Chapter XXI: Monsieur Antoine's Nap

The page of Châteaubrun amused the young couple for a few moments with his ingenuous remarks; but he was speedily vanquished by the longing to run, and started off in pursuit of the goats, narrowly escaped having trouble with their keepers, and ended by making it up with them and playing at quoits on the bank of the Creuse, while Emile and Gilberte attempted to follow the course of the Sédelle on the other side of the mountain.

As the torrent has eaten away the base of the cliff in many places, they had sometimes to crawl, sometimes to retrace their steps, sometimes to step on stones that were level with the water, and all of this not without some difficulty and some danger. But youth is adventurous and love is afraid of nothing.

A special providence protects both alike, and our lovers came bravely forth from all the perils of their undertaking,--Emile trembling with an emotion very different from fear when he lifted Gilberte or held her in his arms; Gilberte laughing to conceal her confusion or to forget it.

Gilberte was strong, active and brave, like a true child of the mountain; and yet, by dint of passing over a constant succession of obstacles, she became breathless, sank on the moss beside the leaping stream, and threw her hat on the grass, having to put up her hair which had fallen over her shoulders.

"Do go and pick me that lovely digitalis over yonder," she said to Emile, thinking that she would have time to rearrange her locks before he returned. But he went and came again so quickly that he found her still inundated by the golden flood which her little hands could hardly gather up into a single braid.

Standing beside her, he gazed in admiration at those treasures which she twisted up behind her head with more impatience than pride, and which she would have cut off long before as being an annoying burden, if Antoine and Janille had not strenuously objected.

At that moment, however, she was grateful to them for refusing to allow it; for, although she was little inclined to coquetry, she saw that Emile was lost in admiration, and she had done nothing to arouse it. If there are some triumphs of beauty, which love cannot refuse to enjoy, they are those above all which are unforeseen and involuntary. That beautiful hair would have been a genuine compensation to an ugly woman, and in Gilberte's case it was a lavish outlay of nature added to all her other gifts.

It should be said that Gilberte, like her father, was industrious rather than clever with her hands, and moreover, she had lost all her pins while running and the heavy braid, hurriedly twisted, twice burst its bonds and fell to her feet.

Emile's eyes were still fixed upon her; Gilberte did not see them, but she felt them, as if the atmosphere were filled with the fire of that passionate gaze. She soon became so confused that she forgot to be merry, and finally, as ordinarily, made an effort to relieve, by a jest, their mutual emotion.

"I wish this hair was _my own_," she said; "then I would cut it off and throw it into the stream."

There was an opportunity for a well-turned compliment; but Emile was careful not to take advantage of it. What could he say about that hair which would express the love he bore it? He had never touched it and he was dying with the longing to do so. He glanced furtively about. A circle of rocks and shrubs isolated Gilberte and himself from the whole world. There was no spot on the mountain from which they could be seen. One would have said that she had selected that sheltered retreat to tempt him, and yet the innocent maiden had not thought of it, nor did she think that she was in any danger there.

Emile was no longer master of himself. Insomnia, alarm, grief and joy had kindled fever in his blood. He knelt beside Gilberte and took a handful of her rebellious hair in his trembling hand; then, as she started, he dropped it again, saying:

"I thought it was a wasp, but it is only a bit of moss."

"You frightened me," said Gilberte, shaking her head; "I thought it was a snake."

Meanwhile Emile's hand was clinging to her hair and could not let it go. On the pretext of assisting Gilberte to collect the scattered locks of which the breeze disputed possession with her, he touched it a hundred times, and at last put his lips to it stealthily. Gilberte did not seem to notice it, and hurriedly replacing her hat upon the ill-assured mass, she rose and said with an air which she strove to render unconcerned:

"Let us go to see if my father has awakened."

But she was trembling; a sudden pallor had driven the brilliant color from her cheeks; her heart was ready to burst; she staggered and leaned against the rock to keep from falling. Emile was at her feet.

What did he say to her? He did not know himself, and the echoes of Crozant did not retain his words. Gilberte did not hear them distinctly; she had the roar of the torrent in her ears, increased a hundredfold by the throbbing of the blood in her arteries, and it seemed to her that the mountain, seized with convulsions, was swaying to and fro over her head.

She had no legs with which to fly, indeed she did not think of it. In vain does one fly from love; when it has found its way into the heart, it takes root there and accompanies it everywhere. Gilberte did not know that there was any other peril in love than that of allowing her heart to be taken by surprise, and, in truth, there were no others for her with Emile. That danger was great enough, Heaven knows, and the vertigo it caused was full of irresistible delights.

All that Gilberte could say was to repeat with a sort of terror, instinct with regret and pain:

"No, no! you must not love me!"

"That means that you hate me then!" rejoined Emile; and Gilberte turned her face away, for she had not the courage to lie. "Very well," he continued; "if you do not love me, what harm does it do for you to know that I love you? Let me tell you so, since I can conceal it no longer. It is a matter of indifference to you, and one does not fear what one despises. Know that it is true then, and if I leave you, if I am to see you no more, at all events understand why it is: it is because I am dying for love of you, because I cannot sleep or work, because I am losing my wits and shall soon find myself telling your father what I am telling you now. I would rather be driven away by you than by the others. So drive me away; but you shall hear me now, because my secret is suffocating me; I love you, Gilberte, I love you so that it is killing me!"--And Emile's heart was so full that it overflowed in sobs.

Gilberte attempted to leave him; but she sat down only a few feet away and began to weep. There was more joy than bitterness behind those tears. So that Emile soon went to her to comfort her and was soon comforted in his turn; for there was naught but affection and regret in the terror that she felt.

"I am a poor girl," she said, "you are rich and your father, they say, thinks of nothing but increasing his fortune. You cannot marry me, and I ought not to think of marrying in my position. It would be by mere chance if I should fall in with a man as poor as myself, who had received a little education; and I have never counted on that chance. I said to myself long ago that I must make the best of my lot, in order to accustom myself to a sense of true dignity, which consists in not envying others and in forming oneself to simple tastes and honorable employment. So I do not think of marriage at all, since it would probably be necessary to change my way of thinking in order to find a husband. I must tell you that Janille got an idea into her head several days ago that troubles me a great deal. She wants my father to seek a husband for me. Seek a husband! Isn't that shameful and humiliating? Can you imagine anything more repulsive? And yet the dear old soul cannot understand my objection, and as my father was going to Argenton to receive the quarterly payment of his small pension, she suddenly decided this morning that he must take me and introduce me to some of his acquaintances. We can't resist Janille, so we started; but my father, thank heaven! doesn't know how to find husbands, and I shall be so cunning about helping him not to think of it, that this little excursion will result in nothing. You see, Monsieur Emile, that you mustn't pay your court to a girl who has no illusions and who has made up her mind, without regret or shame, to remain unmarried. I supposed that you would understand this, and that your friendly sentiments would prevent you from seeking to ruffle my quiet life. So forget this folly which has passed through your mind, and look upon me simply as a sister, who will forget what you have said, if you promise to love her with a calm and brotherly love. Why should we part? it would be a great sorrow to my father and me!"

"It would be a great sorrow to you, Gilberte?" said Emile; "why is it that you weep when you say such cold words to me? Either I do not understand you, or you are concealing something from me. And do you want me to tell you what I think that I divine? that you have not enough esteem for me to listen to me with confidence. You take me for a young madman, who prates of love without religion or conscience, and you think that you can treat me like a child to whom you would say: 'I forgive you, don't do it again.' But, if you believe that a genuine, serious passion can be allayed by a few cold words, you are a child yourself, Gilberte, and you have no feeling at all for me in the depths of your heart. O my God, can it be possible? and do those eyes that avoid mine, that hand that spurns me, mean contempt or incredulity?"

"Haven't I said enough? Do you think that I can consent to love you, with the certainty that you will belong to another sooner or later? It seems to me that love means living together forever: that is why, when I renounced the thought of marriage, I had to renounce the thought of love."

"I understand it so, too, Gilberte: love means living together forever! To my mind not even death can put an end to it; did I not say all that to you when I told you that I loved you? Ah! cruel Gilberte, you failed to understand me, or else you do not choose to understand me; but if you loved me you would not doubt. You would not tell me that you are poor, you would forget all about it as I do."

"O _mon Dieu_! I do not doubt you, Emile; I know that you are as incapable as myself of being guided by self-interest. But I ask you again, are we stronger than destiny, than your father's will, for instance?"

"Yes, Gilberte, yes, stronger than the whole world, if--we love each other."

It is quite useless to repeat the remainder of the interview. We might describe certain interludes of dismay and discouragement, when Gilberte, becoming reasonable, that is to say miserable, once more, pointed out obstacles and manifested a pride which, while not strongly marked, was sufficiently intense to lead her to prefer eternal solitude to the humiliation of a struggle against arrogance and wealth. We might tell by what honorable and manly arguments Emile sought to restore her confidence. But the strongest arguments, those to which Gilberte found no reply, are those which we cannot transcribe, for they were all enthusiasm and ingenuous pantomime.

Lovers are not eloquent after the manner of rhetoricians, and their words written down have never had much meaning for those to whom they were not addressed. If we could remember in cooler moments the insignificant remark that caused us to lose our wits, we should not understand how it could be and should jeer at ourselves.

But the tone and the glance find magical resources in passion, and Emile soon succeeded in persuading Gilberte of what he himself believed at that moment: namely that nothing was simpler or easier than for them to marry, consequently that nothing was more legitimate and necessary than that they should love each other with all their strength.

The noble-hearted girl loved Emile too dearly to harbor the thought that he was a rash and presumptuous youth. He said that he would overcome any possible resistance on his father's part, and Gilberte knew nothing of Monsieur Cardonnet except by vague rumors. Emile guaranteed his loving mother's consent and that assurance set Gilberte's conscience at rest. She soon shared all his illusions, and it was agreed that he should speak to his father before applying to Monsieur Antoine.

A selfish or ambitious girl would have been more prudent. She would have made the avowal of her feelings depend upon harsher conditions. She would have refused to see her lover again until such time as he should come prepared to go through with all the formalities, including the request for her hand. But Gilberte's mind never entertained such precautions.

She felt in her heart a something infinite, a faith in and respect for her lover's word, which had no bounds. She was no longer disturbed save by one thing; the thought that she might become a source of discord and affliction in Emile's family on the day that he spoke to his father.

She could entertain no doubt of the victory which he was so certain of winning; but the thought of the battle pained her and she would have liked to postpone the awful moment.

"Listen," she said, with angelic naïveté, "there is no hurry; we are happy as we are, and young enough to wait. I am afraid indeed that will be your father's principal and strongest objection; you are only twenty-one, and he may fear that you have not made your choice with sufficient care, that you have not examined your fiancée's character closely enough. If he talks to you about waiting, and asks for time to reflect, submit to every test. Even if we should not be united for several years, what does it matter, provided that we see each other, since we cannot doubt each other's constancy?"

"Oh! you are a saint!" Emile replied, kissing the edge of her scarf, "and I will be worthy of you."

When they returned to the place where they had left Antoine, they saw him at some distance talking with a miller of his acquaintance, and they went to the foot of the great tower to meet him.

The hours passed for them like seconds, and yet they were as full of events as centuries. How many things they said to each other, and how many more they did not say! Then the happiness of looking at each other, of understanding and loving each other, became so intense that they were seized with a wild gayety, and, joining hands, ran down the steep slopes, leaping like deer, throwing stones to the foot of the precipices, so transported with an unfamiliar joy that they were no more conscious of danger than young children.

Emile pushed the débris from his path or jumped over it excitedly. One would have said that he fancied that he was confronted by obstacles placed in his way by destiny. Gilberte had no fear, either for him or for herself. She laughed aloud; she shouted and sang like a bird in the air, and forgot to fasten up her hair, which floated in the wind, and sometimes completely enveloped her like a veil of fire.

When her father surprised her in the midst of her excitement she rushed to him and embraced him passionately, as if she wished to communicate to him all the joy with which her heart was flooded. The good man's hat fell off during this sudden embrace and started to roll into the ravine. Gilberte darted like a flash to catch it, and Antoine, terrified by her impetuosity, darted to catch his daughter. Both were in great danger when Emile passed them, seized the flying hat on the wing, and, as he replaced it on Antoine's head, took his turn at pressing that fond father in his arms.

"_Vive Dieu_!" cried Antoine, ordering them back to a less perilous spot, "you both receive me very warmly, but you frighten me even more! For God's sake did you meet the devil's goat that makes those whom it bewitches with its glance run and jump about like lunatics? Is it the mountain air that makes you so wild, little girl? All the better say I, but don't run such risks as that. What color! What a sparkling eye! I see that I must take you out for a walk often, that you don't have enough exercise at the house. She has made me anxious lately, do you know, Emile? She doesn't eat, she reads too much, and I have been thinking of throwing all your books out of the window if it goes on. Luckily she seems different to-day, and, that being the case, I am tempted to take her as far as Saint-Germain-Beaupré. It's a fine place to look at. We will pass the day there to-morrow, and if you choose to come with us we will have a royal good time. Come, Emile, what do you say? What does it matter if we go to Argenton a day later, eh, Gilberte? And even suppose we spend only one day there?"

"Or don't go there at all?" said Gilberte, jumping for joy. "Let's go to Saint-Germain, father; I have never been there. Oh! what a fine idea!"

"We are on the road," continued Monsieur de Châteaubrun, "but we must go to pass the night at Fresselines, for staying here is not to be thought of. However, Fresselines and Confolens are well worth seeing. The roads are not good, and we must start before dark. Monsieur Charasson, go and give poor Lanterne some oats. She likes journeys, for they are the only opportunities she ever has for feasting. You will take the donkey back to the people who lent him to you, up at Vitra, and then go to wait for us, with the barrow and Monsieur Emile's horse, on the other side of the stream. We will be there in two hours."

"And I," said Emile, "will write a line to my mother, so that she won't worry over my absence, and I will find a child somewhere to carry my note."

"Send one of these little savages so far? that won't be easy. Upon my word! we are in luck, for yonder is someone from your place if I am not mistaken."

Emile turned and saw Constant Galuchet, his father's secretary, who had just thrown his coat on the grass, and, having enveloped his head in a pocket handkerchief, was engaged in baiting his hook.

"Hallo! Constant, do you come as far as this to catch gudgeons?" asked Emile.

"Oh! no indeed, monsieur," replied Galuchet, with a serious air, "I cherish the hope of catching a trout."

"But do you expect to return to Gargilesse to-night?"

"Certainly, monsieur. Your father didn't want me to-day, so he gave me permission to take the whole day; but as soon as I have caught my trout, please God, I shall leave this wretched spot."

"And suppose you catch nothing?"

"Then I shall curse still more bitterly the idea that occurred to me of coming so far to see such a hovel. What a horrible place, monsieur? Can anyone imagine a more melancholy country and a château in worse condition? And to think that tourists tell you that it's superb, and that nobody should live on the Creuse without going to see Crozant! Unless there are fish in this stream, I'll be hanged if you ever catch me here again. But I have no faith in their stream. This clear water is detestable for angling, and the constant noise makes your headache. I am sick with it."

"I see that you haven't had a very pleasant walk," said Gilberte, who had never seen Galuchet's absurd face before, and who was sorely tempted to laugh at his prosaic scorn. "But you must agree that these ruins are very impressive; at all events they are unique. Have you been up in the great tower?"

"God forbid, mademoiselle!" replied Galuchet, flattered by Gilberte's attention, and gazing at her with his wide-open round eyes, which were extraordinarily far apart and separated by a curious little bunch of sandy eyebrows. "I can see the interior of the barrack from here, as it is open on all sides like a lantern, and I don't think it's worth the trouble of breaking one's neck." And taking Gilberte's smile for approval of this stinging satire, he added, in a tone which he considered jocose and clever: "A fine country, on my word! not even dog-tooth will grow here! If the Moorish kings were no better housed than that, I congratulate them! Those fellows had vile taste, and they must have cut a curious figure! Doubtless they wore clogs and ate with their fingers."

"That is a very wise historical commentary," said Emile to Gilberte, who was biting her handkerchief to avoid laughing outright at Monsieur Galuchet's knowing tone and comical countenance.

"Oh! I see that monsieur is very sarcastic," she replied. "He is entitled to be, as he comes from Paris where everybody is witty and has fine manners, while here he is among savages."

"I cannot say that at this moment," retorted Galuchet, shooting a killing glance at the fair Gilberte whom he found very much to his liking; "but frankly, this province is a little behind the times. The people are very dirty. Look at those barefooted, ragged children! In Paris everybody has shoes, and those who haven't any don't go out on Sunday. I tried to get something to eat at a house to-day: there was nothing except black bread that a dog wouldn't eat, and goat's milk that smelt decidedly rank. Those people have no shame, to live so miserably!"

"May it not be that they are too poor to do better?" said Gilberte, disgusted by Monsieur Galuchet's aristocratic tone.

_Emile turned and saw Constant Galuchet, his father's secretary, who had just thrown his coat on the grass, and, having enveloped his head in a pocket handkerchief, was engaged in baiting his hook._]

"It is rather because they are too lazy," he replied, somewhat bewildered by that suggestion, which had not occurred to him.

"What do you know about it, pray?" retorted Gilberte, with an indignation which he did not understand.

"This young woman is very piquant," he thought, "and her little air of determination pleases me immensely. If I should talk to her long, I would show her that I am no blockhead of a provincial."

"Well," said Emile to Gilberte, while Constant hunted for worms under the stones, in order to bait his hook, "you have seen the features of a perfect idiot."

"I am afraid he is more conceited than foolish," she replied.

"Come, come, children, you are not indulgent," observed honest Antoine. "That young man is not handsome, I agree, but he seems to be a good fellow, and Monsieur Cardonnet is well satisfied with him. He is very obliging and has offered several times to do little favors for me. Indeed he once gave me a very nice line, such as we can't find hereabout; unfortunately I lost it before I went home, so that Janille scolded me that day almost as much as she did the day I lost my hat. By the way, Monsieur Galuchet," he added, raising his voice, "you promised to come to fish in our neighborhood; I don't disturb my fish much, I haven't your patience, so that you are likely to find some. I count upon seeing you one of these days; come to breakfast at the house and then I will take you to a good place; there are plenty of barbel, and they are good sport."

"You are too kind, monsieur," said Galuchet; "I will certainly come some Sunday, since you are pleased to overwhelm me with your courtesy."

And Galuchet, enchanted to have perpetrated that sentence, bowed as gracefully as he could and took his leave, after Emile had given him his message for his parents.

Gilberte was somewhat disposed to find fault with her father for such excessive benevolence to so dull and unattractive a subject; but she was too kind-hearted herself not to overcome her repugnance very quickly, and in a moment she had ceased to think of it, the more readily because on that day it was impossible for her to feel vexed at anything.

Thanks to their frame of mind, our lovers found all the incidents of the remainder of their journey agreeable and amusing. Monsieur Antoine's old mare, hitched to a sort of open buggy, which he was justified in calling his wheelbarrow, performed prodigies of skill and courage in the shocking roads that they had to follow to reach their destination. The vehicle had room for three persons, and Sylvain Charasson, seated in the middle, drove the peaceful Lanterne _superlatively_--to use his own expression.

The horrible jolting of a carriage so poorly hung in no wise disturbed Gilberte and her father, who were accustomed to occasional discomfort and never allowed their plans to be disarranged by the weather or the state of the roads.

Emile rode in front on horseback, to give warning and to help them to alight when the road became too dangerous. Then, when they came out on the soft sandy soil of the moors, he dropped behind, to chat with the others, and above all to look at Gilberte.

Never was dandy in the Bois de Boulogne, darting his eyes into his triumphant mistress's superb calèche, so happy and so proud as Emile, as he followed the lovely country girl whom he adored, along the ill-defined roads of that desert, by the light of the first stars.

What did it matter to him whether she was seated on a sort of litter drawn by a sorry nag, or in a fine carriage? whether she was dressed in silk and velvet, or in a faded calico? She wore torn gloves which showed the tips of her pink fingers resting on the back of the wagon. To save her Sunday scarf she had folded it and placed it on her knee. Her graceful figure, slender and willowy, was even more graceful without it. The soft evening breeze seemed to caress with zest her alabaster neck. Emile's breath mingled with the breezes and he was bound like the slave to the chariot of the conqueror.

There was one time when the vehicle, owing to Sylvain's lack of caution, stopped short, and nearly came in collision with Emile's horse's head.

Monsieur Sacripant had placed one paw on the step, to signify that he was tired and that they must take him inside. Monsieur Antoine alighted to seize him by the skin of his neck and toss him in on the floor of the wagon, for the poor beast no longer had enough spring in his legs to jump so high. Meanwhile Gilberte patted Corbeau's nose and passed her little hand through his black mane. Emile felt that his heart was beating as if a magnetic current conveyed her caresses to him. He was on the point of making some remark concerning Corbeau's happiness, as naïve as those Galuchet would have been likely to make on such an occasion; but he contented himself with being stupid silently. One is so happy when, having no lack of wit, he is conscious of an attack of such stupidity!

It was quite dark when they reached Fresselines. The trees and rocks had become simply black masses, whence the solemn and majestic roar of the stream came forth.

A delicious lassitude and the cool night air cast Emile and Gilberte into a sort of blissful drowsiness. They had before them the whole of the next day, a whole century of happiness.

The inn at which they alighted, and which was the best in the village, had only two beds, in two different rooms. They decided that Gilberte should have the better room, and that Monsieur Antoine and Emile should share the other, each taking a mattress. But when they came to inspect the beds, they found that there was but one mattress to each, and Emile took a childish pleasure in the thought of sleeping on the straw in the barn.

This arrangement, which threatened Charasson with a like fate, seemed sorely to displease the page of Châteaubrun. That young man liked his comfort, especially when he was travelling. Being accustomed to attend his master in all his journeys, he made amends for the austere régime of Janille at Châteaubrun by eating and sleeping to his heart's content when away from home.

Monsieur Antoine, while making sport of him with a rough sort of gayety, overlooked all his whims and made himself his slave, talking to him as to a negro all the while. Thus, while Sylvain made a pretence of grooming the horse and harnessing him, it was always his master who handled the curry-comb and lifted the shafts.

If the child fell asleep while driving, Antoine would rub his eyes, pick up the reins, and struggle against sleep rather than wake his page.

If there were only one portion of meat at supper, Monsieur Antoine would say to Charasson, as he feasted his eyes on the appetizing dish: "You may share the bones with Monsieur Sacripant;" but the goodman would, almost unconsciously, gnaw the bones himself and leave the best piece for Sylvain. Thus the crafty urchin knew his master's ways, and the more he was threatened with having to go hungry and work and lose his sleep, the more surely he relied on his lucky star.

However, when he saw that Monsieur Antoine paid no attention to the matter of his sleeping accommodations, and that Emile was content with the straw, he began, while he was serving the supper, to yawn and stretch, and to observe that they had a long journey, that infernal place was at the world's end, and that he had really thought they would never get there.

Antoine turned a deaf ear to it all, and, although the supper was far from dainty, ate with excellent appetite.

"This is how I like to travel," he said, clinking his glass against Emile's every other minute, as a consequence of the habit he had fallen into with Jean Jappeloup; "when I have all the comforts and everybody I love with me. Don't talk to me about taking long journeys in a post-chaise or on a ship, wandering about the world, alone and miserable, in quest of fortune. It's very nice to enjoy the little money one may have, riding about a beautiful region where you know everybody you meet by name, and every house, every tree and every rut! Am I not just as comfortable here as at home? If I had Jean and Janille at the table, I should think I was at Châteaubrun, for I have my daughter here and one of my best friends; and my dog, too, and even Monsieur Charasson, who is as pleased as a king to see the world and be quartered according to his deserts."

"It pleases you to say that, monsieur," replied Charasson, who, instead of waiting on the table, had seated himself in the chimney corner; "this is an abominable inn, and they make you sleep with the dogs."

"Well, you good-for-naught, isn't that too good for you?" retorted Monsieur Antoine, in his sternest voice; "you're very lucky not to be sent to perch with the hens! Deuce take it, you sybarite, you have straw to sleep on; but I suppose you are afraid of dying of hunger in the night, eh?"

"Excuse me, monsieur, the straw here is hay and hay makes your headache."

"If that's so, you can lie on the floor at the foot of my bed, to teach you to complain. You stand like a hunchback, so a hard bed like that will do you a deal of good. Go and prepare your master's bed and spread the horse blanket for Monsieur Sacripant."

Emile wondered what would be the end of this jest, which Monsieur Antoine seemed determined to carry on to the end with a sober face, and, when Gilberte had gone to her room, he followed Monsieur Antoine to his to find out whether he would persuade his page to make the best of the straw.

The count amused himself by causing himself to be waited on like a man of quality. "Come," he said, "pull off my boots, give me my nightcap and put out the lights. You can stretch yourself on the bricks here, and look out for yourself if you are unlucky enough to snore! Good-night, Emile. Go to bed; you won't be vexed with the company of this rascal, who would prevent you from sleeping. He'll sleep on the floor, to punish him for his absurd complaints."

After about two hours' sleep, Emile was awakened with a start by the fall of a heavy body on the straw beside him. "It's nothing, it's only I," said Monsieur Antoine; "don't let me disturb you. I undertook to share my bed with that good-for-naught; but my gentleman, on the plea that he is growing, must needs have the fidgets in his legs, and he kicked me so many times that I abandoned the field to him. Let him sleep in a bed, as he's so set upon it! for my part, I shall be much more comfortable here."

Such was the exemplary punishment which the page of Châteaubrun underwent at Fresselines.