With renewed thanks to his kind benefactor Bruno, assisted by Mother Mathurine, Jean, and Sidonie, started for home. Sidonie’s face beamed with pleasure as the young man leaned his right arm on her shoulder. Happy Sidonie! How tender were her thoughts for him! She stepped with great care lest her limp should bother him. The moon now hanging high in the heavens lent an enchantment to the scene, touching with its mellow light the grand old trees and tender flowers. A silence more eloquent than words fell upon the little train; but all in their hearts thanked God for the beautiful night and for preserving the well-beloved Bruno from a violent death. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. DARK DAYS. October with its kaleidoscopic dress comes on apace. Upon seeing the woods made glorious by the regal hues of gold and scarlet, we are tempted to say that the ending season is not less beautiful in its way than the beginning one. Great yellow patches on the foliage gleam in the wan sunlight. Nature is ablaze with color. The holly boughs are flaunting their bold red berries in the face of the wind, and everywhere the leaves in brilliant confusion flutter through the air. Now and then in the distance a gun’s report is heard. The gamekeepers are now on the alert for prowling poachers. Water stands in the ditches. The fog is dense at night and in the morning, and the meadows already are often too cold for the flocks. The old belfry in the village--its greatest pride--is a mass of vines, now turned to vivid crimson. At the door of his little shop stands Andoche the blacksmith, adorned with his leather apron. His brawny arms are bare to the elbows. In one uplifted hand he holds a glass of wine, while with the other he holds Firmin by the arm. “My friend,” says he, “your affairs do not concern me in the least. You are old enough to know how to conduct yourself. But if you wish to hear a bit of good advice I will say--_beware!_” “Of what? Of whom?” “Of everybody in general and in particular of--Madame Catherine.” “The gamekeeper’s wife?” said Firmin, with an egotistical leer. “To be sure. There are not _two_ Catherines.” “Why do you say ‘beware’?” “Why? Are you a fool?” “I hope not.” “Well, my friend, you now have the appearance----” “O Andoche!” “Well, old comrade. I may be a drunkard, but you can make up your mind to one thing--my eyes are wide open just the same.” “And what do you see _in particular_ just at present?” “That you are making a fool of yourself, and I am not the only one who thinks so.” Firmin makes an indignant gesture, as though in protest against the assertion or assumption that a man of his importance should be so regarded by his friends; as though he could be led about by the nose! He--Firmin! “Your health, Firmin,” adds Andoche, touching his visitor’s glass. “Here’s to you,” returns Firmin, in a preoccupied manner.