The two horsemen dismounted, and went off to the salon, where the guests invited by the doctor were assembled.

“Gentlemen,” he said taking Genestas by the hand, “I have the honor of introducing you to M. Bluteau, captain of a regiment of cavalry stationed at Grenoble—­an old soldier, who has promised me that he will stay among us for a little while.”

Then, turning to Genestas, he presented to him a tall, thin, gray-haired man, dressed in black.

“This gentleman,” said Benassis, “is M. Dufau, the justice of the peace of whom I have already spoken to you, and who has so largely contributed to the prosperity of the Commune.”  Then he led his guest up to a pale, slight young man of middle height, who wore spectacles, and was also dressed in black.  “And this is M. Tonnelet,” he went on, “M.  Gravier’s son-in-law, and the first notary who came to the village.”

The doctor next turned to a stout man, who seemed to belong half to the peasant, half to the middle class, the owner of a rough-pimpled but good-humored countenance.

“This is my worthy colleague M. Cambon,” he went on, “the timber-merchant, to whom I owe the confidence and good-will of the people here.  He was one of the promoters of the road which you have admired.  I have no need to tell you the profession of this gentleman,” Benassis added, turning to the curate.  “Here is a man whom no one can help loving.”

There was an irresistible attraction in the moral beauty expressed by the cure’s countenance, which engrossed Genestas’ attention.  Yet a certain harshness and austerity of outline might make M. Janvier’s face seem unpleasing at a first glance.  His attitude, and his slight, emaciated frame, showed that he was far from strong physically, but the unchanging serenity of his face bore witness to the profound inward peace of heart.  Heaven seemed to be reflected in his eyes, and the inextinguishable fervor of charity which glowed in his heart appeared to shine from them.  The gestures that he made but rarely were simple and natural, his appeared to be a quiet and retiring nature, and there was a modesty and simplicity like that of a young girl about his actions.  At first sight he inspired respect and a vague desire to be admitted to his friendship.

“Ah!  M. le Maire,” he said, bending as though to escape from Benassis’ eulogium.

Something in the cure’s tones brought a thrill to Genestas’ heart, and the two insignificant words uttered by this stranger priest plunged him into musings that were almost devout.

“Gentlemen,” said Jacquotte, who came into the middle of the room, and there took her stand, with her hands on her hips, “the soup is on the table.”