Every hearer seemed changed to stone. Françonnette alone showed signs of life: she did not give way at once to the misfortunes which threatened her: she hoped the scene would pass as a jest: she laughed cheerfully--advanced towards her friends; but all drew back with a shudder; all cried out, "Begone!" Then she felt she was abandoned; a cold tremor came over her, and she fell senseless to the ground. Thus ended a fête which had begun so gaily. The next day--the first of the year--the rumours of this event spread from house to house and from meadow to meadow. Oh! the terror of the evil one, which at the present day scarcely exists, at that time was fearful, particularly in the country. A thousand things were remembered, before never dreamt of: some had heard in her cottage the noise of chains: her father had disappeared mysteriously: her mother was said to have died mad: nothing ever failed with her; her harvest always ripened first; and when hail destroyed other fields, her's were full of grapes and corn. None hesitated to believe what was said; daughters, mothers, grandmothers exaggerated the first reports; children trembled at her name; and, at length, when the poor girl, with depressed brow, came forth to seek necessaries for her aged relative, no one spoke to her: all shrunk from her; or, pointing with their fingers, cried out--"Fly! behold one sold to the demon!" PART III. Beside the town of Estanquet, on the banks of a sparkling stream, whose waters run bubbling all the year long over the pebbles, a beautiful girl was gathering flowers, last year, amongst the turf: she sang so sweetly and so joyously, that the birds were jealous of her voice and of her song. Why does she sing no more? Hedges and meads are green again; the nightingales come even into her garden to invite her to join their lays. Where is she? Perhaps she is departed. But no; her straw hat lies on the accustomed bench, but is no longer adorned with a bright ribbon: her little garden is neglected: her hoe and rake lie on the ground amongst the jonquils: the rose branches stray wildly; there are thistles at their feet, and the little paths, which used to be so neat, are filled with nettles. Something must have happened. Where is the lively maiden? Do you not see her cottage shining white through the thick hazel branches? Let us approach: the door is open; softly--let us enter. Ah! there, in her arm-chair, sits the grandmother, asleep; and I see behind the window the fair girl of Estanquet; but she is in grief--what can ail her? Tears are falling on her little hand: some dark cloud has passed over her heart.