For a period of some sixty years Morvan was one of the poorest and most destitute provinces of France. The soil was unyieldingly sterile and the climate cruel. The people found it extremely difficult to subsist on black bread alone, and the outlook for them seemed gloomy enough, until the idea occurred to one of the female Morvandelles--as they are called--to seek the position of wet-nurse in Paris. After a time wet-nursing became a means of livelihood for many peasant women, an industry, so to speak. These women proved to be the agents of civilization in the Morvan, and by degrees they brought not only money there, but certain ideas of luxury and of social propriety. The more intelligent women, while pursuing their vocation among well-bred and even distinguished families, acquired a certain refinement of manner, and to them the little province owed its increased prosperity and enlightenment. It is true, the hard-earned money too often found its way into the pockets of the wine-seller, who became the richest man in the village in a short time; but times were better than ever before in the Morvan, and the peasants rejoiced in their good fortune. In small provincial towns to which strangers seldom come the inhabitants are all, or nearly all, related to each other. For instance, Andoche claimed relationship with everybody in the village. He professed to be a grand-nephew of Jeannille Marselon; and as the villagers did not deny it, he established his claims by virtue of the axiom--“silence gives consent.” He accompanied the procession on the invitation tour. Perhaps his superfluous jollity was due to the fact that he held in his arms a demijohn which Monsieur Eugène had just presented to the betrothed. Having persuaded Jacques Percier that he was fainting with thirst, the future groom reluctantly consented to let Andoche test the wine. Without further ceremony Andoche offered a sip to everybody, extending his politeness so far as to permit nobody to drink alone--which he said meant bad luck. By the time he reached Barrau’s cottage his spirits were very much elevated and his dangerous tongue wagged incessantly. “Attention! Halt! Right about face!” he shouted as Savin appeared at the door. The latter was pleased at the spectacle, and his face brightened as he thought what a pleasant diversion it would be for Catherine. “Come in, Jacques,” said Savin, “and welcome, Suzanne. Happy to see you all.” The little party entered joyously, but the face of Catherine froze the words upon their tongues, the smiles upon their lips. Pale, stern, and relentless, she scarcely replied to those who addressed her. “She will bring bad luck upon us with that terrible look,” thought Suzanne. Jacques Percier spoke to Catherine, extending the usual compliments and saying: “Madame Barrau, our happiness will not be complete unless you are present at our marriage. Will you accept a bonbon?” He offered her the box. She stepped back a little.