and you talk about economy? Not to-day, at all events; indeed, I have no
right to think of it."

After saying mass at nine o'clock he set out and showered gold along his
way. All had a share--the poor who acknowledged their poverty and those
who concealed it. Each alms was accompanied by the same little
discourse:

"This comes from the new owners of the Longueval--two American ladies,
Mrs. Scott and Miss Percival. Remember their names, and pray for them."

Then he made off without waiting for thanks, across the fields, through
the woods, from hamlet to hamlet, from cottage to cottage--on, on, on.
A sort of intoxication mounted to his brain. Everywhere were cries of
joy and astonishment. All these louis-d'or fell, as if by a miracle,
into the poor hands accustomed to receive little pieces of silver. The
Curb was guilty of follies, actual follies. He was out of bounds; he did
not recognize himself; he had lost all control over himself; he even gave
to those who did not expect anything.

He met Claude Rigal, the old sergeant, who had left one of his arms at
Sebastopol. He was growing gray--nay, white; for time passes, and the
soldiers of the Crimea will soon be old men.

"Here!" said the Cure, "I have twenty francs for you."

"Twenty francs? But I never asked for anything; I don't want anything;
I have my pension."

His pension! Seven hundred francs!