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Updated: May 21, 2025
Once everybody had worshipped him: that was when he had sung in the Mass, the day of the funeral of the wife of Farette the miller, for whom he worked. It had been rumoured that in his hut by the Rock of Red Pigeons, up at Dalgrothe Mountain, a voice of most wonderful power and sweetness had been heard singing; but this was only rumour.
He kept mumbling to himself: "Ho, ho, Farette is below there with the gun, rubbing and rubbing at the rust! Holy mother, how it will kick! But he will only meddle. If she set her eye at him and come up bold and said: 'Farette, go and have your whiskey-wine, and then to bed, he would sneak away. But he has heard something.
I will never go to you at the House with the Tall Porch. And I made him promise that he would never tell of it. And so I have lived sometimes with old Farette." Then he laughed strangely again, and sent a furtive look at Armand. "Parpon," said Armand gently, "our grand Seigneur has left you the Bois Noir for your own.
The wedding-day was the anniversary of Farette's first marriage, and the Cure faltered in the exhortation when he saw that Farette was dressed in complete mourning, even to the crape hat-streamers, as he said, out of respect for the memory of his first wife, and as a kind of tribute to his second.
He kept mumbling to himself: "Ho, ho, Farette is below there with the gun, rubbing and rubbing at the rust! Holy mother, how it will kick! But he will only meddle. If she set her eye at him and come up bold and said: 'Farette, go and have your whiskey-wine, and then to bed, he would sneak away. But he has heard something.
Parpon hopped down and trotted to the door. Then he turned and said, with a sly gurgle: "Farette keeps at that gun. What is the good! There will be nobody at the Bois Noir any more. I will go and tell him." She rushed at him with fury, but seeing Annette Benoit in the road, she stood still and beat her foot angrily on the doorstep.
"When the winter is done I will come back home, To the nest swinging under and over, Swinging under and over and waiting for me, Your rover, my snow-bird, your rover Your lover and rover, don, don! . . . don, don!" It was all very well in the mouth of the sprightly, sentimental Benoit; it was hateful foolishness in Farette.
This was merely the concession of politeness, for he thought his offer handsome. Julie slyly eyed the wardrobe and as slyly smiled, and then, imitating Farette's manner though Farette could not see it, and Parpon spluttered with laughter said: "M'sieu', you are a great man. The grey poplin is noble, also the flour, and the writing on the brown paper.
He stretched up his powerful arms, with a swift motion as of climbing, laughed, and added: "Madame Julie, Farette has poor eyes; he could not see a hole in a ladder. But he has a kink in his head about the Bois Noir. People have talked " "Pshaw!" Julie said, crumpling her apron and throwing it out; "he is a child and a coward. He should not play with a gun; it might go off and hit him."
She learned how to cook, and in time Farette learned that he had his one true inspiration when he wore mourning at his second marriage. The tale was told to me in the little valley beneath Dalgrothe Mountain one September morning. Far and near one could see the swinging of the flail, and the laughter of a ripe summer was upon the land.
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