eluctance. But this man enjoyed his entire confidence, a favour which
M. de la Marche was very slow to grant, since he was only able to
keep up the outward show of a man of quality, and wished to be served
faithfully, and with economy and prudence. He knew, however, that
Marcasse was scrupulously honest, and even singularly unselfish; for
there was something of Don Quixote in the man's soul as well as in his
appearance. He had found in some ruins a sort of treasure-trove, that is
to say, an earthenware jar containing a sum of about ten thousand francs
in old gold and silver coins; and not only had he handed it over to the
owner of the ruins, whom he might easily have deceived, but further
he had refused to accept any reward, declaring emphatically in his
abbreviated jargon, "honesty would die selling itself."

Marcasse's economy, his discretion, his punctuality, seemed likely to
make him a valuable man, if he could be trained to put these qualities
at the service of others. The one thing to be feared was that he might
not be able to accustom himself to his loss of independence. However,
M. de la Marche thought that, before M. de Ternay's squadron sailed, he
would have time to test his new squire sufficiently.

On his side, Marcasse felt many regrets at taking leave of his friends
and home; for if he had "friends everywhere and everywhere a native
place," as he said, in allusion to his wandering life, he still had a
very marked preference for Varenne; and of all his castles (for he was
accustomed to call every place he stopped at "his"), the chateau of
Sainte-Severe was the only one which he arrived at with pleasure and
left with regret. One day, when he had missed his footing on the roof
and had rather a serious fall, Edmee, then still a child, had won his
heart by the tears she had shed over this accident, and the artless
attentions she had shown him. And ever since Patience had come to dwell
on the edge of the park, Marcasse had felt still more attracted toward
Sainte-Severe; for in Patience Marcasse had found his Orestes. Marcasse
did not always understand Patience; but Patience was the only man who
thoroughly understood Marcasse, and who knew how much chivalrous honesty
and noble courage lay hidden beneath that odd exterior. Humbly bowing
to the hermit's intellectual superiority, the weasel-hunter would stop
respectfully whenever the poetic frenzy took possession of Patience and
made his words unintelligible. At suc