“Stables?” asked Paul.

“Yes.  Good-by, Paul.  To-morrow, godfather.”

The lieutenant galloped away.  Paul de Lavardens gave his little horse her head.

“What a capital fellow Jean is!” said Paul.

“Oh, yes, indeed!”

“There is no one on earth better than Jean.”

“No, no one.”

The Cure turned round to take another look at Jean, who was almost lost in the depths of the forest.

“Oh, yes, there is you, Monsieur le Cure.”

“No, not me! not me!”

“Well, Monsieur l’Abbe, shall I tell you what I think?  I think there is no one better than you two—­you and Jean.  That is the truth, if I must tell you.  Oh! what a splendid place for a trot!  I shall let Niniche go; I call her Niniche.”

With the point of his whip Paul caressed the flank of Niniche, who started off at full speed, and Paul, delighted, cried: 

“Just look at her action, Monsieur l’Abbe! just look at her action!  So regular—­just like clockwork.  Lean over and look.”

To please Paul de Lavardens the Abbe Constantin did lean over and look at Niniche’s action, but the old priest’s thoughts were far away.

CHAPTER II

THE NEW CHATELAINE

This sub-lieutenant of artillery was called Jean Reynaud.  He was the son of a country doctor who slept in the churchyard of Longueval.

In 1846, when the Abbe’ Constantin took possession of his little living, the grandfather of Jean was residing in a pleasant cottage on the road to Souvigny, between the picturesque old castles of Longueval and Lavardens.

Marcel, the son of that Dr. Reynaud, was finishing his medical studies in Paris.  He possessed great industry, and an elevation of sentiment and mind extremely rare.  He passed his examinations with great distinction, and had decided to fix his abode in Paris and tempt fortune there, and everything seemed to promise him the most prosperous and brilliant career, when, in 1852, he received the news of his father’s death—­he had been struck down by a fit of apoplexy.  Marcel hurried to Longueval, overwhelmed with grief, for he adored his father.  He spent a month with his mother, and then spoke of the necessity of returning to Paris.

“That is true,” said his mother; “you must go.”

“What!  I must go!  We must go, you mean.  Do you think that I would leave you here alone?  I shall take you with me.”

“To live in Paris; to leave the place where I was born, where your father lived, where he died?  I could never do it, my child, never!  Go alone; your life, your future, are there.  I know you; I know that you will never forget me, that you will come and see me often, very often.”

“No, mother,” he answered; “I shall stay here.”

And he stayed.

His hopes, his ambitions, all in one moment vanished.  He saw only one thing—­duty—­the duty of not abandoning his aged mother.  In duty, simply accepted and simply discharged, he found happiness.  After all, it is only thus that one does find happiness.