the château, for a favourite resting-place was in our woods at the
entrance of the allée verte, where it widens out a little; the moss
makes a beautiful soft carpet, and the big trees give perfect shade.
We heard sounds of merriment one day when we were passing and we
stopped to look on, from behind the bushes, where we couldn't be seen.
There was quite a party assembled. The fiddler was playing some sort
of country-dance and all the company, except the very old people, were
dancing and singing, some of the men indulging in most wonderful steps
and capers. The children were playing and running under the trees. One
stout man was asleep, stretched out full length on the side of the
road. I fancy his piquette, as they call the ordinary white wine of
the country, had been too much for him. The bride and groom were
strolling about a little apart from the others, quite happy and
lover-like, his arm around her waist, she blushing and giggling.

The gendarmes passed also very regularly. They always stopped and
talked, had a drink with Antoine, and gave all the local news--how
many braconniers (poachers) had been caught, how long they were to
stay in prison, how some of the farmers' sheep had disappeared, no one
knew how exactly--there were no more robbers. One day two of them
passed, dragging a man between them who had evidently been struggling
and fighting. His blouse was torn, and there was a great gash on his
face. We were wildly excited, of course. They told us he was an old
sinner, a poacher who had been in prison various times, but these last
days, not contented with setting traps for the rabbits, he had set
fire to some of the hay-stacks, and they had been hunting for him for
some time. He looked a rough customer, had an ugly scowl on his face.
One of the little hamlets near the château, on the canal, was a
perfect nest of poachers, and I had continual struggles with the
keepers when I gave clothes or blankets to the women and children.