submitted with good grace, by making none at all, at least with that intention.

As for good Pierrette, she remained quiet; but accustomed to submit, and filled besides with admiration for the great good sense of her husband, she told all her troubles to the good God, and awaited, without complaint, the time when he would decree a change. But yet I must say things were not so bad as you might fancy. Life at the château had not spoiled Jeannette's heart. She was rather light-hearted, and the vanity of fine clothes had more effect on her than that of position; but as for her parents, she adored them, and overwhelmed them with embraces and kisses on her visits to the farm, which gave her undisguised pleasure. Our curé, who watched her closely, and who never liked to see country girls quit the stable for the drawing-room, was forced to acknowledge that the affair had not turned out so badly as he apprehended; and although he did not hesitate to scold mademoiselle for spoiling Jeannette—which he had the right to do, as he had known her from her birth, and had also baptized her—it was easy to see, by his fond, paternal air, that he loved the child as much as at the time when Germaine whipped her.

I will also tell you that this good pastor was beginning to feel the weight of years. He lost strength daily, and, like all holy men, his character softened as he drew nearer to the good God. Besides, fearing that soon he would be unable to visit his beloved flock, he thought rightly it was better not to be too severe, as it might wean them from him.

"For," said he, "if it is true that flies are not caught by vinegar, it is still more evident that men are never won by scolding and threats."

It was a sound argument, and, consequently, who was more venerated than the curé of Val-Saint? I will give only one proof. His parishioners, seeing that walking fatigued him, consulted among themselves at a fair, and resolved to buy him a steady animal, with a sheep-skin saddle and leather reins, embroidered in red, according to the country fashion.

It so happened that just at that moment a pedlar, owning a good mule, wished to barter it for a draught-horse, put up for sale by a farmer from Charbonnière. The bargain was made after a short parley, and our good friends returned home joyfully, and, without saying a word, tied their present to the tree before the priest's house. It was too good an act to be kept silent; the next day the curé and all the parish knew it. I need not ask who was deeply moved. The following Sunday our dear curé thanked his flock with words that repaid them a hundred-fold; and really, if you know anything about country people, you must say, without meaning any wrong by it, they are not accustomed to be generous; therefore, a little praise was fully their due.

As for the mule, it was a famous beast. She was black, and sniffed the air at such a rate, she always seemed eager to start off at full gallop; but, fortunately for our dear old curé, it was only a little coquetry she still practised in remembrance of her youthful days, and never went further. After making six or seven paces, she became calmer, dropped her head, and trotted along as quietly as a lady taking up a collection in the church. Otherwise she was gentle and easily managed, except at the sight of water, into which she never could be induced to put her foot.

"But who has not his faults?" as the beadle of Val-Saint was accustomed to say to his wife, when she scolded him for returning home rather the worse for having raised his elbow too often.

In speaking a little here and there about each and every one, don't think that I have forgotten Jean-Louis; on the contrary, I have kept the dear boy as the choicest morsel.

You must not expect me to relate in detail all his acts and gestures. In the first place, he spoke little, and what he said was so kind and gentle that, if he was forced to deal with the noisiest brawler in the neighborhood, he soon conquered him by his mildness. One reason of this was that, having learned so young the painful circumstances of his birth, and being proud by nature, he controlled himself before people, in order not to provoke any insolence. I must also add that the greater part of our young men get into trouble over their wine; and for Jeannet there was nothing to fear in that respect. Why, you can easily guess: because he knew nothing of the tavern, but the entrance and the sign—just what could be seen in passing along the street.

The good fellows, his companions, loved him dearly; the wicked were forced to respect him, and feared him also, as Jeannet had grown up tall, and had arms strong enough to stop a mad bull; and as for work, no one could compete with him. Only one thing on earth he feared, and that was to commit a sin. And do you know, that those who have only this fear can overcome, with a sign, a raging madman? It daily happens, as much in the city, among the black coats, as in the village, among the blouses. Try it, and you will be convinced, and then you will acknowledge I speak the truth.

The Ragauds, as they watched this pearl of a boy grow up, learned to love him more than many parents do their legitimate sons. He was worth five hired men, and Ragaud, with his strict sense of justice, had calculated the value to the last cent, and for the past ten years had placed to his credit in the savings-bank, every 1st of January, one thousand francs, upon which the interest was accruing. Jean-Louis knew nothing of the secret, and never did he dream his labor was worth remuneration. The boy's mind and heart were so thoroughly at ease that, knowing he had not a cent, and nothing to expect on the death of his parents, as they had a daughter, he never troubled himself about the present or the future, believing firmly that the good God, who had given him a family, would provide for his daily wants; for this second blessing was nothing, in his eyes, in comparison with the first.

Pierrette was careful that her Benjamin's pocket was never empty. At Easter and on S. John's day she always gave him a five-franc piece; and even this was often too much, as Jeannet's clothes and linen were always kept in perfect order by his devoted mother, and, consequently, as he never indulged in dissipation, and seldom joined in the village games, he did not know how to spend it. He would have liked sometimes to treat himself to a book when the pedlar—the same who had sold the mule to the farmers for M. le Curé—came around, and Ragaud, sure now of his good conduct, would certainly not have objected; but one day, after having searched over the package, he bought for thirty sous what he thought was a good and entertaining work, as it bore the seal placed by the government on all publications peddled through the country; but, to his horror, he found it filled with villanous sentiments. This saddened and disgusted him for several days; these thirty sous laid heavy on his mind, not from the avaricious thought that he had thrown his money to the wind, but from the idea that he had wronged the poor; for thirty sous was the exact price of a six-pound loaf of bread of the best quality. Between ourselves, I verily believe he accused himself of it in confession, as what I ever heard of the good boy makes me think it most likely he would do so.

Perhaps you would like to know if Jean-Louis had grown up handsome or ugly. Well, he was ugly, at least according to common opinion; we villagers admire red faces and those who look well fed, and dress showily. Jeannet's face was long and pale; his features delicate; teeth white and beautiful, in a large mouth that seldom smiled; and his deep, dark eyes were brilliant as stars; and when those eyes looked in displeasure at any one, they were fearful. Besides, Jean-Louis, who was tall, appeared so thin you would have thought him a young gray-beard, ready to break in two at the first breath of wind. With us, thin people who have not a pound of flesh on their bones are not admired, and it is quite an insult to be called thin. I think that is all nonsense, for vigor does not come from fat, but from good health, flesh strengthened by exercise and good habits; and as Jeannet was acknowledged to be the strongest boy in the neighborhood, he was only called thin from jealousy, as he certainly could thank God for being a sound young man, as strong as the foundation of a barn.

The only amusement he allowed himself was sometimes, on great festivals, to assist at the pigeon-shooting which M. le Marquis had established on the lawn before the château. It was a difficult game, which demanded good sight, coolness, and, above all, great strength of wrist. Jeannet, on two successive years, carried off the prize; the first was a silver goblet, the second a beautiful knife, fork, and spoon of the same metal. On these occasions his pale face became red with pleasure; do you think it was from vanity? Not at all. If his heart beat quickly, it was at the thought of the splendid presents he would make his good mother Pierrette; and, in reality, he made her promise she would never drink a drop or eat a mouthful but out of the goblet or with the knife and fork. We must say, in spite of the crowns heaped up at Muiceron, the earthen pipe and tin cups were alone used. At first Pierrette was ill at ease with her silver service, but she nevertheless accustomed herself to the use of it, so as to please Jeannet; and at last, to make her feel more comfortable, Ragaud, on his next trip to the city, bought himself a similar set, very fine, for eighty-four francs, which he constantly said was rather dear; but at heart he thought it very suitable, as it was not proper for his wife to eat with silver and he with tin; and to Jeannet's mind, who regretted that he had not drawn four prizes instead of two, so as to delight both his dear parents, a brighter idea had never entered his good father's head.