wealth was estimated
at something like eighty thousand francs, amassed sou by sou. When he
married Madeleine Guillard, who brought him the mill as her dowry, he
possessed only his two arms. But Madeleine never repented of her choice,
so briskly did he manage the business. Now his wife was dead, and he
remained a widower with his daughter Francoise. Certainly he might have
rested, allowed the mill wheel to slumber in the moss, but that would
have been too dull for him, and in his eyes the building would have
seemed dead. He toiled on for pleasure.

Pere Merlier was a tall old man with a long, still face, who never
laughed but who possessed, notwithstanding, a very gay heart. He had
been chosen mayor because of his money and also on account of the
imposing air he could assume during a marriage ceremony.

Francoise Merlier was just eighteen. She did not pass for one of
the handsome girls of the district, as she was not robust. Up to her
fifteenth year she had been even ugly.

The Rocreuse people had not been able to understand why the daughter of
Pere and Mere Merlier, both of whom had always enjoyed excellent health,
grew ill and with an air of regret. But at fifteen, though yet delicate,
her little face became one of the prettiest in the world. She had black
hair, black eyes, and was as rosy as a peach; her lips constantly wore
a smile; there were dimples in her cheeks, and her fair forehead seemed
crowned with sunlight. Although not considered robust in the district,
she was far from thin; the idea was simply that she could not lift a
sack of grain, but she would become plump as she grew older--she would
eventually be as round and dainty as a quail. Her father's long periods
of silence had made her thoughtful very young. If she smiled constantly
it was to please others. By nature she was serious.

Of course all the young men of the district paid court to her, more
on account of her ecus than her pretty ways. At last she made a choice
which scandalized the community.

On the opposite bank of the Morelle lived a tall youth named Dominique
Penquer. He did not belong to Rocreuse. Ten years before he had arrived
from Belgium as the heir of his uncle, who had left him a small property
upon the very border of the forest of Gagny, just opposite the mill, a
few gunshots distant. He had come to sell this property, he said, and
return home. But the district charmed him, it appeared, for he did
not quit it. He was seen cultiv