“Now, then!  What is the matter?  Has the poor dog gone mad?  Down, Blaireau!  You would never have worried your master in this way.  This is what comes of being too kind!”

“Blaireau is not mad!” I exclaimed, as I entered.  “Have you grown deaf to the approach of a friend, Master Patience?”

Patience, who was in the act of counting a pile of money, let it fall on the table and came towards me with the old cordiality.  I embraced him heartily; he was surprised and touched at my joy.  Then he examined me from head to foot, and seemed to be wondering at the change in my appearance, when Marcasse arrived at the door.

Then a sublime expression came over Patience’s face, and lifting his strong arms to heaven, he exclaimed: 

“The words of the canticle!  Now let me depart in peace; for mine eyes have seen him I yearned for.”

The hidalgo said nothing; he raised his hat as usual; then sitting down he turned pale and shut his eyes.  His dog jumped up on his knees and displayed his affection by attempts at little cries which changed into a series of sneezes (you remember that he was born dumb).  Trembling with old age and delight, he stretched out his pointed nose towards the long nose of his master; but his master did not respond with the customary “Down, Blaireau!”

Marcasse had fainted.

This loving soul, no more able than Blaireau to express itself in words, had sunk beneath the weight of his own happiness.  Patience ran and fetched him a large mug of wine of the district, in its second year—­that is to say, the oldest and best possible.  He made him swallow a few drops; its strength revived him.  The hidalgo excused his weakness on the score of fatigue and the heat.  He would not or could not assign it to its real sense.  There are souls who die out, after burning with unsurpassable moral beauty and grandeur, without ever having found a way, and even without ever having felt the need, of revealing themselves to others.

When Patience, who was as demonstrative as his friend was the contrary, had recovered from his first transports, he turned to me and said: 

“Now, my young officer, I see that you have no wish to remain here long.  Let us make haste, then, to the place you are burning to reach.  There is some one who will be much surprised and much delighted, you may take my word.”

We entered the park, and while crossing it, Patience explained the change which had come over his habitation and his life.

“For myself,” he said to me, “you see that I have not changed.  The same appearance, the same ways; and if I offered you some wine just now, that does not prevent me from drinking water myself.  But I have money, and land, and workmen—­yes, I have.  Well, all this is in spite of myself, as you will see.  Some three years ago Mademoiselle Edmee spoke of the difficulty she had in bestowing alms so as to do real good.  The abbe was as unskilful