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Julie was wild to say a fierce thing, for it seemed that Annette was setting off Benoit against Farette; but the next moment she grew hot, her eyes smarted, and there was a hint of trouble at her throat. She had lived very fast in the last few hours, and it was telling on her. She could not rule herself she could not play a part so well as she wished.
But one day a rumour went abroad that he had quarrelled with his son because of the wife of Farette the miller. No one outside knew if the thing was true, but Julie, the miller's wife, seemed rather to plume herself that she had made a stir in her little world.
The old man chuckled and rubbed his hands. "That's nothing; he has the girl an angel!" "Good enough, that is what I said of her an angel!" "Get married yourself, Farette." For reply Farette thrust a bag of native tabac into Medallion's hands. Then they went over the names of the girls in the village.
IV. The next afternoon the Avocat visited old Farette. Farette was polishing a gun, mumbling the while. Sitting on some bags of meal was Parpon, with a fierce twinkle in his eye. Monsieur Garon told Farette briefly what the Seigneur had left him. With a quick, greedy chuckle Farette threw the gun away. "Man alive!" said he; "tell me all about it. Ah, the good news!"
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.
The old man chuckled and rubbed his hands. "That's nothing; he has the girl an angel!" "Good enough, that is what I said of her an angel!" "Get married yourself, Farette." For reply Farette thrust a bag of native tabac into Medallion's hands. Then they went over the names of the girls in the village.
For though Farette came every Sunday evening and smoked by the fire, and looked at Julie as she arranged the details of her dowry, he only chuckled, and now and again struck his thigh and said: "Mon Dieu, the ankle, the eye, the good child, Julie, there!" Then he would fall to thinking and chuckling again. One day he asked her to make him some potato-cakes of the flour he had given her.
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.
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