He scratched his head. "_Sacristi!_" he exclaimed, with annoyance, "I ought to go and see to my garden-frames. The field-mice do not leave me a salad, the vermin! But then, no, indeed, I must talk with you, Célestine." Joseph rose, closed the door, which had been left half open, and led me to the back of the harness-room. For a minute I was frightened. The little Claire, whom I had forgotten, appeared before my eyes on the forest heath, frightfully pale and bleeding. But there was nothing wicked in Joseph's looks; they were timid, rather. We could scarcely see each other in this dark room, lighted by the dull and hazy gleams of the lantern. Up to this point Joseph's voice had trembled. Now it suddenly took on assurance, almost gravity. "For some days I have been wanting to confide this to you, Célestine," he began; "well, here it is. I have a feeling of friendship for you. You are a good woman, an orderly woman. Now I know you very well." I thought it my duty to assume an archly mischievous smile, and I replied: "You must admit that it has taken you some time. And why were you so disagreeable with me? You never spoke to me; you were always rough with me. You remember the scenes that you made me when I went through the paths that you had just raked? Oh! how crusty you were!" Joseph began to laugh, and shrugged his shoulders: "Oh! yes; why, you know, one cannot get acquainted with people at the very start. And women especially,--it takes the devil to know them. And you came from Paris! Now I know you very well." "Since you know me so well, Joseph, tell me, then, what I am." With set lips and serious eyes, he said: "What you are, Célestine? You are like me." "I am like you, I?" "Oh! not in your features, of course. But you and I, in the very depths of the soul, are the same thing. Yes, yes, I know what I say." Again there was a moment of silence. Then he resumed, in a voice that was less stern: "I have a feeling of friendship for you, Célestine. And then...." "And then?..." "I have some money, too,--a little money." "Ah?" "Yes, a little money. Why, one does not serve forty years in good houses without saving something. Is it not so?" "Surely," I answered, more and more astonished by Joseph's words and manner. "And you have much money?" "Oh! only a little." "How much? Let me see." Joseph gave a slight chuckle. "You may know well that it is not here. It is in a place where it is making little ones." "Yes, but how much?" Then in a low voice, almost a whisper: "Perhaps fifteen thousand francs; perhaps more." "My! but you are well fixed, you are!" "Oh! perhaps less, too. One cannot tell." Suddenly the two dogs lifted their heads simultaneously, bounded to the door, and began to bark. I made a movement of fright. "That's nothing," said Joseph, reassuringly, giving each of them a kick in the side; "simply people passing in the road. Why, it is Rose, going home. I know her step."