nly; it was when I had my--my accident, and he must
go to fetch a surgeon. All along the river it is talked of yet.
But it is nothing to boast of, for the hand of God must have been
upon him. And as good as he is brave!"

"And where is your brother Dominique just now?"

"He will be at home, m'sieur. Soon they will be carrying the harvest
at Boisveyrac, and he is now the seigneur's farmer. He will be
worrying himself over the harvest, for Dominique takes things to
heart, both of this world and the next; whereas--I am a good
Catholic, I hope--but these things do not trouble me. It seems there
is no time to be troubled." Bateese looked up shyly, with a blush
like a girl's. "M'sieur may be able to tell me--or, maybe, he will
think it foolish. This love of women, now?"

"Proceed, M. Guyon."

"Ah, you believe in it! When the sergeant begins his talk--c'est
bien sale, is it not? But that is not the sort I mean. Well,
Dominique is in love, and it brings him no happiness. He can never
have what he wants, nor would it be right, and he knows it; but
nevertheless he goes on craving for it and takes no pleasure in life
for the want of it. I look at him, wondering. Then I say to myself,
'Bateese, when le bon Dieu broke you in pieces He was not unkind.
Your heart is cracked and cannot hold love, like your brother's; but
what of that, while God is pouring love into it all day long and
never ceases? You are ugly, and no maid will ever want you for a
husband; therefore you are lucky who cannot store away desire for
this or that one, like poor Dominique, who goes about aching and fit
to burst. You go singing _a la claire fontaine_, which is full of
unhappiness and longing, but all the while you are happy enough.'
Indeed, that is the truth, monsieur. I study this love of
Dominique's, which makes him miserable; but I cannot judge it.
I see that it brings pain to men."

"But delight also, my friend."

"And delight also--that is understood. M'sieur is, perhaps, in love?
Or has been?"

"No, Bateese; not yet."

"But you will; with that face it is certain. Now shall I tell you?--
to my guessing this love of women is like an untried rapid.
Something smiles ahead for you, and you push for it and _voyez!_ in a
moment down you go, fifteen miles an hour and the world spinning; and
at the bottom of the fall, if the woman be good, sweet is the journey
and you wonder, looking back from smooth water, down what shelves you
w