MATHURIN
THE tale was told to me in the little valley beneath Dalgrothe Mountain one September morning. Far and near one could see the swinging of the flail, and the laughter of a ripe summer was upon the land. There was a little Calvary down by the riverside, where the flax-beaters used to say their prayers in the intervals of their work; and it was just at the foot of this that Angèle Rouvier, having finished her prayer, put her rosary in her pocket, wiped her eyes with the hem of her petticoat, and said to me:
"Ah, dat poor Mathurin, I wipe my tears for him!"
"Tell me all about him, won’t you, Madame Angèle? I want to hear you tell it," I added hastily, for I saw that she would despise me if I showed ignorance of Mathurin’s story. Her sympathy with Mathurin’s memory was real, but her pleasure at the compliment I paid her was also real.
"Ah! It was ver’ longtime ago—yes. My gran’mudder she remember dat Mathurin ver’ well. He is not ver’ big man. He has a face—oh, not ver’ handsome, not so more handsome as yours—non! His clothes, dey hang on him all loose; his hair, it is all some grey, and it blow about him head. He is clean to de face, no beard—no, nosing like dat. But his eye; là, M’sieu’, his eye! It is like a coal which you blow in your hand, whew!—all bright. My gran’mudder,
