or this way of looking at it. But he was
accustomed to such views from Urbain, who never, for instance, let the
Rogation processions pass singing through the fields without pointing
out their descent from something ancient, pagan, devilish.

"But if you have cast out the devil, dear Cure, what does it matter?"
said Urbain. "The beauty alone is left. And all true beauty is good by
nature; and what is not beautiful is not good. You want nothing more, it
seems to me."

"Ah, your philosophies!" sighed the old man.

However, in different ways, the vintage attracted everybody. Monsieur
Joseph and Henriette were there, very busy among the vines; these people
would help them another day. A party strolled across from Lancilly;
Monsieur and Madame de Sainfoy, idly admiring the pretty scene; Captain
Georges, casting superior glances, Sophie and Lucie hanging on their
splendid brother's looks and words. They were allowed to walk with him,
and were very happy, Mademoiselle Moineau having been left behind in
charge of Helene. The La Mariniere vineyards were not considered safe
ground for that young culprit. She had to be contented with a distant
view, and could see from her window the white horses crawling up and
down the steep hill.

Some patronising notice was bestowed by the people from the chateau on
Martin Joubard, who moved slowly about among the old neighbours, a hero
to them all, whatever their political opinions might be. For, after all,
he went to the wars against his will; and when there he had done his
duty; and his enthusiasm for the Emperor was a new spirit in that
country, which roused curiosity, if nothing more. No one could fail to
rejoice with old Joubard and his wife. Whatever they themselves thought,
and hardly dared to say, was said for them by their neighbours. Few
indeed had come back, of the conscript lads of Anjou. How much better,
people said, to have Martin maimed than not at all. What was a wooden
leg? a very useful appendage, on which Martin might limp actively about
the farms; and the loss of an arm did not matter so much, for, by his
father's account, he could do everything but hold and fire a gun with
the one left to him. His mother had dressed him in clean country
clothes, laying aside his tattered old uniform in a chest, for he would
not have it destroyed. All the girls in the two villages were running
after Martin, who had always been popular; all the men wanted to hear
his tales of the war. He