Then I repeated to my friend the story of the "Bichonne," which moved him to tears, and which he declared to be a masterpiece of style. "I should be discouraged in what I am going to attempt," said I, "for this Odyssey of the poor dog of Brisquet, which did not take five minutes to recite, has no stain or blot; it is a diamond cut by the first lapidary in the world--for Nodier is essentially a lapidary in literature. I am not scientific, and must call sentiment to my aid. Then, too, I cannot promise to be brief, for I know beforehand that my study will fail in the first of all requisites, that of being short and good at the same time." "Go on, nevertheless," said my friend, bored by my preliminaries. "This, then, is the history of '_François the Champi_'" I resumed, "and I shall try to remember the first part without any alteration. It was Monique, the old servant of the priest, who began." "One moment," said my severe auditor, "I must object to your title. _Champi_ is not French." "I beg your pardon," I answered. "The dictionary says it is obsolete, but Montaigne uses it, and I do not wish to be more French than the great writers who have created the language. So I shall not call my story 'François the Foundling,' nor 'François the Bastard,' but 'François the _Champi_'--that is to say, the Waif, the forsaken child of the fields, as he was once called in the great world, and is still called in our part of the country." [Illustration] CHAPTER I ONE morning, when Madeleine Blanchet, the young wife of the miller of Cormouer, went down to the end of her meadow to wash her linen in the fountain, she found a little child sitting in front of her washing-board playing with the straw she used as a cushion for her knees. Madeleine Blanchet looked at the child, and was surprised not to recognize him, for the road which runs near by is unfrequented, and few strangers are to be met with in the neighborhood. "Who are you, my boy?" said she to the little boy, who turned confidingly toward her, but did not seem to understand her question. "What is your name?" Madeleine Blanchet went on, as she made him sit down beside her, and knelt down to begin to wash. "François," answered the child. "François who?" "Who?" said the child stupidly. "Whose son are you?" "I don't know." "You don't know your father's name?" "I have no father." "Is he dead then?" "I don't know." "And your mother?" "She is over there," said the child pointing to a poor little hovel which stood at the distance of two gunshots from the mill, and the thatched roof of which could be seen through the willows. "Oh! I know," said Madeleine. "Is she the woman who has come to live here, and who moved in last evening?" "Yes," answered the child. "And you used to live at Mers?" "I don't know." "You are not a wise child. Do you know your mother's name, at least?" "Yes, it is Zabelle." "Isabelle who? Don't you know her other name?" "No, of course not."