what I mean, Urbain, not your moon for the vintage."

"Oh! la belle Helene!" he said lightly. "Don't derange yourself. I did
not tell you--I found her mother this morning in a resolute state of
mind. She does not intend to have the young lady on her hands long. If
not one marriage, it will be another, you will see. Herve will find he
must leave the matter to his wife. Ange! bah! children's fancies are not
worth a thought. If you lived more in the world, you would be happier,
my poor Anne."

"I don't think so," Anne said as she turned away.

The next morning Monsieur Urbain stayed indoors till breakfast time.
This was often enough a habit of his, but he was generally buried in his
books and did not care to be disturbed. To-day he wandered about the
house, took a turn into the porch, observed the clouds, looked at his
watch, and behaved generally with a restlessness that Anne would have
found unaccountable; but she was out with a sick woman in the village.
She came in soon after ten, followed by Angelot from his shooting.

They sat down to breakfast, that warm day, with doors and windows open.
The old, low room with its brick-paved floor was shady and pleasant,
opening on the stone court where the porch was; the polished table was
loaded with fruit. Angelot's dog lay stretched in a patch of sunshine;
he was ordered out several times, but always came back. When the heat
became too much he rose panting, and flung his long body into the shade;
then the chilly bricks drove him back into the sun again.

The three were rather silent. Urbain, who always led their talk, was a
little preoccupied that morning. After finishing his second large slice
of melon, he looked up at Angelot and said, "After breakfast I will go
with you to La Joubardiere. We must settle with Joubard about the
vintage; it is time things were fixed. I say the first of October. As to
his moons, I cannot listen to such absurdities. He must arrange what
suits me and the weather and the vines. First of all, me."

"That is decided," said Angelot, smiling. "Joubard will shake his head,
but he will obey you. You are a tyrant in your way."

"Perhaps!" Urbain said, screwing up his mouth. "A benevolent despot.
Obedience is good for the soul--n'est-ce pas, madame? I give my commands
for the good of others, and pure reason lies behind them. What is it,
Nego?"

The dog lifted his black head and growled. There was a sharp clank of
footsteps on the stones outside.