n fact, the man who thus went off, Cesaire Houlbreque, the son of deaf
old Amable Houlbreque, wanted to marry, in spite of his father, Celeste
Levesque, who had a child by Victor Lecoq, a mere laborer on her parents'
farm, who had been turned out of doors for this act.

The hierarchy of caste, however, does not exist in the country, and if
the laborer is thrifty, he becomes, by taking a farm in his turn, the
equal of his former master.

So Cesaire Houlbieque went off, his whip under his arm, brooding over his
own thoughts and lifting up one after the other his heavy wooden shoes
daubed with clay. Certainly he desired to marry Celeste Levesque. He
wanted her with her child because she was the wife he wanted. He could
not say why, but he knew it, he was sure of it. He had only to look at
her to be convinced of it, to feel quite queer, quite stirred up, simply
stupid with happiness. He even found a pleasure in kissing the little
boy, Victor's little boy, because he belonged to her.

And he gazed, without hate, at the distant outline of the man who was
driving his plough along the horizon.

But old Amable did not want this marriage. He opposed it with the
obstinacy of a deaf man, with a violent obstinacy.

Cesaire in vain shouted in his ear, in that ear which still heard a few
sounds:

"I'll take good care of you, daddy. I tell you she's a good girl and
strong, too, and also thrifty."

The old man repeated:

"As long as I live I won't see her your wife."

And nothing could get the better of him, nothing could make him waver.
One hope only was left to Cesaire. Old Amable was afraid of the cure
through the apprehension of death which he felt drawing nigh; he had not
much fear of God, nor of the Devil, nor of Hell, nor of Purgatory, of
which he had no conception, but he dreaded the priest, who represented to
him burial, as one might fear the doctors through horror of diseases. For
the last tight days Celeste, who knew this weakness of the old man, had
been urging Cesaire to go and find the cure, but Cesaire always
hesitated, because he had not much liking for the black robe, which
represented to him hands always stretched out for collections or for
blessed bread.

However, he had made up his mind, and he proceeded toward the presbytery,
thinking in what manner he would speak about his case.

The Abbe Raffin, a lively little priest, thin and never shaved, was
awaiting his dinner-hour while warming his feet at his k