If you have ever been in Bourges, you may have seen the little Rue Sous-les-Ceps, the Cours du Bat d’Argent and de la Fleur-de-lys, the Rues de la Merede-Dieu, des Verts-Galants, Mausecret, du Moulin-le-Roi, the Quai Messire-Jacques, and other streets whose ancient names, preserved by a praiseworthy sentiment or instinctive conservatism, betoken an ancient city still inhabited by old-fashioned people, by which I mean people attached to the soil, strongly marked with the stamp of the provincial in manners as in language; people who understand all that a name is to a street—­its honor, its spouse if you will, from which it must not be divorced.

My Uncle Mouillard, most devoted and faithful citizen of Bourges, naturally lives in one of these old streets, the Rue du Four, within the shadow of the cathedral, beneath the swing of its chimes.

Within fifteen minutes after my arrival at Bourges I was pulling the deer’s foot which hangs, depilated with long use, beside his door.  It was five o’clock, and I knew for certain that he would not be at home.  When the courts rise, one of the clerks carries back his papers to the office, while he moves slowly off, his coat-tails flapping in the breeze, either to visit a few friends and clients, respectable dames who were his partners in the dance in the year 1840, or more often to take a “constitutional” along the banks of the Berry Canal, where, in the poplar shade, files of little gray donkeys are towing string after string of big barges.

So I was sure not to meet him.

Madeleine opened the door to me, and started as if shot.

“Monsieur Fabien!”

“Myself, Madeleine.  My uncle is not at home?”

“No, Monsieur.  Do you really mean to come in, Monsieur?”

“Why not?”

“The master’s so changed since his visit to Paris, Monsieur Fabien!”

Madeleine stood still, with one hand holding up her apron, the other hanging, and gazed at me with reproachful anxiety.

“I must come in, Madeleine.  I have a secret to tell you.”

She made no answer, but turned and walked before me into the house.

It was not thus that I used to be welcomed in days gone by!  Then Madeleine used to meet me at the station.  She used to kiss me, and tell me how well I looked, promising the while a myriad sweet dishes which she had invented for me.  Hardly did I set foot in the hall before my uncle, who had given up his evening walk for my sake, would run out of his study, heart and cravat alike out of their usual order at seeing me—­me, a poor, awkward, gaping schoolboy:  Today that is ancient history.  To-day I am afraid to meet my uncle, and Madeleine is afraid to let me in.

She told me not a word of it, but I easily guessed that floods of tears had streamed from her black eyes down her thin cheeks, now pale as wax.  Her face is quite transparent, and looks as if a tiny lamp were lighting it from within.  There are strong feelings, too, beneath that impassive mask.  Madeleine comes from Bayonne, and has Spanish blood in her.  I have heard that she was lovely as a girl of twenty.  With age her features have grown austere.  She looks like a widow who is a widow indeed, and her heart is that of a grandmother.