ating his little field, gathering a few
vegetables upon which he subsisted. He fished and hunted; many times
the forest guards nearly caught him and were on the point of drawing up
proces-verbaux against him. This free existence, the resources of
which the peasants could not clearly discover, at length gave him a bad
reputation. He was vaguely styled a poacher. At any rate, he was lazy,
for he was often found asleep on the grass when he should have been at
work. The hut he inhabited beneath the last trees on the edge of the
forest did not seem at all like the dwelling of an honest young fellow.
If he had had dealings with the wolves of the ruins of Gagny the old
women would not have been the least bit surprised. Nevertheless, the
young girls sometimes risked defending him, for this doubtful man was
superb; supple and tall as a poplar, he had a very white skin, with
flaxen hair and beard which gleamed like gold in the sun.

One fine morning Francoise declared to Pere Merlier that she loved
Dominique and would never wed any other man.

It may well be imagined what a blow this was to Pere Merlier. He said
nothing, according to his custom, but his face grew thoughtful and his
internal gaiety no longer sparkled in his eyes. He looked gruff for a
week. Francoise also was exceedingly grave. What tormented Pere Merlier
was to find out how this rogue of a poacher had managed to fascinate his
daughter. Dominique had never visited the mill. The miller watched and
saw the gallant on the other side of the Morelle, stretched out upon
the grass and feigning to be asleep. Francoise could see him from her
chamber window. Everything was plain: they had fallen in love by casting
sheep's eyes at each other over the mill wheel.

Another week went by. Francoise became more and more grave. Pere Merlier
still said nothing. Then one evening he himself silently brought in
Dominique. Francoise at that moment was setting the table. She did not
seem astonished; she contented herself with putting on an additional
plate, knife and fork, but the little dimples were again seen in her
cheeks, and her smile reappeared. That morning Pere Merlier had sought
out Dominique in his hut on the border of the wood.

There the two men had talked for three hours with doors and windows
closed. What was the purport of their conversation no one ever knew.
Certain it was, however, that Pere Merlier, on taking his departure,
already called Dominique his son-in-law. W