dding. She had invited
him to remain for dinner.

Gaspard, the oldest son of a farmer of Moranges, was a big boy of twenty
years, known throughout the country for his prodigious strength. During
a festival at Toulouse he had vanquished Martial, the "Lion of the
Midi." With that, a nice boy, with a heart of gold. He was even timid,
and he blushed when Veronique looked him squarely in the face.

I told Rose to call him. He was at the bottom of the yard, helping our
servants to spread out the freshly-washed linen. When he entered the
dining room, where we were, Jacques turned toward me, saying:

"You speak, father."

"Well," I said, "you have come, my boy, to have us set the great day?"

"Yes, that is it, Father Roubien," he answered, very red.

"You mustn't blush, my boy," I continued. "It will be, if you wish, on
Saint-Felicite day, the 10th of July. This is the 23rd of June, so
you will have only twenty days to wait. My poor dead wife was called
Felicite, and that will bring you happiness. Well? Is it understood?"

"Yes, that will do--Sainte-Felicite day. Father Roubien."

And he gave each of us a grip that made us wince. Then he embraced Rose,
calling her mother. This big boy with the terrific fists loved Veronique
to the point of losing his appetite.

"Now," I continued, "you must remain for dinner. Well, everybody to the
table. I have a thundering appetite, I have."

That evening we were eleven at table. Gaspard was placed next to
Veronique, and he sat looking at her, forgetting his plate, so moved at
the thought of her belonging to him that, at times, the tears sprang to
his eyes. Cyprien and Aimee, married only three years, smiled. Jacques
and Rose, who had had twenty-five years of married life, were more
serious, but, surreptitiously, they exchanged tender glances. As for me,
I seemed to relive in those two sweethearts, whose happiness seemed
to bring a corner of Paradise to our table. What good soup we had that
evening! Aunt Agathe, always ready with a witticism, risked several
jokes. Then that honest Pierre wanted to relate his love affair with a
young lady of Lyons. Fortunately, we were at the dessert, and every one
was talking at once. I had brought two bottles of mellowed wine from the
cellar. We drank to the good fortune of Gaspard and Veronique. Then
we had singing. Gaspard knew some love songs in dialect. We also asked
Marie for a canticle. She stood up and sang in a flute-like voice that
tickle