iving reproach to the
people about him. They endeavored to put him out of sight and mind with
the reproachful remark, "Nothing satisfies that man."

The patriot peasant returned to his cot at Blangy and watched the
destruction, one by one, of his illusions; he saw his republic come
to an end at the heels of an emperor, while he himself fell into utter
poverty, to which Rigou stealthily managed to reduce him. And why?
Because Niseron had never been willing to accept anything from him.
Reiterated refusals showed the ex-priest in what profound contempt the
nephew of the curate held him; and now that icy scorn was revenged by
the terrible threat as to his little granddaughter, about which the Abbe
Brossette spoke to the countess.

The old man had composed in his own mind a history of the French
republic, filled with the glorious features which gave immortality to
that heroic period to the exclusion of all else. The infamous deeds, the
massacres, the spoliations, his virtuous soul ignored; he admired, with
a single mind, the devotedness of the people, the "Vengeur," the gifts
to the nation, the uprising of the country to defend its frontier; and
he still pursued his dream that he might sleep in peace.

The Revolution produced many poets like old Niseron, who sang their
poems in the country solitudes, in the army, openly or secretly, by
deeds buried beneath the whirlwind of that storm, just as the wounded
left behind to die in the great wars of the empire cried out, "Long live
the Emperor!" This sublimity of soul belongs especially to France. The
Abbe Brossette respected the convictions of the old man, who became
simply but deeply attached to the priest from hearing him say, "The true
republic is in the Gospel." The stanch republican carried the cross,
and wore the sexton's robe, half-red, half-black, and was grave and
dignified in church,--supporting himself by the triple functions with
which he was invested by the abbe, who was able to give the fine old
man, not, to be sure, enough to live on, but enough to keep him from
dying of hunger.

Niseron, the Aristides of Blangy, spoke little, like all noble dupes who
wrap themselves in the mantle of resignation; but he was never silent
against evil, and the peasants feared him as thieves fear the police.
He seldom came more than six times a year to the Grand-I-Vert, though he
was always warmly welcomed there. The old man cursed the want of charity
of the rich,--their selfishne