The general, who had come by the park, took his guests back through the forest that they might see for themselves the injury done to the timber, and so judge of the importance of the question.

Just as Rigou and Soudry were on their way back to Blangy, the count and countess, Emile Blondet, the lieutenant of gendarmerie, the sergeant, and the mayor of Conches were finishing their breakfast in the splendid dining-room where Bouret’s luxury had left the delightful traces already described by Blondet in his letter to Nathan.

“It would be a terrible pity to abandon this beautiful home,” said the lieutenant, who had never before been at Les Aigues, and who was glancing over a glass of champagne at the circling nymphs that supported the ceiling.

“We intend to defend it to the death,” said Blondet.

“If I say that,” continued the lieutenant, looking at his sergeant as if to enjoin silence, “it is because the general’s enemies are not only among the peasantry—­”

The worthy man was quite moved by the excellence of the breakfast, the magnificence of the silver service, the imperial luxury that surrounded him, and Blondet’s clever talk excited him as much as the champagne he had imbibed.

“Enemies! have I enemies?” said the general, surprised.

“He, so kind!” added the countess.

“But you are on bad terms with our mayor, Monsieur Gaubertin,” said the lieutenant.  “It would be wise, for the sake of the future, to be reconciled with him.”

“With him!” cried the count.  “Then you don’t know that he was my former steward, and a swindler!”

“A swindler no longer,” said the lieutenant, “for he is mayor of Ville-aux-Fayes.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Blondet, “the lieutenant’s wit is keen; evidently a mayor is essentially an honest man.”

The lieutenant, convinced by the count’s words that it was useless to attempt to enlighten him, said no more on that subject, and the conversation changed.

CHAPTER VI

THE FOREST AND THE HARVEST

The scene at Conches had, apparently, a good effect on the peasantry; on the other hand, the count’s faithful keepers were more than ever watchful that only dead wood should be gathered in the forest of Les Aigues.  But for the last twenty years the woods had been so thoroughly cleared out that very little else than live wood was now there; and this the peasantry set about killing, in preparation for winter, by a simple process, the results of which could only be discovered in the course of time.  Tonsard’s mother went daily into the forest; the keepers saw her enter; knew where she would come out; watched for her and made her open her bundle, where, to be sure, were only fallen branches, dried chips, and broken and withered twigs.  The old woman would whine and complain at the distance she had to go at her age to gather such a miserable bunch