"Twenty years ago, Lacheneur was a poor devil like myself; now, he is a
grand gentleman with fifty thousand livres a year. He wears the finest
broadcloth and top-boots like the Baron d'Escorval. He no longer works;
he makes others work; and when he passes, everyone must bow to the
earth. If you kill so much as a sparrow upon his lands, as he says, he
will cast you into prison. Ah, he has been fortunate. The emperor made
him mayor. The Bourbons deprived him of his office; but what does that
matter to him? He is still the real master here, as the Sairmeuse were
in other days. His son is pursuing his studies in Paris, intending to
become a notary. As for his daughter, Mademoiselle Marie-Anne--"

"Not a word against her!" exclaimed Chanlouineau; "if she were mistress,
there would not be a poor man in the country; and yet, how some of her
pensioners abuse her bounty. Ask your wife if this is not so, Father
Chupin."

Undoubtedly the impetuous young man spoke at the peril of his life.

But the wicked old Chupin swallowed this affront which he would never
forget, and humbly continued:

"I do not say that Mademoiselle Marie-Anne is not generous; but after
all her charitable work she has plenty of money left for her fine
dresses and her fallals. I think that Monsieur Lacheneur ought to
be very well content, even after he has restored to its former owner
one-half or even three-quarters of the property he has acquired--no one
can tell how. He would have enough left then to grind the poor under
foot."

After his appeal to selfishness, Father Chupin appealed to envy. There
could be no doubt of his success.

But he had not time to pursue his advantage. The services were over, and
the worshippers were leaving the church.

Soon there appeared upon the porch the man in question, with a young
girl of dazzling beauty leaning upon his arm.

Father Chupin walked straight toward him, and brusquely delivered his
message.

M. Lacheneur staggered beneath the blow. He turned first so red, then so
frightfully pale, that those around him thought he was about to fall.

But he quickly recovered his self-possession, and without a word to the
messenger, he walked rapidly away, leading his daughter.

Some minutes later an old post-chaise, drawn by four horses, dashed
through the village at a gallop, and paused before the house of the
village cure.

Then one might have witnessed a singular spectacle.

Father Chupin had gathered his wife