When it first appeared, in 1840, in the Burgundian section of an important work, "Les Français peint par eux-mêmes," the whole French nation welcomed it as one of the best of its kind; and other provinces, as I have said, did not hesitate to adopt it. It was held to be one of the most naive, and authentically popular songs of all Burgundy,--Burgundy itself, even, had no doubt whatever upon the subject. It was discussed everywhere in literary circles; and that eminent writer, M. Catulle Mendès, one evening, in the presence of many other French litérateurs, openly expressed the opinion that it was written by a young Burgundian shepherd, very much in love. Then a strange thing happened. One of the oldest men present, the Burgundian poet, M. François Fertiault, walked up to Mendès, and said, with a smile: "Eh, bien Monsieur, then I am that young Burgundian shepherd." All the world wondered. The thing was impossible! It was not impossible; it was true. Indeed, rightly regarded, it was simple, and natural. M. Fertiault, living among the peasants and loving them, had absorbed all that of which the folk song is born. The poetic spirit of a rural people had, indeed, passed into him. What he had heard sung within him, he wrote. M. Fertiault, still hale and hearty, after ninety seven years of active life, told us the story himself, in his library, in the Rue Clausel, at Paris. "I had to get material for this work," he said; "And though, for a dance song, I had ready a Bourrée Charollaise, and for a religious song, one of De La Monnoye's Noels Bourguignons, I could find no example of the Chanson, properly so called; nothing, nothing at all, that was complete enough to be representative. The first part of my article was already published; the remainder must go to press. What could I do? Then an idea came to me. Only to attempt to carry it out was absurd. A minute later the attempt seemed to be audacious; then merely bold; then perfectly possible. Soon I knew that I must do it. The idea was growing in my brain. I felt something at work here (tapping his forehead), something alive. I could see my country; I could see my peasants. I was listening, listening. It all came to me--an impression straight from life, with the scent of the fields in it. I heard couplets, and a refrain. Yes, through the sweetness of the dream, came a song. I heard words and music. [Illustration: IN THE COUNTRY] For the words it was simple enough; but what to do for the tune? Technically I was ignorant of music; I could not read the hieroglyphics that are the language of Gounod and Rossini. I thought. Then I remembered Scheffer; he knew of my search for a song. He would understand. It was nearly eleven at night. With a feverish hand I was knocking at Scheffer's door. "You are not in bed?" "Not yet; but it's about time." "Are you sleepy?" "I could be--if I liked." "In that case, let me come in." My friendly neighbour opened wide the door of his room. I hurried in.