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I say used, for to make to enrage her husband, and to recall the Abbe my brother, did she not advise herself to consult M. le Pasteur Grigou, and to attend the preach at his Temple? When this sheep had brought her shepherd back, she dismissed the Pasteur Grigou. Then she tired of M. l'Abbe again, and my brother is come out from her, shaking his good head.
She could not repress an exultant note in her voice. Doggie, too, accounted for something; for much. "They came to bring good news, ma tante. The English have found all the money and the jewels and the share certificates that Père Grigou hid in the well of La Folette." "Mon Dieu! It is true?" "Oui, ma tante." "And they have restored them to you?" "Yes." "It is extraordinary.
And my uncle had the murder of my father and mother on his brain. He told Père Grigou to take me away, but I stayed with him. It was Père Grigou who forced us to hide. That lasted two days.
One day my uncle and Père Grigou went out of the little copse where we had been hiding, in order to reconnoitre, for he thought the Germans might be going away; and my uncle, who would not listen to me, took his gun. Presently I heard a shot and then another. You can guess what it meant. And soon Père Grigou came, white and shaking with terror. 'Il en a tué un, et on l'a tué!"
We got to a high road and once more I was among troops and refugees. I met some kind folks in a carriage, a Monsieur and Madame Tarride, and they took me in. And so I got to Paris, where I had the hospitality of a friend of the Convent who was married." "And Père Grigou?" "He insisted on going back to bury my uncle. Nothing could move him. He had not parted from him all his life.
Also because I could not live on charity on my friend, for, voyez-vous, I was without a sou all my money having been hidden in the well by Père Grigou." Doggie leant his elbows on the table. "And you have come through all that, Mademoiselle Jeanne, just as you are ?" "How, just as I am?" "So gentle and kind and comprehending?" Her cheek flushed.
There was a well in the farm, and one night Père Grigou tied up my money and my mother's jewellery and my father's papers, enfin, all the precious things we had, in a packet of waterproof and sank it with a long string down the well, so that the Germans could not find it. It was foolish, but he insisted.
Les Demons, poem Catholic; Charles IX. is the hero and the demons are shot for the most part at the catastrophe of St. Bartholomew. My good mother, all good Catholic as she is, was startled by the boldness of this doctrine. Then there came Une Dragonnade, par Mme. la Duchesse d'Ivry, which is all on your side. That was of the time of the Pastor Grigou, that one.
He lived there alone, a widower, with his farm-servants. He had no children. We thought we were safe. Alas! news came that the Germans were always advancing. We had time to fly. All the farm-hands fled, except Père Grigou, who loved him. But my uncle was obstinate. To a Frenchman, the soil he possesses is his flesh and his blood. He would die rather than leave it.
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