l about it, and she would talk kindly to me when I was wrong and
praise me when I was in the right. By these and many other things, by
the way she spoke to me and looked at me, and the gentle way she scolded
me, I believed that she was my mother.

My village, or, to be more exact, the village where I was brought up,
for I did not have a village of my own, no birthplace, any more than I
had a father or mother--the village where I spent my childhood was
called Chavanon; it is one of the poorest in France. Only sections of
the land could be cultivated, for the great stretch of moors was covered
with heather and broom. We lived in a little house down by the brook.

Until I was eight years of age I had never seen a man in our house; yet
my adopted mother was not a widow, but her husband, who was a
stone-cutter, worked in Paris, and he had not been back to the village
since I was of an age to notice what was going on around me.
Occasionally he sent news by some companion who returned to the village,
for there were many of the peasants who were employed as stone-cutters
in the city.

"Mother Barberin," the man would say, "your husband is quite well, and
he told me to tell you that he's still working, and to give you this
money. Will you count it?"

That was all. Mother Barberin was satisfied, her husband was well and he
had work.

Because Barberin was away from home it must not be thought that he was
not on good terms with his wife. He stayed in Paris because his work
kept him there. When he was old he would come back and live with his
wife on the money that he had saved.

One November evening a man stopped at our gate. I was standing on the
doorstep breaking sticks. He looked over the top bar of the gate and
called to me to know if Mother Barberin lived there. I shouted yes and
told him to come in. He pushed open the old gate and came slowly up to
the house. I had never seen such a dirty man. He was covered with mud
from head to foot. It was easy to see that he had come a distance on bad
roads. Upon hearing our voices Mother Barberin ran out.

"I've brought some news from Paris," said the man.

Something in the man's tone alarmed Mother Barberin.

"Oh, dear," she cried, wringing her hands, "something has happened to
Jerome!"

"Yes, there is, but don't get scared. He's been hurt, but he ain't dead,
but maybe he'll be deformed. I used to share a room with him, and as I
was coming back home he asked me to give you th