a flutter
of excitement; and, at the sight of the gathering crowd, old Boitelle
took to his heels, and regained his abode, while Antoine; swelling with
rage, his sweetheart on his arm, advanced majestically under the staring
eyes, which opened wide in amazement.

He understood that it was at an end, and there was no hope for him, that
he could not marry his negress. She also understood it; and as they drew
near the farmhouse they both began to weep. As soon as they had got back
to the house, she once more took off her dress to aid the mother in the
household duties, and followed her everywhere, to the dairy, to the
stable, to the hen house, taking on herself the hardest part of the work,
repeating always: "Let me do it, Madame Boitelle," so that, when night
came on, the old woman, touched but inexorable, said to her son: "She is
a good girl, all the same. It's a pity she is so black; but indeed she is
too black. I could not get used to it. She must go back again. She is
too, too black!"

And young Boitelle said to his sweetheart:

"She will not consent. She thinks you are too black. You must go back
again. I will go with you to the train. No matter--don't fret. I am
going to talk to them after you have started."

He then took her to the railway station, still cheering her with hope,
and, when he had kissed her, he put her into the train, which he watched
as it passed out of sight, his eyes swollen with tears.

In vain did he appeal to the old people. They would never give their
consent.

And when he had told this story, which was known all over the country,
Antoine Boitelle would always add:

"From that time forward I have had no heart for anything--for
anything at all. No trade suited me any longer, and so I became what I
am--a night scavenger."

People would say to him:

"Yet you got married."

"Yes, and I can't say that my wife didn't please me, seeing that I have
fourteen children; but she is not the other one, oh, no--certainly
not! The other one, mark you, my negress, she had only to give me one
glance, and I felt as if I were in Heaven."

A WIDOW

This story was told during the hunting season at the Chateau Baneville.
The autumn had been rainy and sad. The red leaves, instead of rustling
under the feet, were rotting under the heavy downfalls.

The forest was as damp as it could be. From it came an odor of must, of
rain, of soaked grass and wet earth; and the sportsmen, their backs
hunched