And thus the days went on to late summer, when a third person, as yet mute, or practically so, appeared upon the stage. Like most landowners in Vendée, the Marquis de Château-Foix possessed a home farm close to the Château, much frequented by his son and nephew—for as such Louis, though strictly his cousin, was always considered. One afternoon, when the corn was being threshed in the great courtyard of this building, Gilbert, with his hands in his pockets, and something the air of the future owner, was standing very seriously watching the operation. The flails rose and fell rhythmically, the farm hands carried off the chaff in cloths and piled it in a great heap, occasional chickens made assaults upon the grain, and the golden afternoon air enshrined everything. Gilbert looked up at a shout. Another laden ox-cart was coming in under the archway, and it was Louis, in the enjoyment of a seat more precarious than comfortable on one of the oxen, who had hailed him. “Ah, get down now, Monsieur Louis!” said Beaudrier, the Marquis’ farmer, as the teamster put his long goad in front of the beasts’ noses and brought their leisurely progress to a stop. “You’ll be killing yourself one of these days, and the bullocks aren’t accustomed to it, neither!” “I can’t,” retorted the boy, laughing. “O Beaudrier, if you knew how slippery their backs are! But I suppose you have not ridden one for a long time.” “Take Monsieur le Vicomte down,” said Beaudrier, himself the father of fourteen children, with a smile to the teamster. But Louis slipped off and ran up to Gilbert. “Who is it that is coming this evening?” he asked. “My uncle has gone off to Pouzauges to meet somebody, and ever so many bedrooms are being got ready.” “I expect,” said Gilbert, considering, “that it is Madame d’Aucourt. It is about the time that she generally comes.” “Does she always come?” enquired his cousin. “Who is she? Will she stay long?” “She is a friend of mamma’s,” Gilbert informed him. “Yes, she comes every year, and she stays about two months. Last time she brought a baby.” “A what!” exclaimed Louis. The young hen that he had just captured uttered protests against the tightness of his interested grip. “A baby—a child.” “Why?” “Why?” repeated his senior scornfully. “How stupid you are, Louis! Because it belongs to her, I suppose, and she likes to have it with her. I shouldn’t. It only cries.” Louis released his chicken. “Do all babies cry?” “I don’t know. Yes; the one Madame Beaudrier has just now does.” “Then that’s why people don’t like having babies,” said Louis, with the air of having solved a long-standing problem. “I have so often wondered why M. de Larny—my uncle in Paris, you know—was so very angry when Mademoiselle Claire, his sister, had one. He talked about it a lot, and said it was a disgrace, and sent it away, I think.” “That is nonsense,” said Gilbert loftily, “because only married people have babies.”