He had forgotten the rest, and so he looked for the slips of paper which were put away in a breviary, and at last he found two and continued:  “I will not have the lads and the girls come into the churchyard in the evening, as they do; otherwise I shall inform the rural policeman.  Monsieur Cesaire Omont would like to find a respectable girl servant.”  He reflected for a few moments, and then added:  “That is all, my brethren, and I wish that all of you may find the Divine mercy.”

And he came down from the pulpit, to finish mass.

When the Malandains had returned to their cottage, which was the last in the village of La Sabliere, on the road to Fourville, the father, a thin, wrinkled old peasant, sat down at the table, while his wife took the saucepan off the fire, and Adelaide, the daughter, took the glasses and plates out of the sideboard, and he said:  “I think that place at Maitre Omont’s ought to be a good one, as he is a widower and his daughter-in-law does not like him.  He is all alone and has money.  I think it would be a good thing to send Adelaide there.”

His wife put the black saucepan onto the table, took the lid off, and while the steam, which smelt strongly of cabbage, rose into the air she reflected, and he presently continued:  “He has got some money, that is certain, but any one going there ought to be very sharp, and Adelaide is not that at all.”  And his wife replied:  “I might go and see, all the same,” and turning to her daughter, a strapping, silly looking girl with yellow hair and fat red cheeks like apples, she said:  “Do you hear, you great silly?  You are to go to Maitre Omont’s and offer yourself as his servant, and you will do whatever he tells you.”

The girl began to laugh in a foolish manner, without replying, and then all the three began their dinner.  In ten minutes, the father continued:  “Listen to me, girl, and try not to make a mistake about what I am going to say to you ...”  And slowly and minutely he laid down for her her line of conduct, anticipating the minutest details, and preparing her for the conquest of an old widower who was on unfriendly terms with his family.  The mother ceased eating to listen to him, and she sat there, with her fork in her hand, looking at her husband and her daughter by turns, and following every word with concentrated and silent attention, while Adelaide remained listless, docile and stupid, with vague and wandering eyes.

As soon as their meal was over, her mother made her put her cap on, and they both started off to see Monsieur Cesaire Omont.  He lived in a small brick house adjoining his tenants’ cottages, for he had retired, and was living by subdividing and letting his land.

He was about fifty-five years old, and was stout, jovial and rough mannered, as rich men often are.  He laughed and shouted loud enough to make the walls fall down, drank brandy and cider by the glassful, and was still said to be of an amorous disposition, in spite of his age.  He liked to walk about his fields with his hands behind his back, digging his wooden shoes into the fat soil, looking at the sprouting corn or the flowering colza with the eye of an amateur at his ease, who likes to see it, but does not trouble himself about it too much any longer, and they used to say of him:  “There is a Mr. Merry-man, who does not get up in a good temper every day.”