III
THE VICAR OF BRÈVES
Early in April.
As soon as the roads were clear of our unwelcome visitors, I decided to go at once and see Chamaille in his village; not that I was really anxious about him, for he knows how to take good care of himself, but all the same nothing is so reassuring as to see with one's own eyes—besides my legs wanted stretching. So off I started without a word to any one. The river flowed at the foot of the wooded hills and I followed the river, whistling as I went. A soft spring rain came pattering down, now ceasing, now falling again, dropping like beads from the young leaves, and in the thickets I could hear the cry of an enamored squirrel. Geese were feeding in the meadow, the blackbirds sang fit to crack their throats, and the little thrush trilled tipu'ti tipu',—Paillard, the notary at Dornecy, is a great friend of mine, so I thought I would stop and see him, for he, Chamaille, and I are as inseparable as the Graces. I found him in his study making notes on the weather, his recent dreams, and the
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