"Down, Blaireau!"

Marcasse had fainted.

This loving soul, no more able than Blaireau to express itself in words,
had sunk beneath the weight of his own happiness. Patience ran
and fetched him a large mug of wine of the district, in its second
year--that is to say, the oldest and best possible. He made him swallow
a few drops; its strength revived him. The hidalgo excused his weakness
on the score of fatigue and the heat. He would not or could not assign
it to its real sense. There are souls who die out, after burning with
unsurpassable moral beauty and grandeur, without ever having found a
way, and even without ever having felt the need, of revealing themselves
to others.

When Patience, who was as demonstrative as his friend was the contrary,
had recovered from his first transports, he turned to me and said:

"Now, my young officer, I see that you have no wish to remain here long.
Let us make haste, then, to the place you are burning to reach. There is
some one who will be much surprised and much delighted, you may take my
word."

We entered the park, and while crossing it, Patience explained the
change which had come over his habitation and his life.

"For myself," he said to me, "you see that I have not changed. The same
appearance, the same ways; and if I offered you some wine just now, that
does not prevent me from drinking water myself. But I have money, and
land, and workmen--yes, I have. Well, all this is in spite of myself,