“What of that, my friend?” says Madame, pointing to the cabinet.  And the old cure bows his head.

“It may be so.  God is very good,” he says gently.  But he is never quite sure what he may believe.

On that winter day long ago, Hyacinthe was quite sure of one thing and that was that the workshop was very cold.  There was no fire in it, and only one little lamp when the early dark drew on.  The tools were so cold they scorched his fingers, and feet were so cold he danced clumsily in the shavings to warm them.  He was a great clumsy boy of fourteen, dark-faced, dull-eyed, and uncared for.  He was clumsy because it is impossible to be graceful when you are growing very fast and have not enough to eat.  He was dull-eyed because all eyes met his unlovingly.  He was uncared for because no one knew the beauty of his soul.  But his heavy young hands could carve things like birds and flowers perfectly.  On this winter evening he was just wondering if he might lay aside the tools, and creep home to the cold loft where he slept, when he heard Pierre L’Oreillard’s voice shouting outside.

“Be quick, be quick, and open the door, thou imbecile.  It is I, thy master.”

“Oui, mon maitre,” said Hyacinthe, and he shambled to the door and opened it.

“Slow worm!” cried Pierre, and he cuffed Hyacinthe as he passed in.  Hyacinthe rubbed his head and said nothing.  He was used to blows.  He wondered why his master was in the workshop at that time of day instead of drinking brandy at the Cinq Chateaux.

Pierre L’Oreillard had a small heavy bundle under his arm, wrapped in sacking, and then in burlap, and then in fine soft cloths.  He laid it on a pile of shavings, and unfolded it carefully; and a dim sweetness filled the dark shed and hung heavily in the thin winter sunbeams.

“It is a piece of wood,” said Hyacinthe in slow surprise.  He knew that such wood had never been seen in Terminaison.

Pierre L’Oreillard rubbed the wood respectfully with his knobby fingers.

“It is sandalwood,” he explained to Hyacinthe, pride of knowledge making him quite amiable, “a most precious wood that grows in warm countries, thou great goblin.  Smell it, idiot.  It is sweeter than cedar.  It is to make a cabinet for the old Madame at the big house.”

“Oui, mon maitre,” said the dull Hyacinthe.

“Thy great hands shall shape and smooth the wood, nigaud, and I will render it beautiful,” said Pierre, puffing out his chest.

“Yes, Master,” answered Hyacinthe humbly, “and when is it to be ready for Madame?”

“Madame will want it perhaps next week, for that is Christmas.  It is to be finished and ready on the holy festival, great sluggard.  Hearest thou?” and he cuffed Hyacinthe’s ears again furiously.

Hyacinthe knew that the making of the cabinet would fall to him, as most of the other work did.  When Pierre L’Oreillard was gone he touched the strange sweet wood and at last laid his cheek against it, while the fragrance caught his breath.  “How it is beautiful!” said Hyacinthe, and for a moment his eyes glowed, and he was happy.  Then the light passed and with bent head he shuffled back to his bench through a foam of white shavings curling almost to his knees.