Then the others gathered round poor Monsieur Joseph, and tried to make him explain his wild behaviour. At first he stared at them vaguely, then in a few quick words took all the blame upon himself. Yes, it was an idea that had suddenly seized him. His love for Angelot, the beauty and sweetness of Hélène, a dream of happiness for them both! A pastoral poem, in short! but it seemed that the young man was not worthy of his place as its hero. "It seems, after all, I am more poetical than you," he said rather bitterly to Urbain. "My dear," his brother said, "poetry at its best is the highest good sense. Now your idea, as the boy himself let us know, is moonstruck madness." "Ah, moonstruck madness! Ah, the boy! Yes, yes," said Monsieur Joseph, dreamily, and he also took his leave. Monsieur Urbain and his wife followed immediately. Angelot had not waited for them and the little hooded carriage, but had walked on across the valley in the cool damp darkness. They talked very seriously as they drove home, for once in entire agreement. When they reached the manor, their son had shut himself into his own room, and they did not disturb him. "I hope you will soon keep your word, and find a suitable husband for Hélène," Madame de Sainfoy said to her husband. "I am a little tired of the business." "I don't think there will be much difficulty. We must look further afield. Plenty of men of our own rank have accepted the Empire, and Hélène is a match for a Prince, though our little cousin refuses her! I rather like that boy." "Do you? I do not. Certainly he was candid--and he put an effectual stop to his uncle's absurdities. He is really out of his mind, that man. I wish the Chouans joy of him." "Poor Joseph! After all, he is an excellent creature. In these days, it is amusing to meet any one so wild and so romantic." "I find it tiresome," said Adélaïde. CHAPTER XI HOW MONSIEUR URBAIN SMOKED A CIGAR These days before the vintage were very peaceful at La Marinière. Monsieur and Madame Urbain were practical people, and idleness, as a rule, had a bad time of it with them; but September was a holiday month, and there was little work going on, except the hammering of barrels in the yard, and other preparations for busy October. September was usually the month when Angelot could shoot and ramble to his heart's content, when Urbain had leisure to sit down with a book at other times than evening, when Anne, her poor people visited, nursed, comforted, her household in quiet old-fashioned order, could spend long hours alone praying and meditating in the little old church. Lancilly had brought disturbance into September. It occupied Urbain's thoughts and time, it seemed now to be throwing its net over Angelot. Anne longed still more for peace and refuge under the low white arches of the church, in her visits to _le bon Dieu;_ and even here her thoughts distracted her.