E POET AND THE PEASANT

FROM THE FRENCH OF EMILE SOUVESTRE

A young man was walking through a forest, and in spite of the approach
of night, in spite of the mist that grew denser every moment, he was
walking slowly, paying no heed either to the weather or to the hour.

His dress of green cloth, his buckskin gaiters, and the gun slung across
his shoulder might have caused him to be taken for a sportsman, had not
the book that half protruded from his game-bag betrayed the dreamer, and
proved that Arnold de Munster was less occupied with observing the track
of wild game than in communing with himself.

For some moments his mind had been filled with thoughts of his family
and of the friends he had left in Paris. He remembered the studio that
he had adorned with fantastic engravings, strange paintings, curious
statuettes; the German songs that his sister had sung, the melancholy
verses that he had repeated in the subdued light of the evening lamps,
and the long talks in which every one confessed his inmost feelings, in
which all the mysteries of thought were discussed and translated into
impassioned or graceful words! Why had he abandoned these choice
pleasures to bury himself in the country?

He was aroused at last from his meditations by the consciousness that
the mist had changed into rain and was beginning to penetrate his
shooting-coat. He was about to quicken his steps, but in looking around
him he saw that he had lost his way, and he tried vainly to determine
the direction he must take. A first attempt only succeeded in
bewildering him still more. The daylight faded, the rain fell more
heavily, and he continued to plunge at random into unknown paths.

He had begun to be discouraged, when the sound of bells reached him
through the leafless trees. A cart driven by a big man in a blouse had
appeared at an intersecting road and was coming toward the one that
Arnold had just reached.

Arnold stopped to wait for the man and asked him if he were far from
Sersberg.

"Sersberg!" repeated the carter; "you don't expect to sleep there
to-night?"

"Pardon me, but I do," answered the young man.

"At Sersberg?" went on his interlocutor; "you'll have to go by train,
then! It is six good leagues from here to the gate; and considering the
weather and the roads, they are equal to twelve."

The young man uttered an exclamation. He had left the chateau that
morning and did not think that he had wandered so far; but he had b