“Much more than that, Monsieur le comte,” replied the steward.  “The poor about here get more from your property than the State exacts in taxes.  A little scamp like Mouche can glean his two bushels a day.  Old women, whom you would really think at their last gasp, become at the harvest and vintage times as active and healthy as girls.  You can witness that phenomenon very soon,” said Sibilet, addressing Blondet, “for the harvest, which was put back by the rains in July will begin next week, when they cut the rye.  The gleaners must have a certificate of pauperism from the mayor of the district, and no district should allow any one to glean except the paupers; but the districts of one canton do glean in those of another without certificate.  If we have sixty real paupers in our district, there are at least forty others who could support themselves if they were not so idle.  Even persons who have a business leave it to glean in the fields and in the vineyards.  All these people, taken together, gather in this neighborhood something like three hundred bushels a day; the harvest lasts two weeks, and that makes four thousand five hundred bushels in this district alone.  The gleaning takes more from an estate than the taxes.  As to the abuse of pasturage, it robs us of fully one-sixth the produce of the meadows; and as to that of the woods, it is incalculable,—­they have actually come to cutting down six-year-old trees.  The loss to you, Monsieur le comte, amounts to fully twenty-odd thousand francs a year.”

“Do you hear that, madame?” said the general to his wife.

“Is it not exaggerated?” asked Madame de Montcornet.

“No, madame, unfortunately not,” said the abbe.  “Poor Niseron, that old fellow with the white head, who combines the functions of bell-ringer, beadle, grave-digger, sexton, and clerk, in defiance of his republican opinions,—­I mean the grandfather of the little Genevieve whom you placed with Madame Michaud—­”

“La Pechina,” said Sibilet, interrupting the abbe.

“Pechina!” said the countess, “whom do you mean?”

“Madame la comtesse, when you met little Genevieve on the road in a miserable condition, you cried out in Italian, ‘Piccina!’ The word became a nickname, and is now corrupted all through the district into Pechina,” said the abbe.  “The poor girl comes to church with Madame Michaud and Madame Sibilet.”

“And she is none the better for it,” said Sibilet, “for the others ill-treat her on account of her religion.”

“Well, that poor old man of seventy gleans, honestly, about a bushel and a half a day,” continued the priest; “but his natural uprightness prevents him from selling his gleanings as others do,—­he keeps them for his own consumption.  Monsieur Langlume, your miller, grinds his flour gratis at my request, and my servant bakes his bread with mine.”

“I had quite forgotten my little protegee,” said the countess, troubled at Sibilet’s remark.  “Your arrival,” she added to Blondet, “has quite turned my head.  But after breakfast I will take you to the gate of the Avonne and show you the living image of those women whom the painters of the fifteenth century delighted to perpetuate.”