It is high time, for the woods around St. Bartholemew are incessantly being searched by the villagers, and if Little Nick does not make up his mind to speak, Phemie may be the victim of "thieves," for the gold pieces are hers, are they not? She has surely earned them! Already, as soon as a peasant buys a piece of property, everyone wonders whether he may not have found the St. Bartholemew treasure. Finally Phemie has an idea. She has noticed that when she accompanies Little Nick on his walks he avoids the river. She leads him thither, saying: "Let us go and have a look at the gold pieces." Mechanically, Little Nick says "Yes" and obediently follows her. When they have reached the wildest spot, "Is it here?" asks she, pointing at a cavity among the rocks, covered over with bushes. "No," says Little Nick. "Up there, then," she pursues, pointing at a sharp rock by the water's edge. "Yes." "Come." And both of them, helping themselves with feet and knees and hands, torn by the brambles and jagged edges, climb the steep slope to the top. "There?" breathes Phemie, panting. "Yes." And Little Nick, lying flat, hanging over the abyss, extracts from an invisible hole in the rock, where it makes a straight wall to the river, a handful of gold pieces, which he flings, laughing, at his beloved. There is a frightful scream. Phemie, mad with rage, rises like a fury lusting for vengeance. The gold pieces are pasteboard, ironical gift of the travelling salesman to the "witch," to overcome her last resistance, and heritage of Nicholas, from which, it cannot be denied, the "simpleton" has drawn his profit. "Beast! Beast!" shouts Phemie, foaming at the mouth. And as Nicholas tries to rise, she pushes him over the edge. He loses his balance, but clinging to Phemie's skirt, drags her with him. The river is deep in that spot. Neither of them could swim. Their bodies were found at the foot of the rock, and the pasteboard gold pieces scattered on the summit, whence their footprints showed that they had fallen. "A trick of the Devil!" said the peasants. And there was, to be sure, something in that. XXI A HAPPY UNION There are happy marriages, whatever novelists say. There are married couples who love each other, and live happily together to the end of their days. The conditions of this happiness, the circumstances of this harmony may not always, perhaps, be such as one solely interested in the aesthetic aspects of society might advocate. But what can we do? For many centimes there is no virtue but the loftiest minds have commended it to the world with arguments as attractive in form as they have been sublime in purport. And have they changed us? What is the history of the past if not the history of to-day?