Let me linger over a notice of this individual.  He was a good man, and what is more curious an honest lawyer.  Indeed, in spite of my happy theory, I may say that such a good man, and such a good lawyer you could seldom meet.  All the village knew him; he mixed up in every one’s quarrels; not, as is usually the case, to make confusion worse confounded by a double-tongued hypocrisy, but to produce conciliation; he mingled in every one’s affairs, not to pick up profit for himself, but to prevent the villagers from running into losses and imprudent speculations; he talked much, yet, it was not slander, but advice; he thought more, yet it was not over mischief, but on schemes of good; he was known to everybody, yet none that knew him respected him the less on that account.  He was a little, spare, merry-looking man, that sought to appear grave when he was most inclined to merriment, and if he considered himself a perfect genius in his plans for effecting good, his vanity may be pardoned, because of the food it fed on.

M. Antoine Perron considered himself very ingenious, and if he had a fault, it was his love of originality.  He never liked to perform any action in a common way, and never chuckled so gaily to himself, as when he had achieved some charitable end by some extraordinary means.

It was seven months after the marriage of M. Pierre Lavalles, M. Antoine Perron sat in his little parlor, and gazed with a glad eye upon the cheerful fire, for the short winter was just terminating.  Leaning forward in his chair, he shaded his face with his hands, and steadily perused the figures among the coals with a most pleasant countenance.  The room was small, neat, and comfortable, for the notary prospered, in his humble way and seeking only comfort found it, and was content.

Suddenly a violent knocking at the door aroused him from his reverie, and he heard his old servant rushing to open it.  In a moment, two persons were ushered into the room, and the notary leaped to his feet in astonishment at the extraordinary scene before him.  Had a thunderbolt cloven the roof, and passed through his hearth to its grave in the center of the globe, or had the trees that nodded their naked branches without the window commenced a dance upon the snowy ground, he had not been more surprised.

Monsieur Pierre Lavalles, and Madame Pierre Lavalles stood just inside the doorway.  Never had Monsieur Perron seen them before, as he saw them now.  Like turtle-doves, with smiling eyes, and affectionate caress, they had lived in happy harmony during the seven months of their married life, and motherly dames, when they gave their daughters away, bade them prosper and be pleasant in their union, as they had been joyous in their love, pleasant and joyous, as neighbor Lavalles and his wife.

Now, Pierre stood red and angry, with his right arm extended, gesticulating toward his wife.  Julie stood red and angry, with her left arm extended, gesticulating toward her husband.  Eyes, that had only radiated smiles, flashed with fierce passion, as the turtle doves remained near the door, each endeavoring to anticipate the other in some address to the worthy notary.  He, aghast and perplexed, waited for the denouement.