“Not a word against her!” exclaimed Chanlouineau; “if she were mistress, there would not be a poor man in the country; and yet, how some of her pensioners abuse her bounty. Ask your wife if this is not so, Father Chupin.” Undoubtedly the impetuous young man spoke at the peril of his life. But the wicked old Chupin swallowed this affront which he would never forget, and humbly continued: “I do not say that Mademoiselle Marie-Anne is not generous; but after all her charitable work she has plenty of money left for her fine dresses and her fallals. I think that Monsieur Lacheneur ought to be very well content, even after he has restored to its former owner one-half or even three-quarters of the property he has acquired--no one can tell how. He would have enough left then to grind the poor under foot.” After his appeal to selfishness, Father Chupin appealed to envy. There could be no doubt of his success. But he had not time to pursue his advantage. The services were over, and the worshippers were leaving the church. Soon there appeared upon the porch the man in question, with a young girl of dazzling beauty leaning upon his arm. Father Chupin walked straight toward him, and brusquely delivered his message. M. Lacheneur staggered beneath the blow. He turned first so red, then so frightfully pale, that those around him thought he was about to fall. But he quickly recovered his self-possession, and without a word to the messenger, he walked rapidly away, leading his daughter. Some minutes later an old post-chaise, drawn by four horses, dashed through the village at a gallop, and paused before the house of the village cure. Then one might have witnessed a singular spectacle. Father Chupin had gathered his wife and his children together, and the four surrounded the carriage, shouting, with all the power of their lungs: “Long live the Duc de Sairmeuse!” CHAPTER II A gently ascending road, more than two miles in length, shaded by a quadruple row of venerable elms, led from the village to the Chateau de Sairmeuse. Nothing could be more beautiful than this avenue, a fit approach to a palace; and the stranger who beheld it could understand the naively vain proverb of the country: “He does not know the real beauty of France, who has never seen Sairmeuse nor the Oiselle.” The Oiselle is the little river which one crosses by means of a wooden bridge on leaving the village, and whose clear and rapid waters give a delicious freshness to the valley. At every step, as one ascends, the view changes. It is as if an enchanting panorama were being slowly unrolled before one. On the right you can see the saw-mills of Fereol. On the left, like an ocean of verdure, the forest of Dolomien trembles in the breeze. Those imposing ruins on the other side of the river are all that remain of the feudal manor of the house of Breulh. That red brick mansion, with granite trimmings, half concealed by a bend in the river, belongs to the Baron d’Escorval.