sun-tanned face, whose golden locks were covered by a huge round
hat decked with a score of gaily-coloured ribbons.

At sight of him La Boulaye remembered that it was Charlot's
wedding-day. Popular amongst the women by virtue of his comeliness,
and respected by the men by virtue of his strength, Charlot Tardivet
was a general favourite of the countryside, and here, in the room of
old Duhamel, the schoolmaster, was half the village gathered to do
him honour upon his wedding morn. It was like Duhamel, who, in
fatherliness towards the villagers, went near out-rivalling M. le
Cure, to throw open his house for the assembling of Charlot's
friends, and La Boulaye was touched by this fresh sign of kindliness
from a man whose good heart he had not lacked occasion to observe
and appreciate. But it came to the secretary that there was no
place for him in this happy assemblage. His advent would, probably,
but serve to cast a gloom upon them, considering the conditions
under which he came, with the signs of violence upon his face to
remind them of the lords of life and death who dwelt at the Chateau
up yonder. And such a reminder must fall upon them as does the
reminder of some overhanging evil clutch suddenly at our hearts in
happy moments of forgetfulness. To let them be happy that day, to
leave their feasts free of a death's head, La Boulaye would have
withdrawn had he not already been too late. Duhamel had espied him,
and the little, wizened old man came hurrying forward, his
horn-rimmed spectacles perched on the very end of his nose, his keen
little eyes beaming with delight and welcome.

"Ah, Caron, you are very choicely come," he cried, holding out both
hands to La Boulaye. "You shall embrace our happy Hercules yonder,
and wish him joy of the wedded life he has the audacity to exploit."