At his back, the riddled silhouette of ragged towers and crumbling roof reflected against the gentle skies something of the windy raiment of its owner.  It was a Gascon chateau, arrogant and threadbare, which had never cried out at a wound, nor suffered the indignity of a patch.  About it and through it, hundreds of swallows, its natural inheritors, crossed and recrossed in their vacillating flight.

Out of the obscurity of the green pastures that melted away into the near woods, the voice of a woman suddenly rose in a tender laugh.

The Comte de Bonzag sat bolt upright, dislodging from his lap a black spaniel, who tumbled on a matronly hound, whose startled yelp of indignation caused the esplanade to vibrate with dogs, that, scurrying from every cranny, assembled in an expectant circle, and waited with hungry tongues the intentions of their master.

The Comte, listening attentively, perceived near the stable his entire domestic staff reclining happily on the arm of Andoche, the Sapeur-Pompier, the hero of a dozen fires.

“No, there are no longer any servants!” he exclaimed, with a bitterness that caused a stir in the pack; then angrily he shouted with all his forces:  “Francine!  Hey, there, Francine!  Come here at once!”

The indisputable fact was that Francine had asked for her wages.  Such a demand, indelicate in its simplest form, had been further aggravated by a respectful but clear ultimatum.  It was pay, or do the cooking, and if the first was impossible, the second was both impossible and distasteful.

The enemy duly arrived, dimpled and plump, an honest thirty-five, a solid widow, who stopped at the top of the stairs with the distant respect which the Comte de Bonzag inspired even in his creditors.

“Francine, I have thought much,” said the Comte, with a conciliatory look.  “You were a little exaggerated, but you were in your rights.”

“Ah, Monsieur le Comte, six months is long when one has a child who must be—­”

“We will not refer again to our disagreement,” the Comte said, interrupting her sternly.  “I have simply called you to hear what action I have decided on.”

“Oh, yes, M’sieur; thank you, M’sieur le Comte.”

“Unluckily,” said Bonzag, frowning, “I am forced to make a great sacrifice.  In a month I could probably have paid all—­I have a great uncle at Valle-Temple who is exceedingly ill.  But—­however, we will hold that for the future.  I owe you, my good Francine, wages for six months—­sixty francs, representing your service with me.  I am going to give you on account, at once, twenty francs, or rather something immeasurably more valuable than that sum.”  He drew out the two slips of paper, and regarded them with affection and regret.  “Here are two tickets for the Grand Lottery of France, which will be drawn this month, ten francs a ticket.  I had to go to Chantreuil to get them; number 77,707 and number 200,013.  Take them—­they are yours.”