He was very stupid in these things; and Reine Allix, though clear-headed and shrewd, was hardly more learned in them than he.

“Look you,” she had said to him oftentimes, “in my babyhood there was the old white flag upon the chateau.  Well, they pulled that down and put up a red one.  That toppled and fell, and there was one of three colours.  Then somebody with a knot of white lilies in his hand came one day and set up the old white one afresh; and before the day was done that was down again and the tricolour again up where it is.  Now, some I know fretted themselves greatly because of all these changes of the flags; but as for me, I could not see that any one of them mattered:  bread was just as dear and sleep was just as sweet whichever of the three was uppermost.”

Bernadou, who had never known but the flag of three colours, believed her, as indeed he believed every word that those kindly and resolute old lips ever uttered to him.

He had never been in a city, and only once, on the day of his first communion, in the town four leagues away.  He knew nothing more than this simple, cleanly, honest life that he led.  With what men did outside his little world of meadow-land and woodland he had no care nor any concern.  Once a man had come through the village of the Berceau, a travelling hawker of cheap prints,—­a man with a wild eye and a restless brain,—­who told Bernadou that he was a downtrodden slave, a clod, a beast like a mule, who fetched and carried that the rich might fatten, a dolt, an idiot, who cared nothing for the rights of man and the wrongs of the poor.  Bernadou had listened with a perplexed face; then with a smile, that had cleared it like sunlight, he had answered, in his country dialect, “I do not know of what you speak.  Rights?  Wrongs?  I cannot tell, But I have never owned a sou; I have never told a lie; I am strong enough to hold my own with any man that flouts me; and I am content where I am.  That is enough for me.”

The peddler had called him a poor-spirited beast of burden, but had said so out of reach of his arm, and by night had slunk away from the Berceau de Dieu, and had been no more seen there to vex the quiet contentment of its peaceful and peace-loving ways.

At night, indeed, sometimes, the little wine-shop of the village would be frequented by some half-dozen of the peasant proprietors of the place, who talked communism after their manner, not a very clear one, in excited tones and with the feverish glances of conspirators.  But it meant little, and came to less.  The weather and the price of wheat were dearer matters to them; and in the end they usually drank their red wine in amity, and went up the village street arm in arm, singing patriotic songs until their angry wives flung open their lattices and thrust their white head-gear out into the moonlight, and called to them shrewishly to get to bed and not make fools of themselves in that fashion; which usually silenced and sobered them all instantly; so that the revolutions of the Berceau de Dieu, if not quenched in a wine-pot, were always smothered in a nightcap, and never by any chance disturbed its repose.