ious seasons for
harvesting; he heard eagerly the thousand details of a laborious country
life--the autumn sowing, the winter chores, the splendid celebrations of
harvest and vintage days, the sound of the mills at the water-side, and
the flails striking the ground, the tired horses led to water, and the
hunting in the morning mist; and, above all, the long evenings around
the fire of vine-shoots, that were shortened by some marvellous stories.
He discovered in himself a source of imagination before unknown, and
found a singular delight in the recital of events so placid, so calm, so
monotonous.

One thing troubled him, however: it was the fear lest Savinien might
learn something of his past. Sometimes there escaped from him some low
word of thieves' slang, a vulgar gesture--vestiges of his former
horrible existence--and he felt the pain one feels when old wounds
re-open; the more because he fancied that he sometimes saw in Savinien
the awakening of an unhealthy curiosity. When the young man, already
tempted by the pleasures which Paris offers to the poorest, asked him
about the mysteries of the great city, Jean Francois feigned ignorance
and turned the subject; but he felt a vague inquietude for the future of
his friend.

His uneasiness was not without foundation. Savinien could not long
remain the simple rustic that he was on his arrival in Paris. If the
gross and noisy pleasures of the wine-shop always repelled him, he was
profoundly troubled by other temptations, full of danger for the
inexperience of his twenty years. When spring came he began to go off
alone, and at first he wandered about the brilliant entrance of some
dancing-hall, watching the young girls who went in with their arms
around each others' waists, talking in low tones. Then, one evening,
when lilacs perfumed the air and the call to quadrilles was most
captivating, he crossed the threshold, and from that time Jean Francois
observed a change, little by little, in his manners and his visage. He
became more frivolous, more extravagant. He often borrowed from his
friend his scanty savings, and he forgot to repay. Jean Francois,
feeling that he was abandoned, jealous and forgiving at the same time,
suffered and was silent. He felt that he had no right to reproach him,
but with the foresight of affection he indulged in cruel and inevitable
presentiments.

One evening, as he was mounting the stairs to his room, absorbed in his
thoughts, he heard, as he