prominent overseers of his own factory; his manners were more uncouth--his speech more rude. Having laid aside his fine uniform as general of division, he once more took up the peasant's blouse and the sabots which his Uncle Gaston--on his part--had never laid aside. The days of democracy were at an end; the Imperial Court vied in brilliancy with the royal courts of long ago, but Ronnay de Maurel saw nothing of it. He had never been to Paris, and when he had stood face to face with his Emperor, both were covered with the grime and smoke of battle, both had their clothes half torn off their backs, both had muddy boots and unwashed hands. "You fight our enemies with both hands, General," Napoleon had said to de Maurel on that occasion; "with one you wield a sword, with the other you make our cannon balls. In you France has two citizens--our beloved country two sons." Yes! the days of democracy were at an end, nor had old Gaston de Maurel ever aught to do with the new days of splendour. He had continued to live in two rooms of his beautiful chateau, both on the ground-floor and away from the main facade; to these rooms one of the small back doors gave access; he lived like a workman, he fed and dressed and toiled like a workman. One evening there was a knock at the back door. Gaston went to open it, for he only had an old woman from the village to cook his dinner for him and to make his bed, and she had gone back home an hour ago. On the threshold stood a man in a tattered uniform covered with tarnished gold lace; on his breast was the highest insignia of the newly-created order. Uncle and nephew shook one another silently by the hand. No warmer greeting passed between them. That evening Ronnay de Maurel shared his uncle's frugal supper, and the next morning saw him at the factory, having already taken over the command of the gigantic undertaking of which henceforth he became sole master. And from that same day onwards a tall, massive figure, with head erect and deep-set, violet eyes fixed upon the horizon far away, could be seen every morning at break of day wending its way across the fields from the chateau to the factory, a matter of three kilometres, in all weathers--wet or fine, snow or rain, in the teeth of a gale or of blinding sleet--a woollen cap upon his head, his bare feet thrust into sabots. The country-folk, as he passed them by, would nudge one another and murmur "The General!" and would point to his left leg, which he dragged slightly as he trudged across a newly-ploughed field. II "If you go, my lad, mark my words, you'll rue it to your dying day. That woman is dangerous, I tell you." The sick man spoke as forcibly, as emphatically as his growing weakness would allow; he brought his emaciated hand down upon the table with extraordinary vigour; his eyes, hollow and circled, were fixed upon his nephew, who still held his head persistently buried in his hands.