Year: 1872

| started, and looked round. | had seat
edmyself ona huge, moss grown bowlder,
upon gentle slope overlooking the broad,
smooth stream of the Doubs. To my left
extended wide stretch of cultivated land
parcelledoif into those little patches which
are one of the first things that strike one
on entering France. To my right, against
Il back ground of encircling woodland,
stood ont the low, thatched houses, and
broad, white dusty street of the little vii
lage of St. Pierre. halfway up which the
painted signboard ofthe Ponl3ue GOr gilt
tered like a shield in the sunshine Just
below me, the river curved itself in one
great sweep round the base of a steep hill,
that rose on the opposite side, on the brow
of which stood the ruins of an old seigno-
rial chateau. Such relies are not uncom-
mon in France; but this ruin differed from
those which had yet seen, as the corpse
of n man cruelty murdered differs from
that of one who has died in his sleep. The
ground riven as if by an earthquake, the
black, charred stones scattered far and
wide around, the yawning ritts in the ma
sonrv. which still remained erect,-all
spoke, not of gradual decay, but OF sud-
den and terrible destruction. The gloom





seemed to brood over that gaunt, ghastly
ruin, looming grimly against the glory of
the clear summer sky, like the shadow of
one great sin upon a stainless life.


turned round Gas have said) to see
who had spoken, and saw beside me an
old man in the dress of well-to-do peas
ant of the country. | had Just been read
ing Erckmann-C Chatrian's glorious Hlstoire
d'un Paysan; and had we been in the
neighborhood of Phlasbourg. instead of in
that of Besancon I should have said that
Michael Bastien now stood before me. The
long, white hair and beard, enclosing the
bronzed face in kind of frame the large
bright eye; the bold, erect bearing above
all, the deep, earnest look, as Of one who
had done and suffered above the measure
of his klnd,-were all suggestive of the
Alsatian Old M0rtalay. | saw at once
that had fallen in with character"


You say you don't like to look at that
ruin yonder?" said |. "Well, it certainly
is not Il pleasant sight; but what do you
know about it ?'


"Erery Mthg," answered the old peas
ant emphatically II saw it in all its
splendor; and | saw it in the hour of its
destruction, seventy years ago. If you
care to hear the story, I'll tell it you"


The offer was not to be sighted; for
such a tale as this promised to be. related
by an eyewitness on the very scene of
the catastrophe, was an unexpected prize.
| motloned my companion to Il seat on
the stone beside me, and disposed myself
to listen to him.


IL remember the DAYS before the Revo-
luion," he began, although | was then
only a child but | remember them, just
as one might recollect a horrid nightmare.
| seem to have dreamed of being hungry
and cold and ragged and helpless, for
ever so long.-and then suddenly to have
walked up free and well off. After all, it
wasn't orr fault if the galUlotiuades and
noyades beiell; they were the work of the
Assemblee, and the canaille of the great
towns. All that we peasants wanted was
to have enough to live upon, instead Of
being tlayed alive by the nobles and the
Revolution did that for us, at least. Look
at mel In my childhood | ran barefoot
along the high-road, begging Of the pass
ers-by, with no hope OF ever being any
better off than my father, a poor laborer,
who lived upon black bread and onions,
and never knew what it was to be warm
or well clothed from one years end to
another. | remember that in those days
| used always to think of heaven US a
place where one would be allowed to sit
close to a big fire, and eat ones fill of the
white bread and dainty roast meat which
my cousin Pierre, the soldier (who was
on guard at the Chateau de Quesnoy when
his colonel dined there) had told me about.
Well, Monsieur, | have nom sheep and
cattle of my own, and a good bit of corn
land into the bargain; my son Gaspard is
an arocM at Lyon; and my grandson,
Baptiste, is a s0vs-lleutena1W in the sane
lcyere. Show me the peasant betore the
Revolution whose son or grandson could
have become an officer Bah


Those We're the days when the mobiles
did what they liked; and u pretty life they
led us, ma tott Nom, thank God, the
gra1ecls seignenrs can't cut your throat or
carry off your wife without any one daring
to say word; but before 'S9 it was
another matter. IonQerre it was no joke
then to fall in the way of party of young
chevalers, hot with wine and mischief,
and ready for any devils prank that came
into their heads. Every man that came
in their road was sure to be beaten or run
through, and as for the women But the
less said about that the better. can re-
member, even now (though | was quite
child when it happened), the night that
our young lord, Henri de Quesnoy, and
three or four Of his Wild companions,
secured the streets of Besancon with their
riding-whips, and made every one they
met 90 down on their knees in the mud,
and cry 'Vive lie roi y Then, AS if it was
not enough for them, they broke ever so
many windows, rang the great alarm bell
till they reused up the whole town, and
finished by hanging dead dog atthe door
of M. le Marie, with a bit of paper in its
mouth, on which was written: "A ton tour,
mon freren it's your turn, brother Lit
tie did they dream then, that the dav was
to come when they should themselves be
hung like dogs to every lamp-iron, and
when their blood should run in the streets
of their own towns. tothe cry, not of 'Vive
lie roi y but of 'Vive la nation!' But all
this doesn't belong to my story.


Our old seigneur, Maurice de Quesnoy,
who lived at the chateau yonder in the year
'S9, was such man as | have heard M
le Cure read about in the Gospels, one
who feared not God, nor regarded man.
Nothing could fright him, nothing could
melt him; he was just a man of marble,
polished, and hard, and cold as death
In one of the great battles OF the Seven
Years War, he had flung his plumed hat
into an English battery, and leaped after
it, without a man at his back; and when
he came back alive, his soldiers muttered
to each other that his hour was not come
yet; for, you see, there was legend
abroad that he had sold himself to Satan
for a certain term, and that nothing could
harm him till his term was out. Our folks
used to say that when he got tired of all
his grand dishes, he fed upon children's
flesh; and many time have | screamed
and run away for fear of being devoured,
when | saw him come prancing along the
road on his great black horse, all lace
and jewels and embroidery, with his long
feathers streaming in the wind, and his
smooth, handsome, cruel face bent forward