At length, Andoche and his friend proceed to the fair-grounds, not because they prefer to do so, but for the very simple reason that Jeanrobert, the landlord, will not trust either for another centime’s worth. Andoche cannot hope to find another man so generous as Fadard, with whom he has taken his last tipple. Fadard is either an old man who seems to have petrified in his youth, or a young man who too soon has been claimed by a precocious old age. Fadard does not belong in the town, but everybody knows him, for several times in the course of a year he comes to pay his respects--as he claims--to one Léocadia Faillot, who passes as his cousin. Evil tongues, like those of Rosalie and Victoire, make up all sorts of stories in regard to them; but they really do Mlle. Faillot an injustice. The fact is, this dried-up old young or young old man is actually a _relative_, who only comes to see her to borrow money now and then. In the centre of the market-place, the Mayor, a large, solemn old man, stands talking with four or five equally aged citizens. He is a hardy old man of eighty-five years, strong as an oak, straight as a classic marble pillar, but avaricious, penurious, and cunning in the extreme. He owes his administrative position alone to his skilful management in once conducting a herd of cattle through the circuitous pathways of Forêt-au-Duc. A more truly imposing sight than that of the sturdy old man driving his oxen, and making them obey with a simple touch of the lash, could scarcely be found. As he stands near the cattle, suddenly a refractory bull, seizing his opportunity, lowers his horns as if to strike. “Pardon me, Father Jerome,” speaks a voice behind him at this moment, “but, at your age, a blow from a bull would be an ugly present.” “It is you, then, Savin, my boy. Thanks for your caution. And how is Madame Catherine to-day?” Savin’s face takes on a glowering look. “For good health, my wife has no equal,” he replies, evasively. “Well, well, that is certainly a blessing. But does she remain as indifferent?” “There is no change, good father,” answered Savin, sadly. Madame Barrau herself now joins the group, and so the subject is dropped. While they greet Catherine with due courtesy, it is plain to see that a barrier divides the husband and wife. Catherine remains but a moment, and then excuses herself to speak with an acquaintance. As for Savin, he waits an instant after her departure, and then turning upon his heel walks away in an opposite direction. “Noble fellow,” observes the Mayor, as Savin disappears from view. “I fear he has made a bitter mistake.” “What! In marrying D’Angerolles’s daughter?” “Yes.” “How so?” “Opinions differ as to that. Some say he loved her in secret for many months, while that sot of an Andoche declares that he was caught in a trap.” “She is not the wife for him, that is certain.” “Be that as it may, he has been captured by the fair Catherine. How--nobody knows.”