little town of Bevron, with its sixty houses, its town hall, its small
chapel, and principal river; and to him it seemed a spot full of noise
and confusion. In the whole course of his life he had never spoken
to three persons who did not belong to the district. Bred up in this
secluded manner, it was almost impossible for him to understand that
any one could lead a different existence to that of his own. His only
pleasure was in procuring an abundant harvest, and his sole idea of
excitement was High Mass on Sunday.

For more than a year the village girls had cast sly glances at him, but
he was far too simple and innocent to notice this. When Mass was over,
he generally walked over the farm with his father to inspect the work
of the past week, or to set snares for the birds. His father at last
determined to give him a wider experience, and one day said that he was
to accompany him to Poitiers.

At a very early hour in the morning they started in one of the low
country carts of the district, and under the seat were small sacks,
containing over forty thousand francs in silver money. Norbert had
long wished to visit Poitiers, but had never done so, though it was
but fifteen miles off. Poitiers is a quaint old town, with dilapidated
pavements and tall, gloomy houses, the architecture of which dates from
the tenth century; but Norbert thought that it must be one of the most
magnificent cities in the world. It was market day when they drove in,
and he was absolutely stupefied with surprise and excitement. He had
never believed there could be so many people in one place, and hardly
noticed that the cart had pulled up opposite a lawyer's office. His
father shook him roughly by the shoulder.

"Come, Norbert, lad, we are there," said he.