The Apotheosis of P'tit Jean

HUMAN nature is a good deal like vegetable nature in some things. Asparagus, for instance, needs a treatment under which lettuce would not thrive. A humiliation hardens one heart, whereas it softens another. All the world knows how changed Madame Martin, our mayor’s wife, has been of late, with more sympathy for, and less aggressiveness toward, her neighbors. The train of events leading to this happy culmination began one October afternoon.

The cold wind was blustering unpleasantly through the village, whirling the dust about in a way that could not be calculated upon in time to shield the eyes from it, and worrying wisps of straw and scraps of paper that had been inoffensive enough until this unmannerly breeze had discovered their hiding places and forced them into unseemly caperings. Near the corner by the hooded well was a group of women ; they were clustered so closely together that a table napkin could have covered their white caps, all bent over something in their midst, while the score or more of ankles rising above an equal number of sabots formed a circle of considerable size. Their coarse woolen skirts swayed in the wind which twisted them about. The object which absorbed their attention was a small boy, not much over four years old. He was alternately bellowing loudly and showering abuse, collectively and individually, upon his audience. In spite of the bitter weather, he had on only a ragged cotton shirt, gaping at the throat, and a pair of trousers so much too large for him that he was forced to keep one hand continually busy in holding them up. His bare feet were thrust into ill-mated shoes, and his matted mop of yellow hair was covered by no hat. Notwithstanding the thinness of his little body and the liberal coating of dirt which crusted every available place, he was a pretty child; straight, well made, with bright blue eyes, and a rosy skin peering through the grime.

“ And then what happened, little one ? ” asked a woman coaxingly, in a lull after a long roar.

“ Why, then, you old cabbage head, you, I got back — and Bibi was gone! That beast of a mère Victorine ! I want Bibi. I do, — I do. I don’t want all you big turkeys.”

“ Ah, here is Monsieur le Curé ! ” exclaimed another member of the group, drawing back, and breaking up the circle.

“ That is well ; he may find out the truth,”said a third.

The village priest was seen coming near, his black robe swinging from side to side, and his wide hat pressed firmly on his head. He was a man of middle age, with a misty, far-away look in his eyes. He always answered appropriately, but his expression was such that it came as a slight shock that he had heard and understood the question.

“What is the trouble?” he asked, raising his hat to his parishioners.

A chorus of voices replied, which, loud as they were, seemed low beside the shrill scream coming from the small boy : “ Go away, you black crow biddy ! I won’t have you about! Go away ! ”

“ I apparently excite the child,” said the curé mildly. “ Who is he ? ”

“ We don’t know,” came the answering chorus. “ We have been at him for half an hour, and can’t find out anything.”

“ I’m P’tit Jean, you stupid woodcocks ! ” rang clear and distinct from the unknown.

At this moment Madame Martin bustled round the corner, two steps in advance of her brother, the blacksmith. Madame Martin is invariably two steps, if not more, in advance of her men folk. All the village used to call her a “ master woman,” and respected her energy, even if in those days they did not love her overmuch. Her superior position was emphasized by the fact that she wore neither cap nor sabots. The pink of neatness, she recalled one of her own copper saucepans, rotund, ruddy, glittering with cleanliness, and hard. Her nose and chin showed an inclination to meet, and her firm, straight mouth seemed bashfully taking its place in the middle distance.

Outwardly, her brother, Jérôme Lucas, was like her, but his rotundity was expressive of cotton wool rather than copper, and his approaching nose and chin expressed amiability rather than rapaciousness.

“ Good-afternoon, Monsieur le Curé. What is the reason of this to-do ? ” demanded the lady mayoress.

“ These ladies can tell you better than I, madame,” returned the unenlightened priest.

“ ’T is a lost child, Madame Martin,” spoke up Madame Dubois, a small landowner : “ he was found wandering round and crying, and we think he belongs to the gypsy wagon that halted by the roadside yesterday, and made off early this morning.”

Madame Martin seated herself with much majesty on the well-curb, and held out one hand.

“ Come to me and answer my questions, child. I represent the mayor. — I have sent him to the upper farm to see to getting in the wine casks,” she threw out in parenthesis to her townsfolk, as if explaining her tone of authority, “ so you must obey me.”

P’tit Jean drew near with reluctant tread, until her outstretched hand had descended on his shoulder. “ Faugh ! how dirty he is ! ” she exclaimed ; adding in a catechismal manner, “ What is your father’s name ? ” Her allusion to the mayor had evidently impressed the boy, for he ceased his bawls and abusive names.

“ Have n’t no father,” he replied doggedly.

“ What is your mother’s name, then ? ”

“ Have n’t no mother.”

“ Who took care of you ? ”

“ Nobody.”

“ Where did you live ? ”

“ In the wagon.”

“ Who else was there ? ”

“ Nasty old mere Victorine.” P’tit Jean’s color began to rise, and his voice lost its subdued tone.

“ How did you lose her ? ”

“ Oh, my Bibi ! I want my Bibi ! ” broke out the boy, digging both fists into his eyes.

“Don’t let go your trousers, for mercy’s sake ! ” exclaimed Madame Martin energetically, as she jerked him nearer to her. “ Dear Lord, how thin he is ! ” she added in a different key, as she raised him to her lap to adjust the unruly garment. The lady mayoress had no living child, but in her neat bedroom, hanging beside her mirror, was a black oval frame inclosing a thick golden curl. It was twenty-three years since that curl had been cut off, and people called her hard ; yet something waked and fluttered inside her breast, as she held the waif on her knee, something that had not died in all this time. Her baby had been thin, too, at the last, although she had done all she could to save him.

But she was not a woman to show her feelings, and after a moment’s pause went on. “Who is Bibi?” she demanded.

“ I won’t tell you.”

“ Why ? ”

“ Because I won’t,” said P’tit Jean, defiantly raising his head. “ But I will you,” he added, slipping from her knees, and running as well as he could with his descending drapery to the blacksmith.

“ Well said, my good little man,” answered Jérôme, with his slow smile. “ Tell me all about him.”

“ He ’s the big yellow dog who sleeps under the wagon, and I cuddle up with him when they ’re drunk inside.”

“ Good ! good 1 And what made you let them get away without you ? ”

“ Mère Victorine woke me up early this morning, and showed me a castle away over the hills, and said they would give me little cakes and nice white wine there. And I walked and walked, and they only gave me nasty bread; and I came back, and Bibi was gone.”

“ Oh, the cruel wretch ! The poor little lamb ! ” came from the kindly women.

“ The child must be worn out,” said Madame Martin. “ I will take him home with me, and give him a bath and some supper. Then to-morrow I will tell the mayor what to decide about him. Come along, little one.”

She rose and advanced in P’tit Jean’s direction, but he speedily dodged round Jérôme’s portly person.

“ I won’t go with her,” he asserted, “ but I will with you ; for you put shoes on our Moustie a long, long time ago, and you were kind to her and gave her a rotten apple.”

“ You can’t take him, Jérôme ; there ’s no woman now to look after him,” said Madame Martin.

“ I can give him shelter for the night as well as another. It ’s lonesome since Marthe died, and the children married and left,” replied the blacksmith, with simplicity.

“ There, hear to him! He ’s still grieving for his wife ! ” exclaimed his unsympathetic sister, raising her eyes, and apparently addressing a colossal sabot, painted scarlet, which hung as a sign above a neighboring door. “ And Marthe Lucas was but a poor little body, say what you may, — always ailing ; while I, strong as a horse as I am, never sick so to call it but once, when I broke my ankle doing double work, although the mayor talks about that idle slut of a chambermaid as if she was ten servants — yes — I — Where was I ? Oh, I remember. No one would wet two pocket handkerchiefs crying for me, if I died. One would be enough, from the laying out to the graveyard.”

“ Oh no, no. Don’t say that, Agathe, — don’t, now,” urged Jérôme tearfully. “ You shall keep the kid, if you hold to it.”

“ I don’t. I would n’t have him tracking his filth through my house for sums untold,” retorted the irritated representative of law and justice.

“ The poor child should be fed, however,” gently suggested the curé: “ perhaps if my good friend Jérôme got him some supper, he would be more easily managed afterward.”

“ Monsieur le Curé is right,” affirmed Madame Dubois, and the other women being of the same mind the crowd dispersed, blowing right and left to neglected tasks, while Jérôme led off P’tit Jean, limping and stumbling between lameness and the disorder of his nether garment.

Madame Dubois accompanied Madame Martin to her house, wishing to see a wonderful bit of crochet work, the pattern of which came originally from Paris.

“ When little Mademoiselle Leroy was at the convent in Paris she made a tidy of this stitch,” said the mayoress, ushering her caller into her spick-and-span salon. “ Her older sister married a nephew of my mother-in-law’s second husband, and that is how I happened ” — She broke off as if a new thought had struck her, although in fact it had been in her head ever since she had left her brother. “ I don’t think he has a thing in the house that a child would like the taste of! ” she cried. “ Besides, I’m just dying to clean that young one. What do you say, Louise Dubois, to going with me ? We ’ll take him a good bite, and then we ’ll wash him, and cut his hair, and get him to bed.”

“Would you wash him all over?” asked Madame Dubois doubtfully. It was a village theory that Madame Martin’s baby had been kept too clean for this world. She was not averse to sectional bathing herself, this worthy Madame Dubois, but when it came to wholesale immersion she shrank somewhat.

“ Indeed I would ; ’t won’t do him a mite of harm. Come on ! ” exclaimed her energetic friend. She led the way to the kitchen, where she opened a cupboard door. “ Here, Louise Dubois, do you hold this,” she said, taking a basket from a hook where it hung, “ and I ’ll see what I can find to put in it. Here ’s a piece of chocolate and some bread. There ’s some jam left in that tumbler ; well, I might as well give it to him as let it mildew. These cakes are getting dry ; it ’s only waste to keep them any longer ; I ’ve had them since the mayor’s birthday. The child talked, too, about white wine. I gave the mayor a fresh bottle for his breakfast, and there ’s a good deal left in it. I suppose it won’t do any harm to let him have another fresh one for his dinner, —he ’s partial to it that way, — and the little scamp can have this. There ’s a slice of cold chicken — no, I must keep that for — Oh, it’s not enough to make a good-sized dish, and the mayor would eat the most of it, anyway. I ’ll put that in. And here ’s a bit of brioche, too. Now you wait till I get towels and soap, and then we ’ll start.”

The two women had but a step to take to reach the blacksmith’s by way of the smithy. Jérôme’s assistant was hammering on some ironwork, and ran to open the door that gave on to the small garden which separated the house from the shop. They stepped across the narrow space paved with square red bricks, and paused a moment on the threshold to look into Jérôme’s kitchen. It was a large, low-beamed room, into which the divided door opened directly; through the open upper half they could see the ample fireplace, with a fagot of dry sticks crackling merrily on the hearth, before which P’tit Jean sat stiffly in a chair, gazing with wide eyes at the fire. Jérôme was going helplessly about peering into crockery jars and tin boxes.

“ Has he had his supper ? ” asked Madame Martin in her sharp voice.

“ No, poor little man ; I can find naught but tobacco and dried coffee,” answered Jérôme, still searching in impossible places.

“ Are men stupid, or are they not ? ” demanded his sister, entering and casting her eyes ceilingward. No reply being vouchsafed to her question, she briskly drew P’tit Jean’s chair to the table without disturbing him, and spread before him the contents of her basket.

“ Look at the kid’s face ! ” exclaimed Jérôme in a stolid ecstasy. “ Just look at it, will you ? He never saw such a lay-out before, I 'll warrant.”

“ It will be a better sight yet when the child is clean,” returned the mayoress, beginning to enjoy herself in her own way.

In the garden stood an iron pot on three legs: without disturbing Jérôme, who kept repeating, “ Look at the kid, look at him ! ” the two women filled this pot half full of water, and then kindled a fire beneath. This accomplished they indulged in a whispered consultation, which ended in the disappearance of Madame Dubois. As she whisked importantly through the smithy door, Jérôme looked up. “What ’s the fire for ? ” he asked.

“ To clean things.”

“ But you saw to my wash not so very long ago. Besides, it ’s too late in the day to get linen dried.

“It ’s not linen that’s to be washed.”

“ What is it, then ? ”

“ Flesh, human flesh,” was Madame Martin’s emphatic answer.

“ Agathe, you ’re not going ” —

“ Yes, I am,” she snapped. “ I could never sleep in my bed for thinking of the dirt on that child.” She dipped her finger into the water as she spoke. “ It ’s not near warm enough yet. Why, bless his heart,” she added, putting her head into the kitchen, “ he ’s finished every crumb, and is licking the jam tumbler.”

P’tit Jean looked round with an air of placid comfort. “ I 'm sleepy,” he announced.

“ And you shall go to sleep in a nice soft bed, with feathers all round you, as soon as you are clean.” said the mayoress.

“ I ’d rather be dirty, and have Bibi.”

“ Oh fie ! dirty boys are not nice,” she returned, ignoring the allusion to his lost friend. “ Now come here and let me fix your hair.”

Snip, snip, went the scissors in those capable hands which never trembled. Truth to tell, in the active delight of doing something, the curl in its black frame was for the moment forgotten. By the time that the matted locks were shorn, during which performance the patient was sleepily quiescent, Madame Dubois returned in breathless triumph. A timely friend had lent a helping hand, and between them they carried a tin bath tub of antiquated pattern.

“ A thousand thanks, madame,” she panted, dismissing her aid with a dignified bow ; then, turning to Madame Martin, she continued : “ I’d have been here sooner, but the curé’s housekeeper had a hunt to find it. She had put it in the loft over the sacristy, after the English pupil left, two years ago, and had forgotten all about it. I told her that you had kept your eye on it, and here it is at last.”

“I’ve always thought Agatlie had English blood in her,” remarked the blacksmith.

Madame Dubois gave him an uncompromising stare, and asked, “ Is the water warm ? ”

Madame Martin felt again, this time plunging her arm far down into the pot. “ Yes, it ’s hot near the bottom, and lukewarm near the top. Now, then, Louise Dubois.”

With an adroit movement they lifted the heavy receptacle and poured half its contents into the tub, which they then lifted by its handles and set before the cheerful fire.

“ Now, master,” said the mistress of ceremonies, “ in twenty minutes you will be the cleanest boy in the village.”

But P’tit Jean’s naturally violent disposition had only been lulled by food and warmth ; at this horrible threat it sprang into activity. He directed a kick at his tormentor’s shins, which missed its aim, and then made for the door and liberty. Madame Dubois shut off this retreat, however, upon which he began a series of dodges between the two women.

The mayor would have scarcely believed his eyes had he been there, but Madame Martin, despite her rotundity and ordinary domineering propensities, entered into these manœuvres as a sort of game. Jérôme stood gaping, shrinking sensitively each time he saw his sister’s hand outstretched, expecting to see it followed by a cuff on the waif’s ear ; instead, with purple cheeks she lumbered about, uttering shrill screams of excitement. Madame Dubois joined in the chase, and the noise drew the apprentice from his bellows. At last those unlucky trousers tripped up the quarry; he stumbled ; strong arms caught him, and in a second he was immersed in that fluid which had previously impressed him as synonymous with the wheel and rack.

To his surprise he rather liked the sensation; his little legs, stiff from their long tramp that morning, stretched luxuriously out; the suds made pretty colors in the firelight; the touch of the grand inquisitor was vigorous, but not rough, and the faces of the three spectators expressed kindly curiosity.

How intensely Madame Martin enjoyed that scrubbing! When even she felt that nothing more remained to be rubbed off but skin. P’tit Jean was lifted from the tub in her strong arms, allowed to drip for a moment, and then stood on a bit of flannel close to the hearth, where she rubbed him with her towels till his little body glowed red in the flames.

“ Is n’t he a picture ? ” she said, breathing hard from her exertions and standing erect. “ Heavenly powers, but I have a crick in my back from bending ! ”

“ He ’s a real little Saint John,” said Madame Dubois with enthusiasm, as she slipped over his head a nightdress of the late Madame Lucas. P’tit Jean was too surprised to rebel, and too sleepy to do anything but roll up in a ball and go immediately to sleep when the blacksmith had tucked him into poor Marthe’s side of the bed.

The following morning Jérôme had a thrill of pleasure at feeling the soft, warm little body cuddled close to his, and when the boy, not quite awake, murmured “ Bibi,” he stroked the hand that tugged at his beard.

There was not much search made for the gypsies, who, according to popular opinion, had purposely deserted the child. The villagers gave enough from their scanty stores to dress P’tit Jean respectably, and the curé presented him with a pair of shoes. The situation remained vaguely outlined. Jérôme promised nothing, made no definite proposition, thereby driving his sister nearly wild. She hated to have anything left to chance, and wavered between the pleasure it gave her to see the waif growing plump and rosy and the resentment caused by the thought that her family was “being put upon by other folks’ brats.” She was still undecided as to which side to cast her weight, when the problem was solved by an unthought-of factor.

In Touraine news travels but slowly, and three weeks had passed before the rumor of a new inmate in Jérôme Lucas’ cottage traversed the ten miles which lie between our village and the valley of the Cher, where lived Jerome’s eldest son with his father-in-law. Young Madame Lucas had brought six little Lucases to the light of day, and possessed a fine will of her own. She quickly made up her mind that the gypsy’s outcast should not gain the heart of her offspring’s grandfather, and one bright Sunday morning set out betimes in the two-wheeled cart for Jerome’s house. Her husband and her eldest hope, a boy of twelve, accompanied her, but she was fully aware that she herself was the pivot on which would turn the day’s events.

A drive of something less than two hours brought them to the smithy. Madame clambered carefully from her high perch, keeping her second-best black skirt from the mud on the wheel. Very determined was she in her bearing as she pushed young Jérôme ahead of her through the forge, dim with a holiday twilight, and opened the door into the court. The sun shone bright that cool, crisp morning, making a bit of transparency worthy of a cathedral window as it smote athwart a grapevine branch still bearing some yellow and crimson leaves. Two clumps of ordinary chrysanthemums, the one with white, the other with reddish-brown flowers, flanked the doorway, just inside of which, his feet in the sunshine, sat the ruddy blacksmith. His hair was plastered to his head, and he wore his Sunday suit. By his side sat the sleek house cat, and between his knees stood P’tit Jean in a clean black blouse strapped about his waist with a leather belt, his shining locks already escaping from the extra care lately bestowed upon them, and his cheeks glowing with health and a vigorous application of Madame Martin’s soap. He was explaining, with an earnestness that supplemented his limited vocabulary, why he had been naughty and had refused to go to mass with “ la tante Agathe,” as he calmly called the lady mayoress. He looked up as the smithy door opened, and the words died away before the newcomers, — a lady very finely dressed, and a big, big boy.

Jérôme looked, too, and rose slowly; he advanced to meet his daughter-in-law, solemnly kissed her on both cheeks, went through the same performance with young Jth’dme, and then said, “ And Jacques ? ”

“ He is putting up the horse at the inn,” said Madame Jacques, showing by every angle of her rigid figure that she came for war, not peace.

There was a long silence, while Jérôme felt that he must make an effort to rise to the duties of host and parent. At last he brought forth the words, “ You ’ll have a snack with me? ”

“ You are too good.” This came with elaborate politeness from the unexpected guest. During the pause she had been examining the interloper, who had returned her gaze with one of Frank admiration.

“ Your aunt Agathe,” volunteered Jerôme, “ will be here soon. She is at mass, and it must be nearly over.”

As he spoke the church bells began a joyous clash ; then sounded a clatter of hobnailed shoes as the advance guard of boys dashed down the steep paved alley that ran up to the church from the village road along the other side of the blacksmith’s wall. After this noise had died away came the sound of more restrained footfalls, accompanied by a murmur of voices, — women’s voices ; only one man went to church in those days, and as he was lame he followed haltingly. Conversation seemed difficult in the small court. Jérôme had pointed to his chair, and Madame Jacques had plumped down into it. She wished her husband to uphold her in the coming interview, and she did not wish la tante Agathe to be present; but she suspected that neither desire would be satisfied. She had a shrewd idea that Jacques would keep out of the way until the storm had blown over ; being willing (after the manner of men) to fight, but a very coward when it came to looking on at another’s engagement.

“We came over to see how things were with you, father,” said the young woman in a gloomy tone. “ There were stories told us last week we did not want to believe unless our own eyes told the same tale.” She stared pointedly at P’tit Jean as she spoke.

Jérôme answered never a word. He took from his pocket a buff-and-whiteplaid handkerchief, which he applied to his nose and gave an unnecessary, trumpet-like blow. Then he cocked his head on one side, like an aged terrier, and listened to a voice in the alley beyond the wall, while his face brightened. The voice was Agathe’s, and was announcing emphatically: Yes, I always see to his Sunday breakfast myself. Men are such helpless souls ! He and the child would go hungry, if I did n’t look after them.” Jérôme felt instinctively that his sister would protect him ; and he also felt that he might need her aid, for in spite of his daughter-in-law’s reticence he was fully aware what had caused her visit.

There was a short interval between the overheard conversation and the smart opening of the forge door, through which swept Madame Martin in all the glories of a black silk dress and a Parisian bonnet only three years old. She halted at the sight of her niece. There was no love lost betwixt the two, and they had had many a skirmish, but this fine Sunday morning saw their first pitched battle.

A detailed account of the affair would be grotesque, and give a distorted view of the valor displayed on both sides. Madame Martin’s temper rose the moment she saw Madame Jacques in Jérôme’s doorway, and P’tit Jean’s wistful, admiring look at her. She divined the object of the reconnoissance at a glance, and boldly charged the younger woman. After this first shot both talked at once, their voices soaring with shrill iteration above the garden wall, attracting a small knot of inquisitive gossips. Finally, those without heard only a series of pants which followed the wildest outburst of all ; then Madame Martin was heard to speak in slow, emphatic accents. “ The child is my care,” she said. “ I shall see to his future, so that you will lose naught. But I am not bound to provide for grandnephews nor yet for grandnieces, and the less baiting I get on the subject the better for them at the last. The boy is company for my poor brother, and keeps him warm nights, so there is no need to buy a new coverlid for the cold weather.”

“ That he does, the young rogue! ” exclaimed Jérôme, highly delighted at the way things were going. “ And now, Agathe, let’s have a good meal for the young folks ; they have a long drive before them, and the days are short.”

Thus was the situation defined, and P’tit Jean’s future assured.

Madame Martin had been surprised into giving this promise, but her word was good, and she kept it stanchly. Needless to say that her townspeople criticised her unmercifully, and she heard more than once that she had fallen from her formerly high estate in their esteem. She shook her head at the dismal prophecies regarding the waif’s future, and was unusually happy all through the winter ; adding to and supervising her protégé’s wardrobe, giving him an occasional bath, leading him to school, and trying to lead him to church. Although P’tit Jean was what is called “ a handful,” she generally contrived to get her way by bribes, coaxings, and an occasional cuff. For the first few months no power could induce him to enter the church. Some dim prejudice against the “ crow biddy,” as he persisted in calling the curé, made him fight his benefactress tooth and nail. But on Easter Sunday Madame Martin’s desire to prove to all the world what a success she was making of her experiment gained the upper hand. He was flattered into a new suit of clothes, and dragged up the steep lane to the porch.

“ Now listen. You will be a good boy within,” she said, giving a final touch to his vast cravat of bright blue silk that nearly strangled him.

“ I won’t,” he replied, with his naughtiest look. “You ’ll see how bad I’m going to be.”

In spite of this threat, he was so amused by the service, with its flowers, lights, incense, and music (such as it was), that his demeanor was truly pious until the very end. Madame Martin was triumphant; not a boy in the whole congregation had sat so still and looked so angelic as her waif. She had waved her flag of victory before the eyes of all men, and as she gained the door, with elated mien, she paused to scatter a few condescending remarks among the group of neighbors gathered together. Up to this moment she had kept P’tit Jean’s hand tightly grasped within her own, but now the weight of responsibility was off her heart, and relaxing her hold she said, “ Run out, my boy, into the air.”

P’tit Jean’s attention, however, had been attracted by the stoup for holy water; it was in the shape of a cockleshell, carved out of stone, and attached to one of the pillars. He wanted very much to see what was in that curious shell, wondering why the people dipped their fingers into it. He stood on tiptoe to peer within ; but the rim was just above the level of his eyes, so, drawing back a few steps, he gave a short run and jumped up, catching hold of the fluted edge with both hands to support himself. He had been so good that he felt he had earned the right to equalize matters a little. The water was very clear, and reflected the crude tones of the window glass, which he thought the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He was admiring the tremulous blobs of crimson and blue when he caught a horrified exclamation : “Just see what that imp is doing ! ”

Madame Martin, whose back was turned, wheeled round. P’tit Jean saw that he must take some means of defense, so, plunging his rosy face into the water, he filled his mouth with the blessed liquid. At the same moment he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Madame Martin dragged him to his feet in the midst of the group of women. For perhaps three seconds he stood in their midst, casting merry, malicious gleams at them, his cheeks distended until the skin at the corners of his mouth nearly cracked. Then, with a most unecclesiastical sound, he showered all within reach with a fine stream, half spray, half water. His victims scattered with stifled screams, and the culprit was hauled by his collar to the place before the church, where he was cuffed heartily. But, upheld by a philosophy worthy of a better cause and the memory of far more cruel chastisements from mère Victor in e, he stood in sturdy silence until Madame Martin paused for want of breath. Then he said, “ Dame ! it was worth it.”

After this scene the first symptoms of softness in the character of the lady mayoress were observed.

In spite of his mischievous ways the blacksmith and his sister doted on P’tit Jean, while even the mayor entertained for him a feeling composed of fear and admiration. He feared him, never knowing on whom would fall the consequences of his next trick ; he admired him for standing up to the redoubtable Agathe.

The month of June drew near. All the village was agog with excitement over the preparations for the “ Fête Dieu,” or Corpus Christi Day. It is one of the pretty customs in Touraine to erect open-air altars for this festival of the Church, before which the priest, marching in a procession of his parishioners, pauses and holds a short service.

Madame Martin always took an interest in the celebration, and had one of the altars before her gate. This year she was more important than before. Her preparations were carried on in secret. It was whispered that the decorations would be something more splendid than ever, and that her manner suggested a surprise of some sort. She was continually running up to the presbytery to hold whispered consultations with the curé’s housekeeper; she hid things in her own room ; she was absent one day for the entire afternoon, and some one saw her returning from the big farm on the uplands. A very Sphinx in her mysterious silence, neither husband nor brother guessed at her plans.

At last the great morning dawned. It was a “ day made on purpose,” as the peasants say. Towering mountainous clouds, with dazzling peaks and depths of violet and rosy shades, tempered the heat, while the sky was intensely blue between the cumulous masses. The road running through the hamlet was strewn with reeds placed in the form of stars, with poppy petals for their centres. Three reposoirs had been erected, and the first one to be visited was in front of Madame Dubois’ house, and under her supervision. She stood with two neighbors eagerly waiting for the signal that the procession had started from the church, when they would make haste to light their candles. It came at last in the blatant notes of the band. The good women flew to their tasks, and the pale candle flames flickered and bent in the fresh breeze. Now they are coming ! They have turned the corner. What a crowd! Nearly a hundred and fifty souls.

Madame Dubois, satisfied with the artistic effect of her work, stood aside with a sigh of relief to watch the pageant. She noticed that something of which she could catch no glimpse was attracting unusual attention. The boys broke rank and ran along to see. The men straggled, and threw glances over their shoulders, giving amused, indulgent chuckles as they did so. The curé, under the white canopy with white plumes nodding at the four corners, was unheeded. The bunch of young girls in their muslin frocks and blue ribbons drew no admiration. Everybody was staring one way. Madame Dubois strained her eyes and stretched her neck, rising on tiptoe, and then for the first time she saw —

P’tit Jean! He was standing on a square of solid wood fitted with handles at the corners, which were upheld by four men. conspicuous among them being the mayor and the blacksmith. He represented Saint John as he is painted in pictures of the Holy Family. A sheepskin half covered his chubby limbs; in his right hand was held a slender cross, and in his left he firmly grasped a red ribbon, the other end of which was tied about the throat of a white and woolly lamb. So happy and so holy was his look that more than one woman had tears in her eyes without knowing why.

P’tit Jean was moved. He vaguely felt himself on a higher moral plane than any he had ever touched. Soft, gentle impulses crept into his laughter-loving nature, and he could even have hugged the curé. Many thousand thoughts passed through his little head as the procession moved slowly along. He was curiously agitated ; the brazen music excited him, and the big drum seemed to play against his stomach. At the halting places before the altars, the sound of the priest’s voice, rising like incense in the pure air, touched him ; he knelt beside the lamb at the elevation and bent his shining curls, while his heart swelled at the memory of his old friend Bibi.

Madame Martin could hardly restrain her joy. That cherub, that saint, was her own work. She swelled with gratified importance, like a pouter pigeon, and threw satisfied glances about her that all might see.

Two of the reposoirs had been visited, and now the procession was to wind down through the wheatfields to the highway, make a turn to the left, and return by the road that leads off to the town hall.

The dry rustle of the wheat mingled with the tramp of the feet as they passed along the narrow path ; the band was silent for a moment, and the birds had it all their own way. There is a slight incline before the highway is reached, and P’tit Jean staggered a little as the last bearers of his holiness failed to bring his platform to the right level. When he had recovered his balance they had turned the corner, and his eyes fell on something that caused them nearly to start from his head.

And yet it was a common sight: only a traveling house wagon standing on one side of the road. The horse had been let loose, and P’tit Jean craned his neck to look underneath the wagon ; it might not be his old home, after all. No, he decided with a long sigh, the dog was an ugly black thing, not his Bibi. But at that instant he saw a slovenly, dirty woman leaning against the wall, staring at the procession. It was la mère Victorine! It was! There was no doubt. That was her cruel face; those were her hard hands that had given him many a fierce blow. P’tit Jean recalled what he had suffered from her, and a great gush of gratitude toward Jérôme and la tante Agathe swept over him. This was followed by a feeling of such supreme triumph that, unless he expressed it, he felt there was danger of his bursting. The silence was broken only by the solemn Latin words chanted by the curé. P’tit Jean dared not interrupt by any sound. He wound the red ribbon of the lamb round one wrist, and tucked his cross under his arm : then looking la mére Victorine full in the face, heedless of the gaze of all the surrounding populace, he placed one thumb on the end of his nose, and joining his hands spread out all ten fingers in her direction.

And the sonorous Latin phrases rolled out, and the procession moved slowly on.

Helen Choate Prince.