“It appears not. But her youth, after her father’s death, appealed to him. She was all alone and unprotected from the taunts of malevolent persons who went so far as to call her the daughter of an assassin. None spoke to her save to insult her, and her life was wretched. Poor child! She cried day and night. Somebody advised her to go away--to Paris--where no questions would be asked. But Savin came to the rescue. He learned how cruelly people were talking about her and he was incensed. He picked many a quarrel on her account. Among others Rosalie did not hesitate to calumniate Mademoiselle d’Angerolles and to insinuate that between her and Savin too intimate relations existed. At this Barrau was furious, of course, and the upshot of it all was that he protected Catherine by making her his wife. Nobody now dares to say a word. But it was a queer thing, after all. Had she been a peasant, it would have seemed different. But her father was a gentleman, and it appears she has no common talent for learning.” “That is nothing derogatory to her character, my friend.” “No, but we do not live like Parisians here. A different _ménage_ might better please the haughty Catherine.” “Pshaw! Her lot should be a happy one.” “Come, come,” breaks out Andoche, “let us drink to our Mayor’s health.” “Thanks, thanks, Andoche; but none for me, if you please.” “Upon my invitation? I beg you will not refuse,” returns Andoche, with mock politeness. “As a soldier and gentleman, however, I will have the grace to excuse you should you insist.” The Mayor, Parjeau, and others refuse, and the blacksmith turns to join his companion, Fadard. The fair progresses, the business transactions being concluded with more celerity as the heat becomes more intense. The sun tortures the animals like the close heat of a furnace fire. Those that by fortunate chance are near wells or ponds can leap in and cool themselves in the water, but the rest--that is to say, ninety per cent. of them--raise their parched heads toward heaven as if seeking some rain-cloud to refresh themselves. Besides, the flies, the mosquitoes, and especially the gnats exasperate them to desperation. There is perhaps no person on the face of the earth more invulnerable to the sun’s rays than the French peasant. To-day, however, there is a general admission that it is intolerably hot. Some, fearing that even their cattle may die of sunstroke, place them under shelter without reference to whether they can be sold. But many poor beasts are left to suffer, and their piteous lowing is distinctly heard above the hum and din of the fair. The Mayor, with his experienced eye, surveys the scene on all sides. Like a mariner who feels a coming storm before any sign is evident to his eyes, Father Jerome has the air of a man who foresees danger. Walking in the shade of the great trees, he touches his neighbor’s elbow and says: “My friend, this heat is going to play bad pranks on us.”