The father was petrified.  “What is the meaning of all this?  It must be a very curious story.  Bring me my fowling-piece and game-bag.  Do you think, my dear Clotilde, that infernal boy has returned to his shepherdess?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Well—­has the shepherdess any sheep?”

“No, uncle.”

“The devil! that looks more serious.  You went past the withy bed?”

“Yes, uncle; but I fancy the gentle shepherdess is nearer the village.”

“Very good,” grumbled the old Baron, with a tone of voice that made it difficult to believe he saw much good in it.  “Silk petticoats and satin corsets!  I wonder where the rascal finds money for such fineries for his shepherdess.”

He went straight on to the Cottage of the Vines, in hopes that Babet would know something of Hector’s proceedings.  He found the old woman in her porch, resting from the labours of the day.

“How do you do, Babet?” said the old Baron, softening his voice like any sucking dove.  “Anything new going on?”

“Nothing new, your honour,” replied Babet, attempting to rise.

“Sit still,” said the Baron, putting his hand kindly on the old lady’s shoulder; “here’s a seat for me on this basket of rushes.”  At this moment M. de Langevy heard the upstairs casement closed.  “Oho!” he thought, “I’ve hit upon it at once—­this is the cage where these turtles bill and coo.  Have you seen my son this week, Babet?” he said aloud.

“Oh, I see him often, your honour; he often comes sporting into my paddock.”

“Sporting in your preserves, Babet—­a pretty sort of game.”

“Oh, very good game, your honour; this very day he sent me a beautiful hare.  I did not know what to do with it; but at last I put it on the spit.”

“The hare wasn’t all for you, perhaps.  But, listen to me, Babet—­I know the whole business—­my son is in love with some shepherdess or other—­and I don’t think she is far from here.”

“I don’t understand you, sir,” said the old lady—­a true confidante, though seventy years of age.

“You understand me so perfectly,” said the Baron, “that you are evidently ashamed of your behaviour.  But do not be uneasy, there is no great harm in it—­a mere childish frolic—­only tell me where the girl is?”

“Ah, your honour,” cried Babet, who saw there was no use for further pretence—­“she’s an angel—­she is—­a perfect angel!”

“Where does the angel come from, Babet?” enquired the Baron, “she has not come fresh from heaven, has she?”

“I know nothing more about her, your honour; but I pray morning and night that you may have no one else for a daughter.”

“We shall see—­the two lovers are above, are not they?”

“Why should I conceal it?  Yes, your honour, you may go up stairs at once.  An innocent love like theirs never bolts the door.”

When the Baron was half-way up the stair, he stopped short, on seeing the two lovers sitting close to each other, the one weeping, and the other trying to console her.  There was such an air of infantine candour about them both, and both seemed so miserable, that the hard heart of sixty-three was nearly touched.