The young man started. His father, having placed himself at the window a moment afterwards, looked at him as he hurried towards the road. “Eusebe!” cried he: “come here a moment, and tell me what put it into your head to embrace me, and who taught you to make this demonstration of affection.” “Father,” replied the young man, “ten years ago M. Jaucourt, the curate, who died last year, seeing me divide a piece of bread with a poor idiot, embraced me as I just embraced you when you divided your fortune with me.” At this moment the diligence passed. With one bound, Eusebe seated himself beside the postilion. M. Martin closed the window, and, as he with a large plaid handkerchief wiped away a tear that was ready to fall, said,-- “Plague on the curates! they are always sticking their noses where they have no business!” CHAPTER II. M. Martin was neither a wicked man nor a fool, but he was a confirmed skeptic. For forty years (he was now sixty) he had been disappointed in all the events of his life. When it became necessary for him to marry, he had to choose between two of his cousins, who were equally accomplished and equally beautiful. He preferred the one who pleased him least, because she was of a more robust constitution than her sister. Nine years afterwards she died, while the delicate sister was still living. Martin was half ruined by a friend of his youth, for whom he would have given his life. One day, when he was from home, one of his outbuildings caught fire, and the flames would have communicated to his dwelling but for a man, who, at the risk of his life, succeeded in arresting them. This man was his only enemy! Well informed for a man of his condition, and endowed with a fair share of sense, he was looked up to by his neighbors with a certain degree of deference. He studied hard in order to strengthen a reputation of which he was proud; but in so doing he was not slow to discover that he knew nothing. His first visit to Paris was still fresh in his memory. It was in September, 1832. One morning he went to breathe the fresh air in the garden of the Tuileries, when a man of a noble and friendly mien, wearing a gray hat, commenced conversation with him. “You are a stranger in Paris?” “I am from Limousin,” replied Martin. “You are a manufacturer, perhaps?” “No: I am a farmer.” “I am not acquainted with your section of the country, but I have heard it highly spoken of.” “We have, indeed, a beautiful country,” replied the countryman,--“rich and picturesque, industrious and patriotic: we are in want of but one thing,--a river.” “But you have the Vienna.” “The Vienna is not navigable.” “Could it not be made so?” “It is the dream of the entire population of Limousin.” “Monsieur, what is your name?” “Martin.” “Very well, Monsieur Martin: when you return home, tell your neighbors that in less than three years their river will be navigable.” “Who are you,” asked Martin, “who speak with so much authority?”