“So Louise was sent for and questioned by my mother; and she said in reply that she knew all about Jean’s liking for her, that in fact Jean had spoken to her about it several times, but that she did not want him.  She refused to say why.

“And two months elapsed during which my father and mother never ceased to urge this girl to marry Jean.  As she declared she was not in love with any other man, she could not give any serious reason for her refusal.  My father at last overcame her resistance by means of a big present of money, and started the pair of them on a farm—­this very farm.  I did not see them for three years, and then I learned that Louise had died of consumption.  But my father and mother died, too, in their turn, and it was two years more before I found myself face to face with Jean.

“At last one autumn day about the end of October the idea came into my head to go hunting on this part of my estate, which my father had told me was full of game.

“So one evening, one wet evening, I arrived at this house.  I was shocked to find my father’s old servant with perfectly white hair, though he was not more than forty-five or forty-six years of age.  I made him dine with me, at the very table where we are now sitting.  It was raining hard.  We could hear the rain battering at the roof, the walls, and the windows, flowing in a perfect deluge into the farmyard; and my dog was howling in the shed where the other dogs are howling to-night.

“All of a sudden, when the servant-maid had gone to bed, the man said in a timid voice: 

“‘M’sieu le Baron.’

“‘What is it, my dear Jean?’

“‘I have something to tell you.’

“‘Tell it, my dear Jean.’

“‘You remember Louise, my wife.’

“‘Certainly, I remember her.’

“‘Well, she left me a message for you.’

“‘What was it?’

“‘A—­a—­well, it was what you might call a confession.’

“‘Ha—­and what was it about?’

“’It was—­it was—­I’d rather, all the same, tell you nothing about it—­but I must—­I must.  Well, it’s this—­it wasn’t consumption she died of at all.  It was grief—­well, that’s the long and short of it.  As soon as she came to live here after we were married, she grew thin; she changed so that you wouldn’t know her, M’sieu le Baron.  She was just as I was before I married her, but it was just the opposite, just the opposite.

“’I sent for the doctor.  He said it was her liver that was affected—­he said it was what he called a “hepatic” complaint—­I don’t know these big words, M’sieu le Baron.  Then I bought medicine for her, heaps on heaps of bottles that cost about three hundred francs.  But she’d take none of them; she wouldn’t have them; she said:  “It’s no use, my poor Jean; it wouldn’t do me any good.”  I saw well that she had some hidden trouble; and then I found her one time crying, and I didn’t know what to do, no, I didn’t know what to do.  I bought her caps, and dresses, and hair oil, and earrings.  Nothing did her any good.  And I saw that she was going to die.  And so one night at the end of November, one snowy night, after she had been in bed the whole day, she told me to send for the cure.  So I went for him.  As soon as he came—­’