s. Le Gros had foreclosed the
mortgage.

The Chateau of Hirondelette was up for sale.

When de Savignac came out to open the gate for me late that evening his
face was as white as the palings in the moonlight.

"Come in," said he, forcing a faint laugh---he stopped for a moment as
he closed and locked the gate--labouring painfully for his breath. Then
he slipped his arm under my own. "Come along," he whispered, struggling
for his voice. "I have found another bottle of Musigny."

A funeral, like a wedding or an accident, is quickly over. The sale of
de Savignac's chateau consumed three days of agony.

As I passed the "garconniere" by the lane beyond the courtyard on my way
to the last day's sale, I looked over the hedge and saw that the
shutters were closed--farther on, a doctor's gig was standing by the
gate. From a bent old peasant woman in sabots and a white cap, who
passed, I learned which of the two was ill. It was as I had feared--his
wife. And so I continued on my way to the sale.

As I passed through the gates of the chateau, the rasping voice of the
lean-jawed auctioneer reached my ears as he harangued in the drizzling
rain before the steps of the chateau the group of peasants gathered
before him--widows in rusty crepe veils, shrewd old Norman farmers in
blue blouses looking for bargains, their carts wheeled up on the
mud-smeared lawn. And a few second-hand dealers from afar, in black
derbys, lifting a dirty finger to close a bid for mahogany.

Close to this sordid crowd on the mud-smeared lawn sat Le Gros, his
heavy body sunk in a carved and gilded arm-chair that had once graced
the boudoir of Madame de Savignac. As I passed him, I saw that his face
was purple with drink. He sat there the picture of insolent ignorance,
this pig of a peasant.

At times the auctioneer rallied the undecided with coarse jokes, and
the crowd roared, for they are not burdened with delicacy, these Norman
farmers.

"_Allons! Allons!_ my good ladies!" croaked the auctioneer. "Forty sous
for the lot. A bed quilt for a princess and a magnificent water filter
de luxe that will keep your children well out of the doctor's hands.
_Allons!_ forty sous, forty-one--two?"

A merchant in hogs raised his red, puffy hand, then turned away with a
leer as the shrill voice of a fisher woman cried, "Forty-five."

"Sold!" yelped the auctioneer--"sold to madame the widow Dupuis of
Hirondelette," who was now elbowing her broad way through the