Before long, Genestas reached the cottage where he had asked for a cup of milk on his first journey.  The sight of the smoke rising above the hovel where the charity-children were being brought up recalled vivid memories of Benassis and of his kindness of heart.  The officer made up his mind to call there.  He would give some alms to the poor woman for his dead friend’s sake.  He tied his horse to a tree, and opened the door of the hut without knocking.

“Good-day, mother,” he said, addressing the old woman, who was sitting by the fire with the little ones crouching at her side.  “Do you remember me?”

“Oh! quite well, sir!  You came here one fine morning last spring and gave us two crowns.”

“There, mother! that is for you and the children”

“Thank you kindly, sir.  May Heaven bless you!”

“You must not thank me, mother,” said the officer; “it is all through M. Benassis that the money had come to you.”

The old woman raised her eyes and gazed at Genestas.

“Ah! sir,” she said, “he has left his property to our poor countryside, and made all of us his heirs; but we have lost him who was worth more than all, for it was he who made everything turn out well for us.”

“Good-bye, mother!  Pray for him,” said Genestas, making a few playful cuts at the children with his riding-whip.

The old woman and her little charges went out with him; they watched him mount his horse and ride away.

He followed the road along the valley until he reached the bridle-path that led to La Fosseuse’s cottage.  From the slope above the house he saw that the door was fastened and the shutters closed.  In some anxiety he returned to the highway, and rode on under the poplars, now bare and leafless.  Before long he overtook the old laborer, who was dressed in his Sunday best, and creeping slowly along the road.  There was no bag of tools on his shoulder.

“Good-day, old Moreau!”

“Ah! good-day, sir. . . .  I mind who you are now!” the old fellow exclaimed after a moment.  “You are a friend of monsieur, our late mayor!  Ah! sir, would it not have been far better if God had only taken a poor rheumatic old creature like me instead?  It would not have mattered if He had taken me, but HE was the light of our eyes.”

“Do you know how it is that there is no one at home up there at La Fosseuse’s cottage?”

The old man gave a look at the sky.

“What time is it, sir?  The sun has not shone all day,” he said.

“It is ten o’clock.”

“Oh! well, then, she will have gone to mass or else to the cemetery.  She goes there every day.  He has left her five hundred livres a year and her house for as long as she lives, but his death has fairly turned her brain, as you may say——­”

“And where are you going, old Moreau?”

“Little Jacques is to be buried to-day, and I am going to the funeral.  He was my nephew, poor little chap; he had been ailing for a long while, and he died yesterday morning.  It really looked as though it was M. Benassis who kept him alive.  That is the way!  All these younger ones die!” Moreau added, half-jestingly, half-sadly.