remedy open to the ignorant
and the beguiled--apathetic resignation.

Yet, in the character of the French peasant is a certain scoffing
finesse of which he makes effective use, sometimes with his equals,
and almost invariably with his superiors. He puts questions to power as
embarrassing as are those which infancy puts to mature age. He affects
excessive humility, in order to confuse him whom he addresses with the
very height of his isolated elevation. He exaggerates the awkwardness
of his manner and the rudeness of his speech, as a means of covering his
real thoughts under the appearance of mere uncouthness; yet, despite
all his self-command, there is something in his air, certain fierce
expressions which betray him to the close observer, who discerns in his
sardonic smile, and in the marked emphasis with which he leans on his
long staff, the hopes that secretly nourish his soul, and the aid upon
which he ultimately relies.

One of the oldest of the peasants whom we have indicated came on
vigorously, followed by ten or twelve young men, his sons and nephews,
all wearing the broad-brimmed hat and the blue frock or blouse of the
ancient Gauls, which the peasants of France still wear over their
other garments, as peculiarly adapted to their humid climate and their
laborious habits.

When the old man had reached the group of personages of whom we have
just spoken, he took off his hat--an example immediately followed by his
whole family--and showed a face tanned with exposure to the weather, a
forehead bald and wrinkled with age, and long, white hair. His shoulders
were bent with years and labor, but he was still a hale and sturdy man.
He was received with an air of welcome, and even of respect, by one
of the gravest of the grave group he had approached, who, without
uncovering, however, extended to him his hand.

"What! good Father Guillaume Leroux!" said he, "and have you, too, left
our farm of La Chenaie to visit the town, when it's not market-day?
Why, 'tis as if your oxen were to unharness themselves and go hunting,
leaving their work to see a poor rabbit run down!"

"Faith, Monsieur le Comte du Lude," replied the farmer, "for that
matter, sometimes the rabbit runs across our path of itself; but, in
truth, I've a notion that some of the people here want to make fools of
us, and so I've come to see about it."

"Enough of that, my friend," returned the Count; "here is Monsieur
Fournier, the Advocate, who assuredly