There are families like that in France, and many of them, more than one ventures to say.  Our poor country is in many respects calumniated by certain novelists, who draw exaggerated and distorted pictures of it.  It is true the history of good people is often monotonous or painful.  This story is a proof of it.

The grief of Jean was the grief of a man.  He remained long sad and silent.  The evening of his father’s funeral the Abbe Constantin took him home to the vicarage.  The day had been rainy and cold.  Jean was sitting by the fireside; the priest was reading his breviary opposite him.  Old Pauline came and went, arranging her affairs.

An hour passed without a word, when Jean, raising his head, said: 

“Godfather, did my father leave me any money?”

This question was so extraordinary that the old priest, stupefied, could scarcely believe that he heard aright.

“You ask if your father—­”

“I asked if my father left me some money?”

“Yes; he must have left you some.”

“A good deal, don’t you think?  I have often heard people say that my father was rich.  Tell me about how much he has left me!”

“But I don’t know.  You ask—­”

The poor old man felt his heart rent in twain.  Such a question at such a moment!  Yet he thought he knew the boy’s heart, and in that heart there should not be room for such thoughts.

“Pray, dear godfather, tell me,” continued Jean, gently.  “I will explain to you afterward why I ask that.”

“Well, they say your father had 200,000 or 300,000 francs.”

“And is that much?”

“Yes, it is a great deal.”

“And it is all mine?”

“Yes, it is all yours.”

“Oh!  I am glad, because, you know, the day that my father was killed in the war, the Prussians killed, at the same time, the son of a poor woman in Longueval—­old Clemence, you know; and they killed, too, the brother of Rosalie, with whom I used to play when I was quite little.  Well, since I am rich and they are poor, I will divide with Clemence and Rosalie the money my father has left me.”

On hearing these words the Cure rose, took Jean by both hands, and drew him into his arms.  The white head rested on the fair one.  Two large tears escaped from the eyes of the old priest, rolled slowly down his cheeks, and were lost in the furrows of his face.

However, the Cure was obliged to explain to Jean that, though he was his father’s heir, he had not the right of disposing of his heritage as he would.  There would be a family council, and a guardian would be appointed.

“You, no doubt, godfather?”

“No, not I, my child; a priest has not the right of exercising the functions of a guardian.  They will, I think, choose Monsieur Lenient, the lawyer in Souvigny, who was one of your father’s best friends.  You can speak to him and tell him what you wish.”