"This is what brings me," he said boldly. | "I have come to talk with Félise, if she has no objections."

"Félise may please herself," said old Martin, without appearing to be much surprised at the request; "but I believe your time will be wasted, my lad."

"That's my affair," said Jack. "Tell Félise that I shall be back this evening."

Over all the mountain and far into the plain, this is the way in which gallants in quest of a wife introduce themselves to the families. The young people talk together for a longer or shorter period before carrying matters farther; sometimes they talk for years without anything coming of it; or the talking may be formally broken off without damaging the reputation of the girl in the least. Everything goes on openly in the simplest manner possible: the lover comes after supper and passes the evening, the girl makes room for him at her side, and continues her spinning or knitting as if nothing were in the wind at all. Now and again they exchange a word or two in a low tone; generally they remain silent, mutually observing each other, watching for any little occasion when the real disposition will betray itself, wholly engaged in trying to become perfectly acquainted with each other, and both carefully keeping their weaknesses as much as possible out of sight. When it is time to retire the lover bids the company goodnight, and goes home, singing by the way some ditty expressive of the joy he feels; and so on for night after night till he makes up his mind to take the decisive step. It is clear that nothing could be simpler than these courtships.

Jack's entry in the character of a lover authorized to talk was made quietly and without fuss. He proceeded to seat himself by the side of Félise on her mute invitation, and maintained a shy silence all the evening, hardly uttering a word, but very happy nevertheless, as any one may suppose. Félise sat and span, twirling her spindle with astonishing rapidity. Old Martin seemed asleep, but kept a corner of one eye open for the slightest movement of the young people. Everything went on according to ancient use and wont, and as custom would have it.

The last days of July were at hand, and in spite of the burning heat of a torrid sun, the cattle were kept treading out the grain on the thrashing-floors from dawn to nightfall. Jack, full of praiseworthy zeal, would take part in these labours and show his skill: and he astonished everybody by his steadiness and his cleverness in managing the mules. Félise

blushed with pleasure and said to herself, "He'll make an excellent husband, I am sure, whatever they may say of him."

Old Martin did not take quite the same view of things as his daughter did. "This busy fit of his is all very fine, no doubt," said he, "but what makes a better blaze than straw? Wait till the poaching season comes on and we'll see if the old man is really dead. I won't believe it till I see Jack following the plough instead of catching hares."

Martin's doubts were not altogether unjustifiable. At the first call-notes of the new coveys of red partridge, at the first marks of the nocturnal excursions of the hares, Jack felt himself seized by a violent desire to regain the mountain and renew his past exploits. He struggled long against the temptation and wrestled with himself, but in the clear moonlight, after a day of harassing toil, how was it possible to hear unmoved the sound of the poacher's guns? At the cry of a passing flock of quails he would feel a terrible itching in his limbs; and it was sometimes as much as he could do to stick to his plough and not leave the furrow half made.

What had a still greater effect on him, and inspired him even with a kind of remorse, was the mute protestation of Maripan, his old companion in adventure, who, as if he had been the renegade sportsman's conscience in bodily form, made him almost blush for his steadiness as he ceaselessly followed him with his eyes-now beseeching, now indignant.

Maripan was a large lean dog of the lurcher breed, bold, hardy, and almost wild, with the feet dry and nervous, the breast full and strong, the belly hollow, the loins vigorous and supple, the tail straight, the ears mobile, the eye inquisitive and restless, and sparkling under a pent-house of dense grayish hairs, fangs pointed, projecting, and of dazzling whiteness, and the nose moist, shining like a mulberry, and as black as a roasted chestnut. As well known as his master, the villagers vied with each other in pampering him, and he had always plenty of delicate morsels ever since it was noticed that on returning even from the longest run he would rather stretch himself out and go to sleep than touch any vulgar mess in which the bread was not irreproachable. The princely air of disdain with which this vagabond would then turn up his nose at the pittance offered him had gained him the name of Maripan (bad bread), under which he shared the celebrity of Jack, and with him formed the subject of many a fireside story.

No longer finding an outlet for his feverish

activity, Maripan could not resign himself to this sluggish life. At the least whiff of scent which met his nose, the least rustle in the bushes, he was off like lightning, jumping, barking, and joyfully wagging his tail, but in vain. His appeals met with no response, and he had always to return disappointed and discouraged to take his place at his master's heels, whom he would piteously follow, with his tail between his legs and his ears hanging. Sometimes, however, he revolted altogether. On such occasions he would pass the plough with a vigorous bound, plant himself beyond it with his two fore-legs firmly supporting him, in the energetic attitude of one who demands an explanation, and then gravely sitting like a judge, with his neck proudly raised, his head inclined as if he waited for an answer, his eyes wide open, and his ears erect, he would gaze reproachfully on his master, as much as to say,

'Oh, you are laughing at me, are you? But if you are pleased to give up our fine wandering life, do you think that I was made to turn the spit and serve as a plaything for the village brats?"

There was that in the gaze of Maripan which, along with other things, swept away the last vestiges of poor Jack's resolutions, and overpowered the last faint efforts of his vacillating will. Add to this the stories of exploits performed by others, the disgust at seeing the noble sport spoiled by burglars, the absorbing and irresistible passion that only a hunter can comprehend, and it is easy to understand how Jack could hold out no longer.

It was a great grief to Félise. To tell the truth, she did not love Jack a bit the less, and her heart was entirely his, but she instinctively perceived that this return to his unsettled life would compromise the whole edifice of her happiness, already fragile enough. She felt perfectly that it would be impossible to get her father to accept such a son-in-law; and if before marriage, and in the first transports of love, she had only obtained a temporary victory, surely there was room for misgivings as to the future, when assured possession would have dulled the edge of passion.

On the other hand, old Martin, who had not been too highly flattered by Jack's preference, was enchanted at the pretext the latter had so conveniently furnished against himself, and only waited for a good opportunity to dismiss him.

"I have not crossed you in your inclinations," he said to his daughter, "and if Jack had really become an altered man, I should certainly not have refused my consent; but I

leave you to judge for yourself where he would lead you by the road he is taking. Leave him to his sport, and forget him. A good-looking girl like you, and one that has something of her own, runs no risk of not finding lovers."

Félise felt the full force of this reasoning, and could make no reply. She passed part of every night in weeping, praying, and calling on all the saints of her acquaintance to take her out of her troubles; but she could not make up her mind to renounce all hope by breaking entirely with Jack."

"Well, well," said Father Martin one evening, "since Lise is so long in deciding, I must interfere myself; this affair has gone on too long already."

II.

The next time that Jack went to Tinet's farm he did not find Félise sitting as usual in the chimney-corner: old Martin was attending to the boiling of the pig's-pot by himself.

"Where is Lise?" asked Jack, not without a vague presentiment of evil, and with a slight quaver in his voice.

"She is not very well," replied her father; "but though she had been quite well it would have been all the same-she would not be here." "What do you mean?"

"That Lise does not wish to talk with you, and that you are wasting your time in coming here."

At these cruel words, uttered in the most indifferent tone, Jack's heart was torn with such bitter grief that he could hardly keep from crying out. He restrained himself, however, and, biting his lip till the blood came, replied, "And did Lise give you this message for me?"

"Alas! yes, my boy; only a short time ago, on this very spot, she said to me, 'If Jack comes, tell him to go away again—I do not wish him to speak to me any more.' By my share of paradise, these are the very words she said."

"Well," said Jack, whose eyes were blazing, "tell her that he is going away again. And you suppose that that is enough to settle the whole affair?"

"Oh, it's hard, it is hard; I admit that; but Lise is perfectly free-you are aware of that. Will you take a glass to cheer you up?"

"No, thank you; I shall soon be all right without anything. I am going away, but I shall not bid you good-bye, Father Martin; and I think you will likely hear from me before long."

He left the room with a threatening air, very pale and trembling with anger; but the change

in his voice and appearance did not appear to trouble the old farmer in the slightest.

"There's a piece of business well over," muttered the old man, rubbing his hands, "and not one of the easiest either. The rascal will not give in yet, I am afraid. It's so far good that he should give up coming here; but I must have the country rid of him altogether. Let me think over the matter."

Martin's thoughts were not long in translating themselves into actions. Pretending that he wanted to sell an old she-goat, he set out next morning for Mormoiron, accompanied by his shepherd lad, a boy of fourteen or fifteen, who had come from the workhouse of Carpentras, and had been brought up by his late wife and made to work about the farm "for his bread." The boy's name was Simon; but he had been so long thin and sickly that he had been nicknamed "Fifteen Ounces," and the name had stuck to him, though he had become strong and healthy at last. Fifteen Ounces was no great scholar, but he was already a good shepherd. His knowledge of the mountain was wonderful, and he always drove his sheep to the best places. The poor child had never been farther than the village, and the idea of going to Mormoiron with his master filled him at once with joy and anxiety. "If we get a good price for the goat, there will be something handsome for you," Father Martin had said; and Fifteen Ounces, who had never in his life had a penny he could call his own, could think of nothing but this present all the way, and indulged in the wildest flights of imagination. The goat was sold; Father Martin entered into a conspiracy with the corporal of the gendarmes for the capture of Jack; and poor Fifteen Ounces, cunningly tempted by his master with the gift of a fine horn-handled knife, agreed to play the traitor.

Chance arranged matters as well even as Martin could have wished. Jack, who had not been at the farm for some time, came to throw himself, as the saying is, into the wolf's mouth of his own accord. Old Martin received him as usual, and did not appear to retain the least ill-feeling towards him on account of his violence at their last meeting.

"How is Lise?" said Jack, seating himself in his accustomed place.

"Lise is very well; thank you, Jack." "May I talk with her to-day?"

"Certainly, if she is here, and is agreeable, but I don't know whether she is in the house or not, for I have just come in, and have not seen anybody yet.

"Don't trouble yourself; I shall see if she

is in myself." Jack rose, and opening the door at the foot of the stair leading to the first story cried in a loud and mildly imperious tone, "Lise, I am here! Come down and let us have a little talk together."

This appeal and the well known tones of the voice so dear to her put all Félise's fine resolutions to flight, as if by enchantment. She ran down-stairs like a lark to a mirror, drawn by an irresistible attraction, and made her appearance instantly. "What do you want with me, Jack?" she asked blushing and delighted

"This is what I have got to say to you, Lise. We have talked together for a long time, and I am now certain that I have a love for you that nothing can overcome or weaken; will you be my wife, and will you allow me to ask you in marriage?"

Félise became as pale as death, and remained speechless for a moment, looking now at her father now at her lover, troubled to the depths of her soul, and not knowing what to say. Old Martin, without seeming the least surprised at the unexpected boldness of the request, tranquilly filled himself a glass of wine, and drank it off.

"There is my hand, Jack," said Félise at last, in a scarcely audible tone of voice; "do as you please."

Jack took the little hand, which trembled excessively in his, pressed it gently and gravely twice or thrice, and standing before the old man, who had never lost a bite while this scene was going on, said, "Sir, I ask Lise from you in marriage, and I promise to be a good and faithful husband to her."

"Lise is free," replied the old man, “and I do not doubt that you will make her a faithful husband; but do you really think of taking her to the mountain with you to live in a cave?”

"Certainly not," replied Jack; "it has become quite clear to me that I must either give up Lise or the life I have hitherto led; but no sacrifice will be too much for me. I am ready for any trial, for I know also that my word is not sufficient, and that I must give proofs. Listen then to what I propose. if I remain for a year steadily working on the farm without firing a gun once even on a Sunday-will you believe that I am a husband worthy of her?"

"I shall; I ask nothing more; and Heaven strengthen you in your good resolution."

Jack took the old man's hand and clasped it cordially; Félise, radiant with happiness, handed them a glass of wine; and all three drank to the happy issue of the betrothal.

"Well," said old Martin, as he put down his

"It seems that a magnificent covey of partridges are lying on the Lauzière, and eating Jean de Christol's buckwheat. Fifteen Ounces has flushed them every day for several days, and has counted as many as fourteen of them." "Indeed?"

"So he says, and it is likely enough to be true. The young ones are so large, he says too, that he could not tell them from the old ones. That will be a fine chance for Dominique, since you have renounced the devil."

“Minique will take that shot when I can say mass; you will only have bungled work with him, you may be sure of that.'

"

"Oh, yes, I know he is not good for much, my boy; Minique will kill two or three of them and wound as many, and the wounded ones will flutter away and die, without profit to anybody. He has only an old flint-lock gun and no dog at all-very different from you!"

"I don't mean to brag," said Jack; "but it would not be the first covey that I have bagged with two shots-Bah, don't let us think any more about it; word given, word kept.'

"That is speaking like a man, Jack, and I see that, of course; but what if you were allowed to take back your word just for once? At the last market in town partridges were at a ransom; and I think it a great pity to lose a good louis d'or when one has only to bend down and pick it up."

"Well, so it is," said Jack, who in the depth of his soul was only too much of this opinion; "but why tempt me? Are you trying me? or are you only joking?"

"On my soul, I speak exactly as I think. I sha'n't care a bit, now, although your conversion dates from to-morrow, for instance."

off seemed to pull him back. When passing Christol's farmhouse, he stopped and shut up Maripan, who would only be a hindrance to him in the espero. As if the brave animal had scented the danger of his master, Jack had all the difficulty in the world in getting him to obey, and it is certain that Maripan had never before shown such anxiety to be allowed to remain by his master's side. Jack, full of his own thoughts, did not understand the significant growls, the mournful and melancholy howls, of his dog; he paid no attention to his looks so full of meaning, but strode on his way to the Lauzière.

The solitude of the large plateau was com plete. As far as the eye could reach no human being was visible; only the sheep of Fifteen Ounces grazing at the foot of the Black Rocks disturbed the silence with the sharp tinkle of their bells. Satisfied with this preliminary inspection, Jack approached a large cairn situated at a kind of ill-marked crossing where several scarcely distinguishable paths met; and raising a large stone, carefully noted the position of three small pebbles evidently arranged in a manner agreed upon. "All right, I see," said he, replacing the stone; "Fifteen Ounces is a good boy, and I must give him something nice next St. Anthony's day." Perfectly reassured with regard to the blues by what he had seen, Jack walked rapidly to the field of buckwheat and began to examine the soil with the greatest care. "Now," said he, "let me try and make my last shot a brilliant one." He plucked up several handfuls of buckwheat and arranged the stalks in a line just outside the field. If the partridges came down from the high grounds, as they no doubt would, they would fall in with these bundles first and would be almost sure to halt, so that nearly all of them would be within gunshot.

Having made these arrangements and thrown

"Me!" said Lise, "I wish what you wish, you know that very well, Jack. And since my father has nothing to say against it—”

"Very well; that's settled. I'll go and fire this last shot; and Heaven grant that none of us may have cause to regret it!"

"Amen!" said Father Martin, by way of finish to the matters. "And now take off a good stiff glass and away with you."

Jack set off-a vague feeling of uneasiness weighing on his heart. He went on this last expedition without relish, without ardour, with something like regret. As he marched silently on a presentiment that would not be shaken

loaded his gun and entered the espero. The espero was an erection of the utmost simplicity, formed of large stones arranged in a circle, just large enough to shelter one person, and having a kind of rude carefully disguised loophole opening to the field. At first sight it was difficult to distinguish Jack's espero from the other heaps of stones scattered over the Lauzière. The sun was gradually sinking; the propitious moment was drawing near; nothing was heard in the distance but Fifteen Ounces singing an old carol of the country, at the top of his voice.

Jack had waited for about an hour, with the characteristic patience of a sportsman, at his post, silent and motionless, scarcely venturing

to breathe, his eye perpetually on the watch, and nothing indicated as yet that his waiting for this day was not to be in vain. It takes so little indeed to drive away these wary birds, whose life is passed in continual watchfulness. The yelp of a fox, a prowling dog, a shepherd practising the sling-any one of these is often enough to cause the startled covey to immediately abandon its haunts for a certain time.

The sun was setting in fiery purple, and the shades were already beginning to fall. Jack still waited, but with less and less hope every moment; when all at once the loud whirr of wings was heard behind him coming from the higher grounds, and immediately the male and female, perching on rocks elevated above the rest, began to call the covey together. Cot, cot, cot!-cot, cot!-cot, cot, cot!-cot, cot! In the twinkling of an eye the scattered covey had all met together again, and ran swiftly to the feeding ground. As Jack had thought, the stalks lying on the ground were at once greedily attacked, and the unfortunate birds were soon in an excellent position for the sportsman. The shot was fired; ten victims strewed the ground; not more than three or four escaped the disaster, and flew off as fast as their wings could carry them. Jack fired his second barrel at a wounded bird that appeared likely to get off, and rose with the intention of running to pick up the game, when a cry of rage escaped his lips, and consternation nailed him to his place: the corporal from Mormoiron and his men surrounded the espero and cut off all escape. Jack was caught in his own trap. "Give yourself up, Jack," said the corporal, "and don't make matters worse for you by useless resistance. I told you, you know, that I should steal a march upon you at last. Come, down with your arms and no more about it." But Jack was almost mad; fury, shame, and helplessness made his poor brain boil. He taken! he disarmed! he treated as a conscript! Was it possible? Could any one believe it?

"Out of the way," he cried, with a voice of thunder, whirling his gun round his head, For it will be the worse for the first man that lays a finger on me!"

"Stand your ground," cried the corporal, boldly darting forward. "Stand your ground, men. In the name of the law-!" The sentence was never finished, for the butt end of Jack's gun met his head, and he fell half stunned.

"Come on, you blackguards!" shouted Jack, whirling his terrible gun like a club.

The gendarmes, though somewhat disheartened by the fall of their chief, returned to the

charge with that blind sentiment of duty which has so much influence on brave men, and the desperate struggle went on, though the issue could not long remain doubtful. If Jack had been at liberty and in the open fields, he would certainly have got off scotfree-notwithstanding the odds-though it had only been by speed of foot; but there, tracked like a wolf to his lair, what could he do? Nothing but give death or accept it. It was all over with him this time, and he fought on in desperation. A fierce blow aimed at one of the men was deftly parried, the stock of Jack's gun snapped in two, and he was left weaponless. Maddened with rage he sprang upon his adversary like a tiger, seized him by the throat, and rolled with him on the ground. That was the end of it, and five minutes after, Jack, tightly bound, lay foaming by the side of the brave corporal, who was beginning to collect his scattered senses. "Upon my word," said he, as he wiped his swollen forehead, "that was a rough knock any way, and I owe our Lady of Health a good big taper. But let us take the road, my lads, and not lose our time here in whining and lamenting like so many women."

He rose with some difficulty, adjusted his belt, took a sip of brandy, and in a firm voice gave the word of command, "Quick march!"

At this order the little company began to move; and Jack, with his hands tied behind his back, sturdy arms supporting him on the right and left, was obliged to yield to force. He strode along in silence. He was quite cooled down now, comprehending at last that he had nothing to expect from violence, and that his only hope was henceforth in artifice. When they arrived at the cross-roads they were met by Fifteen Ounces, who was returning with his sheep. At the sight of the little shepherd Jack felt his heart swell with anger, and his eyes flashed fire on the traitor. The latter appeared much affected at seeing poor Jack in such a plight, and did not venture to raise his eyes.

"Confound it!" said the corporal all at once, as he struck his forehead. "We have left the birds lying on the ground. Run to the buckwheat field as fast as you can, my little fellow; pick up the partridges, and present them from me to Father Martin.'

The latter words opened Jack's eyes at once; everything that he had been puzzling himself to make out was now quite clear. Fifteen Ounces, Father Martin, and the corporal were accomplices, and each had played his part in the conspiracy against him. "Very good," he murmured between his clenched teeth,