ation, neither commerce, industry, exchange of
ideas, nor any of the means to wealth, can exist; the material triumphs
of civilization are always the result of the application of primitive
ideas. Thought is invariably the point of departure and the goal of all
social existence. The history of Montegnac is a proof of that axiom
of social science. When at last the administration was able to concern
itself with the needs and the material prosperity of this region of
country, it cut down this strip of forest, and stationed a detachment of
gendarmerie near the ravine, which escorted the mail-coaches between the
two relays; but, to the shame of the gendarmerie be it said, it was the
gospel, and not the sword, the rector Monsieur Bonnet, and not Corporal
Chervin, who won a civil victory by changing the morals of a population.
This priest, filled with Christian tenderness for the poor, hapless
region, attempted to regenerate it, and succeeded in the attempt.

After travelling for about an hour over these plains, alternately stony
and dusty, where the partridges flocked in tranquil coveys, their wings
whirring with a dull, heavy sound as the carriage came toward them,
the Abbe Gabriel, like all other travellers on the same road, saw with
satisfaction the roofs of Montegnac in the distance. At the entrance of
the village was one of those curious post-relays which are seen only
in the remote parts of France. Its sign was an oak board on which
some pretentious postilion had carved the words, _Pauste o chevos_,
blackening the letters with ink, and then nailing the board by its
four corners above the door of a wretched stable in which there were no
horses. The door, which was nearly always open, had a plank laid on the
soil for its threshold, to protect the stable floor, which was lower
than the road, from inundation when it rained. The discouraged traveller
could see within worn-out, mildewed, and mended harnesses, certain to
break at a plunge of the horses. The horses themselves were hard at
work in the fields, or anywhere but in the stable. If by any chance they
happen to be in their stalls, they are eating; if they have finished
eating, the postilion has gone to see his aunt or his cousin, or is
getting in the hay, or else he is asleep; no one can say where he is;
the traveller has to wait till he is found, and he never comes till he
has finished what he is about. When he does come he loses an immense
amount of time looking for hi