Marie, desperately in love with Bonnebault, would have robbed for his benefit.  Those moustachios, the swaggering gait of a trooper, the fellow’s smart clothes, all went to her heart as the manners and charms of a de Marsay touch that of a pretty Parisian.  Each social sphere has its own standard of distinction.  The jealous Marie rebuffed Amaury Lupin, the other dandy of the little town, her mind being made up to become Madame Bonnebault.

“Hey! you there, hi! come on!” cried Nicolas and Catherine from afar, catching sight of Marie and Bonnebault.

The sharp call echoed through the woods like the cry of savages.

Seeing the pair at his feet, Michaud shuddered and deeply repented having spoken.  If Bonnebault and Marie Tonsard had overheard the conversation, nothing but harm could come of it.  This event, insignificant as it seems, was destined, in the irritated state of feeling then existing between Les Aigues and the peasantry, to have a decisive influence on the fate of all,—­just as victory or defeat in battle sometimes depends upon a brook which shepherds jump while cannon are unable to pass it.

Gallantly bowing to the countess, Bonnebault passed Marie’s arm through his own with a conquering air and took himself off triumphantly.

“The King of Hearts of the valley,” muttered Michaud to the countess.  “A dangerous man.  When he loses twenty francs at billiards he would murder Rigou to get them back.  He loves a crime as he does a pleasure.”

“I have seen enough for to-day; take me home, gentlemen,” murmured the countess, putting her hand on Emile’s arm.

She bowed sadly to Madame Michaud, after watching La Pechina safely back to the pavilion.  Olympe’s depression was transferred to her mistress.

“Ah, madame,” said the abbe, as they continued their way, “can it be that the difficulty of doing good is about to deter you?  For the last five years I have slept on a pallet in a parsonage which has no furniture; I say mass in a church without believers; I preach to no hearers; I minister without fees or salary; I live on the six hundred francs the law allows me, asking nothing of my bishop, and I give the third of that in charity.  Still, I am not hopeless.  If you knew what my winters are in this place you would understand the strength of those words,—­I am not hopeless.  I keep myself warm with the belief that we can save this valley and bring it back to God.  No matter for ourselves, madame; think of the future!  If it is our duty to say to the poor, ’Learn how to be poor; that is, how to work, to endure, to strive,’ it is equally our duty to say to the rich, ’Learn your duty as prosperous men,’—­that is to say, ’Be wise, be intelligent in your benevolence; pious and virtuous in the place to which God has called you.’  Ah! madame, you are only the steward of Him who grants you wealth; if you do not obey His behests you will never transmit to your children the