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The lad was the living image of his mother. He had her olive complexion, beautiful black eyes with a sad and thoughtful expression in them, long hair, a head too energetic for the fragile body; all the peculiar beauty of the Polish Jewess had been transmitted to her son. "Do you sleep soundly, my little man?" Benassis asked him. "Yes, sir." "Let me see your knees; turn back your trousers."
Genestas was gazing from this point, over a land that lay far and wide in the spring sunlight, when there arose the sound of a wailing cry. "Let us go on," said Benassis; "the wail for the dead has begun, that is the name they give to this part of the funeral rites." On the western slope of the mountain peak, the commandant saw the buildings belonging to a farm of some size.
The tall candles were lighted, and several people undertook to watch with the dead that night. Benassis and the soldier went out. A group of peasants in the doorway stopped the doctor to say: "Ah! if you have not saved his life, sir, it was doubtless because God wished to take him to Himself." "I did my best, children," the doctor answered.
The harness, the little bells, and the knots of braid in their manes, were clean and smart. The great wagon itself was painted bright blue, and perched aloft in it sat a stalwart, sunburned youth, who shouldered his whip like a gun and whistled a tune. "No," said Benassis, "that is only the wagoner.
An inscription, which in accordance with the custom of the monastery he had written above his door, impressed and touched me; all the precepts of the life that I had meant to lead were there, summed up in three Latin words Fuge, late, tace." Genestas bent his head as if he understood. "My decision was made," Benassis resumed.
Genestas preferred seeing the country to waiting about indefinitely for Benassis' return, so he set out along the way that led to the flour-mill. When he had gone beyond the irregular line traced by the town upon the hillside, he came in sight of the mill and the valley, and of one of the loveliest landscapes that he had ever seen.
"Vigneau's predecessor," said Benassis, "was a good-for-nothing, a lazy rascal who cared about nothing by drink. He had been a workman himself; he could keep a fire in his kiln and could put a price on his work, and that was about all he knew; he had no energy, and no idea of business.
The next morning, when the fumes of champagne had passed off, he took it up and began to read. "My dear father " "Oh! you young rogue," was his comment, "you know how to coax whenever you want something." "Our dear M. Benassis is dead " The letter dropped from Genestas' hands; it was some time before he could read any more. "Every one is in consternation.
"The rest of them thought that it had only been my fancy; but fancy or no, a good many of them are living comfortably in fine houses to-day, without feeling their hearts oppressed by gratitude." "Then would you only do people a good turn in order to receive that exorbitant interest called gratitude?" said Benassis, laughing. "That would be asking a great deal for your outlay."
Jacquotte," said Benassis, turning to his housekeeper, "bring in some wine and biscuits. We will both of us have our night-cap after our separate fashions." "That tea must be very bad for you!" Genestas remarked.
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