held forth, one over the other, on the knob of a knotty staff, highly
polished. In spite of eighty years, Norine's grandfather--le grand, as
they say up there--had not lost a hair: beautiful white locks fell over
his shoulders--crisp, thick, outspread. I thought of those fine wigs
of tow or hemp with which the distaff of [126] our Prudence was always
entangled. He was close shaved, after the manner of our peasants; and
the entire mask was to be seen disengaged, all its admirable lines
free, commanded by a full-sized nose, below which the good, thick lips
were smiling, full of kindness. The eyes, however, though still clear
and soft in expression, had a certain fixity which startled me. He
raised himself. His stature seemed to me beyond proportion. He was
really beautiful, with the contentment of his face, straight as the
trunk of a chestnut, his old velvet coat thrown back, his shirt of
coarse cloth open at the breast, so that one saw the play of the ribs.

"'Monsieur le neveu!' he cried; 'where are you? Come to me! I am
blind.'

"I approached. He felt me, with ten fingers, laying aside his staff.

"'And you would not take offence if a poor peasant like me embraced
you?'

"'Quick, Jalaguier!' I cried, throwing myself into his arms. 'Quick!'
He pressed me till the joints started. Leaned upon his broad chest, I
heard the beating of his heart. It beat under my ears with a burden
like our bell at [126] Camplong. What powerful vitality in Norine's
grand! 'It does an old man good:--a good hug!' he said, letting me go."

The boyish visitors are quite ready to sit down there to dinner:--

"With the peasant of the Cevennes (M. Fabre tells us) the meal is what
nature meant it to be--a few moments for self-recovery after fatigue, a
short space of silence of a quite elevated character, almost sacred.
The poor human creature has given the sweat of his brow to extort from
an ungrateful soil his daily bread; and now he eats that well-savoured
bread in silent self-respect.

"'It is a weary thing to be thinking always of one's work (says the
grand to the somewhat sparing Norine). We must also think of our
sustenance. You are too enduring, my child! it is a mistake to demand
so much of your arms. In truth, le bon Dieu has cut you out after the
pattern of your dead father. Every morning, in my prayers, I put in my
complaint thereanent. My poor boy died from going too fast. He could
never sit still when it was a